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HAPPILY EVER AFTER?

• NATE JACOBS x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — Y/N and Nate had finally laid their feelings bare—no more games, no more second-guessing. What started as tension and unresolved emotion had finally unraveled into something real, something honest. Tonight was their first official date, the beginning of something they both hoped would last. What they didn't expect, however, was how quickly that night would shift from simple romance to something far deeper. A night filled with undeniable passion, yes—but also the quiet beginning of a future neither of them saw coming.

Well, maybe not Y/N. Nate? He might've known all along.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 16.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here, we are with the conclusion of HIS AWAKENING series. A bit of a long winded journey but one full of passion, love, fear, acceptance and more emotions Nate Jacobs discovered. Also the ending is sort of my Euphoria S3 hypothesis but more on that later. I’m considering a series following this one—with our lovely couple experiencing adulthood and living together alongside the hardships, of course. Let me know! Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! MY HEART BELONGS TO YOU

Y/N stood in front of the mirror, motionless, his hands resting loosely at his sides as he took in the reflection staring back at him. The dorm room around him was quiet, the soft hum of the air vent barely noticeable over the buzz of nerves in his chest. His breath came slow and deliberate, but his heart was beating with a steady kind of anticipation that he couldn't quite ignore.

The suit he wore wasn't just any suit—it was the suit. A deep, charcoal gray that caught the light with just a hint of sheen, tailored to perfection in all the right places. The jacket hugged his shoulders with clean, crisp lines, the sleeves stopping just shy of his wrists, revealing the slim edge of a white shirt cuff. The lapels framed his chest, giving him a sharp, elegant silhouette, while the fabric tapered at his waist, accentuating the lines of his body with precise, deliberate structure.

It was the kind of suit that made him stand up straighter. Made him feel a little more grounded, a little more seen. The kind of outfit that made a statement—not loud, not flashy, but confident. Intentional.

Y/N adjusted the cuff of his sleeve, then smoothed the front of his jacket, his fingers trembling just slightly. He wasn't usually like this before a date. But then again, this wasn't just any date.

It was Nate.

And that changed everything.

This was their first official night out together. No hiding, no tension disguised as casual conversation, no pretending it didn't mean something. Nate had promised a proper date, and Y/N had held him to it—every sarcastic reminder and raised eyebrow pushing Nate toward something real. And Nate, to his surprise and quiet delight, had risen to the challenge.

A real plan. A real place. A night that, for once, didn't feel like something uncertain and fragile, but like the start of something.

Y/N glanced down at his shoes—polished to a subtle shine—then back at his reflection. His hair was styled just the way he liked it, not too neat, not too messy. He looked... good. Sharp.

But underneath the clean lines and perfect fit, he felt exposed in a different way. Vulnerable. Hopeful.

He caught his own eyes in the mirror and gave himself a quiet, amused smile. "Okay," he murmured under his breath. "Don't let him make you melt in the first five minutes."

Still, he knew—deep in his chest, beneath all the sarcasm and teasing bravado—that Nate wouldn't need five minutes. One look, one compliment in that low, gravelly voice, one of those rare, sincere smiles, and Y/N would be gone.

He inhaled, squared his shoulders, and gave himself one final once-over. This was it. The beginning of them, not in secret, not in silence—but out in the open.

And damn it—he was ready.

The soft creak of the dorm room door pulled Y/N's attention from the mirror. He turned just as the door eased open—and there was Nate, framed in the doorway like he belonged in the center of a movie scene.

He stood tall in a sleek black suit that clung to his broad frame like it was custom-made, the dark fabric crisp and clean, accentuating the hard lines of his shoulders and the long stretch of his legs. A fitted white shirt peeked out from beneath the jacket, the top button undone in that perfectly careless way that screamed effortless cool. In one hand, he held a small bouquet of flowers—simple, understated, but thoughtful. Pale roses and white ranunculus with hints of soft green leaves, elegant and quietly beautiful.

Y/N couldn't help the way his lips curled into a smile at the sight. "Wow," he said, eyes sweeping from the top of Nate's head to the polished black shoes below. "Look at you, trying."

Nate rolled his eyes, but there was a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth as he stepped inside, holding out the flowers. "For the record, I've always known how to dress. I just don't bother unless it's worth it."

Y/N took the bouquet, brushing a finger gently across one of the petals before glancing back up at Nate. "And I'm worth it?"

Nate leaned in slightly, his voice low and rough. "You're the only one who's ever been."

It was unfair how quickly those words made Y/N's chest warm. He turned toward the desk to find a cup for the flowers, trying to play it cool even as his smile lingered. "You know," he said casually, "you could've just changed in here. It is our room."

Nate let out a snort, pulling at the sleeve of his jacket as he moved deeper into the room. "Yeah, and if I'd stripped down in front of you, we wouldn't be making that reservation tonight."

Y/N froze for half a second before turning slowly to face him again, raising an eyebrow. "Wow," he said, placing a hand over his chest in mock offense. "So little faith in your own self-control."

Nate's grin widened, his tongue flicking across his bottom lip—still healing from the fight but somehow making the expression even more infuriatingly charming. "Oh, I have plenty of self-control," he said, closing the space between them. "But not when it comes to you looking like that."

Y/N's breath caught just a little, heat rising up the back of his neck. He gestured to Nate's chest. "You're the one who came in here looking like you stepped out of a magazine spread. That's not playing fair."

Nate's eyes lingered on him for a long beat, and Y/N felt it—felt the weight of his gaze travel from his jaw to the slope of his shoulders, to the perfectly tailored fit of his suit.

"We're both not playing fair," Nate murmured, voice like a low hum between them.

And Y/N—biting back a grin, heart beating just a little faster—couldn't help but think that this night was already off to the perfect start.

THE ride to the restaurant was smooth and quiet, the soft hum of the engine and the faint rhythm of a jazz playlist playing from the speakers of the Uber Black giving the moment a subtle air of luxury. Y/N sat back against the plush leather seat, the city lights flickering through the tinted windows, casting fleeting golds and blues across his suit.

Nate sat beside him, every bit the picture of composure—broad shoulders relaxed, one hand resting casually on his thigh while the other held the edge of the seat, close enough that their arms brushed with every bump in the road. He looked calm, but there was something simmering beneath the surface. Something focused. Intent.

From the moment they stepped into the car, Nate had slipped effortlessly into gentleman mode—and damn if Y/N wasn't enjoying every second of it.

He had opened the door for him without being asked, hand resting gently on Y/N's back as he helped him into the car like they were already halfway through some old-fashioned romance movie. But nothing about it felt performative. It wasn't for show. Nate wasn't trying to impress anyone else. He was just being present.

Every now and then, Nate would glance over at him—subtle, but lingering—like he couldn't quite believe this was real. Like he was still trying to memorize the way Y/N looked tonight, the way the fabric of his suit curved along his body, the slight curl of his smile as he gazed out the window.

"You okay?" Nate asked at one point, his voice low and smooth, breaking the comfortable silence.

Y/N turned his head, meeting his eyes with a faint smirk. "Better than okay."

Nate's lips twitched into something between a grin and a sigh, his hand shifting slightly so that his fingers barely grazed Y/N's. Just a brush, a whisper of touch—but it said everything.

They pulled up to the restaurant a few minutes later, the car slowing to a stop in front of an upscale place tucked between glowing high-rises. Warm, ambient light spilled from the tall windows, the buzz of laughter and clinking glasses drifting out as the host held the door for them.

Nate was out first, circling around to open the door for Y/N again, extending his hand. Y/N raised an eyebrow but didn't hesitate to take it. Nate's palm was warm against his own, fingers curling gently, grounding.

Inside, the restaurant was intimate and softly lit, with dark wood floors, candles flickering in glass holders, and quiet acoustic music playing in the background. The maître d' greeted them politely, already expecting them, and led them to a private corner table where the world felt like it narrowed down to just them.

As they sat, Nate pulled out Y/N's chair, still riding that line between old-school charm and quiet sincerity.

Y/N leaned back once they were settled, his eyes scanning Nate across the flickering candlelight. "Okay," he murmured, voice low and a little amused. "I'll admit it—you're pulling this off better than I thought you would."

Nate arched an eyebrow, but there was a flicker of pride behind his smirk. "Told you I could do the whole 'proper date' thing."

Y/N sipped from his water, letting his foot brush deliberately against Nate's under the table. "Yeah, well. Night's not over yet."

Nate leaned in slightly, eyes gleaming. "Not even close."

And with that, Y/N knew—whatever came next, whatever surprises Nate still had in store, this night was just getting started.

DINNER unfolded like a scene from a movie—low candlelight flickering between them, the soft hum of conversation and clinking glass filling the intimate atmosphere of the restaurant. The food was rich and indulgent, every bite worth savoring, but the real indulgence was the company.

Y/N and Nate sat across from each other in a private corner booth, their knees brushing occasionally beneath the table. Conversation flowed easily between them—light teasing, shared laughter, the casual kind of comfort that only came when you knew someone beyond the surface.

They traded stories from their childhoods over plates of seared steak and roasted vegetables. Y/N found himself animated as he launched into an impassioned rant about an old high school English teacher who took himself way too seriously—complete with dramatic impressions and exaggerated eye rolls. Nate laughed, a real laugh that softened the edges of his otherwise guarded expression, his eyes crinkling at the corners in a way that made Y/N's chest flutter.

But eventually, the energy between them shifted—not in a bad way, just... deeper.

Y/N leaned forward, his voice quieter now. "Alright, your turn. Tell me something about you."

Nate hesitated for half a second, his fork pausing mid-air, before he set it down and sat back in his chair. He exhaled, the kind of breath that signaled he was sorting through which version of the truth he was willing to share.

"I've got a brother," he started, his voice even but laced with something dry. "We're close in that 'we'll-never-say-it-out-loud' kind of way. I call him Asshole. He calls me worse."

Y/N chuckled under his breath. "Sounds healthy."

Nate smirked faintly, nodding. "It works for us."

He went quiet for a moment, running his thumb along the rim of his glass. "My mom and I... we're okay. She's good with advice. She listens, even if she doesn't always get it. But she's closer to my brother than she is to me. I think she sees herself in him more."

There was no bitterness in the way Nate said it—just a kind of quiet acceptance that came from years of noticing but never confronting it.

Y/N tilted his head slightly, watching him carefully. "Still... sounds like she tries."

"She does," Nate admitted. "When things get bad, she's the one I talk to. Doesn't always have the answers, but she helps me make sense of it. Calms me down."

It was when the subject turned to his dad that Nate shifted again. The air around him changed—his jaw tightening slightly, shoulders pulling in. He stared down at his plate, silent for several seconds before speaking.

"My dad..." he began, voice low, barely audible over the soft clatter of dishes around them. "He's... complicated."

Y/N didn't speak. Just waited.

Nate sighed, finally lifting his eyes to meet Y/N's. "He's never been good at... showing anything other than criticism. Growing up, I'd have a great game and he'd still find something wrong. My throwing arm. My focus. My leadership. He'd compare me to other players—ones who 'took it more seriously,' who were 'natural leaders.' Guys he thought deserved the spot more than I did."

He looked down again, his expression unreadable. "I spent years trying to be what he wanted. Trying to meet whatever impossible standard he set. Just to get a 'good job' or a nod."

Y/N reached across the table slowly, his fingers brushing over Nate's wrist. He didn't say anything right away—he didn't have to. The warmth of the gesture, the quiet patience in his eyes, said enough.

Nate didn't pull away.

He let Y/N hold that space with him, let the silence settle in, let it comfort rather than press down.

"I'm sorry," Y/N said softly, his voice full of something gentle, sincere. "You didn't deserve that. None of it."

Nate's gaze flickered to him, something vulnerable in his eyes. For a moment, he didn't speak. Just nodded once, slowly, like the words were still sinking in.

"Thanks," he murmured, the edge of his mouth tugging upward. "For listening."

Y/N squeezed his wrist once before letting go. "Always."

And in that moment, across the candlelight and quiet music, something settled between them—not a promise, not yet. But something solid. Something true.

As the plates were cleared and their drinks refreshed, the conversation between Y/N and Nate began to drift into quieter, more reflective territory. The atmosphere of the restaurant had grown even more intimate as the night wore on—most of the dinner rush had come and gone, leaving behind a hushed calm. Candlelight flickered gently on the linen tablecloth, casting soft shadows across Nate's face as he leaned forward, swirling the last of his drink in his glass.

Y/N sat back in his seat, one leg crossed over the other, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the rim of his water glass. There was a pause in the conversation—not uncomfortable, but thoughtful. It was the kind of silence that invited something deeper, something that reached past the surface-level flirting and shared laughter of the earlier part of the evening.

"So," Y/N said, his tone curious but open, "what happens after this?"

Nate looked up. "After what?"

"After college," Y/N clarified, gesturing lightly between the two of them. "After football. After the routines and practices and school schedules. What then?"

It wasn't meant to be a heavy question, but the weight of it settled between them all the same.

Nate blinked, then looked down at his hands for a beat. "Honestly?" he said, voice quieter now. "I've been trying not to think too hard about it. Football's always been the plan. It's what my dad's been pushing for since before I even understood the game. But..." He shrugged, exhaling slowly. "There's no guarantee. One injury, one bad season, and that's it. You're done."

Y/N nodded slowly, resting his chin on his hand. "So what's Plan B?"

Nate chuckled under his breath, but there wasn't much humor in it. "That's the part I haven't figured out yet. I mean, I could coach. Maybe. I like being around the game. I get how it works, how people work within it. But I don't know if I'd be happy doing it for the rest of my life."

He leaned back in his chair, the candlelight casting golden lines along his jaw. "There's a part of me that just... wants something different. Something quieter. Something that doesn't involve living under a microscope or having to live up to someone else's standards."

Y/N watched him carefully, nodding. "That makes sense. After all the pressure you've been under, it'd be nice to just live for you for once."

Nate looked at him then—really looked at him—and for a moment, the noise of the restaurant seemed to fall away. "What about you?" he asked. "What do you want after this?"

Y/N paused, thinking. "I used to have this really specific idea of where I'd be by now. Career lined up. City picked. Life mapped out by the time I was twenty-five. But lately..." He laughed softly, more to himself than anything. "Lately, I've been realizing it's okay not to have it all figured out yet. I still want something meaningful. Maybe writing, maybe working in media, maybe something I haven't even considered yet. But whatever it is—I just want it to feel mine. You know?"

Nate nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. "Yeah. I get that."

They were quiet for a moment again, but this silence was warmer, more settled.

Then Y/N added, a little more cautiously, "And... I guess I'd like someone to share it with. Not just for the big things, but the in-between stuff. The boring days. Grocery shopping. Late-night takeout and bad movies."

Nate's lips quirked into a smile. "That sounds pretty damn good."

Y/N raised an eyebrow, the corners of his mouth curving up. "You saying you see yourself there?"

Nate didn't flinch. "Yeah," he said without hesitation. "If I'm lucky, I'll still have you there too."

Y/N felt the words sink into him like warm sunlight. No pressure, no grand declarations this time—just honesty.

And somehow, that was more meaningful than anything else.

NATE slid his black card across the leather-bound bill folder without a second thought, exchanging a quiet word with the server as Y/N watched him from across the table. There was something almost surreal about it—how composed, how present Nate looked in this moment. No posturing, no calculating glances, no undercurrent of aggression disguised as confidence. Just Nate, in a dark suit that hugged his frame too perfectly for it to be casual, calmly settling the tab for the best meal they'd shared together yet.

When they stepped out into the cool evening air, the night wrapped around them like silk. The sidewalks glistened faintly from an earlier drizzle, streetlights casting golden reflections against the pavement. Nate walked beside Y/N in easy silence, their hands brushing occasionally but not quite clasping—like the intimacy was already understood, no longer something they had to prove.

It was a quiet moment, one that gave Y/N time to think, to let the buzz of dinner and candlelight fade into something softer.

"You know," Y/N said, glancing sideways at Nate with a faint smile, "when I first met you, I knew exactly what kind of guy you were."

Nate looked over at him, brow arching slightly. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah." Y/N's voice was even, but there was a sharp edge beneath the words. "You were that guy—macho, angry, always looking for a fight. The golden boy quarterback who thought the world owed him something just for showing up."

Nate's smirk faded into something more thoughtful as Y/N continued, his tone calm but unflinching.

"Pride and ambition so unchecked it was practically eating you alive. You wanted control. Power. Respect. But only on your terms—terms shaped by every toxic, outdated idea of what a 'man' should be. You shoved your feelings down, lashed out at people who challenged you, and wore that ego like armor."

Nate's jaw tensed, but he didn't interrupt.

"And honestly?" Y/N went on, eyes forward now. "You were the embodiment of white privilege. The kind of guy who—because of how you look, where you come from, what you represent—could get away with almost anything. Hell, did get away with everything. You had the face, the name, the performance to make everyone else look the other way."

The silence that followed was heavy but not hostile. Nate took it in.

"But," Y/N added, softer this time, "then you met me."

That made Nate glance over again, brow furrowing—not defensive, but curious. Listening.

Y/N finally met his eyes. "The sassy, smart-mouthed track star who didn't give a damn how many touchdowns you scored or how many people you'd intimidated into silence. I wasn't impressed. And I didn't back down."

Nate's mouth twitched. "No, you didn't."

"And that's when you started to change," Y/N continued, his voice a little quieter, but resolute. "Maybe not all at once, but piece by piece. Like something inside you finally got sick of pretending. Of performing. Of hurting everyone else just to prove you weren't broken."

They stopped at the corner, waiting for the light to change, and Nate looked at him—not as the confident, arrogant player Y/N had once pegged him to be, but as someone still learning. Someone trying.

Y/N stepped a little closer, bumping their shoulders together. "You're still rough around the edges, Jacobs. Don't get cocky. But you're not the same guy I met."

A beat passed.

Nate's voice, when it came, was low but honest. "I don't want to be."

The light turned green.

And the two of them crossed together—step for step, stride for stride.

To Y/N, the night had gone better than expected—way better. Nate had been attentive, sincere, even charming. It was a side of him Y/N rarely saw in public, one that made it harder to remember the angry, tightly wound version of him that used to dominate every interaction.

"So," Y/N said, glancing over at him, "we heading back to the dorm?"

Nate smirked, lips twitching into something smug and a little secretive. "Actually... no."

Y/N raised a brow. "No?"

Nate looked ahead, then back at him, the corner of his mouth curving up. "I got us a hotel room for the night."

Y/N blinked, taken aback—not because it was too forward, not even because it was unexpected, but because it was Nate. This was the guy who once flinched at emotional vulnerability, who bristled at soft moments like they were weaknesses.

And now here he was. Planning ahead. Making space. Thinking about them.

Y/N couldn't help the slow, amused grin that spread across his face. "You really went all out tonight, huh?" he teased, nudging Nate's arm with his shoulder. "Dinner, a suit, flowers, and now a hotel? Damn. Nate Jacobs, are you secretly a sap?"

Nate scoffed, but the tips of his ears turned pink under the streetlight, betraying him. "Don't push it."

Y/N laughed, stepping in front of him for a moment, blocking his path just enough to get his full attention. "No, no—I mean it. This is like, dangerously close to 'romantic movie boyfriend' behavior."

Nate opened his mouth, probably to deny it, to make some sarcastic remark, but Y/N didn't give him the chance.

He leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn't rushed. It wasn't teasing. It was soft, slow, intentional. A kiss full of gratitude, of appreciation, of the quiet awe that came with realizing someone had actually shown up for you—not just with gestures, but with their whole damn heart.

Nate melted into it almost immediately, his hand finding the curve of Y/N's back, steady and warm.

When they pulled apart, Nate was smiling—really smiling, the kind that reached his eyes and softened every line of his face.

Y/N raised an eyebrow, smug now. "You like being a sap for me."

Nate gave a half-hearted eye roll, still grinning. "Shut up."

But he didn't deny it.

And that said everything.

THE soft click of the hotel room door shutting behind them was followed by a quiet hum of luxury—dim lighting, plush carpet, and the subtle scent of something expensive lingering in the air. Y/N stepped in first, his eyes immediately landing on the large, king-sized bed that dominated the center of the room, draped in crisp white linens and a mountain of perfectly arranged pillows.

"Damn," Y/N murmured, dragging his gaze over the bed like it was calling his name. "This is so much better than our lumpy dorm mattresses."

Before Nate could get a word in, Y/N was already moving. He kicked off his shoes, letting them land haphazardly near the door, shrugged off his jacket with a practiced twist of his shoulders, and tossed it onto the nearby armchair. Then, without hesitation, he launched himself onto the bed with a dramatic flop, arms spread wide as the comforter and pillows shifted around him.

"Ohhh," he groaned, face half-buried in the soft bedding. "Okay, I'm never leaving." He peeked one eye open, grinning. "You can just go ahead and cancel my tuition. This is my life now."

Behind him, Nate laughed. That deep, low, real laugh that Y/N loved, the one that only came out when Nate forgot to be guarded.

"You're such a drama queen," Nate said, pulling off his suit jacket with far more care. He walked over to the small wardrobe and hung it up with the kind of methodical attention that was so him, then began rolling up the sleeves of his white dress shirt, exposing the sharp lines of his forearms.

Y/N propped himself up on his elbows, watching with open interest as Nate made his way toward the bed. When Nate reached the edge and looked down at him, there was that look—the one Y/N had come to recognize over the past few weeks. Amused, a little exasperated, and completely, undeniably smitten.

Y/N grinned up at him, his tone playful. "Well? What are you waiting for? You're not seriously gonna let me enjoy this all by myself, boyfriend."

Nate raised an eyebrow, lips twitching with amusement, but said nothing. Instead, he brought his hands to the top button of his shirt, slowly—deliberately—undoing it. Then the next. And the next. His eyes never left Y/N's as he worked, letting the fabric pull open to reveal the smooth, lean lines of his chest beneath.

"Oh, so that's the game we're playing," Y/N murmured, smirking.

Nate gave a slow, teasing shrug as he slipped the shirt off his shoulders and let it fall onto the nearby chair. "Thought I'd give you a little show."

He paused then, fingers resting at his belt buckle, a glint of something darker—playful, confident—in his eyes. "Wanna help me with this?" he asked, voice low and rough around the edges.

Y/N didn't move for a second, just stared up at him with a mixture of amusement and interest.

Then, slowly, with an exaggerated sigh and a devilish grin, he reached forward and patted Nate's thigh.

"Well," he said, voice coy, "since you asked so nicely..."

And just like that, the night took on a new kind of warmth—one that had nothing to do with the hotel lighting and everything to do with them, finally letting themselves sink into something that felt natural, earned, and real.

Y/N reached up from the bed, fingers hooking at Nate's belt buckle with slow precision. His touch was confident, but not hurried—there was a sense of ease between them now, a comfort that had grown naturally from the night's events. He began to undo the belt, the cool metal of the buckle clicking softly under his fingers.

But then he paused, something flickering across his face—mischief. A sudden spark of an idea that made the corners of his mouth twitch into a slow, knowing smile.

Nate noticed immediately. His eyes narrowed slightly, more curious than suspicious. "What?" he asked, though his voice had already dropped a little lower, as if he could feel the shift in the air.

Y/N didn't answer right away. Instead, he slid off the bed in one fluid motion, the soft thud of his knees against the plush carpet barely audible in the quiet of the hotel room. He looked up at Nate from below, that smile still playing at his lips as he settled on his knees in front of him.

Nate's breath caught, his hands instinctively flexing at his sides.

Y/N reached for the belt again, this time with a slower, more deliberate grace. He undid the buckle with practiced fingers, the leather sliding free with a soft whisper. Then came the button of Nate's slacks—undone with a light pop, and the slow, purposeful draw of the zipper being pulled down, the sound unusually loud in the quiet, intimate space between them.

He glanced up through his lashes, catching the way Nate's expression shifted—his jaw tightening just slightly, his eyes darker now, heat blooming behind them.

"You're full of surprises tonight," Nate murmured, his voice low and rough, barely above a whisper.

Y/N's smirk deepened. "You started it," he said simply, his hands resting lightly at Nate's hips, like he was waiting for permission to go further—or maybe just enjoying the way Nate was barely keeping himself still.

The moment stretched, thick with tension and unspoken meaning.

Whatever happened next, it wasn't just about lust or impulse.

It was about trust. About comfort. About them.

And neither of them was in a hurry.

Y/N's touch was reverent, patient. His fingers moved with a quiet precision, curling beneath the waistband of Nate's slacks as though he was peeling away something sacred. The fabric whispered against Nate's skin, gliding over the sharp lines of his hips, past the firm muscles of his thighs, and down to his ankles where they pooled in soft folds around his feet. The room was silent save for the faint rustle of fabric, the air humming with a stillness that felt like the inhale before a storm.

Nate shifted, stepping out of the pants with a silent grace, each movement deliberate, like he didn't want to startle the moment. His hands remained at his sides, clenched only slightly, betraying the tension humming through him. It wasn't nerves—it was anticipation, tightly coiled and quietly trembling.

Y/N didn't rush. He took his time, letting his hands roam upward in a slow, teasing ascent along the backs of Nate's legs. His fingertips trailed like heat across bare skin, the ghost of a touch more felt than seen. When he reached the waistband of Nate's boxers, he paused—his thumbs hooking gently under the edge, his gaze lifting.

Their eyes met.

Nate's stare was steady, but there was a storm behind it—something raw, something waiting to break. Y/N searched his face for a beat, then began to tug the boxers down with an exhale, slow and intentional. The cotton slid over sculpted hips, past his thighs, until they too joined the discarded slacks at his feet.

Nate stood before him now—bare, exposed, and breathtaking. His dick was hard and proud, a testament to the desire crackling between them like live current, but Y/N didn't move. Not yet. He remained kneeling, letting the moment settle like gravity between them.

His eyes roamed upward, from the strength in Nate's legs, over the sharp planes of his abdomen, to the rise and fall of his chest. Every inch of him was inked in shadow and lamplight, beautiful in a way that felt almost unreal. When Y/N's gaze finally reached Nate's face, it lingered—and Nate was already watching him.

Nate's breath came slow and uneven now, lips parted like he was on the edge of a word he couldn't say. His shoulders were tense, but not from discomfort. No—this was something different. He bit down softly on his bottom lip, not from shyness, but to keep himself from letting the need slip too soon, too fast.

There was something unspoken in his eyes—something Y/N felt down to his bones. Trust. Surrender. A quiet invitation that said, I'm yours. I'm letting you see all of me. Not just this—but me.

The soft hush of the room seemed to amplify everything: the subtle creak of the floor beneath Y/N's knees, the steady thrum of blood in Nate's ears, and the thick anticipation curling low in his stomach.

Y/N looked up at him through his lashes, gaze simmering with something deeper than lust—focused, present, and brimming with a teasing kind of devotion. It wasn't just about getting Nate off—it was the way he intended to do it. Slow. Purposeful. Like he knew exactly what power he held kneeling there, and was ready to wield it with devastating precision.

Nate couldn't help the low hum that escaped him, part groan, part awe. The image burned into his memory like something carved in gold—Y/N's hands resting lightly on his thighs, his mouth so close, the heat of his breath ghosting against sensitive skin.

A slow, crooked smile tugged at Nate's lips as he reached down, fingers threading through Y/N's hair—soft, thick, familiar beneath his touch. He stroked once, twice, letting his fingers linger before gently curling them against Y/N's scalp in a quiet, possessive motion. His other hand hovered near his side for a beat, then moved to guide Y/N forward with careful pressure—an unspoken invitation, not a command.

Nate's dick continue to stand hard and ready, flushed with arousal, and when Y/N's lips inched closer, a sharp breath escaped from Nate's lungs. His hand in Y/N's hair tightened just slightly, grounding himself in the warmth, the anticipation, the trust layered in every moment between them.

His voice dropped to a low rasp, barely above a whisper. "Go on, baby..."

And in that moment, every fiber of Nate's being pulsed with need—not just for the pleasure, but for him. For Y/N. The one on his knees, eyes full of intent, ready to give not just his mouth—but all of his focus, all of his fire.

Y/N didn't rush—he never did. There was a rhythm to his movements, a kind of patient artistry that made everything feel deliberate, intimate, like he was crafting pleasure one breath at a time. His lips wrapped around Nate's dick with practiced ease, warm and wet and just the right amount of pressure. He eased forward slowly, taking more of Nate in with each pass, the motion smooth and fluid, like a tide pulling in and letting go.

Nate's hand stayed tangled in Y/N's hair, not forceful, just there—anchoring himself to the sensation unraveling him from the inside out. His head tipped back slightly, a low sound rumbling from his throat as he felt Y/N settle into a steady, controlled rhythm.

It wasn't just skill—it was intention.

Y/N used his mouth like he knew exactly what Nate needed before Nate could even ask for it. His tongue traced patterns along the underside, slow and sensual, before he pulled back with a wet pop, only to sink down again—just a little deeper, a little slower, lips sealed around him like a promise.

Nate looked down, eyes dark with heat, watching the way Y/N moved—effortless and focused, like this wasn't just about getting him off. No, this was about giving, about showing just how well he knew Nate's body. How well he knew what made him gasp, what made his hips twitch forward ever so slightly, what made that sharp breath catch in his lungs like he couldn't quite take it.

There was something devastating in the way Y/N looked up at him while working his mouth around his dick, eyes locked on Nate's face like he wanted to watch every reaction. His lips were slick, glistening, stretched wide—but there was nothing desperate about it. Just controlled, sultry focus that made Nate's thighs tense.

He groaned, deep and broken. "You always know what you're doing to me..."

And it was true.

Y/N had a way with his mouth that Nate knew all too well—had memorized, even. Those lips were soft, wicked, and impossibly precise. Every bob of his head, every swirl of his tongue, was crafted to unravel Nate one breath, one pulse at a time. It wasn't rushed. It wasn't frantic. It was calculated, seductive, maddening in the most perfect way.

Nate's fingers tightened just slightly in Y/N's hair, a silent plea for more, and Y/N responded with a deeper stroke, the wet sound of it obscene in the quiet of the room.

And just like that, Nate knew—he wasn't going to last long. Not with Y/N's mouth on him. Not with those eyes, that patience, that quiet, devastating skill.

Not when he was being worshipped like this.

Y/N pulled back with a slow, deliberate ease, his lips releasing Nate's dick with a wet, audible pop that echoed in the charged silence between them. A thin string of spit stretched from the tip to his mouth, clinging for a beat before dripping onto his chin, glistening in the low light. His breath was warm and unhurried, chest rising with steady control despite the fire simmering beneath his skin.

His lips were swollen, slick, and curved into a knowing smile—lazy, teasing, like he knew exactly what he was doing to Nate. And he did.

Without breaking eye contact, Y/N wrapped his fingers around the base of Nate's dick—firm, steady, possessive. His grip was confident but not harsh, his thumb dragging slowly along the underside as he began to stroke. The rhythm was slow—almost agonizing in its precision. He wasn't trying to rush Nate to the edge. No. He was savoring it. Drawing it out.

Y/N's eyes flicked up to meet Nate's, and what Nate saw there made his stomach clench.

Heat.

Challenge.

Devotion.

And something else—that quiet, wicked spark that lived in Y/N when he was in control, when he was focused. Nate's jaw tightened, his breath hitching as he watched Y/N's hand work him with a rhythm that felt custom-fit to his body.

"You look good like this," Y/N murmured, voice low, laced with heat and amusement.

Nate could barely respond. His entire body was pulsing with want, his muscles taut with restraint. The sight of Y/N—lips wet, chin glistening, hand working him with maddening grace—was almost too much. He could feel the pleasure building again, slow and steady, like a fuse steadily burning toward detonation.

And Y/N just kept smiling.

Smiling like he had all the time in the world to make Nate come undone—one stroke, one glance, one smirk at a time.

Nate's pulse thundered in his ears, his body strung tight with arousal, but even through the heat flooding his veins, he held onto control. Y/N knew how easily Nate could fall apart—how sensitive he was when touched just right, how quickly those soft gasps would turn to moans when pleasure hit hard and fast. But tonight wasn't meant to end quickly. No, tonight was a slow burn. And Nate had a storm of sinful intentions that he planned to unleash across every inch of Y/N's body before the night was through.

His eyes flicked down to the sight of Y/N still on his knees—lips slick, pupils blown wide, his expression a perfect blend of mischief and surrender. God, Nate loved seeing him like that, worshipful and confident all at once. But he wasn't about to let that be the end of it.

With a sudden, fluid motion, Nate reached down and grasped Y/N firmly by the arms, pulling him up in one seamless motion. Their bodies collided—chest to chest, heat meeting heat—as Nate's hand slid to the back of Y/N's neck and pulled him into a kiss that was anything but gentle.

It was hunger, pure and unfiltered.

Mouths crashed together, lips parting with ease as tongues tangled in a rhythm that left no room for doubt—Nate wasn't just kissing him; he was claiming him. The taste of him, the way he melted into the kiss, only fueled the fire raging under Nate's skin.

Nate's fingers fumbled with the buttons of Y/N's shirt, tearing them open one by one, revealing the smooth expanse of warm skin underneath. He didn't bother taking it off cleanly. Instead, he shoved the fabric off Y/N's shoulders, letting it slide down his arms, baring him inch by inch.

The shirt dropped to the floor like a forgotten whisper as Nate's lips left Y/N's mouth and found their way to his neck.

He didn't hold back.

He dragged his lips along the curve of Y/N's throat, teeth grazing just enough to tease before he latched on and sucked hard, leaving the first of many hickies blooming against flushed skin. Y/N gasped at the contact, fingers digging into Nate's waist, his breath hitching with every mark Nate made.

Nate smirked against his skin, dragging his mouth lower, trailing kisses down to his collarbone before moving back up to press another bruise behind Y/N's ear. Each hickey was deliberate—a brand, a warning, a memory.

His lips grazed tender spots he knew by heart—behind the ear, just under the jaw, the place where neck met shoulder—each kiss a mix of softness and claiming pressure. His teeth followed in places, nipping just hard enough to make Y/N shiver, and when a low moan escaped from Y/N's throat, it only fueled the hunger roaring beneath Nate's skin.

As his mouth moved, Nate's hands followed suit, sliding down the smooth planes of Y/N's torso with purpose. One hand found the metal teeth of Y/N's zipper and slowly pulled it down, the sound harsh in the silence of the room, almost obscene. The pressure eased, and Nate wasted no time in pushing the pants down, fingers curling into the waistband and dragging the fabric over Y/N's hips.

The trousers slipped easily past Y/N's thighs, gliding down his legs until they pooled at his feet in a forgotten heap. Nate's hands returned, now touching with more urgency—one sliding around to palm the swell of Y/N's ass, squeezing firmly, possessively. His grip was hot, rough with want, fingers digging into soft flesh like he was claiming territory he already knew was his.

His other hand moved forward, fingers grazing over the front of Y/N's boxers, where the fabric strained over his arousal. Nate let out a low, satisfied hum, his palm pressing against the obvious outline of Y/N's dick. He rubbed slow, deliberate strokes over the sensitive length, feeling how hard and eager he was through the thin cotton.

"You're already this hard for me?" Nate murmured into Y/N's skin, his voice low and full of dark amusement, lips brushing against the newest hickey blooming on his neck.

Y/N's breath hitched, hips twitching forward into Nate's touch instinctively, a quiet gasp breaking free from his lips. And Nate drank in every reaction—every subtle shift in Y/N's body, every breathless sound—as if it were his favorite song playing just for him.

Nate's thumb dragged along the tip through the boxers, applying just enough pressure to make Y/N moan again, louder this time.

The fabric was damp now—proof of how much Y/N wanted him.

And Nate had every intention of making him beg as his hand moved in a slow, torturous rhythm over the front of Y/N's boxers with practiced ease. The thin fabric did nothing to dull the sensation—if anything, it heightened it, making every pass of Nate's fingers feel hotter, heavier. Y/N's breath had grown shallow, his body pressing forward, hips subtly rocking into the pressure, seeking more.

But Nate didn't give more—at least not yet.

Instead, he leaned in, lips brushing the shell of Y/N's ear as he whispered, voice smooth and laced with wicked amusement.

"So sensitive already," he murmured, letting his thumb circle right over the head through the fabric. "You're aching for me, aren't you? I can feel it."

Y/N let out a shaky breath, hands curling slightly against Nate's chest as a low groan escaped him. Nate smirked, letting his teeth graze the edge of Y/N's jaw before pulling back just enough to look him over—shirtless, flushed, lips parted in anticipation. Absolutely stunning.

But this wasn't just about teasing.

Not tonight.

Tonight was about something deeper—heat, yes, but wrapped in care, in connection, in the slow-burning intimacy of being truly seen.

Nate's expression softened, the teasing glint in his eyes giving way to something warmer. He dropped his gaze and slid his fingers beneath the waistband of Y/N's boxers. Slowly, reverently, he eased them down, his knuckles brushing against Y/N's dick as he freed it from the soft cotton. It bounced free, thick and already leaking, the head flushed a deep shade of red.

Nate exhaled through his nose, almost like he was grounding himself at the sight.

"Beautiful," he muttered, more to himself than anyone else.

The boxers fell the rest of the way to the floor, leaving Y/N fully exposed, and before he could even react, Nate's hands slid down, cupping the curve of his ass with both palms. He squeezed firmly—possessive and grounding—then pulled Y/N flush against him in one fluid motion, their skin colliding with a soft slap of heat meeting heat.

Y/N's dick pressed against Nate's abdomen, leaving a smear of precum in its wake, and Nate relished the sensation—the warmth, the weight of him, the way their bodies fit together like puzzle pieces long meant to align.

He pressed his forehead to Y/N's, their breaths mingling, hands still holding him close.

"No more barriers," Nate whispered, voice low and full of promise. "Just us."

Nate's lips found Y/N's again, the kiss slow and deep, full of warmth and want—a quiet promise wrapped in heat. His hands held Y/N's face gently at first, thumbs brushing his jaw as their mouths moved together with practiced rhythm. There was no urgency, just intensity, like Nate wanted to savor every second their lips touched.

Without breaking the kiss, Nate began to guide him backward, one hand sliding down Y/N's chest, fingers dragging lightly across heated skin. He nudged him gently toward the bed, their bodies moving as one, until the backs of Y/N's legs met the edge of the mattress.

Nate broke the kiss just long enough to whisper, "Lie back for me."

Y/N obeyed without hesitation, sinking onto the bed with a soft exhale, the mattress dipping beneath his weight. His hair splayed out across the pillows, and the warm, low lighting painted golden highlights across his bare skin. He looked flushed and stunning, completely at ease beneath Nate's gaze.

Nate followed immediately, climbing on top of him in a slow, fluid motion, like a panther stalking its prey—but this wasn't about conquest. It was reverence. Devotion. Desire wrapped in affection.

He started with a kiss just above Y/N's navel, lips parting against warm skin. Then another, just below the curve of his ribs. He trailed upward with purpose, kissing a slow, sensual path across the dip of Y/N's stomach, to his sternum, to the center of his chest. Each kiss lingered, lips warm and open, tongue occasionally flicking out to taste as Nate moved higher.

His hands roamed as his mouth did—one splayed across Y/N's side, fingers tracing along his ribs, the other dragging down his thigh, grounding them both in the closeness of skin-on-skin.

Y/N's breath hitched with every kiss, every stroke of Nate's mouth. He arched slightly, instinctively, offering more of himself as Nate made his way up his body.

Then Nate reached his neck.

He kissed along the curve slowly, lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath his ear, then down to the hollow of his throat. One kiss turned into two... then three. His mouth opened slightly, and he sucked gently at a spot just below the jaw, pulling a low moan from Y/N's lips.

"You taste so good," Nate murmured against his skin, his voice thick, almost dazed with hunger.

Y/N's hands found Nate's back, fingers digging in lightly as if to hold him closer, to anchor himself in the pleasure.

And Nate continued his worship—mouth, hands, body pressed fully to Y/N's now—letting every kiss say what words never could.

Nate then leaned over Y/N, the heat between their bodies humming like a live current. The air in the room was thick with anticipation, every breath shared between them drawing deeper, heavier, more electric. His eyes never left Y/N's face—flushed, lips parted, eyes dark and waiting. There was no mistaking the trust there. The want. The silent plea: I'm yours. Take your time, but don't hold back.

With a breath through his nose, Nate brought his hand to his mouth, his gaze never wavering. He slipped two fingers between his lips, coating them thoroughly with saliva, his tongue curling around them, slow and deliberate. It wasn't just about readiness—it was about intent. Preparation as a form of care, of promise. And the way Y/N's breath hitched at the sight made a thrill run down Nate's spine.

When his fingers were slick, he pulled them free, dragging them slowly past Y/N's hip and down between his thighs. Y/N shifted instinctively, spreading his legs further, opening himself up with a quiet vulnerability that made Nate's chest ache.

Nate's hand was gentle as it reached him, the pads of his fingers brushing lightly over the sensitive skin around Y/N's entrance. He didn't push in right away—he took his time, circling the rim with slow, teasing passes, watching the way Y/N's body twitched under the attention.

"You okay?" Nate murmured, voice low, rough with restraint.

Y/N nodded, a breathy, "Yes," slipping past his lips, already trembling with need.

At that, Nate gently pressed one finger inside, his pace unhurried, letting Y/N's body adjust to the intrusion. The tight heat of it made his breath falter for just a moment, but he focused—this was about Y/N, about preparing him the way he deserved.

Once his first finger was buried to the knuckle, he moved with care, curling slightly, then withdrawing just a bit before pushing in again. His other hand rested on Y/N's thigh, grounding them both, thumb drawing soft circles into his skin.

Then, after a moment, Nate eased the second finger in beside the first.

Y/N gasped, his back arching slightly at the stretch, but Nate stilled, offering him time, whispering soft encouragements against his skin.

"That's it... you're doing so good for me."

He began to move then, fingers sliding in a slow, deliberate rhythm—scissoring gently, stretching him open bit by bit. The wet sounds between them were subtle but unmistakable, and every time Nate brushed against that spot deep inside, Y/N's breath would stutter, his hands fisting in the sheets.

Nate watched it all unfold—the way Y/N's thighs trembled, the way his mouth fell open in helpless pleasure—and he knew, without a doubt, that the night was just beginning.

He reached forward, hands wrapping firmly but gently around Y/N's ankles, lifting and spreading them apart with care. He guided Y/N's legs upward, bending them slightly as he held them in place, exposing everything to him. Y/N looked back at him through half-lidded eyes, breath shallow, chest rising and falling with growing anticipation.

Nate's dick throbbed, already flushed and slick, the head glistening with precum. He guided it down with one hand, brushing it against the cleft of Y/N's ass before settling it at the entrance—already open, stretched, warm and glistening from the prep.

The pink tip met Y/N's hole with a teasing nudge, and both of them let out quiet, involuntary breaths at the contact.

Nate leaned in slightly, adjusting his grip on Y/N's legs as he whispered, "You ready?"

Y/N nodded, voice soft, breathy. "Yes... please."

That was all Nate needed.

He pressed forward, slow and controlled, letting the head of his dick breach Y/N's entrance with practiced ease. The heat of it wrapped around him immediately, tight but yielding, welcoming him in inch by inch. Y/N's body opened for him like it was meant to—slick and ready, no resistance, just the wet slide of Nate easing deeper inside.

A groan rumbled from Nate's chest as he sank in further, his fingers tightening slightly around Y/N's ankles. The feeling was intoxicating—Y/N was so warm, so tight, the way his body clung to every inch made Nate's head fall forward briefly, eyes fluttering shut to focus on the overwhelming sensation.

Y/N moaned softly beneath him, lips parted, his back arching just enough to shift the angle and let Nate slide in deeper. The sound only made Nate's pulse pound harder in his ears.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity drawn out in heartbeats and shallow breaths, Nate bottomed out—his hips flush against Y/N's, buried to the hilt. He paused there, breathing hard, taking it all in—the warmth, the closeness, the intimacy of being joined like this.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes glassy, mouth curved in a lazy, satisfied smile. "Perfect," he whispered, voice hoarse.

Nate leaned in, kissed the inside of his ankle, and murmured, "We're just getting started."

He held still for just a moment longer, letting them both feel the full weight of it—of him. His hands remained steady around Y/N's ankles, keeping his legs open and spread as he drank in the view beneath him. Y/N was breathtaking like this—completely bare, flushed from head to toe, chest rising and falling with soft, eager breaths, lips slightly parted in anticipation.

Then, slowly, Nate began to move.

His hips pulled back, just enough for the thick slide of his dick to drag along every inch of Y/N's stretched heat, and then he pushed forward again—sharply, with purpose, but never rough. It was a sensual rhythm, a deep, grounded thrust that had Y/N gasping softly, his fingers gripping at the sheets, eyes fluttering shut.

Nate set a deliberate pace—measured, focused. He wasn't chasing release. He was savoring this. Savoring him.

The room filled with the soft, rhythmic sound of skin meeting skin, the wet heat between them singing with each deep push. Nate's thrusts weren't rushed or frantic—they were intimate, sensual, meant to make Y/N feel every inch of him. Every slow retreat, every smooth return, every angle carefully aimed to make Y/N shudder beneath him.

"God... you feel so good," Nate breathed, voice rough and low, full of reverence and something deeper—something that felt like the start of something real.

Y/N looked up at him, eyes hazy, lips trembling with a quiet moan as he whispered back, "So do you... Nate..."

That single sound—his name on Y/N's lips—made Nate's heart thrum in his chest. He leaned forward, shifting his grip from Y/N's ankles to the bend of his knees, folding him gently as he pressed their bodies closer together, never breaking the steady rhythm of his hips.

Tonight was special.

Their first date—hours earlier—had been perfect. Laughter over dinner, soft looks exchanged beneath city lights, hands brushing together until they finally linked. And now, here they were, tangled together, connected in every way. Nate didn't want to rush any part of this. Not the way Y/N sighed his name. Not the way his body welcomed him so willingly. Not the way their souls seemed to align with every shared breath.

So he thrust with care—deep, slow, sensual strokes that made Y/N gasp and squirm and melt beneath him. Each push forward was a promise.

I want more of this. More of you. This isn't the end of the night—it's just the beginning.

And as Nate bent down to press a kiss to Y/N's lips—gentle, slow, but burning with intensity—he whispered, "First date or not... I'm not letting you go."

His thrusts remained steady, deliberate—each one rolling through Y/N's body like a wave of heat. The tension between them was thick, electric, humming with that delicate balance of restraint and rising need. Nate was in no rush. He was building something—moment by moment, breath by breath—letting Y/N feel the full weight of his presence with every slow, sensual drive of his hips.

Their bodies moved in perfect rhythm, a harmony of breath and skin and want.

But then something shifted in Nate's eyes.

A flicker of deeper hunger. Of closeness not yet close enough.

Without a word, he adjusted his posture, his hands sliding away from Y/N's knees—fingers trailing along flushed skin until they found the dip of his waist. His grip tightened, firm but full of care, fingers pressing into the warm flesh of Y/N's hips as he pulled him forward in one fluid, controlled motion.

The effect was immediate.

Y/N gasped as his body was drawn flush against Nate's, Nate's dick plunging deeper, reaching places inside him that made his back arch and his hands claw helplessly at the sheets beneath them.

Nate groaned low and sharp at the sensation—the tight heat of Y/N's body taking him in so completely, so perfectly, it nearly shattered his focus. His thumbs dug into the hollows of Y/N's hips, holding him there, keeping him exactly where he wanted him—close, stretched, trembling.

"Just like that..." Nate murmured, breath brushing across Y/N's thigh as his thrusts deepened, each one slow and strong, driving into him with a sensual power that left Y/N panting. "You feel incredible."

He rolled his hips again, dragging his dick almost all the way out before sinking back in—deeper now, thicker, filling every inch of Y/N's body with practiced ease. The wet sounds between them were soft but lewd, mingling with the quiet creak of the bed and Y/N's broken moans.

Y/N's legs wrapped instinctively around Nate's waist, trying to anchor himself, to pull him even closer. Nate's hands remained firm, guiding his body with each thrust, his fingers digging in just enough to mark the moment on his skin.

Every move was deliberate. Every stroke meant to say: I'm here. I'm with you. And I'm not stopping until you fall apart in my arms.

And in that moment—full of heat, connection, and deep affection—Nate's grip tightened just slightly as he pulled Y/N in again, dick buried to the hilt, and whispered against his skin,

"I want you to remember this... every inch of it."

The pleasure between them was no longer a low hum; it had become a steady current pulsing through every point of contact. Y/N's body rocked beneath him, supple and open, breath catching with every deeper thrust.

Then Nate leaned down, closing the space between them, and captured Y/N's lips in a kiss that was equal parts heat and tenderness. Their mouths collided—wet, open, breathless. Nate's lips moved over Y/N's with urgency now, not rough, but hungry, like he needed to taste him just as badly as he needed to feel him.

The kiss was messy in the best way, mouths parting only to draw in quick, shallow breaths before reconnecting again. Nate swallowed every moan Y/N gave him, every broken gasp that slipped through the seam of his lips each time Nate's dick drove a little deeper, a little harder, right into that spot that made Y/N tremble beneath him.

Nate groaned lowly into Y/N's mouth, the sound vibrating against Y/N's lips, and the way his body tightened in response was everything. His hands slid from Y/N's waist up his sides, then back down again—touching, gripping, grounding them both as his hips began to thrust faster, more insistent now, but still intimate.

Their kisses turned into panting exchanges between moans—hot breaths mingling, lips brushing, then colliding again.

Y/N's fingers tangled in the short hair at the nape of Nate's neck, holding him there, needing that kiss just as much as the rhythm of his body moving inside him.

Nate broke away only briefly to whisper against Y/N's lips, his voice ragged with heat, "You sound so fucking good... every time I push into you."

Y/N moaned again, head tipping back slightly as Nate thrust harder, deeper, the angle just right to drag a cry from his throat.

Nate chased it—with his hips, with his mouth, with everything he had.

And with every kiss and every thrust, it became more than just pleasure—it was something raw, something consuming.

It was them.

Nate's rhythm deepened into something urgent—something primal. The slow, sensual pacing from earlier had transformed into harder, more powerful thrusts, each one hitting deeper, sharper, as his need to push Y/N closer to the edge took over. The sound of their bodies colliding filled the room in rhythmic bursts—wet, heavy, and unmistakably raw. The slap of skin on skin echoed off the walls, a lewd symphony of movement and mounting pleasure.

Sweat clung to Nate's skin, his muscles flexing with every snap of his hips, but his focus never wavered from Y/N—flushed, panting, writhing beneath him. Every gasp, every moan that spilled from Y/N's mouth only pushed Nate further, igniting the fire that blazed in his gut.

He shifted slightly, angling his body just enough to press even deeper, hitting that perfect spot inside Y/N with unrelenting consistency. Y/N's fingers twisted in the sheets, knuckles white, mouth open in a string of broken sounds that barely formed words.

Then Nate's hand slid between them, slick and sure, wrapping around Y/N's dick with practiced ease.

His palm was hot, fingers stroking in tandem with the rhythm of his thrusts—tight, fast, just the right amount of pressure. The dual stimulation made Y/N arch off the mattress, a desperate cry tearing from his throat as his eyes fluttered shut.

"That's it," Nate growled, his breath ragged as he leaned over him, hips slamming forward with more power. "Let go for me... come for me..."

Y/N's body was trembling, teetering on the edge, his dick leaking freely into Nate's hand, thighs quivering around Nate's waist.

Nate's own climax was building fast now—the coil tightening low in his spine, the burn in his legs, the desperate pulse of his dick as it drove deeper and deeper. Every thrust was a chase, a promise. His grip on Y/N's dick pumped faster, matching the pace of his hips.

The slap of skin meeting skin filled the air, mixing with the gasps, moans, and the steady creak of the bed beneath them. The whole room felt drenched in heat and breath and tension, building to that one inevitable explosion they were both racing toward.

And Nate wasn't letting go until Y/N shattered first—until he felt Y/N's body clamp down around him, pulling him over the edge with him.

Suddenly, Y/N's breath caught in his throat, his entire body going rigid as a powerful wave of heat surged through him. His dick twitched violently in Nate's grip—once, twice—before thick ropes of hot release spilled out, painting Nate's hand and Y/N's own stomach in slick, glistening strands. The pleasure hit him in full force, dragging a moan from his chest that echoed through the room, raw and broken.

His thighs trembled as his body arched off the bed, every nerve lit up, his mind momentarily blank with the sheer intensity of his climax. His walls clenched tightly around Nate's dick as the aftershocks rippled through him, milking every inch with pulsing contractions that nearly made Nate lose control right then and there.

Nate's eyes dropped to the sight—Y/N panting, spent, flushed and utterly wrecked beneath him, and his own hand slick and glistening with Y/N's release. He groaned low, his jaw flexing with restraint, and without pausing in his steady, powerful thrusts, he brought that hand up between them.

He stared at it for a brief moment—Y/N's cum glistening across his fingers—before he wrapped his lips around them, one by one, tongue curling between each digit as he sucked the evidence of Y/N's climax off with slow, deliberate motions. His eyes never left Y/N's face while he did it, gaze smoldering with heat and satisfaction.

"You taste just as fucking good as you feel," Nate rasped, voice low and frayed with arousal.

Still driving into him with steady, punishing thrusts, Nate used his now-clean hand to grab Y/N's hip again, anchoring himself as he chased his own release. The tight clutch of Y/N's body around him, still fluttering from orgasm, only pushed him closer.

His thrusts became erratic, hips jerking forward harder, deeper, fueled by the sounds of Y/N's breathless moans and the memory of his taste still lingering on Nate's tongue.

And as the heat at the base of his spine exploded into blinding pleasure, Nate knew—he wasn't just coming apart inside Y/N.

He was falling, completely.

Nate's pace faltered for just a moment—his hips stuttering as the heat coiling in his lower abdomen finally surged forward, threatening to overtake him. He groaned, low and guttural, his entire body tightening as the climax crested fast and hard. The way Y/N's body still clenched around him, hot and slick from release, only drove him faster toward the edge.

"Fuck—Y/N," he hissed through gritted teeth, pulling back in one swift motion.

His dick slipped free with a wet sound, flushed and pulsing, and he wrapped his hand around the base just in time. A second later, he came—hot, thick spurts spilling out in heavy waves across Y/N's stomach, streaking across flushed skin in glistening ropes. His breath came in sharp gasps, hips jerking with each pulse as he released all over Y/N's trembling body.

He hovered there for a moment, breathing hard, his chest heaving with the aftershocks as he watched the way his seed marked Y/N—on his belly, his skin slick with sweat and release, looking utterly wrecked and beautiful beneath him.

But Nate wasn't finished.

Once the tremors in his muscles settled and his breath began to even out, he lowered himself again—slow and intentional, like gravity was drawing him back to Y/N. His fingers trailed lightly across Y/N's abdomen, tracing through the warm mess he'd left behind. Without hesitation, he brought those same fingers to his mouth, sucking them clean with a low, appreciative hum, eyes locked on Y/N's the entire time.

The taste, the intimacy, the act—it was raw, deeply sensual. Intimate in a way that wasn't just about sex. It was about closeness. Comfort. Trust.

Then Nate leaned in, catching Y/N's jaw with one hand, and kissed him—deep, slow, and messy. His tongue parted Y/N's lips easily, sharing the taste of their bodies, the heat of the moment, everything they'd just poured into each other. The kiss was lazy but lingering, a slow drag of mouths pressed together in the afterglow of something that felt a hell of a lot like love in its earliest, hungriest form.

"You're perfect," Nate murmured against Y/N's lips, still tasting him.

And in that moment, with their bodies spent and tangled, nothing else mattered.

THE hotel room had fallen into a deep, comforting stillness—the kind of quiet that only came after passion had given way to peace. The energy that had once crackled between them like a live wire now pulsed gently, muted and warm, blanketing the space in something that felt far more intimate than lust. The echoes of earlier moans and whispered names still lingered in the air, but they'd softened now, replaced by the steady rhythm of two people simply being—together, vulnerable, real.

Moonlight filtered in through the sheer curtains, casting a cool, silvery wash over tangled sheets and bare skin. The soft hum of the city below was distant and blurred, like background music to a moment that no longer belonged to the outside world. In here, everything was slower. Softer. More sacred.

They were sprawled in the center of the bed, limbs entwined in the kind of closeness that didn't require movement or words. The sheets were twisted around their legs, pillows scattered and forgotten. Skin pressed to skin—warm, bare, breathing in sync.

Y/N lay curled against Nate's chest, his cheek resting just over Nate's heart, where the steady beat grounded him like an anchor. His fingers traced lazy, mindless shapes across Nate's stomach—lines, circles, nothing with purpose except the act of touch. Of knowing Nate was real. Still here. Still his.

Nate had one arm cradled around Y/N's back, his hand stroking along the slope of his shoulder in slow, soothing motions. The other arm was bent behind his head, but his attention wasn't drifting. He was fully present, eyes lowered to Y/N, watching the way his lashes fluttered now and then. The way his lips parted when he sighed, like something sat just behind his breath, waiting to be spoken.

And Nate knew that look. He knew Y/N's silences better than anyone.

So he didn't ask. He didn't rush.

He just waited.

Until finally, Y/N stirred. He shifted slightly, head tilting up so he could see Nate's face—bathed in moonlight and softened by the aftermath of everything they'd shared. His usual edge, that quiet confidence that framed his every move, had melted into something quieter. Something tender.

Y/N studied him for a moment, like he was gathering the courage to crack open a door he'd kept closed for too long.

Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he said, "I never said it back."

Nate blinked, lifting his head from the pillow, brow furrowed—not with confusion, but with the kind of tension that came from knowing exactly what was coming and needing to hear it anyway.

"Said what?" His voice was soft, coaxing, careful.

Y/N's eyes didn't waver. They held Nate's with full vulnerability, nothing hidden, no guards left standing.

"That I love you."

The words hung in the space between them like a held breath—quiet, unscripted, but alive with meaning. They didn't need music, didn't need candles or the perfect timing. They were perfect, because they were true.

Nate stared at him for a long moment. Not in disbelief—he'd known. He'd felt it in the way Y/N kissed him, the way he looked at him when he thought Nate wasn't paying attention, the way he gave himself without hesitation even when his heart was full of questions.

But hearing it—really hearing it—was something else entirely.

A slow, tender smile broke across Nate's face. Not smug. Not cocky. Just full. Full of relief. Of joy. Of something deep and reverent.

He brought his hand up from Y/N's shoulder, cradling the back of his head and pulling him closer, holding him like something precious.

"You don't know how long I've been waiting to hear that," he whispered, his lips brushing Y/N's temple.

Y/N smiled into Nate's chest, nuzzling closer, his voice small but content. "I think I did. I just... needed to be sure."

Nate leaned back just enough to look into his eyes, his thumb brushing along Y/N's cheek. "You're sure now?"

The teasing note in his voice was gentle, affectionate—just a spark of playfulness between the weight of truth.

Y/N nodded, his gaze unwavering. "Yeah," he said, voice firm, clear, steady. "I'm sure."

And with that, Nate exhaled—a long, slow breath that seemed to release everything he'd been holding inside.

"Good," he said softly, pulling Y/N against him again. "Because I'm not going anywhere."

The words weren't grand. They didn't need to be.

They were everything.

And as they lay there, chest to chest, hearts beating in time beneath the silver wash of moonlight, the world outside faded into silence. No noise. No rush. Just two souls finally settled into place—wrapped in warmth, surrounded by stillness, and grounded by the kind of love that didn't need to be chased anymore. It had already been found.

FIVE years later, the world around them had shifted—new cities, new routines, new pressures—but Nate and Y/N remained unmistakably, stubbornly them. The sharp banter, the relentless teasing, the dramatic debates over who actually started the laundry but never finished it—all of it had endured. The difference now? That chaos existed within something lasting. Something they had built brick by brick, through sweat, sacrifice, and the kind of love that doesn't waver when the real world presses in.

Their relationship had ripened into something steady, rich with the quiet depth that time brings. The kind of bond forged not just in kisses and soft touches, but in choosing each other—over and over—on the days when life was loud, when tempers flared, or when exhaustion settled into their bones. They had learned how to bend without breaking, how to speak in silences, how to apologize with a look and forgive with a touch.

After graduation, they'd closed the chapter on dorm rooms and late-night campus strolls, trading them in for a cozy apartment nestled on the fourth floor of an old brick building in the heart of the city. It wasn't fancy—no doorman, no pristine granite countertops—but it was them. The exposed brick walls were scattered with framed photos from their college years, game nights with friends, and polaroids of them brushing their teeth together, half-asleep. The large windows welcomed in soft morning light that bathed their mismatched furniture in gold. And the scent—part Nate's warm cologne, part Y/N's vanilla-amber candles—had, over time, become the smell of home.

Y/N had gone pro—not just a rising star on the track, but a name that fans now chanted in stadiums across the country. His days started early, filled with grueling workouts and relentless travel schedules. But no matter how far he flew or how many medals he brought home, he always returned to Nate with tired eyes and a content heart. There was never a moment too small for them—a shared takeout dinner on the couch, brushing their teeth side by side, curled up watching reruns with feet tangled beneath throw blankets.

Nate had made it into the league, too. Drafted to a team that didn't just want his arm—they wanted his mind, his drive, his fire. He'd become a cornerstone on the field, not just for his performance but for the kind of leadership that demanded respect. He still had that signature edge, the one that first made him electric—but it had been softened by love. By Y/N. He was still intense, still passionate, but now he was grounded. No longer just playing to win, but playing for something more—for the life they'd created, the future they were building.

They supported each other like clockwork. Nate brought home flowers on Y/N's recovery days—sunflowers when he was happy, tulips when he wasn't saying much. He never made a big deal of it, just placed them in the chipped vase on the kitchen table and kissed Y/N's cheek like it was any other Tuesday. Y/N, in turn, left notes in Nate's gear bag—ridiculous puns, inside jokes, or scrawled confessions of how proud he was. Nate pretended to groan about them in the locker room, but he kept every single one folded in the bottom drawer of his nightstand.

Their home was lived in and loved through—medals on the mantle, cleats by the door, half-solved crossword puzzles on the coffee table. A slightly lopsided bookshelf—assembled during one of Nate's I got this weekends—leaned a little too far left but never fell, much like their love.

And no matter how fast the world spun—no matter the away games, endorsement deals, media pressure, or long-haul flights—they always found their way back to each other. To that apartment. To that bed with the faded sheets. To the kind of love that made Sunday mornings sacred—waking late, limbs tangled, coffee forgotten on the nightstand as they stayed wrapped in each other just a little longer.

They still fought. Still flirted like it was the first night. Still laughed until one of them snorted. They were older now, wiser in some ways, but still wild about each other.

They hadn't changed much.

But they had grown into something extraordinary.

And five years later, they were still, irrevocably, in love.

THE locker room was alive with noise—booming voices, the clatter of cleats against tile, showers hissing open in the background, and the ever-present stench of sweat, turf, and testosterone. It was the kind of chaos only a professional football team could generate after an intense practice—bruises half-forgotten, adrenaline still thrumming, teammates laughing too loudly about fumbled plays and near tackles that had turned into unexpected highlights.

Towels were tossed like missiles across the room. Jokes were shouted from one end to the other. Someone had queued up music from a portable speaker, the bass heavy enough to rattle the metal lockers.

But Nate Jacobs was in his own world.

He sat at his cubby near the back wall, stripped halfway out of his uniform, methodically peeling off the soaked fabric of his jersey and shoulder pads with the ease of habit. His muscular frame glistened with a post-practice sheen, his skin flushed from exertion, veins prominent down his forearms and neck. Every movement was deliberate—no wasted energy, no rush. His breathing had slowed, and though his body was fatigued, his expression was relaxed. Grounded.

This was not the Nate Jacobs of five years ago—the one who let pressure wrap around his spine like barbed wire, the one who snapped first and thought later, who mistook rage for resolve.

This Nate was quieter. Not soft—he was still fire when the game called for it—but he'd learned how to wield that fire differently. With purpose. With control.

His jaw, once always tight with tension, now relaxed with a subtle curve. His brows didn't knit together like they used to. His hair—shorter now, neatly edged with curls just beginning to reform around his temples—still held the faint dampness from where his helmet had pressed it flat. Y/N called it his "good boy" haircut. Said it made him look like a reformed heartthrob who finally paid off his student loans and started therapy. Nate had rolled his eyes at the time, but the memory made him smirk now.

He reached into his locker, brushing past the usual post-practice clutter: a towel slung over a protein bar he hadn't touched, a pair of joggers, half-drunk water bottle, neatly stacked gear. At the very back, nestled between his backup cleats and a roll of wrist tape, sat his phone.

It lit up the second his fingers grazed the screen.

There it was.

Y/N's face filled the lock screen—his lips exaggerated into an obnoxious pout, hoodie draped around his shoulders, hair messily fluffed up like he'd just rolled out of bed. The image was ridiculous and endearing, taken in a flash of morning light that made his skin glow and his eyes sparkle even beneath the theatrics. It had started as a joke selfie. But Nate had never changed it.

Because every time he looked at it, his chest tugged in that quiet, aching way it always did when it came to Y/N.

He unlocked the phone.

A text sat waiting at the top of his notifications.

Y/N: Don't forget, babe—dinner's on me tonight. You just show up hungry and pretty.

Nate huffed a soft laugh through his nose, thumb tapping the screen to reply.

Nate: Always.

But before he could close it, another message buzzed in.

Mom: Reminder: pick up your brother tomorrow for dinner tomorrow. Don't make me text Y/N to make sure it happens.

He groaned, rolling his eyes—but with a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He sent a quick reply, "We got it. Don't worry." Then shoved the phone back into his locker.

Around him, the team was still loud—someone was trying to argue that they hadn't technically stepped out of bounds, another guy was recounting his impossible catch like it belonged in the Hall of Fame. The music kept thumping.

But for Nate, it all dimmed into background static.

Because in his mind, he was already gone from here.

He was already walking through the front door of their apartment, greeted by the smell of something warm on the stove. Already kicking off his shoes while Y/N hummed off-key in the kitchen, arms waving in chaotic rhythm to whatever music he had playing. Already imagining the soft press of a kiss, the sound of Y/N's voice teasing him for being late, the heat of two bodies curling on the couch after dinner—tangled in each other, sharing silence that didn't need to be filled.

This life—their life—wasn't always perfect. It was messy, loud, full of stubbornness and laughter and late-night grocery runs. But it was real. Built with hands that had once only known how to push people away, now creating something worth holding onto.

And as Nate leaned back against the cool metal of his locker, muscles sore, hair damp, heart full—he knew one thing with absolute certainty:

He wouldn't trade it for anything.

THE front door creaked open with a low groan, the hinges announcing Nate's return like an old companion. A beat later, the familiar clink of his keys landing in the shallow ceramic bowl by the entryway echoed through the quiet apartment. It was a sound Y/N had grown to love—one that said he's home, no matter how late it was or how long the day had dragged on.

Nate's path through the apartment was a breadcrumb trail of exhaustion. His cleats were the first to go, kicked off just inside the door. His gym bag came next, thudding softly to the floor near the hallway. Then his jacket, half-draped over the back of a chair, the sleeves still warm from his body heat. Every discarded item was a silent testament to the grueling practice he'd just survived—his way of peeling off the day piece by piece until only the man remained beneath the armor of sweat and routine.

His body ached—thighs burning from endless sprint drills, shoulders sore from too many tackles, fingers bruised from one-too-many helmet grips—but it didn't matter. None of it did. Because the moment he stepped through that door, he wasn't the quarterback anymore.

He was just Nate.

And more importantly, he was home.

The scent of something warm and savory teased at the edges of his senses, pulling him forward like a thread. Garlic. Maybe thyme. Something rich and bubbling. It wrapped around him like a blanket, easing the stiffness from his bones better than any ice bath ever could. He followed it straight to the kitchen, drawn by more than just hunger.

There he was.

Y/N stood at the stove, barefoot, wearing one of Nate's old college T-shirts—the faded navy one with the cracked logo and the stretched-out collar that hung just a little too wide around the shoulders. It swam on him in the most perfect way, clinging to his back, barely covering the curve of his thighs. He was humming—terribly off-key, as always—completely unbothered, spoon in hand as he tasted whatever simmered in the pan with a soft, pleased hum.

Nate's stomach growled loudly in protest, but he barely noticed. He was too busy watching him.

"Greedy," he muttered under his breath, a tired smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth.

Y/N didn't turn, but his response came immediately, tone full of teasing edge. "If you were home on time, you might've had first dibs."

Nate rolled his eyes—but he wasn't interested in the food. Not yet.

The distance between them evaporated in a few long strides. He came up behind Y/N and wrapped his arms around him without hesitation, sliding his hands beneath the oversized shirt to rest against warm skin. He pressed his chest firmly into Y/N's back, his face tucking into the crook of his neck with a deep, contented sigh. The contact was immediate, grounding. The heat of him bled through their skin like they were two halves snapping back into place.

Y/N froze for a fraction of a second, then let out a soft, knowing laugh. "You're disgusting," he said, even as he leaned back into the embrace without hesitation, spoon still in hand.

"Yeah," Nate murmured, voice muffled against his shoulder, "but I missed you."

And he meant it.

Not just in the casual, throwaway way people toss around after a long day—but with the weight of someone who'd spent hours pushing his body to the brink, aching for this exact moment. The kind of missing that clung to his chest and softened his spine the second Y/N was within reach.

Y/N turned his head, just enough to catch Nate's face in the corner of his vision. His hair was damp, curling at the edges, plastered to his forehead. His eyes were half-closed, features slack with that rare kind of quiet Nate only ever showed here. With him.

Y/N's teasing faded into something softer. "I missed you too."

Nate's arms tightened, just a little—like if he could press their bodies closer, he'd never have to leave again. His breath was warm against Y/N's neck, his hands splayed possessively across his stomach. Everything about him screamed exhaustion, but underneath it was something fierce. Devoted.

They stood there in silence, swaying slightly in the glow of the under-cabinet lights, the room smelling of roasted garlic and something baking in the oven. The world was still loud outside—coaches and deadlines and blinding stadium lights—but in here, it was just the rhythm of shared space, the quiet pulse of love wrapped in domestic stillness.

Because love, as they'd both come to learn, wasn't just grand gestures or perfect timing.

It was sweaty jerseys clinging to sore muscles. It was missed dinners and back hugs. It was laughing over bad singing and kissing someone who smelled like turf and body wash and home.

And it was always, always worth it.

Nate let out a groan in protest as Y/N peeled out of his arms, the warmth of his body slipping away too soon for his liking. His forehead dropped briefly to Y/N's shoulder, a dramatic sigh puffing against the fabric of his shirt. Still, a smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, amused by how quickly Y/N was trying to squirm out of the clinginess he'd clearly missed.

"Come on," Y/N said, shooting him a playful look over his shoulder as he nudged him lightly in the ribs. "You smell like a locker room and a grudge. Go shower before I lose my appetite entirely."

Nate rolled his eyes, reluctant but amused, his arms still looped around Y/N's waist like they were magnetized there. "Only if you join me," he said, voice low and teasing, a familiar spark flashing through the exhaustion in his eyes.

Y/N huffed a short laugh, shaking his head as he tried to duck out of Nate's hold. "You always say that like I'm the one who needs convincing." He turned back toward the stove, but not without tossing a glance over his shoulder. "Fine. Go warm the water. I'll be there once I make sure you don't burn down dinner."

That earned a small, smug grin from Nate, who he leaned down, cupping Y/N's jaw gently with one hand and pressing a kiss to his lips. It wasn't rushed or hungry—just slow, tender, full. A kiss that carried the weight of a long day and the comfort of coming home. It lingered for a moment longer than necessary, until Y/N sighed softly against his mouth.

Then, with one final brush of his thumb across Y/N's cheek, Nate turned and headed down the hallway, already tugging his sweat-dampened shirt over his head, revealing the broad stretch of his back as he disappeared around the corner. The sound of the bathroom door creaking open was followed shortly by the rush of running water, muted but steady, like another quiet heartbeat in the apartment.

Y/N watched him go with a fond shake of his head, a quiet smile tugging at his lips as he turned back to the stove. He lowered the heat beneath the pan and gave its contents a stir, the aroma of garlic, rosemary, and seared meat wrapping around him like the softest blanket.

The apartment was full of warmth—physical and emotional.

From the simmering dinner on the stove to the faint sound of water running in the bathroom, from Nate's footsteps padding down the hall to the knowledge that this was their life now. A shared rhythm. A house full of softness and sarcasm, of long days and quiet nights, of missed moments that always found their way back to each other.

He didn't say it aloud, but as he leaned on the counter and took in the familiar scent of home and the quiet comfort of being wanted, Y/N knew—this was everything he'd ever hoped for.

Y/N moved slowly down the hallway, the soft pads of his bare feet sinking into the familiar rug beneath him, still warm from the lights left on in the apartment. The aroma of dinner still lingered in the air—garlic, rosemary, something distinctly home. The sound of running water drifted faintly from the bathroom, the steam beginning to seep into the hall like a gentle beckoning.

He was headed toward the bedroom, ready to join Nate in the shower, but something made him pause halfway down the corridor.

The gallery wall.

It was subtle, tucked along the inner hallway just before the bedroom. Not grand or overly decorated—just a series of framed snapshots arranged in an uneven but personal rhythm. And even though he passed them every day, tonight they tugged at him with quiet insistence.

He stopped.

His eyes roamed over the photos, fingers grazing one of the wooden frames, and for a moment, the sounds of the apartment faded into the background.

There they were—versions of him and Nate from the last five years.

One photo showed them in their college graduation gowns, caps crooked, Nate's tie half-loosened, Y/N sticking his tongue out while Nate tried to pretend he wasn't smiling.

Another: a candid from their first apartment, Y/N curled on the couch with a book, and Nate fast asleep beside him, mouth slightly open, a bowl of popcorn balanced precariously on his chest.

There was one from Nate's first pro game—Y/N in the stands, screaming with a face painted in his team colors, caught mid-cheer while Nate stood in the background, sweaty and grinning, reaching up to wave to the stands. That moment had been a blur, but somehow, the camera caught everything.

Then came a photo from a quieter moment: the two of them on a trip upstate, wrapped in scarves, leaning against a wooden fence with mist-covered hills behind them. Nate's chin was resting on Y/N's shoulder, and both of them were smiling like they had nothing else in the world to worry about.

Y/N's chest swelled.

Every frame told a story—not just of time passing, but of growth. Of how far they'd come, from the tension-filled standoffs of early college days to the easy domestic rhythm they now lived in.

He lingered there for a moment longer, lips curling into a soft, private smile.

In the bathroom, he could hear the shower running still, the faint thud of something hitting the tile—probably Nate knocking over a bottle in his usual chaos.

Shaking his head fondly, Y/N finally pushed off the wall, continuing his walk down the hallway, toward the bedroom, toward the man waiting for him.

But as he passed the final photo—one of them on the couch, tangled together in sweats, smiling like the world had finally made sense—he whispered under his breath, "Yeah. We've done okay."

Just as Y/N reached for the bathroom door, warm steam curling out from beneath the frame, a knock echoed through the apartment. He paused mid-step, brows furrowing. It was late—too late for visitors, and they weren't expecting anyone.

Another knock followed, firm but not aggressive.

With a soft sigh, Y/N turned on his heel and made his way back through the hallway, padding barefoot across the hardwood floor to the front door. He glanced through the peephole, his brows knitting together tighter as he took in the sight of a woman with long blonde hair, holding the hand of a young boy who couldn't have been more than six.

Confused, Y/N unlocked the door and pulled it open cautiously. The woman's face was familiar in a way that made something uneasy settle in his gut.

"Hi," she said, voice delicate, uncertain. Her eyes flicked up to meet his. "I'm looking for Nate Jacobs."

Y/N blinked, taking in her features—blonde, wide-eyed, nervous—and then looked down at the boy beside her. He had Nate's eyes. That same sharp jawline forming, the same messy dark brown hair. The resemblance was unmistakable.

"I'm Cassie," the woman added, swallowing hard. "Cassie Howard."

Y/N's heart skipped. He knew that name. Nate had mentioned her in passing once or twice—old history, he'd called it. Drama long buried under years of silence.

Y/N stepped back, stunned but composed enough to call out down the hallway. "Nate! You've got... someone at the door."

From the bathroom, Nate's voice called out, teasing and unaware. "They better be delivering champagne or you better be naked!"

Y/N didn't respond. He just kept his eyes on the woman and the boy.

Then came the sound of wet footsteps slapping against tile, the distant hum of the shower cutting off. A towel rustled. A door opened.

Moments later, Nate rounded the corner, shirtless, a towel slung low around his waist. The grin on his face faded the second he saw who stood in the doorway.

"...Cassie?" His voice was low, shocked. "What the hell—how did you even—" He glanced at the kid, his words faltering, unraveling.

Cassie's eyes softened. "Your mom. She told me where to find you." She reached down and gently squeezed the boy's hand. "And I wouldn't have come if it wasn't important."

Y/N stood off to the side now, his heart pounding, trying to piece together the math, the silence, the way Nate was staring at the boy like he'd seen a ghost.

Cassie took a deep breath. "I thought it was time you met your son."

The words hit the room like a thunderclap.

Nate's expression went blank, his towel-clad form suddenly very still. "My... what?"

Y/N felt the air leave his lungs. He looked at the boy again, really looked, and the resemblance slammed into him all at once.

The same eyes. Same mouth. Even the way the kid stood—defiant, guarded, familiar.

Cassie looked between them, her voice barely a whisper now. "I'm sorry. I didn't know how else to do this. But he's yours, Nate. And he's asking questions. And I just... I thought you should know."

Nate couldn't speak.

Y/N stepped back, his hand finding the edge of the wall for balance as the weight of the moment crushed down around him. The dinner. The laughter. The promise of a quiet night in each other's arms.

Gone.

So much for a happy ending.

#x male reader #gay #nate jacobs x male reader #nate jacobs #euphoria #jacob elordi x male reader

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dreamersworldduh · 1 month ago

Text

BEYOND THE FUTURE

• CONNER KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You and Conner reunited with the future version of Conner, and other two your children—Cole and Cameron—each of whom reflects a unique blend of your legacy and Conner's strength. Over the course of a single day, you reconnect with each of them, learning who they've become and quietly mourning the years you missed. What began as a heartfelt reunion becomes a declaration of war.

This is no longer just your fight—it's a battle for your family, your legacy, and the future.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence.

WORDS! 12.7k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry for the wait, babes! We have ended the semester and freed up some time for me to get this up! How are we liking the picture of an old Conner- I tried to do it in 10 minutes and that's the result. There’s more fics upcoming, so keep a lookout. Enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! — THE PAST

BY THE TIME morning arrived, the soft lighting of Mount Justice had already shifted from its cool night glow to a warmer, more natural hue, simulating the rise of a calm, early sun. The base was quiet, save for the subtle hum of technology and distant footsteps echoing through the corridors as systems returned to life. You and Conner walked side by side down the hall toward the Zeta-Tube chamber, your pace steady but filled with anticipation. Sleep had come in fits, broken by dreams and emotions that still hadn't fully settled, but the quiet intimacy of the night had steadied you both.

As the doors to the Zeta Bay slid open, your eyes were immediately drawn to the two figures waiting at the base of the platform.

Casey and Corra were already there, dressed not in their hero uniforms, but in something entirely different—something that struck you more deeply than you expected. They wore casual, modest clothing that bore the unmistakable flavor of Smallville, Kansas.

Casey had on a flannel button-up—faded red and black—and a pair of well-worn jeans tucked into dark work boots. The sleeves were rolled just below his elbows, and a soft gray hoodie hung loosely around his waist, knotted by the arms. It was the kind of outfit that didn't come from fashion, but from habit. Practical. Earthy. Familiar.

Corra leaned against the wall beside him, wearing an oversized denim jacket layered over a soft, wheat-colored sweater. Her jeans were cuffed just above her boots, and a baseball cap rested backward on her head, pushing a few stubborn strands of hair down over her forehead. Even her posture had shifted—less the poised, tactical field leader from the night before, and more the confident, grounded young woman who knew how to mend a fence or drive an old truck down a dirt road.

It wasn't just their clothes. It was the way they stood, the way they carried themselves. There was something deeply Midwestern about it—humble, familiar, tied to the land. And it told you one thing loud and clear: you had a home there.

When Casey spotted the two of you entering the room, he straightened from his casual lean against the Zeta controls and gave a faint smile.

"Morning," he greeted, voice light but still carrying that quiet depth of emotion that had become familiar in such a short time. "Hope you slept okay."

Conner nodded. "Well enough." He glanced at Casey's flannel and smirked. "You raiding Grandpa's closet or something?"

Casey gave a small chuckle. "Nah. This is just how we do it in Smallville. Didn't want you guys showing up in the future dressed like city boys."

Corra pushed off the wall and walked over to you, giving your arm a small nudge as she took in your sleep-rumpled clothes. "We're going into Dad's house, remember? He'll notice if your shirt's not tucked in or if you track mud onto the porch." She gave you a wink. "Just a heads-up."

You blinked, the realization settling more fully now.

You were about to walk into the house where your children had been raised. Where the future version of Conner—your partner, your other half—had spent years alone, trying to hold together the pieces of the life you'd once shared.

And now... you were going to step back into it.

Back into a life you hadn't yet built.

Casey approached the console and tapped a few commands. The Zeta-Tube flared to life, its light swirling in anticipation. "It's synced to the local receiver in Smallville," he explained. "We'll land just a few steps outside the house."

Corra slipped her hands into her jacket pockets and tilted her head, glancing between you and Conner. "You ready for this?"

You met Conner's eyes, searching the quiet tension behind his gaze. He nodded once, and then you turned back to your children—your grown children, who somehow still looked at you with wonder in their eyes.

"Let's go home," you said.

And with that, the four of you stepped onto the Zeta platform—two fathers, two future children, bound together by time, love, and a farm in Kansas waiting to greet you.

THE MOMENT the Zeta-Tube light faded and the quiet hum of Mount Justice vanished behind you, you were enveloped in the warm, open air of Kansas.

But not just any Kansas—the future Kansas.

It took a second for your eyes to adjust to the sudden brightness of the countryside. The sun was higher here than it had been in the base, casting long golden rays across sprawling fields of wheat and wildflowers swaying gently in the breeze. The scent of freshly turned soil, honeysuckle, and something that could only be described as home drifted in the air.

You stepped down from the receiver pad, which had been cleverly disguised within an old, worn-down shed near the edge of the property. The familiar crunch of gravel under your boots grounded you as your gaze swept the landscape.

It was... peaceful.

And beside you, Conner had stopped moving altogether.

He stood stock-still just a few feet ahead of you, his broad shoulders squared as he took in the view. The farmhouse sat proudly at the top of the gently sloping hill, the whitewashed siding now a soft cream from years of sun exposure. A wraparound porch with a freshly painted railing circled the front, and a wind chime clinked gently near the door.

But it wasn't just the house. It was the fence line that curved along the edge of the property, repaired in places with new wood that hadn't quite aged yet. It was the red barn, taller now, expanded and reinforced. It was the family garden, thriving along the side of the porch in neat, structured rows.

Everything had been touched, altered, aged—lived in.

Conner's chest rose with a slow, deep breath as he looked at the place that had once been his safe haven—the place where Martha Kent had taught him how to plant tomatoes, how to fix a broken tractor, how to find peace in silence. A place that had grounded him when the world felt too loud.

His voice, when it came, was rough with emotion.

"...It's the same." He swallowed, then shook his head slightly. "But not. Everything's grown, rebuilt, improved... but it still feels like her."

You stepped up beside him, watching as the breeze shifted his hair and tugged at the hem of his shirt.

"This was your home," you said gently, placing a hand on his arm. "Even after all this time."

Conner gave a small nod, eyes still fixed on the farmhouse ahead. "Other than you... and the Cave... this is the only place that ever felt like mine."

Behind you, Casey and Corra gave you both space, standing a few paces back with soft expressions. Casey smiled faintly, his voice low as he stepped closer.

"Dad never left it. Even after everything." He glanced toward the house. "He stayed here. Raised us here. Trained us here."

Corra chimed in with a softer tone. "He said it was the only place that reminded him of who he used to be... and who he loved."

You and Conner exchanged a glance.

The weight of this place pressed into your chests—not in a suffocating way, but like a memory that hadn't yet happened.

And as you all began walking toward the house, your boots crunching against the packed dirt path, the fields swaying around you, and the wind whispering through the leaves, you realized something important:

You were already part of this future.

Even if time had tried to take you from it.

THE FRONT door creaked open with a familiar groan, the kind that came from years of wear but had never quite been fixed—left as-is because it was a sound that meant home. Corra stepped in first, her boots thudding lightly against the aged hardwood floors, followed by Casey, who held the door open for you and Conner as the warm, late-morning Kansas breeze drifted in behind you.

The moment you stepped across the threshold, something shifted deep inside you. The air smelled like aged wood, flour, cinnamon, and earth—so distinctly Midwestern, so Kent. This place didn't just feel like a home; it felt like a memory you hadn't made yet.

You and Conner paused just inside the foyer, your eyes instinctively drawn to the left wall, where a long stretch of framed photos lined the hallway like a timeline of lives lived fully. You stepped toward them slowly, your footsteps almost hesitant, as if approaching sacred ground.

The earliest photos made your breath catch in your throat.

There you were—both of you—younger versions of yourselves holding a swaddled baby in a hospital room. Conner beaming with proud, tear-brimmed eyes. You looking down at a tiny sleeping infant—Casey—with awe and disbelief etched on your face. The next few photos showed first birthdays, tiny toddler shoes, a birthday cake shaped like a rocket, little handprints pressed into plaster.

And then came Corra. One picture showed you and Conner each holding one of the children while sitting on the porch swing, her wild dark hair already escaping its bows, her tiny hands pulling at Conner's collar as she giggled.

More followed: Cole, scowling even as a toddler, standing stubbornly in a patch of mud while you knelt behind him, clearly trying not to laugh. Then Cameron, shy and quiet even in photos, always nestled in someone's arms or pressed into your side, clutching one of your sleeves.

For a moment, it was overwhelming. The joy, the warmth, the love—it was all there. Frozen in time. Proof that you had been a father, and not just in title. You were present. Involved. Loving. Essential.

But as your eyes moved farther down the line, you noticed the shift.

By the time Casey reached around thirteen, Corra nine, Cole eight, and Cameron five... you were gone from the photos.

In the later images, Conner stood alone—his face a little tighter around the eyes, his smiles a little more subdued. Sometimes he was behind the camera. Sometimes he was beside the kids, arms around them. But always without you.

The absence was deafening.

Conner stood beside you, jaw tight as he took in the same realization. His fingers brushed lightly against the edge of one of the frames—a family dinner photo where a high chair sat at the table, but only one parent was there.

You didn't speak. You didn't have to. The silence between you was filled with understanding, grief, and quiet determination.

Then, somewhere deeper in the house, the stillness shattered.

A loud voice rang out from upstairs—young, frustrated, and unmistakably a sibling-in-command kind of voice.

"CAMERON! I swear, if you don't get your slow ass down here before Corra and Casey show up, I'm telling Dad you were the one who crashed the grav-cycle!"

You heard the thud-thud-thud of boots stomping across the upstairs floor, followed by the unmistakable slam of a bedroom door opening.

Corra rolled her eyes with a fond groan. "And that would be Cole. Never quiet. Never subtle."

Casey smirked beside her. "He's got Dad's temper and Pa's sarcasm. It's a disaster waiting to happen."

Conner snorted at that. "Sounds about right."

But even as the banter passed between your children, your eyes drifted back to that last photo with you still in it—Cameron perched on your hip, arms looped around your neck, while the rest of the kids crowded in around you, all beaming at the camera.

It was a life you hadn't lived yet.

And it was time to reclaim it.

The sound of footsteps thundered down the hallway—a sharp, relentless rhythm pounding against the wooden floorboards, each step faster than the last. They echoed with the urgency of someone already mid-argument, someone whose frustration had momentum. Then came the telltale thud of someone hopping the last stair, followed by a second of silence—a breathless beat—and finally, the whip-crack sound of a body turning sharply at the corner of the hall.

Cole appeared, coming into view, all lean muscle and attitude. His black T-shirt clung to his broad chest and shoulders, stretched slightly and smudged with streaks of motor oil—obvious signs he'd just come from the garage or the barn, elbow-deep in gears and grease. His jeans hung low on his hips, worn in all the familiar places, the cuffs bunched just above scuffed boots that hit the floor like thunder. His dark hair was a little messy, his jaw set in that unmistakable way that meant he had something to say, and it wasn't going to be quiet.

His mouth was already open, mid-complaint—about Cameron, no doubt—but the moment his eyes locked onto the figures in the hallway, the words choked off before they could even form.

He skidded to a halt.

First, his eyes landed on Corra and Casey. A crease formed between his brows, a flicker of annoyance and confusion surfacing—probably expecting to find them already handling whatever mess Cameron had left behind. But then his gaze drifted past them. It caught you.

And Conner.

But not his Conner—the tired, timeworn version who bore the weight of a thousand decisions and too many lonely nights. This Conner was younger, more vibrant, sharper in the eyes and shoulders. The sight alone was jarring.

And then there was you.

Time seemed to stop around him. The sound in the hallway dropped away, the air itself thickened. His breath caught in his throat. You could almost see the flicker in his eyes as recognition tried to claw its way through years of disbelief and grief.

His body froze, muscles locking up like a system overload. His expression twisted—first into confusion, then something wide-eyed and raw. His mouth opened slightly, as though he meant to say something, but couldn't find the words. He blinked, slow and hard, like maybe he could shake the image from his vision.

But you were still there.

Still real.

You watched as his gaze searched yours—desperate for confirmation, for understanding, for something to anchor him. His chest rose and fell once, sharply, like his lungs had just remembered how to breathe. His face, usually so guarded with stubbornness and pride, softened with something heartbreakingly childlike.

"...Pa?"

The word fell from his lips like a ghost being set free. It cracked the air open.

You swallowed hard, barely able to speak past the emotion crawling up your throat. You took a slow, steady step forward, your voice a gentle thread. "Yeah... it's me."

But Cole didn't move. He stood there, rooted in place, eyes locked to yours like he was afraid any sudden motion would shatter the illusion. His hands twitched slightly at his sides, caught in the war between disbelief and desperate hope.

Conner shifted beside you, his hand brushing lightly against your lower back in a grounding gesture—quiet support. But Cole's eyes didn't leave you.

That's when Corra stepped forward, her voice quiet but unwavering. "It's really him," she said with a soft smile, her eyes shimmering. "They came from the past."

Casey nodded, his voice firmer, trying to be the voice of logic. "We brought them here. It's not a dream. Not a trick. No shapeshifting. No magic. They're real. They're ours, Cole."

Cole gave a small shake of his head, like the words weren't computing. You saw his throat bob with a hard swallow, the shine in his eyes becoming harder to hide.

"You were gone," he said, barely getting the words out. "Since I was eight. I don't..." His voice broke. His jaw clenched. He stopped himself before the emotion could splinter too deep.

You took another step forward, your heart heavy, your voice laced with apology. "I never meant to leave you."

That undid him.

He didn't hesitate anymore.

Cole surged forward in a single, desperate stride and crashed into you, arms wrapping tightly around your frame as he pulled you into him like he was trying to fuse time itself. His fists clutched the back of your shirt, knuckles white, face pressed into your shoulder like he was trying to memorize the shape of you. You wrapped your arms around him, holding him close, his entire body seemed to melt against yours—not in weakness, but in the exhausted surrender of someone who had spent too long bracing himself against the ache of your absence. His fingers dug into the fabric of your shirt, clutching you like a lifeline, like letting go might somehow send you slipping back through time. You could feel the strength in his grip, not just physical, but emotional—every year, every missed moment poured into this one desperate hold.

Your hand cradled the back of his head, fingers sifting gently through his thick, tousled hair, still smelling faintly of oil and the outdoors. He trembled faintly in your arms, even as he fought to stay composed. You pressed your cheek to the crown of his head and closed your eyes, swallowing the bittersweet lump in your throat. There was a peace in holding him, a soft, aching peace that ran through your chest and out through your fingertips.

But then—upstairs—a door creaked open.

The faint sound of a voice drifted into the silence.

"I'm coming, Cole, alright? Calm down, I was—"

It wasn't loud or booming. It didn't crackle with irritation like Cole's had earlier. This voice was quieter, rounder, full of that melodic, slightly stubborn edge that still somehow sounded like kindness.

Your heart stuttered at the sound. It shouldn't have been enough to shake you—but it did.

Because you knew that voice.

You had never heard it in real life, but you had felt it in every story, every bedtime memory told secondhand by Conner or one of the older kids. You had imagined it a thousand different ways. But never like this. Never this real.

Cameron.

Soft, measured footsteps descended the staircase, lighter than Cole's. They landed with careful rhythm—like someone who'd learned how to move gently through spaces, like someone who thought more often than he spoke.

He came into view slowly, like time itself was pausing to let you see him properly.

He looked young—so heartbreakingly young. His dark hair was a soft mess, flopping lazily across his forehead, and his eyes were a pale, luminous shade of your own, wide and blinking in the morning light. He wore a loose green sweater that nearly swallowed him, the sleeves tugged down past his wrists, making him look smaller than he was. There was still sleep in his eyes, confusion pulling faint lines across his brow as he adjusted to the scene before him.

And then his gaze landed on you.

He stopped on the final step, his body going still, his hands clenching at his sides as he stared—not at the room, not at his siblings—but only at you.

You and Cole, locked in that quiet, reverent embrace.

His lips parted slightly, but the breath caught in his throat.

His expression fractured into disbelief.

His eyes—so open, so heartbreakingly clear—filled with something indescribable.

And then, in a voice so faint it nearly disappeared into the quiet...

"...Pa?"

It was barely more than a whisper.

But it cracked something in you.

The way he said it—it sounded like it had been trapped in his chest for years, too sacred to speak aloud, too painful to hope for.

You turned to him slowly, your hand still resting gently on Cole's back, and extended your other hand toward your youngest boy, your heart in your throat.

"Hi, Cameron," you said, your voice thick with emotion.

He blinked, once, then again, and his lower lip began to tremble. You could see it happening behind his eyes—a battle of hope and fear, of disbelief crashing against something buried too deep to name.

Corra moved beside him, her hand a comforting presence at the center of his back. "It's real," she said, her voice gentle, as though speaking too loud might break him. "He's really here."

That was all it took.

Cameron took one tentative step.

Then another.

And then all at once, he was running.

He sprinted across the hallway in a blur, his feet barely making a sound as he closed the distance between you, his arms already outstretched.

Cole stepped back just in time as Cameron collided into you, arms flinging around your waist, his face burying into your chest with the sheer force of a boy trying to make up for lost time in a single second.

You wrapped your arms around him immediately, pressing him to you with everything you had. His body shook with quiet sobs, his fingers gripping your sides through your shirt as he clung to you like he might never get another chance.

"I missed you," he choked out, voice muffled and raw, breaking in the middle. "I missed you so much..."

"I missed you too," you whispered, your voice catching against the weight of your own tears. "All of you."

You held him like you were afraid the moment might vanish—like time would come and steal him back again. Cole stood just beside you now, his arm still brushing yours, close enough to lean in again if he needed to. And there you were, surrounded by them, your boys. One tall and quiet with motor oil on his hands. One small and trembling, buried against your chest.

And in that quiet moment, in the center of a house that had gone on without you, you held them both.

For the first time in years.

For the first time ever.

Conner stood a short distance away from the scene, just outside the intimate circle of the embrace unfolding in front of him. His arms hung loosely at his sides, shoulders square but still, and his eyes—blue-gray and fathomless—were locked on the three of you. His expression was difficult to read at first—his face composed, mouth set in a line, brows resting low—but there was a storm simmering beneath the calm. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, in the way his fingers curled slightly as if resisting the urge to do something.

He didn't speak. Didn't move. But his silence said more than words could've.

He watched as. Cameron hadn't let go. He stayed pressed to your chest, clutching at your shirt like if he loosened his hold, you might vanish again. His shoulders trembled faintly, the top of his head tucked beneath your chin.

And still, Conner watched.

But it wasn't jealousy in his gaze. It wasn't anger either.

It was ache.

Because he had carried all of this—these children, this home, the weight of your absence—alone. Because he had been the one to soothe them through tears, to lift them when they fell, to tell them stories of who you were, to believe in the memory of you even when it got harder and harder to remember the sound of your laugh.

Because he had done it all—without you.

And now, here you stood, like time had gifted you back to them. Alive. Whole. Real.

It was a beautiful moment. But it trembled with tension, too—like a glass sculpture perched too close to the edge.

Then came the sound that shattered the silence: the soft, familiar creak of a door swinging open at the back of the house.

A moment later came the measured, heavy thud of boots stepping onto tile—confident, grounded, practical.

Then a voice followed, distant but distinct—gruff and sure, low like a slow river over gravel. It carried no urgency, just the casual weariness of someone returning from work.

"I'm home. Someone left the barn door open again."

You felt Conner beside you—your Conner—go rigid. Not visibly, but you sensed the shift in him. The way his breath slowed. The tension in his spine. The subtle straightening of his stance.

The voice came again—closer this time. A tone you hadn't heard, but knew, like a song you'd forgotten the lyrics to.

"Where is everybody? Cole? Cam?"

Footsteps approached with purpose, solid and familiar. The sound echoed faintly through the kitchen until, at last, he stepped into view—into the hall.

The older Conner Kent.

He emerged through the doorway, wiping grease from his fingers with an old cloth, his boots heavy with the day's labor. A dark, flannel-lined jacket hung over a fitted black T-shirt, his jeans faded and frayed at the knees. Earth clung to the soles of his boots, and his presence filled the space without even trying.

But it wasn't just the clothes. It was him.

Older. Weathered. Not broken, but worn by time in the way a tree becomes strong—scarred and rooted. There were streaks of silver threading through his hair near his temples, and faint lines carved around his eyes. A full, well-kept beard framed his jaw, adding a certain gravity to his already strong features. His frame was still powerful, still broad-shouldered and straight-backed, like he hadn't let the world bend him no matter how much it tried.

And then he saw you.

He stopped.

Dead still.

His eyes—the same eyes as your Conner's—swept the foyer, quickly taking in the scene. Cameron, still pressed into your chest. Cole, lingering at your side with wet lashes and parted lips. A version of himself standing a few feet away, wide-eyed and rigid, staring back at him like a reflection stolen from another life.

And then... you.

His gaze landed on you, and it stayed there.

You watched the recognition flood into his face—slow at first, then sharp and consuming. The way his eyes widened slightly, the way his lips parted like he was about to speak and forgot how. The way his entire body shifted, not back, but forward, drawn in by something primal.

"...You," he breathed.

His voice was quieter now. Hollowed out by disbelief. There was no anger in it—only awe, raw and trembling beneath a shell of hard-earned restraint.

You nodded slowly, your throat thick, your heart pounding as you echoed softly, "Yeah. It's me."

Time itself seemed to fold in on the space between you.

The older Conner stood there, unmoving but completely undone behind his eyes. You could see it all—the memories rising like ghosts, the years without you, the nights spent aching for answers, the weight of fatherhood that never let up. And now, here you were, alive and real, looking at him with the same love he had carried like a burden for decades.

And behind you, your Conner stared at his future.

He saw the lines etched by sleepless nights, the stiff spine from too many years of standing alone, the shoulders grown broader from carrying four children's pain. He saw what he would become—who he had to become—if you never made it back.

And Conner—the older one—looked into his past. The man he used to be. The man who still loved you. Who never stopped.

THE SILENCE that fell over the room was suffocating—thick and unmoving, like the air had congealed into something heavy enough to crush lungs. No one dared to speak. No one even shifted. The overhead fan continued its slow, methodical spin above them, and the ticking of the clock on the wall marched on—both sounds suddenly deafening in the stillness, in the gravity of what had just unfolded.

Older Conner remained rooted in the archway between the kitchen and the living room, one hand still gripping the grease-stained rag he'd carried in, forgotten. His eyes were locked onto you—hard and unblinking—as if the mere act of looking at you took everything he had. His chest rose and fell in deliberate, restrained movements. But there was nothing steady about him. You could feel the tremor beneath his stillness, the tension vibrating through the air like electricity before a storm. His heartbeat wasn't just fast—it was furious, a silent percussion you swore you could feel thudding through the floor beneath your feet.

He was caught between two instincts—run to you, or run from you.

His gaze shifted, breaking from yours for only a moment as it scanned his children.

Cameron still clung to your side, arms wrapped tight around your waist, his head buried into your chest like a boy who hadn't aged past the moment you'd vanished from his life. Cole stood just beside you, still trying to stay composed but visibly shaken, eyes flickering between the two versions of Conner—his brain struggling to reconcile the man who raised him with the man who had suddenly returned.

Corra and Casey stood apart, closer to the staircase, but the anxiety radiating off of them was palpable. Corra's hands were clenched in front of her, as if holding herself still would somehow keep the moment from fracturing further. Casey stood like a soldier—tall, square-shouldered, resolute—but his jaw was tight, his hands curling slightly at his sides.

Older Conner's eyes landed on him last.

And that's when the question finally left his lips—scraped raw and hoarse, like it hurt to speak.

"...What did you do?"

There was no awe in his voice. No joy. Just the brittle edge of disbelief laced with an old, festering pain.

His gaze darkened, narrowed. "How is this possible?" His voice hardened. "How is he—how are they—here?"

Casey didn't back down.

"I brought them," he said simply, each word measured and unflinching. "From the past."

Older Conner blinked. Hard. His body flinched like the words physically struck him. "You what?"

"I used a time tether," Casey said, eyes never leaving his father's. "Zatanna helped me. I found her, convinced her. It took weeks. It was dangerous. But it worked."

"You used magic—" Conner cut him off, his voice rising like a thunderclap. "You tampered with the timeline? With—him?"

He jabbed a shaking hand in your direction. The word stuck in his throat, the emotion behind it too thick to swallow.

This wasn't fury born from arrogance—it was anguish. It was the terror of a man who had spent years surviving loss, only to have that wound reopened.

"You don't understand what you've done," he continued, his voice cracking, his hands beginning to tremble. "The timeline—our lives—the world—everything we've fought for—he—"

"He was going to die," Casey snapped, his voice rising now to match his father's. "You both were. Olympian went back to their time. We were losing. I wasn't going to wait around and let it happen again."

"You had no right!" Conner shouted, taking a step forward, his face twisted in disbelief and betrayal.

"I had every right," Casey barked, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade. "You weren't the only one who lost him. I did. We all did. I saw a chance to save him—and you. And I took it."

A breathless silence settled again—this one different. Not suffocating, but shell-shocked.

Older Conner stood completely still, his fists clenched so tight his knuckles blanched. His chest was rising and falling with deep, uneven breaths, like the storm inside him was trying to break loose.

And then, his gaze drifted back to you.

His eyes softened—barely—but it was enough for you to see it. The break. The crack in the armor he'd spent years welding together.

"I buried you once," he said quietly, voice like gravel. "I carried your body. I had to tell them you weren't coming back. I've lived every single day knowing what it's like to wake up without you. I can't..." his voice wavered, "I can't do that again."

You opened your mouth to speak—to tell him you weren't going anywhere. That this was different. That it wasn't some illusion, some cosmic fluke.

But you never got the chance.

In a single, jagged motion, he turned on his heel. The rag slipped from his hand and fell to the floor like a shed skin.

The sound of his boots echoed down the hallway, hard and fast, the air behind him thick with grief and fury.

The back door flung open with a sharp click and then—

SLAM.

The screen door swung shut behind him with a final, violent rattle, and he was gone.

Gone like he had been trained to disappear. Like pain had taught him that walking away was the only way to survive it.

The silence left behind was deafening.

Casey stood frozen, his chest heaving slightly, his face a war between guilt and defiance. His hands shook, though he clenched them tight, determined not to let anyone see.

Corra turned away slightly, her arms wrapped tightly around her stomach like she was trying to contain the swell of emotion rising in her throat.

Cameron stayed pressed against you, eyes glassy and scared, small fingers tangled in your shirt as if the slamming door had threatened to take you with it.

You stared at the door.

The space he had filled. The silence he left behind.

And you knew, without question, what needed to happen next.

You'd have to go to him. You'd have to find the man behind that wall of pain and time.

But not yet.

You'd give him the space to breathe, to break, to feel what he needed to feel.

Because when you went to him—you wanted him to be ready.

And you'd be there, waiting. For him.

THE FRONT door creaked faintly behind him as Younger Conner stepped out, letting it close with a soft click that was swallowed quickly by the open air. The Kansas morning wrapped around him like a memory—warm, slightly humid, tinged with the scent of rich soil and sun-warmed grass. The sky above was a canvas of soft gold and pale blue, the early sun stretching its light across the land in long, honeyed streaks that dappled the edges of the farmhouse and the worn gravel driveway.

He stood still for a moment, letting the sounds of the farm settle into him. Birds chirping lazily from the tree line, the occasional buzz of a bee passing too close, and the rhythmic clink of metal tools from near the barn—deliberate, steady, unhurried. He followed the noise with his eyes and found him.

His older self.

Just past the barn doors, Older Conner was crouched beside the weathered frame of a long-retired red tractor, its paint chipped and dulled by time. His sleeves were pushed up to his elbows, exposing forearms corded with muscle and sun-worn skin. He was focused on tightening a stubborn bolt, muttering under his breath when the wrench slipped, and then tightening it again like his life depended on the motion. Like if he kept doing, he wouldn't have to feel.

Younger Conner took a slow step forward, gravel crunching lightly under his boots. He hesitated, watching.

The man in front of him was undeniably him, yet not. His frame was heavier with time—stronger, yes, but slower, steadier. His once-coal black hair now held thick streaks of silver, especially around the temples. His beard was full and salt-and-pepper, neatly trimmed, but aged him even more than the years had. And his face—hardened. The youthful sharpness of it had been carved into something more stoic, more weary. Every line etched by stress, by grief. By you.

Because now Conner could see it.

What Corra had meant.

He wasn't just seeing a version of himself that had grown older. He was seeing a version that had grown lonelier.

There was a weight in every movement, a heaviness in the way Older Conner stood, in the way his brow furrowed even when he wasn't speaking. He didn't move like someone carrying responsibilities.

He moved like someone carrying a void.

And that void had a shape.

Your shape.

Younger Conner exhaled quietly, then finally stepped closer, his tone light—gentle. "You're really giving that bolt hell."

Older Conner didn't glance up. He gave the bolt one final turn, tested it with a nudge of his thumb, then reached for a different tool.

"You don't get an old machine to keep running by taking it easy," he said, his voice low and rough. "Everything worth keeping takes effort."

Younger Conner didn't crowd him. He leaned against the edge of the barn doorframe, arms folded, gaze soft as he watched his future self in silence.

Time passed between them—not empty, but charged. The quiet wasn't awkward. It was thick with understanding neither of them had the words for yet.

"I saw the photos," Conner finally said. "In the hallway. I saw the point where he stopped being in them."

Older Conner's hand paused on the wrench. Just for a second. His fingers tightened, his knuckles whitening. But he didn't turn.

Younger Conner swallowed and kept going. "I didn't get it at first. I thought maybe it was just... the way things played out. That people drift, or something happened. But I get it now. What it must've done to you. What it meant."

At that, Older Conner finally straightened. He didn't speak immediately—just looked out across the open fields beyond the barn, where wheat was beginning to ripple beneath a light breeze. His shoulders rose and fell once before he said anything.

"He died twelve years ago," he murmured. "Felt like the world cracked down the middle."

Younger Conner stayed still, barely breathing.

"One minute, he was there," Older Conner continued, voice even rougher now. "Standing in front of us, glowing. Burning brighter than anything I'd ever seen. Pushing back everything dark that wanted to swallow us. The next minute..."

His jaw flexed. His eyes closed.

"Gone."

Younger Conner lowered his head, letting the silence speak for him.

"He wasn't just my husband," Older Conner said, voice quieter. "He was my best friend. My partner. My reason to keep going. He reminded me who I was, when the world tried to make me forget. I didn't build a life. I built one with him. And then—"

He stopped, then gave a quiet, humorless laugh.

"I never planned for what came after."

Younger Conner looked down at his own hands, his voice soft but sincere. "I wouldn't have either."

Older Conner turned his head just slightly. Their eyes met—his older gaze heavy with memory, grief, and a sharp understanding. He looked at his younger self not with disappointment, but with knowing.

"You will," he said. "If you love him like I did—do—you'll understand. Every inch of it. Every price. And it'll still be worth it."

"I already do," Younger Conner replied immediately, without hesitation. "That's why I came out here. I didn't want to argue. I didn't come to question what you've done. I just wanted you to know... we're not here to reopen anything. We're here because we still have a chance."

Older Conner finally turned to face him fully. His arms lowered. His face—still guarded—softened just a fraction.

"It's not the wounds I'm afraid of," he said after a moment. "It's the ghosts. They don't scream. They whisper. All day. All night. And when you live with them long enough... they're the only voices you remember."

Younger Conner stepped off the frame of the barn and took a slow step forward, stopping just a few feet away.

"Well... he's not a ghost today," he said gently. "He's standing in that house, holding our boys, breathing, smiling. Right now. We don't have to imagine him. We don't have to remember."

Older Conner stared at him.

Not as a man looking into a mirror.

But as someone looking at the possibility of healing—and being terrified of it.

And yet... his expression shifted. The tension in his brow loosened. His hands relaxed at his sides. His eyes shimmered faintly—not with tears, but with life beginning to seep into old cracks.

He gave a single, slow nod.

"No," he said, voice barely more than a whisper. "He's not."

And for the first time in over a decade... the door inside him began to creak open.

THE SCREEN door groaned open, its hinges protesting against the morning breeze as two sets of footsteps crossed the threshold—measured, unhurried, in sync without effort. One set was lighter, younger, familiar with movement yet not heavy with burden. The other was older, deeper, each step resonating with the weight of time and memory. The footsteps traveled into the warmth of the house, where the scent of home clung to the walls like something sacred—sizzling eggs, golden toast, the faint sugary perfume of cinnamon rolls fresh from the oven.

You sat in the heart of it all—at the center of the farmhouse kitchen table, surrounded by the world you thought you'd never see again.

The table was crowded, alive with voices and food and the kind of chaos only a well-loved family can create. Casey was posted at the far end, animatedly cutting into a towering stack of pancakes as he gestured through a half-told story. Corra, effortlessly comfortable, sat sideways in her chair with one leg folded underneath her, nonchalantly stealing berries from her twin brother's plate. Cole batted her hand away with a groan but didn't actually move his plate, smirking all the same.

And then there was Cameron.

Still shaking off the sleep in his bones, he leaned drowsily into your side, head tilted ever so slightly against your shoulder, letting your arm rest around him like it had never left. His plate sat barely touched in front of him, and your other hand held a mug of coffee, warm against your fingers. His presence was quiet, but solid—anchored. Like the world had finally stopped shifting beneath his feet.

You smiled, soft and full. The kind of smile that only came when something lost had been found.

In that moment, to anyone looking, it was as if you had never left. As if time had stitched itself back into place, no seams, no gaps. Just home.

Then came the creak of the door again.

The hush before a storm—or something gentler.

The footfalls crossed the threshold and stopped just inside the hallway entrance.

And slowly, instinctively, the room turned.

It wasn't planned or rehearsed. It was reflex. Every face shifted toward the doorway, every conversation dropped off mid-sentence. Eyes moved like a silent current toward the figures now standing at the edge of the kitchen.

Younger Conner stood there first—his frame taut, alert, his hands loosely clenched at his sides. His gaze was calm but watchful, as if bracing for a ripple he couldn't quite predict. And beside him, towering just slightly more, was Older Conner.

Bearded. Weathered. Steel-eyed. But different now.

Softer.

There was a stillness in him that hadn't been there before. A kind of fragile peace resting in the space where pain had lived for too long.

The warmth of the kitchen dimmed into quiet as every pair of eyes took him in. Your children didn't flinch. They didn't recoil. But they didn't speak either. They waited.

And then—his eyes found you.

Time didn't freeze, but it bent. Just enough.

You held his gaze across the expanse of the room, your breath caught somewhere between your lungs and your throat. He didn't look away. He didn't try to guard himself like before. He simply stood—watching you, breathing you in, the faintest tremble in his exhale betraying everything he felt but couldn't yet say.

His eyes traveled the room slowly, resting on each of his children—Casey, Corra, Cole, and Cameron—all of them alive, all of them together. And then back to you.

And then... he stepped forward.

"I owe some apologies," he said, voice low and sandpapered but no longer clenched in fury. "Especially to you, Casey."

The words carried weight. More than just acknowledgment—they were a surrender.

Casey, midway through a bite of pancakes, paused and looked up, lips parted. He didn't speak right away. He watched his father with quiet caution, waiting to hear the rest.

Older Conner shifted his weight, hands twitching slightly at his sides, as if speaking the truth was harder than lifting mountains.

"You did what you thought was right. Because you love him. Because you love us." His eyes flicked briefly toward you, then back. "I was too angry to see it. I didn't want to believe anyone had to make that choice. But I understand now. You just didn't want to keep losing the people you love."

Casey lowered his fork. His nod was small, but it was enough. "I didn't want to lose you either," he said quietly.

Conner swallowed hard.

His gaze turned to you.

"And you..." His voice faltered—just a little. But he pressed on. "I didn't mean to walk out on you. I didn't know what to say when I saw you. I still don't. I've been angry for so long. Not at you. At everything. At myself."

You rose slowly from your chair, the wooden legs scraping softly against the floorboards. The table faded away. The kitchen faded away.

All that existed was the space between you.

"I understand," you said, voice gentle, your eyes never leaving his.

He nodded—barely. His jaw clenched again, fighting for composure. But the storm behind his eyes had calmed. The years between you had dulled, just for a moment, enough for love to find a way through the cracks.

And then—

"Does this mean Dad won't yell at me if I skip dishes today?" Cameron piped up, his voice light, teasing, hopeful.

There was a beat of silence—just one.

Then laughter burst across the table. Rich, free, and warm. Corra snorted into her drink. Cole rolled his eyes. Casey grinned and tossed a berry at Cameron, who caught it in his mouth with a triumphant grin.

Older Conner shook his head, a small huff escaping him that was almost—almost—a laugh.

"Nice try," he said.

But then he looked at you again.

And this time, the pain was still there—but so was the healing. Something in his gaze had changed. A door had opened. The shadows weren't gone, but the light had found a way in.

And maybe, just maybe, it would be enough.

THE GOLDEN haze of afternoon had given way to the soft, amber tones of early evening, casting long, sleepy shadows across the Kent farmhouse. Outside, the fields glowed like sunlit oceans of wheat, swaying in a gentle breeze that whispered through open windows and carried with it the scent of tilled earth, honeysuckle, and late-summer warmth.

Inside, the house pulsed with a kind of quiet magic—not from powers or fate, but from the simple, sacred rhythm of family. It was the rhythm of a home in motion, familiar and foreign all at once. The sound of your children laughing, the clatter of dishes, the echo of music humming faintly from a speaker somewhere in the background—it filled the rooms like sunlight, chasing away the years you'd missed with something far more real.

And you'd spent most of the day watching—drinking in the sight of them not as soldiers or missions or headlines, but as your kids. Flesh and blood. Heart and soul. People who had grown up without you but still, somehow, carried pieces of you inside them.

Casey was every bit the soldier you'd heard about—calm, efficient, sharp-eyed. But beneath that perfect posture and tactical precision was a young man who struggled to turn his brain off. He filled every spare moment with action: reviewing data logs, drafting new patrol routes, analyzing mission reports with all the seriousness of a general. You'd watched him furrow his brow over a report at lunch, the others teasing him for it, and you'd felt both pride and heartbreak.

Corra was a whirlwind wrapped in contradictions. Wild, witty, full of opinions and utterly uninterested in being told no. She spoke her mind like a weapon and laughed like a firecracker. But then you'd seen her disappear into the corner of the porch later, sketchpad in hand, drawing with a delicacy that didn't match her brash energy. Faces. Always faces. She didn't want anyone to see them, but you caught her looking at you once as she quietly flipped to a new page.

Cole—gods, he was a handful. The sarcasm practically leaked from his pores, and his arguments with Corra were already legendary. But there was depth behind the bravado. He worked with his hands, disappearing for hours into the barn or the garage, reengineering things that didn't need fixing just because he could. He didn't brag about it, but there was a tenderness hidden in the things he built. You noticed the way he followed Cameron with his eyes, always a few paces behind, pretending not to hover. But he did.

And Cameron. Already more attuned to emotion than most adults. He didn't say much, but his silences weren't empty. They were listening. Feeling. You caught him once standing by the window, fingers trailing the frame, just watching the sunset like it was speaking to him. Later, Corra told you he kept a box of dried flowers under his bed, collected from every place he'd been. A silent collection of beauty gathered in the cracks between missions. A quiet archive of everything he'd survived.

You'd missed so much.

But now, with the sky bleeding orange and lavender and the scent of dinner curling through the hallways, you were here. You were part of it.

By the time the sun had slipped behind the hills, the house had become a warm cacophony of clatter, chaos, and comfort.

Corra and Cole were currently locked in a full-on wrestling match in the middle of the living room rug, shrieking with laughter as limbs tangled.

"Say it!" Corra shouted, pinning Cole's arm behind his back. "Say I'm stronger!"

"NEVER!" Cole barked back, red-faced and thrashing beneath her grip, his voice muffled by the couch cushion.

"Say it or I'm gonna make you eat that stupid sock you call a beanie!"

"IT'S VINTAGE!"

In the hallway, Cameron guided Younger Conner through the den, stopping in front of a long shelf lined with trophies, medals, and keepsakes. "That one's from the peace summit on New Genesis," he said softly, tapping a glass orb filled with silvery dust. "I helped stop a civil war by translating emotion through shared dreams. No violence. Just... understanding."

Younger Conner blinked. "You're telling me you pulled off intergalactic therapy?"

Cameron grinned shyly. "Dad says it made him cry. He denies it, though."

"Hell, I believe it. That's some next-level empathy, kid."

Meanwhile, the kitchen had become its own warm ecosystem.

The aroma of garlic and rosemary drifted thick through the air as Older Conner stood over the stove, focused and precise, stirring a dark, bubbling sauce with military attention. He wore an old, grease-smudged apron, and the corners of his mouth twitched every time the oven timer dinged. The clink of metal utensils, the low sizzle from the roast, and the occasional mutter under his breath filled the space.

Beside him, Casey stood at the counter, chopping carrots like he was disarming a bomb, sneaking glances at his father between every cut.

"You don't have to hover," Conner muttered.

"You burn the bread every time," Casey replied, sliding a tray toward the oven.

"That happened once."

"Three times. M'gann's rations remember."

Older Conner scoffed. "You wanna cook?"

"Not unless we want tactical failure by dessert."

That's when you stepped in.

You dried your hands on a dish towel as you entered, the glow of the kitchen lights catching in your eyes. You paused for just a moment, leaning against the counter, taking it all in—Conner and Casey side-by-side, sharing quiet jabs and glances, moving together in a rhythm only built through years of love and resilience.

"I figured I'd come help," you said, casual, your voice soft but certain as you stepped forward.

Both heads turned toward you.

Older Conner met your gaze. There was a beat—a pause in the air thick enough to press against your chest—but he nodded slowly, then motioned to a colander of washed vegetables.

"You can prep the salad," he said. His tone was gruff, but there was no edge to it. Just something warm. "And keep Casey from over-engineering the dressing."

"Hey," Casey said, smirking. "Don't knock molecular gastronomy."

You rolled your eyes with a smile, sliding in beside them and reaching for a knife. The cutting board thudded gently beneath your hands, the simple rhythm of dinner prep grounding you more than anything else had since arriving.

And there you were.

Standing shoulder to shoulder with the man who had carried your memory for over a decade, and the son you didn't get to raise—but already admired.

It wasn't a dramatic moment. No speeches. No big declarations.

It was chopping lettuce. Stirring vinaigrette. Passing a spoon. Sharing space.

And in that quiet, unremarkable task—amid the scents of rosemary and warm bread, the bubbling laughter from the living room, and the sound of your children being home—you weren't just a guest in their lives anymore.

You were back.

Not as a ghost. Not as a memory.

As part of it.

A father. A partner. A piece of the family they had tried so hard to keep whole.

THE OVEN let out a low, steady hum, its warmth bleeding into the kitchen like a soft heartbeat. The scent of rosemary, roasted vegetables, garlic, and slow-cooked meat hung thick in the air—comforting, familiar, and grounding. It mingled with the golden glow of early evening, spilling through the kitchen window and bathing everything in soft, amber light. The room, once bustling with chatter and overlapping voices, had settled into a rare, well-earned stillness.

It wasn't silence that felt empty. It felt full—weighted with all the things said, unsaid, and finally starting to heal.

Somewhere deeper in the house, the distant sounds of life carried on. From the living room, laughter erupted, followed by the unmistakable thump of someone—likely Cole—falling off the couch again, accompanied by Corra's triumphant shout. Muffled music buzzed from Cameron's room, underscored by the soft cadence of conversation filtering faintly through the hallway.

The house was alive. A heartbeat. A home.

But here, in the kitchen, it was just the two of you.

Older Conner stood across from you, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed, his posture relaxed but laced with something deeper. His sleeves were rolled to the elbows of a well-worn flannel shirt, and his beard caught the kitchen light in thin streaks of silver and warmth. His gaze wasn't on you—not directly. He stared at the pot simmering on the stovetop, but his eyes were far away, caught in memories too fragile to voice yet.

You stood at the cutting board, the gentle thunk of your knife slicing through cucumber the only real sound in the room besides the hum of the oven and the faint tick of the wall clock. You weren't really paying attention to the salad anymore. Your focus kept drifting to him. The silence between you was thick—not tense, but tender. Like standing on the edge of a moment neither of you wanted to rush.

Then, quietly, you broke it.

"Casey's... remarkable," you said, your voice soft. "I've only been here a day and already I can see it. How grounded he is. How sharp. How deeply he loves all of you. I can't believe I missed getting to watch him become that."

Conner didn't answer right away, but the corner of his mouth twitched—almost a smile, or maybe a memory passing through him.

"He always had that fire," he murmured. "Even as a kid. He wanted to fix things. Protect people. He didn't wait to be given permission—he stepped into the role. Always two steps ahead. That part..." he looked up, finally meeting your eyes, "that part's all you."

You looked down, heart swelling and aching at once. "He has your strength. And your stillness. He sees everything."

Conner's gaze softened. "He's ours."

You nodded slowly, your throat tightening. "I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant. I was terrified. J'onn thought it was a mutation at first, something unstable—because I wasn't supposed to be able to carry. And then... suddenly, I was. With him."

Conner straightened, the memory flickering like a light inside him. He stepped forward, closer, his voice low and cracked with a kind of reverence.

"That day..." he said, eyes fixed on yours, "was one of the happiest of my life."

You blinked, surprised by the conviction in his voice.

"I remember you coming into the Cave," he went on, quieter now. "You'd just had that check-up with J'onn and Bruce. You walked straight toward me, but your hands were shaking. You didn't say anything at first. And then you did. You whispered it. And for a second, I couldn't breathe."

He gave a faint, breathless laugh. "Like the world just... stopped. Like all the war, all the missions, all the noise had quieted to give me that one moment."

You said nothing, afraid if you did, you'd lose your hold on the emotions flooding your chest.

"I used to talk to him," he continued. "Every night. While you slept. Even when there was nothing to feel yet. I'd press my hand to your stomach and tell him how much I loved you. How we were going to make this work. Give him a life that felt safe. That felt like home."

A long, quiet beat.

"And for a while... we did."

You closed your eyes, drawing in a slow breath to keep yourself steady. But the guilt settled over you like an old, familiar ache.

"I'm sorry I left you to do it alone," you whispered, voice barely audible.

Conner turned toward you fully then, his expression solid, eyes bright with a kind of fire that hadn't dimmed, even with time.

"You didn't leave," he said, firm and immediate. "You fought. You died protecting us. Protecting them. You didn't walk away. You didn't run. You saved us."

He paused, stepping closer until he was beside you, until the warmth from him was real and close and steady.

"You just didn't come back."

The words struck deep—soft, painful, but true. And somehow, they brought a measure of peace.

You looked at him then—not as a memory or a scar, but as a man. The boy who once kissed you in the rain behind the Tower. The father who had raised your children without you. The soldier who carried the weight of grief like it was armor.

And the man who never stopped loving you.

He reached out, his hand finding yours on the counter. His palm was calloused, rough at the edges, but warm—solid in a way that made you want to lean into him and never let go.

His fingers closed around yours.

"But now," he said softly, "you're here. Even if it's borrowed time. Even if the world pulls you back again... I needed this. I needed you. Just once more."

You blinked fast, the heat behind your eyes threatening to spill over. "I needed it too."

Neither of you moved after that.

The soft tick-tick-tick of the oven timer was the only sound that lingered in the kitchen after your quiet exchange with Older Conner. It filled the air like a metronome to your thoughts—slow, constant, reminding you both of the fragile thread holding this moment together. The kind of stillness that comes after an emotional tide—when words have done their part, and all that remains is breath.

And then, from the next room, a low crackle broke through the silence.

The stereo—old, slightly dusty, clearly temperamental—whirred to life with a soft hiss before spilling music into the house. A slow, soulful tune emerged from its speakers, all faded vinyl warmth and aching melody. It was the kind of song made for twilight moments—the ones that exist between conversation and silence. The kind that wraps around you like old sheets and distant memories.

You knew the song. Not just in the way people know lyrics, but in the way it lived in your bones.

You'd danced to it once. In a different kitchen, maybe. Or a bedroom with the lights low. Barefoot. Laughing. Wrapped in his arms while the world spun quietly outside your window.

And now, it played again. Like the universe had rewound the clock for just a little while.

You turned slightly, eyes drawn toward the soft hum of the music bleeding in from the living room. A smile tugged at your lips—nostalgic, tentative, real.

Before you could speak, Conner shifted beside you.

And then... his hand reached out.

Palm open. Steady. Offering—not demanding. A quiet invitation, spoken not through words but through the weight in his gaze. A gaze that held grief and memory, but more than anything else... longing.

"Dance with me?" he asked. Barely louder than a whisper.

Your heart caught, your breath stuttered—but only for a second.

"Yes," you breathed.

You slid your fingers into his. His hand enveloped yours, warm and steady, and he guided you gently—out of the kitchen's narrow space, toward the center of the room, where the worn hardwood caught the fading golden light just right.

He pulled you close—not roughly, not even with urgency. Just close.

The space between your bodies vanished. His arm slipped around your back, drawing you in, while his other hand rested against the back of your neck, fingertips brushing your hair like he couldn't believe you were really there. You felt his chest rise against yours, then fall in a quiet, steady rhythm.

You leaned in, your forehead resting against his collarbone without thinking. The scent of him—earth, spice, the faintest trace of engine grease—surrounded you like an embrace all its own.

He started to sway—slow, careful, as if he were relearning how to move with you. One step, then another. Barely dancing, really. Just holding. Rocking. Breathing.

You could hear his heartbeat beneath your cheek. Slow. Steady. Anchoring.

And neither of you said a word.

There was no need.

Because in that moment, it wasn't about what had been said—it was about what hadn't. About the years that lived between you, and how, somehow, you had found your way back to each other across the ruins of all that was lost.

It wasn't romantic, not in the way the movies tried to sell it.

It was real.

In the doorway, unseen by either of you, four figures appeared.

Casey was first—leaning just enough to see. His brow furrowed at the sight, then softened. Corra stepped beside him, lips parted, one hand lifting to her chest, as though something deep in her had cracked open. Behind them, Cole folded his arms and muttered, "You guys are so sappy," but didn't move. Didn't blink.

And Cameron... Cameron just smiled. Quietly. Brightly. Like something unspoken in his chest had clicked back into place.

They all watched for a few seconds longer—long enough to feel it. The gravity in the room. The history. The ache and the healing. And then, like shadows, they retreated—silent and reverent.

In the hallway, they found Younger Conner leaning against the wall, arms crossed and casual, though his eyes betrayed far more than his posture suggested.

"What?" he asked, eyebrow raised, tone half-curious, half-defensive.

Corra smirked, nudging him playfully. "You still got moves."

Casey chuckled under his breath. "And a vice grip. He's holding Pa like if he lets go, the world might end again."

Younger Conner didn't respond right away.

Because he'd seen it, too. Felt it.

Not just the love—but the depth of it. The need. The ache. The sacredness of a bond that had endured time, tragedy, and death itself.

And somewhere, behind the glimmer in his eyes, a thought took root.

I don't ever want to have to hold him like that.

Not because he couldn't—but because he didn't want to know what it felt like to lose you.

Back in the kitchen, the song played on.

The light dimmed further, gold fading into soft, muted lavender. The house exhaled around you. And you... you were still there. In his arms. Swallowed by the melody, grounded by the weight of his embrace.

He held you like a man who had been forced to let go once before.

And this time, he didn't plan to loosen his grip again.

You remained nestled against Older Conner's chest, your cheek pressed to the solid warmth of him as the soft song spun through the kitchen like a slow-motion dream. It wrapped around the two of you like a shared memory made real again, each note more tender than the last. The overhead lights glowed low and golden, casting a halo over the moment—catching on polished countertops, reflecting off the glass of the cabinets, and dancing across the windowpanes. Outside, the horizon had dipped fully into twilight, stars just beginning to pierce the deepening sky.

But in here, all you could see was him.

His arms tightened around you, a subtle but undeniable shift in pressure—as if every inch of him still feared this was a trick, that if he loosened his hold, you'd vanish like smoke. You leaned back slightly, just enough to tilt your face up toward him. His eyes met yours immediately—clear, piercing, ocean-deep. They were older now. Worn. Carrying a thousand battles and years of grief. But they were still his.

Still the same blue that once saw straight through you.

You reached up slowly, your fingers finding the edge of his flannel shirt, curling into the fabric for reassurance as your heart thudded wildly inside your chest. You studied him—every crease at the corner of his eyes, every fleck of gray in his beard. Your thumb brushed gently along his jaw.

"Conner..." you whispered, your voice delicate, shaped by emotion too large to name.

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

His head dipped just slightly, his breath brushing across your lips. The space between you narrowed, impossibly fragile. You leaned forward, your eyes drifting closed, the promise of a kiss hanging in the air like a heartbeat away.

And then—the world ruptured.

A deafening CRACK shattered the silence as the kitchen window exploded inward in a vortex of burning violet light. The force slammed through the glass, through the wall, a wave of raw, corrupted cosmic energy that howled with an unnatural pitch. It wasn't just fire or wind or impact—it was like the universe itself had been ripped open and hurled through your home.

You didn't even have time to scream.

Before your mind could register what had happened, Older Conner's body was in motion.

He moved with supernatural speed—faster than thought—shoving you behind him, arms outstretched, every muscle tensed with primal instinct. The blast struck him squarely, flaring violet against his back as it detonated, engulfing you both in the eruption.

The kitchen imploded.

You were airborne before you even realized it, flung like a ragdoll through cabinets, walls, through everything. A chorus of wood splintering and glass screaming filled your ears, followed by the deafening crash as your bodies blew through drywall and collapsed into the living room in a hail of dust and debris.

You landed hard—shoulder-first into the floor, a flare of pain shooting through your ribs. You hit and rolled, instinctively curling in on yourself, hands flying to shield your stomach, your child. A heartbeat later, Conner's body slammed down beside you, skidding across the floor in a haze of broken wood and pulverized plaster. He didn't cry out—just grunted, arms still reaching in your direction even as a beam collapsed across his back.

The music cut off mid-note.

Silence fell for a beat—shattered only by the electrical hiss of sparking wires, the groan of settling walls, and the ringing in your ears.

And then—

"Dad!"

"Pa?!"

"Get them out—NOW!"

Familiar voices. Panic. Movement.

You blinked against the dust, vision swimming. Everything hurt. Your fingers flexed against the floor, and you tried to lift yourself, but your limbs felt heavy, disconnected.

Then hands—warm, frantic, familiar—were on you.

Casey. Cole. Corra. Cameron.

They were there, clawing through debris, lifting splintered beams, tearing apart the wreckage with desperation only children fighting to save their parents could possess.

You coughed, the motion sending a wave of pain through your side. Your mouth tasted of dust and blood. Through blurred vision, you turned—Conner—

He stirred beside you with a low groan, his arms still outstretched as if they'd never stopped trying to shield you. Blood streamed from a cut on his temple, his flannel torn, body covered in plaster dust and fragments of wood. But his head snapped up the second he found you, his eyes wide, terrified.

"Are you okay?" he rasped, already reaching.

You nodded through the pain, voice hoarse. "Y-Yeah... I think so—just—"

You were cut off by the sharp CRACK of impact as Younger Conner burst through the wreckage like a comet, his body glowing faintly with energy, his fists sparking with raw power. His eyes scanned the carnage, then found you, then the gaping hole where the kitchen wall had once been.

"What the hell was that?!" he shouted, voice shaking with fury. He dropped to one knee, hands flying to the broken pieces trapping you and Older Conner, tossing them aside like they weighed nothing.

Then, a second blast fired.

BOOM.

It scorched across the far wall, narrowly missing the roof as it seared a molten path from one end of the room to the other, punching through family photos, memories—everything.

The ground shuddered. Lights flickered.

Violet light bled through the hole like an open artery, flickering in rhythmic pulses that made the shadows twitch and the air hum with cosmic distortion.

Older Conner reached for you, his grip firm, anchoring. His hand slid into yours like it had always belonged there, and he pulled you to your feet in one swift, protective motion. There was a new urgency in his eyes—a fire that hadn't burned this bright in years. He held onto you like if he let go now, he might lose you to the stars again.

Younger Conner stood beside him, muscles coiled like a loaded weapon. His jaw was locked, fists clenched at his sides, and his body trembled not with fear—but fury. Raw and barely restrained. His eyes, once soft when they looked at you, now burned like twin supernovae fixed on the source of this chaos.

Behind you, the sound of movement was quick, clean, trained. Casey's voice barked commands low and sharp as he tossed weapons and tech out of a hidden drawer, each of your children moving like instinct had taken over. Corra rolled her shoulders and cracked her knuckles, energy thrumming at her fingertips. Cole moved in precision—fluid and fast—pulling twin energy blades into being with a flick of his wrists. Cameron stood still, centered, calm—but his eyes glowed faintly, hands lifted, his power already dancing at his palms like a storm waiting to be called.

And then—that voice.

Low. Hollow. Dark.

It drifted through the shattered front wall like smoke through cracked stone.

"Come outside."

You went still. Everyone did.

That voice was carved into your bones now. Olympian.

It wasn't a threat. It wasn't even a challenge.

It was a summons.

Conner squeezed your hand once, then let go as the group moved like a unit—every step synced in silent resolve as boots thudded down the front steps and onto the ruined porch. The last light of day had vanished, consumed by storm clouds that weren't quite natural, swirling with streaks of dark violet lightning. The air itself was wrong—too heavy, too still. Like time was holding its breath.

And there he was.

Hovering above the yard, as if gravity had no hold on him. Olympian.

His black armor gleamed like obsidian in the light of the pulsing crystal embedded in his chest—deep, violet, almost alive. Each pulse sent a ripple through the air around him, distorting it like heat rising from broken asphalt. His crimson cape billowed behind him, slow and ominous, as though it were drifting through water. The very space around him warped, bent—not just visually, but spiritually. He didn't belong here.

And yet he had come.

He didn't raise his arms in threat. He didn't need to.

His voice cracked through the storm.

"I don't want them." His head tilted slightly, eyes glowing behind the helm, gaze flicking to each member of your family before returning to you. "You know why I'm here. I want you."

The words hit like a thunderclap, pressing against your ribs, stealing your breath.

You stepped forward slowly, fists clenched. "I don't even know what it is you want."

"You will," Olympian said, voice dripping with certainty. "You carry something inside you—something ancient. Buried in your blood. Power that was never meant for this world. It was stolen. And I will have it back."

A cold pressure curled in your stomach. That pull you had felt before—that strange, cosmic thrum that responded to him—grew stronger, vibrating just beneath your skin like a calling only he and you could hear. The connection was real. Tainted. Undeniable.

But you didn't waver.

Casey stepped beside you, his stance wide and grounded, arms beginning to shimmer with celestial light. "You'll have to go through all of us first."

Corra smirked, fire dancing in her hands. "Seriously. Try me."

Cole cracked his neck, blades fully drawn, the soft hum of energy ringing at his sides. "You should've stayed in whatever black hole spat you out of."

Cameron stood a step behind, quiet but unmoving. "You're not laying a single finger on him."

Younger Conner stepped forward too, voice like a blade. "If you want him," he said, chin tilted high, "you're gonna have to fight the man he loved before you ruined his life... and the man who still stands by him now."

Then, Older Conner moved up to your side—shoulders squared, body still bloodied from the blast, but steady as ever. "You attacked my home. My children. My family. That was your last mistake."

You looked at them all—your family.

Conner and Conner.

Your children, radiant and ready, no longer the little ones you'd held in your arms, but warriors now. Guardians.

And something shifted inside you.

This wasn't about mystery anymore. It wasn't about destiny or some ancient bloodline.

It was about them. About us.

About love, and legacy, and choosing not to let anyone take that away from you again.

You stepped forward, standing at the front of your family, your voice clear and sure as it cut through the still air.

"Then come and try."

Because this wasn't just a standoff.

This was the beginning of a war.

And your family had already chosen their side.

#dc x male reader #x male reader #dc #gay #conner kent x male reader #conner kent #superboy x male reader #superboy

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dreamersworldduh · 1 month ago

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Please diva I need another chapter of Nate Jacob’s in my life I need it like I need air to breathe

WORKING ON IT, darling🫶🏽 don’t die on me💨

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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charmed parker caine x male reader

ALWAYS LET ME IN

PARKER CAINE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You were born a child of duality, part demon and part witch, with strong magical and demonic abilities. Your blood is tied to the Caines, a noble demon family, making you their legacy. You were brought up alongside Alistair Caine's children—Abigail, Parker, and Hunter.

Abigail was fierce and cunning; Parker was kind and burdened by his lineage; and Hunter was mysterious and captivating.

As tensions rise within the family, your role as a mediator becomes crucial. Alistair's power is diminishing, and rumors of a battle for succession spread. You are the wild card everyone desires, poised on the brink of a vital choice about loyalty and identity.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Swearing.

WORDS! 10.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with another request! This was really fun because I was going more for a little royal/demonic lifestyle for Parker and I love how it turns out—I even make a part 2 but after I complete my to-do list. Anyway, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

YOU WERE born beneath the surface of the world, in a subterranean sanctum carved from volcanic obsidian and scorched basalt. The chamber was alive with old power, the kind that sang through stone and wept fire from its cracks. Runes etched into the walls glowed faintly with eldritch light, pulsing in rhythm with the earth's molten breath. It was not a place meant for innocence, and yet it was the cradle of your life. The moment your newborn wail pierced the charged silence, the coven gathered around knew—this was no ordinary child. You were an omen.

A child of duality. Demon and witch. Your blood carried the infernal legacy of brimstone and darkness, fused with an ancient strain of magic so potent it warped the very air around you. Midwives recoiled at the first sparks of telekinesis that shattered the steel instruments meant to measure your power. By the time you were three, your mind had begun creeping into others'—thoughts unspooling before your eyes like threads waiting to be pulled. By five, your tantrums could fracture enchanted barriers and crack the walls of your stone-formed nursery.

You were raised in fear and reverence—equal parts blessed and cursed. Your telekinesis matured into something surgical and cruel, able to splinter bone with a flick of your wrist or suspend entire battalions midair. Your telepathy grew more refined, more invasive. You didn't just read thoughts; you could twist them, implant fears, shatter psyches.

But it was the demon in you that demanded true caution. Your strength exceeded even the elite warriors of the underworld. You once punched through a tower wall for being denied a spellbook. You learned to "flame" at an age when others were still struggling with basic summoning—ripping through walls of fire and stepping from shadow to shadow like a whisper. Heat lived beneath your skin. When angry, the air around you warped with thermal distortion. And when truly enraged—when that ancient, inherited wrath flared—your touch disintegrated matter, reducing flesh and stone alike to vapor and glowing ash. It didn't just kill. It erased.

Your bloodline bound you to the Caines—demon nobility feared across realms. For generations, your ancestors served Alistair Caine: a demon lord born not of rank but of raw conquest, who clawed his way to power through blood and black magic. Your parents were his closest—his war strategists, his enforcers, his right and left hands in every campaign he led. You were his legacy by association. His investment.

And so you were raised beside his children—not as an equal, not as a rival, but something more dangerous: a tether.

Abigail Caine, the scalding daughter of ambition and cruelty, treated affection like a weapon and loyalty like currency. Her beauty was a wildfire—dangerous, blinding, and born to consume. She trusted no one except perhaps you, and even then only in whispers and half-truths.

Parker Caine, her half-brother, was a contradiction in human form. Half-demon, half-mortal, he bore the curse of compassion and the burden of a lineage he never asked for. His eyes held kindness and ache, and when he looked at you, it was as if he saw not the power, but the boy beneath it. And that... unnerved you.

Then there was Hunter.

Hunter Caine was the ghost in every room—the one who didn't need to speak to command presence. His silver eyes were voids of knowing, his smile curved with secrets you weren't sure you wanted to learn. He was beautiful in that predatory way some nightmares are—sharp lines, cool shadows, the kind of man whose silence made your pulse quicken more than any scream. When he touched your shoulder in passing, it burned. Not from heat. From hunger.

You watched them grow, trained with them, bled beside them. You became their confidant, their counselor, their blade when needed. They stood at the center of a tempest of power and expectation—and you were the still eye of the storm. Never choosing sides. Never needing to. You were what held the family together.

Abigail came to you with whispered plans in the dead of night. Parker came to you when the weight of his bloodline crushed him. They confided in you because you listened. Because you understood. But understanding comes at a cost. You became the mediator of their war, the bridge between hate and heritage. And slowly, dangerously, that power—their reliance on you—became something neither of them could ignore.

And now...

Alistair is fading. Not in strength, but in patience. The mantle of the Source—the living conduit of evil's most potent force—is ready to be passed. Whispers swirl through the demon courts. Blood will be shed. Only one heir can rise.

You are the wild card.

You are the one everyone wants but no one can truly claim. You are power unbound, loyalty uncertain, and desire incarnate. You stand on the edge of prophecy, a creature born of fire and spell, of love and war, with eyes that have seen too much and hands that can destroy worlds.

And soon, you will have to choose who—if anyone—you'll burn for.

THE AIR in the courtyard of the Caine estate churned with a suffocating heaviness, a thick blend of brimstone, magic, and ambition that made your skin prickle beneath your ceremonial armor. Sulfur clung to every breath like ash from a dying fire, and the torchlight burned hot against the carved obsidian pillars that encircled the space like a dark coliseum. Flames flickered wildly atop twisted iron sconces, casting restless shadows across the sea of gathered followers—demons with glistening fangs, warlocks cloaked in charmed bone, creatures older than language with eyes like molten ore.

This was not a gathering. It was a reckoning.

You stood near the front, a breath away from the central dais, where the throne—monstrous and magnificent—rose like a wound in the world. Forged from volcanic glass and blackened bone, it pulsed with residual magic, hungry and sentient, as if aching for its next master. Though no heir had yet claimed the title of Source, the throne already exuded a force that reached into your bones and dared you to kneel.

But you didn't.

At the apex of the platform, Alistair Caine towered like the final word in a spell. His presence bled through the crowd like fire through parchment. Tall and terrifying, he wore ceremonial robes the color of aged blood, their edges embroidered with infernal script that shimmered in tandem with the flickering light. His molten-gold eyes scanned the court with predatory calm, and the weight of his power pressed down on your mind like a grinding vice.

Then he stood. Slowly. Deliberately.

The silence that followed was immediate and absolute—like the entire underworld inhaled and forgot how to exhale.

You stood still, every muscle coiled, every sense sharp. The heat of the torches blurred the edges of your vision. Power, dark and ancient, rippled across the stones like a tide preparing to break.

Then—you felt it.

A shift in the air. A quiet pull.

A gaze.

You scanned the crowd, drawn to it like gravity. And then your eyes met his.

Hunter Caine.

He stood in the shadows, near the eastern archway where the firelight faltered. A few minor demons hovered around him like moths to a blade, but he remained still—statuesque and silent, wrapped in a fitted black coat lined with silver runes. His silver eyes—icy, unblinking—locked on yours with a focus so intense it silenced everything else. There was no smirk, no raised brow, no hint of charm. Just that devastating stillness, that impossible attention.

It was the kind of look that didn't ask a question, but demanded an answer.

And something inside you responded.

The air between you vibrated, taut with something unspeakable. That familiar flutter stirred in your chest—heat, tension, the ache of wanting something you shouldn't. It had never left you, not since the first time you saw Hunter watching you across the training yard years ago, expression unreadable, eyes burning with everything he refused to say.

Then—

"You're staring," came a low murmur at your ear, thick with amusement.

You turned, startled—but not alarmed.

Parker Caine stood at your side now, as if he had always been there. Loose-limbed and effortlessly magnetic, his dark curls were slightly windblown, a few strands falling over his brow with calculated mess. His ceremonial coat hung open at the neck, collar unfastened like he didn't give a damn about protocol.

"Didn't know he had it in him to hold a stare that long," Parker said, smirking as his eyes flicked toward his brother. "Must be your influence."

You exhaled a dry laugh, trying to mask the heat lingering in your cheeks. "Maybe he's just finally learning to pay attention."

"Or maybe you're just too damn magnetic to ignore," he said, his tone dipping lower, his body leaning closer. The scent of him—cedarwood, musk, and something faintly spiced—brushed against your senses. A slow, warm pull.

You arched a brow, lips twitching. "Flirting? Really? Here?"

Parker's grin widened. "I like to think of it as... strategic reassurance. This war's going to get messy. Figured a little charm might help." He bumped your arm gently, eyes dancing. "Besides, I'm not the only one watching you tonight."

Your gaze flicked instinctively back toward Hunter, only to find his eyes now locked on Alistair. His jaw was clenched, mouth drawn in that perfect line of cold restraint. But the shift in his posture—shoulders squared, spine taut—told you the moment between you hadn't gone unnoticed.

The weight of it lingered.

Just like that, whatever had passed between you and Hunter dissolved into smoke, swallowed by duty, by legacy, by the storm rising around you.

And then Alistair spoke.

His voice rolled across the courtyard like thunder cracking through the bones of the world—ancient, commanding, heavy with finality. The crowd bowed their heads. The flames bowed with them. And beside you, Parker's fingers briefly brushed your forearm, grounding you—whether in comfort or possession, you weren't sure.

The war for the leader of the Caine dynasty had begun.

And you—caught between ambition and desire, loyalty and danger—stood exactly where fate wanted you.

In the eye of the storm.

Parker's voice curled into your ear like a silk ribbon—soft, warm, threaded with that casual mischief that always seemed too effortless to be harmless.

"You've been avoiding me," he murmured, barely above the low rumble of the crowd. His breath ghosted near your cheek as he leaned just close enough for your shoulders to touch, the brush of his coat against yours sending a faint jolt down your arm.

You kept your eyes forward, but your lips tugged sideways. "Maybe I like the silence."

He chuckled, low and easy, a grin teasing the corners of his mouth. "Liar. You miss me. Admit it."

You turned slightly, fixing him with a sidelong glance. "I miss you the way I miss hexing myself in the face."

It was meant to be cold. Flat. But the faint twitch at the corner of your mouth betrayed you, and Parker saw it instantly.

His grin split wider, victorious. "Adorable," he declared, as if he hadn't just been insulted. "You're absolutely adorable when you lie."

He bumped your elbow with his, playfully. That familiar charm rolled off him in waves—dangerous in its ease, in the way it snuck into your bones before you could remember not to let it.

"And the way you were looking at Hunter just now?" Parker continued, voice dipping into something silkier, almost suggestive. "You might need a cold shower. Or..." He leaned in, just a breath away now, his voice a whisper only you could hear. "You could let me help with that heat."

Your pulse stuttered. Just slightly. But enough.

You masked it with a dry scoff, head tilting ever so slightly toward him. "Keep dreaming, Caine."

"I do," he whispered, the words a confession wrapped in flirtation. "Vividly."

But before he could press the moment further, another voice sliced through the charged air like a dagger wrapped in fire.

"Oh, gods. Are you two flirting again?"

You turned to see Abigail Caine striding toward you, her ceremonial robes trailing behind her like liquid flame. The fabric shimmered with layered enchantments, catching the torchlight as she moved with theatrical grace. Her arms were crossed, expression sharp with faux-annoyance, but the glint in her eyes betrayed her amusement.

"Honestly, Parker," she sighed, stopping in front of you both. "Do you ever get tired of hearing your own voice?"

"Never," Parker said without missing a beat. He turned to her with a smirk full of teeth. "It's a gift. Like my face. Or my charm. Or my ability to be heartbreakingly irresistible."

Abigail rolled her eyes so hard you thought they might get stuck. "Heartbreaking is right. But not for the reasons you think."

Then she turned her gaze to you, and that glint sharpened into something more discerning. "And you. You're supposed to be the sensible one. Don't tell me he's finally managed to drag you down into the muck with him."

You gave her a measured smile. "I'm humoring him."

"You always humor him. That's the problem."

Their bickering resumed like a well-rehearsed play—barbs sharpened by years of rivalry, affection buried beneath sarcasm. You stood between them, the reluctant fulcrum of their fire-forged dynamic, and despite yourself, something warm curled low in your chest. This—this was familiar. This was how you'd survived the chaos of the Caine legacy for so long.

But the moment broke.

The ground beneath your feet trembled, subtly at first, like a heartbeat deep in the stone. The torches flared high along the courtyard walls, their flames crackling with renewed violence.

A hush fell over the crowd like a blanket of ash.

Alistair's voice rang out, the silence became something sacred. Every creature, every demon, every warlock froze as though instinctively recognizing the shift in gravity—the world tilting toward something inevitable.

"My blood. My legacy. My chosen."

His voice thundered through the air like a death knell. Atop the dais, the Sacred Flame flared behind him, bathing his silhouette in a terrible glow. The jagged crown of obsidian and bone on his brow shimmered with runes that pulsed with infernal light.

"Abigail. Parker. Hunter. Step forward."

The words weren't a command. They were a decree.

Your breath hitched.

Beside you, Parker straightened, all playfulness draining from his face. In its place—something harder. Sharper. He no longer looked like the flirt by your side, but the heir to a kingdom of fire and shadows.

Abigail's smirk faded as well. Her chin lifted, eyes burning with ambition, with defiance. She moved first—measured, powerful, no trace of hesitation.

And then Hunter emerged from the darkness like he had been born there. No fanfare. No pretense. Just quiet certainty. He walked past you without a glance, but you felt him. The cold weight of his presence brushed your chest like a whisper that knew too much.

The three of them climbed the obsidian steps together, casting elongated shadows across the platform as they stood at their father's side.

Together—for now.

But you knew the truth.

Only one would remain standing when the flame chose its master.

And down below, with the torchlight flickering against your face and your heartbeat still recovering from Parker's nearness and Hunter's silence, you stood motionless.

"The three of you," Alistair spoke, his voice low and deliberate, heavy enough to vibrate through your ribs, "are bound by blood, by name, and by my legacy."

A current of dread and reverence swept through the crowd. His tone alone had weight—enough to bend weaker minds, enough to silence even the eldest fiends.

"But only one," he continued, stepping forward as the Sacred Flame roared higher behind him, licking upward in tongues of crimson and gold, "will rise to claim the throne of my dominion. When I ascend fully as the Source, I will leave behind a kingdom forged in chaos. That kingdom—my kingdom—demands more than bloodline. It demands dominance."

He stopped at the edge of the dais, the flame casting his shadow over the siblings. The light painted them in firelight—Abigail gleaming like a blade, Parker dark and thoughtful, and Hunter cloaked in flickering shadow.

"This realm was born of treachery. Of blood spilled by kin, and empires won by will alone. I did not inherit. I took. You will not be handed my power. You will seize it. If you can."

His eyes moved from Abigail... to Parker... and then rested, longer than before, on Hunter. The pause was subtle. But the tension it carried was razor-sharp.

Hunter didn't flinch. He didn't move. But you saw it—the faint flicker in his eyes. A ripple, like the first crack in calm water.

The silence in the courtyard stretched, taut as a pulled string.

Then Alistair turned. The shift in his stance was slight, but the power of it rippled outward. He was no longer a father addressing his children. He was the king addressing his court.

"My loyal legion," he declared, his voice rising like a war cry cloaked in velvet. "Bear witness. Tonight, we gather not simply to celebrate my reign, but to mark the beginning of the Trials."

The word landed like a strike.

"The Infernal Atrium will host a gala at dusk," he continued, arms stretching wide. His robes flared, crimson silk and shadow billowing like wings of smoke. "All are welcome—every warlock, every demon, every serpent born of my dominion. Come. Drink. Feast. Wager. Let the walls echo with celebration."

He smiled then—a terrible, knowing thing that did not reach his eyes.

"For when the sun falls... my children will rise—or burn."

The Sacred Flame behind him exploded upward in violent ecstasy, spiraling into the air in a roaring column of heat and light. The inferno swallowed the top of the dais for a moment, casting monstrous shadows across the courtyard.

Gasps. Whispers. A low, restless murmur rippled through the horde.

The Infernal Atrium. You knew it well. A place of opulence steeped in cruelty. Where laughter was laced with poison, and every dance step doubled as a threat. Where alliances were born with kisses and murdered with smiles. Nothing was sacred. Everything was spectacle.

And tonight, it would become a battlefield draped in elegance.

Your eyes returned to the siblings.

Abigail's smile was now sharpened into a predator's grin. She relished the challenge—craved it like blood in her teeth.

Parker stood still, but his jaw was tight. You could see the flicker of conflict in his eyes—strategy forming beneath layers of restraint.

And Hunter...

Hunter was watching you again.

His gaze met yours for only a breath, but in that second, the rest of the world dropped away. No fire. No crowd. Just the two of you, and that unspoken thing that curled between your ribs whenever he looked at you like that. Not desire. Not entirely. Not anymore.

He looked away.

And you knew, with a sick kind of certainty, that this night would be the last before everything changed.

The war hadn't begun in blood yet. But it had begun.

AS THE final echo of Alistair Caine's decree faded into the smoldering quiet, the courtyard held its breath, thick with heat and prophecy. The Sacred Flame continued to roar behind the throne, its light licking the obsidian walls in sharp, rhythmic pulses, but the center of gravity had shifted. The spectacle was over. The shadows lengthened, and now came the aftermath—the part where eyes sharpened, alliances whispered into being, and the siblings of House Caine were quietly weighed like coin.

Demons began to peel away from the edges of the gathering, their cloaks brushing stone, their murmurs low and loaded. You could hear them: speculation, strategy, bets placed like daggers on a game board. The war hadn't started yet—but it had most certainly begun.

You remained still, arms crossed over your chest, standing sentinel near the base of the dais. You didn't chase the crowd. You didn't need to. You were the gravity in this place now. And sure enough, they came to you—one from the left, one from the right.

Parker's steps were slower than usual, his charm thinned at the edges, as if the weight of what was coming dulled his usual sparkle. His dark curls were tousled from the anxious drag of his hand through them, and he wore his sarcasm like a thinning cloak.

"That went well," he muttered, voice dry, almost hollow. He stopped beside you, shoulder brushing lightly against yours, gaze flicking sideways.

From the opposite side, Abigail's heels clicked softly over scorched stone, her stride as smooth and sharp as ever, but tension radiated off her like a simmering flame. Her arms were crossed tight against her chest, posture perfect but brittle, her crimson-lined eyes glinting with the venom of bitter truth.

"'Earn it,'" she echoed, voice low and razor-edged. "As if we haven't been bleeding for this legacy since we could walk. As if we weren't born into fire."

You looked between them—two siblings forged into weapons by the same father, taught to draw lines between loyalty and ambition in blood. They didn't trust each other. Not completely. But right now, they stood within arm's reach of you.

That meant something.

"Don't tell me you two are finally getting along," you said quietly, offering them a sliver of levity. Your voice was low and calm, the kind of tone you'd learned to master when everything around you threatened to break.

Parker scoffed, lips twitching into a tired smile. "Hardly. If she so much as breathes wrong at the gala tonight, I'm spiking her wine."

Abigail turned her head just enough to glare at him, though her expression lacked real bite. "Please. Your drinks are so diluted I'd get more kick from a healing tonic. You've never had the spine for anything stronger."

The exchange was sharp—but the fact that neither of them stepped away from you said more than the words did. You could feel it in the way their presence lingered close—tense, yes, but tethered. Seeking steadiness. Seeking you.

For all their fire, their arrogance, their pride—they were still just people. People raised in a gilded cage that looked like a palace but felt like a battlefield. And right now, behind the polish of their facades, they were fraying.

"You don't have to carry this alone," you said, voice steady as stone. You looked to Abigail first, then to Parker. "Either of you. This throne—this title—it's not just power. It's a crucible. It burns whatever touches it. Don't let it burn you away."

Abigail's eyes met yours, something flickering in their depths—faint, but real. Vulnerability, maybe. Or fear disguised as defiance.

"And what if it already has?" she murmured, her voice a whisper forged in glass.

Parker looked away, jaw tight as he stared toward the horizon. The sky above the cursed ridgelines was beginning to darken, the faint glow of dusk spreading like spilled ink across the brimstone clouds.

"We don't have a choice," he said softly. "The gala tonight... it's not just pageantry. It's a declaration of war dressed in silk and smiles. Everyone will be watching. Waiting for one of us to falter. And we've already been thrown onto the field."

You reached out without ceremony—one hand settling on Parker's shoulder, the other on Abigail's. The gesture was quiet, but it anchored them both. Not with magic. Not with command. Just presence.

The kind they had come to rely on more than they would ever admit aloud.

"You have me," you said, and there was no room for doubt in your voice. "Both of you. No matter how vicious this gets, no matter how many masks you have to wear—I'll be the one thing that doesn't change."

Neither of them spoke at first.

But neither pulled away.

You stood like that for a long moment—shoulder to shoulder, tethered not by peace, but by you. Their brother in everything but blood. Their compass in a world built on shifting ground.

And for one breath in time, before the poison-draped elegance of the gala swallowed them whole, before the betrayals bloomed like thorns beneath laughter and music—they weren't heirs. They weren't rivals.

They were just Parker and Abigail.

Still human, still holding on.

Still standing in your shadow.

Suddenly, your name echoed through the thickened air like a low spell, summoned not with urgency but with authority. You turned, your expression tightening just slightly, muscles coiling beneath your skin as one of Hunter's guards—an armored demon with obsidian-plated limbs and hollow eyes—approached with a beckoning gesture. The creature didn't spare Parker or Abigail so much as a glance. Its sole focus was you.

Without a word, you stepped away.

You didn't look back—but they watched you go.

At the base of the spire, beneath an arch carved from molten rock and stitched with glowing runes, Hunter stood waiting. Still as a statue. Cloaked in black trimmed with faint silver threading that caught the light of the Sacred Flame in strange, fleeting ways. The fire bathed his features in a warm, deceptive glow, but his expression remained untouched by it—his silver eyes locked on you with that unwavering intensity that always made your chest tighten.

There was no smirk. No smoldering charm. Just that quiet, deadly focus. The kind that stripped you bare whether you were ready or not.

Behind you, a breath escaped Abigail—quiet but sharp. Her arms stayed crossed, her gaze narrowed as she followed your retreating form with something that danced between suspicion and concern. Her voice was low when she finally spoke, but it cut through the air like a blade.

"You're wasting time."

Parker, still beside her, barely flinched.

"If you want him," she continued, her tone laced with warning as she turned her head to fix him with a look, "then act. Because if Hunter gets his hands on him..." Her words lingered, unfinished. But her meaning was clear. Hunter doesn't share. Hunter doesn't release.

And when Hunter claims something, it's with claws and fire.

She waited for the reaction. A crack in Parker's carefully constructed smirk. A flash of unease.

Instead, Parker's lips curled—slow, deliberate. That familiar smirk returned, thick with arrogance, yet now edged in something darker. Possessive. Personal.

"Let him try," Parker murmured, voice dipped in satisfaction. "But he's already tasted what's mine."

Abigail's brow arched, skeptical. "So you've—?"

"Oh, I've done more than that," Parker interrupted, his tone turning silken with memory. His gaze drifted, no longer focused on her but on the shadows where you had disappeared. "While you were busy scheming and Hunter was brooding in corners, he was in my bed. Skin flushed, voice breaking. Trembling under me. Moaning my name into the sheets like a curse he couldn't stop chanting."

His voice didn't rise. It didn't boast. It claimed.

He turned toward her fully now, the smirk on his lips deepening—no longer flirtatious, but something far more primal. There was heat behind his eyes. And warning.

"So no, I'm not worried."

Abigail stared at him a moment longer, reading him like only a sister could. She didn't challenge the truth of what he said. Didn't try to unravel it. There was nothing to unravel.

Parker didn't lie about things like that.

Still, a flicker passed behind her eyes—something taut and conflicted. Maybe envy. Maybe fear for you. Maybe both.

Because Parker, for all his charm, had never let anyone in—not like that. And she knew what it meant that he had. And she knew, too, how far Hunter would go to win anything he truly desired.

Her gaze slid once more to the darkened corridor where you'd vanished, swallowed by firelight and stone.

"Be careful," she said quietly, almost to herself. "Hunter doesn't play fair. And he doesn't lose well."

Parker didn't respond right away. His smirk held steady, his posture unbothered.

But for the briefest moment, something behind his eyes shifted.

A flash of memory. Of caution. Of warning unspoken.

He already knew that.

THE CORRIDOR to Hunter's private wing felt like entering another realm entirely—severed from the grandeur and menace of the main Caine estate. There were no towering obsidian arches here. No gilded demonic reliefs leering down from above. This was something colder. Sharper. More intimate in its austerity.

The walls were carved from a dark stone so smooth it nearly reflected the low flicker of the sconces lining either side. Silver-veined and humming faintly with restrained magic, the stone radiated a chill that clung to your skin. The light here wasn't warm—it danced in a cold spectrum, casting warped shadows that crawled across the floor as you walked. The silence was profound, like a breath being held by the walls themselves.

Behind you, the metallic tread of Hunter's guard was the only sound accompanying your own footsteps, until even that ceased. No words were spoken. No gestures made. The demon simply halted and let you continue on alone, as if you had passed some invisible threshold meant only for you.

You stepped through the last door.

It closed behind you with a clang—sharp, decisive, final.

Inside, the chamber felt like the inner sanctum of a war god. Dimly lit, the only source of illumination came from a tall wall of blue flame that licked upward without smoke or heat, casting long, dancing shadows in hues of cobalt and steel. The air smelled of scorched parchment and metal, with an undercurrent of something older—blood, perhaps, or ash from a time long past.

In the center of the room sat a wide table made of blackened stone, the edges cracked and scorched, its surface covered in ancient artifacts. Blades forged in hellfire, scrolls bound in cracked skin, broken relics that buzzed faintly with trapped curses. This was no scholar's workspace. It was the collection of a strategist—a warrior who played in both blood and silence.

And there stood Hunter.

Half turned from you, still as death, framed in blue firelight. Arms crossed. Head slightly bowed. The fall of his coat made him look carved from the night itself. He hadn't acknowledged you with a glance. But you felt him. The weight of his presence was immediate—like walking into the center of a storm where the wind hasn't begun to scream yet.

"You came," he said, his voice low, rough velvet dragged across stone. It wasn't a question. It wasn't even surprise. It was an acknowledgment, laced with something too quiet to name.

"You summoned," you replied evenly, not rising to his bait.

Hunter turned slowly, like a shadow peeling free from the fire. The light touched his features as he moved—sharp cheekbones, a set jaw, silver eyes that burned cold. His face was unreadable, all edges and silence. But not empty. Never empty.

"You looked good standing beside them," he said at last, voice soft but cool. The words weren't a compliment. They were an observation shaped like a blade.

You held his gaze. "They needed me."

He took a step forward. The room felt smaller.

"Do you?"

The question wasn't casual. It hung between you like a suspended spell—fragile and ready to ignite. You felt the meaning beneath it, twisted through with something too intimate to be strategy.

You hesitated. Not because you didn't know the answer, but because with Hunter, every answer was a choice.

"I don't need anyone," you said at last, your voice low and certain.

A flicker passed through his expression. A subtle shift—like recognition. Like agreement.

"Good," he murmured.

And then he moved.

In a single, fluid motion, he crossed the space between you, silent as smoke. One hand braced the wall beside your head, the other hovered just near your waist, close enough to feel the tension, the heat. But he didn't touch. Not yet. His presence was a snare of power and restraint, coiling around your senses until your heart beat in rhythm with the fire.

He leaned in—slowly, dangerously. His breath ghosted across your skin.

"Because anyone who does..." His voice dipped into a near whisper, his silver eyes darkening. "Will lose."

You didn't blink. You didn't step back.

You let the moment consume the air between you. Let the heat build, taut and heady, wrapped in threat and promise both.

"Is that what this is?" you asked, your voice a hushed thread. "A warning?"

For the first time, Hunter's gaze dropped—to your lips. Just for a beat. Then back to your eyes, fiercer now.

"No," he breathed, the word edged in something feral.

"It's a promise."

THE HOUR had deepened into that cursed, molten twilight where even the skies of the Underworld bled. From your balcony, the horizon stretched in bruised shades of crimson and violet, fractured with streaks of scorched gold like veins beneath cracked stone. The Infernal Atrium flickered in the distance—its towering spires aflame with glamoured lanterns, casting halos of light that danced across a tide of arriving figures cloaked in shadow and silk. Music—deep, dark, and sinfully slow—throbbed through the sulfur-laced air, barely reaching your ears, but enough to vibrate in your bones.

Inside your chamber, the walls were painted in a soft, ember-glow from the sconces embedded in blackened rock. The flames licked lazily at the air, steady and subdued, casting shadows that rolled and twisted across the floor. The heat was comforting, almost lulling—until you looked at yourself.

You stood before a full-length mirror of obsidian polished to a flawless sheen. Your tuxedo—cut from infernal silk and stitched with threads of charmed obsidian—hugged your form with immaculate precision. The suit was black, of course, but not dead black—this was the kind that shimmered like liquid shadow, catching the low light and reflecting power in every curve. The lapels were sleek, edged in deep grey runes that pulsed faintly, and the cuffs gleamed with hexed silver buttons etched in demonic script. You looked like a weapon dressed in finery. Regal. Controlled. Untouchable.

But your reflection betrayed you.

Your eyes, dark and unreadable, held the weight of something you hadn't named. Not yet. Your jaw was set. Your chest rose too slow, too steady—as if any shift in rhythm might break the illusion you were wearing along with your suit.

You hadn't moved since fastening the final button.

Then—knock knock.

A double tap on the door. Not hurried. Not timid. Smooth. Confident. The kind of knock that wasn't a request—it was a statement.

You turned, slowly, tension coiling in your spine as the door creaked open.

He didn't wait for permission.

Parker Caine stepped inside like the room belonged to him. Like you belonged to him.

He closed the door behind him with a soft click, the sound somehow louder than it should've been in the quiet. His eyes—warm gold veined with the same mischief and madness that had haunted you since you were boys—found you instantly. And stayed there.

He was dressed in midnight blue and black, the jacket tailored within an inch of sin, its satin lining visible only when he moved, like the flick of a blade under moonlight. His shirt collar was open just enough to tease the hollow of his throat, where a delicate gold chain rested—a Caine heirloom you recognized from childhood, once worn by Alistair in his younger days. His cufflinks bore the family sigil in onyx and garnet, catching firelight with every breath he took.

But none of that held your attention for long.

It was the look in his eyes. The kind of look you didn't often get from Parker anymore. Hungry. Soft. Hungry again.

Like he was remembering every inch of you he'd ever touched. And imagining the ones he hadn't.

"Gods," he murmured, the word dragging over his tongue like molasses, thick and slow. "You clean up too damn well."

You arched a brow. "You're late."

Parker smirked, moving toward you with the unhurried, knowing stride of someone who already knew what game he was playing—and how it would end.

"Worth the wait," he said, stopping just close enough for you to feel the heat rolling off his skin. "But I'll admit..." His gaze swept over you again, slower this time. Down your chest. Over the sleek lines of your suit. "This is better than I imagined."

You swallowed once, resisting the urge to shift.

"And what, exactly, did you imagine?"

Parker's grin deepened into something wicked and devastating. "You. In that suit. Flushed. Breathless. Pressed against a wall."

Your heart gave one traitorous thump, loud enough you swore he could hear it.

He didn't touch you. Not yet. But the space between you was heavy now, humming with heat and tension so thick it felt like magic itself. Every breath was a dare. Every flicker of his gaze was a promise.

"You planning to ruin all my hard work before I even show up at the gala?" you asked, voice low and steady—but your throat felt tight. The thrum inside you was growing louder.

Parker tilted his head slightly, his eyes dipping to your lips for the barest second.

"Maybe," he said. "But if I don't, someone else might. And I'd rather the room know whose hands were on you first."

You opened your mouth to reply—but stopped.

Because he moved. Just a little.

His fingers rose, brushing the edge of your lapel. His touch was slow, deliberate—gliding down your chest until it reached your sternum, then pausing there. Right above your heart. The place where your pulse fluttered like something trying not to be caught.

"You look like royalty," he murmured, eyes locked on yours.

Then his voice dropped to a whisper, and the heat behind it was enough to sear.

"But you feel like mine.”

Parker's fingers remained poised just above your heart, the pads of them warm against your skin through the fabric. His gaze was locked on the slight, betraying flutter beneath your shirt, as if he could read the rhythm of your pulse like a coded confession. He didn't press, didn't rush—his touch was steady, knowing, a slow burn instead of a blaze. Every movement told you one thing: he knew you. Knew how your body tensed when he got this close, how your breath always hitched before your walls fell.

Your chest rose with a shallow breath.

"Parker—"

You didn't finish the sentence.

Because in the next heartbeat, his lips were on yours.

It wasn't a collision. It wasn't chaos. It was claiming. A kiss that unfolded with simmering intensity—confident, deep, and intimate in a way that made your lungs forget their purpose. His hand cupped your jaw with practiced care, thumb brushing your cheekbone, while his other arm slipped around your waist and drew you into him, chest to chest, heartbeat to heartbeat. The silk of your suit caught against his, sparking friction, heat, want.

And you kissed him back like you'd been waiting all night.

Your hands gripped the front of his jacket, fingers twisting in the lapels like anchors, like if you didn't hold on, you might unravel. He tasted like spice and control and the dangerous edge of something addictive. The low sound he made—half growl, half groan—vibrated into your mouth, down your spine, lighting a fuse under your skin.

He broke the kiss with devastating slowness, lips brushing yours, breath ghosting across your face as he whispered, "You still think I'm worried about Hunter?"

You didn't respond. Couldn't. The words had melted on your tongue, replaced by heat and hunger and something heavier—something you couldn't name without cracking open.

His mouth found your neck next, lips grazing the sensitive curve of your throat before his teeth scraped lightly, just enough to make your breath stutter. Then his tongue soothed the spot, slow and hot. A shiver lanced down your spine as his hands grew bolder—one trailing down your back, the other slipping under your jacket, fingers gliding over the fine line between tailored control and bare skin.

"You wore this for me, didn't you?" he murmured against your throat, his voice almost reverent. "You always do. Even if you'll never admit it."

And gods help you, you didn't stop him. Couldn't. You stood there and let it consume you, mind buzzing, body leaning into every touch.

With a quiet, possessive sound, he turned you—guiding you gently but firmly back until the backs of your thighs met the edge of the velvet chaise near the mirror. The impact was soft, but your breath hitched all the same. His hands moved with familiar grace, pushing the jacket from your shoulders in one fluid motion, letting it slide to the floor like falling shadows.

His gaze stayed locked to yours, never wavering as his fingers found the buttons of your shirt—each one undone slowly, almost ceremonially. You could feel your heartbeat in your throat. In your fingertips. In the way your skin tingled beneath his touch.

"I've had you beneath me," Parker whispered, voice low and tight with memory, "trembling... begging. Saying my name like it was the only thing you could remember."

The last button came free. Your shirt parted, revealing flushed skin and the rise and fall of your chest, ragged and uneven.

"Do you really think I'll let him take you?" he asked, almost gently. "You're mine."

The words burned. Not cruel. Not sweet. Just true. And gods, you felt it. In your blood. In your breath. In the heat gathering low in your belly.

Then he moved again.

His mouth traced a line across your collarbone, down the center of your chest. Every kiss left fire in its wake. His hands roamed lower, familiar and sure—one resting lightly on your hip, the other teasing the waistband of your trousers with maddening slowness.

That was when your control finally cracked.

You reached for him, hands sliding into the soft mess of his curls, tugging him up, pulling his mouth back to yours. The kiss this time was rougher—hot and hungry and full of need. You could feel him smile into it, wicked and satisfied, like he'd just won a game he'd always known he would.

And maybe he had.

Because right now, in this moment, you weren't thinking about the gala. Or the Atrium. Or the war waiting in lace and whispers.

You were only thinking of him.

And the way he made you forget the rest of the world.

"We don't have much time," Parker growled against your mouth, his voice low and frayed with urgency. "So we make it count."

Before you could respond, his grip found your hips—firm, commanding—and spun you back toward the velvet chaise. The world tilted with the motion, your heart thudding against your ribs as your knees brushed the edge of the plush seat. You barely had time to catch a breath before he dropped to his knees in front of you, his movements smooth, practiced, yet reverent in a way that made your breath hitch.

His fingers were already at your waistband, working the clasp with deft, impatient precision. A sharp click, a tug—and the tension unraveled. The fabric of your trousers slid down your legs in a fluid rush, followed by the softer brush of your boxers. Cool air ghosted over your now-bared thighs, the sudden exposure drawing a shiver from you—not from chill, but from anticipation. From the weight of his gaze.

Parker's palms slid upward from your calves to your knees, then along your inner thighs, calloused fingers leaving fire in their wake. He rose slowly, inch by inch, like a man savoring the sight of something he hadn't seen in years.

And gods, the way he looked at you...

"Fuck," he murmured, breath catching in his throat. "Look at you..."

His voice wasn't loud—it was broken reverence. The kind of awe that made your stomach twist and heat curl low in your belly.

Then it was his turn.

You watched, barely breathing, as he stood tall and reached for his belt. The sharp snap of the buckle being unfastened made your skin jump. Leather whispered as it slipped through the loops of his pants, his every move slow now, measured, seductive. He held your gaze the entire time, a smirk tugging at the corner of his lips, just enough to show he knew exactly what he was doing to you.

He tossed the belt aside with a flick of his wrist, then slid his fingers beneath the waistband of both his trousers and boxers. The garments dropped together, exposing the full, aching evidence of his dick—thick, flushed, already hard, and pulsing with the same impatience running through your veins.

The tension between you snapped tight. Hunger. Raw and molten and demanding.

Parker stepped forward again, closing the space between your bodies until you could feel the heat of him everywhere—your skin crackling, your breath tangled. His hand curled around the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair, firm but careful as he guided your forehead to his.

His eyes were molten gold, pupils blown wide, his breathing uneven as he whispered, "You're mine for the night."

His words coiled through your chest like smoke, thick with possession, rich with promise.

"So let me remind you why."

Then his mouth found yours again, crashing into you with raw need.

It wasn't a kiss—it was a brand.

Hot, consuming, desperate. A mess of teeth and tongue and breath stolen from between your lips. The kind of kiss that stripped away every last pretense and bared the truth: he wasn't just wanting you—he was already burning for you. His chest pressed hard into yours, every line of his body molded to you with perfect, feral alignment. You could feel the heat of his cock against your thigh, thick and flushed and achingly hard, dragging against your skin with every slight movement, leaving fire in its wake.

Then—he pulled back. Just enough to breathe.

His lips brushed against your cheek, trailing the ghost of the kiss in their wake, and in a voice that was more command than request, he murmured, "Turn around."

Your pulse jumped. You obeyed without speaking.

You pivoted slowly, the air thick around you, your hands reaching forward to brace against the cold obsidian wall. The stone bit into your palms, grounding you as your chest rose and fell with anticipation. Your stance shifted naturally, bowing forward slightly, your back curving in offering. Vulnerability made beautiful beneath the flicker of firelight.

You heard him move behind you—heard the faint inhale he took when he saw you like that.

Then his presence was there again, pressing in. The heat of his chest brushed your back, his breath warm against your spine. The air between your bodies disappeared as he leaned in, grounding you with every inch of his proximity.

And then—

Spit.

The crude, wet sound of it filled the air between you like a shot of lightning.

You swallowed hard, your eyes slipping closed as Parker slicked his spit over the full length of his cock. You could hear the slow, rhythmic glide of his hand stroking himself—long, deliberate pulls meant to torment you both. The wet friction was loud in the stillness, syncing with the ragged sound of your own breath, building a tension that crackled like live wire beneath your skin.

His hand slid to your hip, gripping tight—his fingers digging into your flesh hard enough to leave the promise of bruises. And then his mouth was on you again, this time pressing a slow kiss to the back of your neck. A contrast to the roughness of his hands. A vow whispered in heat.

"You feel what you do to me?" he growled, the words rasped against your skin like fire catching silk. "All night... I've been thinking about this. About you. Bent over. Waiting."

You bit your lip as his cock nudged between your cheeks, the swollen tip slick and hot as it teased at your entrance. He held you still—one hand anchoring your hip, the other sliding up your spine like he wanted to memorize the curve of it. His body was coiled, every muscle tensed, his breath fanning hot across your back.

And then he paused. Right there at the brink. Poised. Ready.

His entire body humming with the promise of everything you both were about to become.

Parker's grip on your hips tightened like a vice, fingers sinking into your skin with a possessive force that bordered on desperate. There was no gentleness in it—just intent. He was anchoring himself to you, or maybe anchoring you to this moment, to him. His breath came hot and uneven against your shoulder as the swollen head of his cock pressed against your entrance—slick, throbbing, his heat radiating off him like a furnace.

He didn't move right away. He just held you there, teetering on the edge, the tip of him nudging against your entrance with unbearable patience.

And then—with a low, guttural groan that shivered down your spine—he pushed in.

Your breath left you in a sharp gasp as your body opened around him, stretching slowly to take him in. The burn was immediate—a tight, aching pull that lit your nerves alive and left your fingers scrabbling against the smooth obsidian wall. Inch by inch, he filled you, the stretch near-blinding as pressure gave way to sensation, and sensation to something deeper. Your forehead fell against the stonep, cool and grounding, as you moaned—soft, breathless, wrecked.

He stilled once he was fully seated inside you, the length of him pressed deep, his hips flush to yours, his chest curved over your back. You could feel his heartbeat against your spine, feel his shuddered breath ghost over the side of your neck.

"Fuck..." he breathed, hoarse and reverent. His lips brushed against your skin as he spoke. "So tight... you feel perfect."

You whimpered, your body quivering from the fullness, from the way you could feel every vein, every throb. The sheer presence of him inside you left you trembling.

Then he moved.

He pulled back just slightly—barely enough to break contact—then rolled his hips forward in a slow, fluid thrust that drove into you like a wave. You gasped, your mouth falling open as he sank back in, deep and deliberate, stealing your breath all over again. There was no urgency in him. Not yet. Just a focused rhythm, relentless and devastating.

He was making you feel every inch.

"That's it," he murmured, voice gravel-thick and laced with heat. "Take me... just like that."

His hips rocked into yours again, deeper this time, his rhythm steady, agonizing in its restraint. Each movement sent a pulse of heat through your core, building tension with unbearable slowness. His hand slid from your hip to the front of your body, palm flat against your lower abdomen, grounding you as he held you still. The other trailed upward, over your chest, your clavicle, fingertips tracing the ridge of your collarbone—light enough to make you shiver, hard enough to remind you of his control.

You moaned again—louder this time, the sound breaking in your throat and echoing against the dark stone walls. The pressure was mounting, the heat pooling, and Parker... he knew. He thrust again, angling his hips slightly, and hit that spot inside you with surgical precision. Your knees nearly buckled.

"Yeah," he growled, his voice deeper now, raw and edged with hunger. "Right there. You feel me, don't you?"

You could only nod—barely—biting down on your lip as your back arched into him, wordless and shaking. Your hands fisted against the wall. Your body opened for him, needing more. Demanding it.

Parker pulled you tighter against him, his pace just beginning to quicken. The heat between you swelled—feral, sacred, consuming.

And still, he made you feel everything.

"Hold on," he growled, voice rough and dark with promise.

And then he moved.

Gone was the slow, teasing rhythm. Now, his pace was brutal—deep and unrelenting. He pulled back and slammed into you with purpose, the sharp crack of skin on skin echoing off the stone walls, raw and obscene. Your body jolted with each thrust, the force of it pressing you forward against the obsidian wall until your palms flattened, your breath fogging the polished surface in frantic, broken gasps.

"Fuck—" you moaned, the word ripped from your throat as his hips snapped into you again, harder, faster. Your knees buckled from the sheer force of his rhythm, but Parker was already there—one arm banded tight around your waist, the other snaking across your chest, dragging you upright and slamming into you again.

"That's right," he hissed into your ear, his breath hot and filthy. "Let me feel you. Let them hear you."

And gods, they would. Anyone outside the chamber could hear this—the sound of Parker fucking you mercilessly, the helpless cries spilling from your lips, the wet, pounding rhythm of bodies colliding with desperate hunger.

He shifted his angle just slightly, and that was all it took—his cock driving into the exact spot that sent sparks through your entire body. You cried out, head falling back against his shoulder, the pleasure so sharp it left you shaking, overwhelmed, undone.

His thrusts came faster now, hips snapping into yours in a savage rhythm, relentless and claiming. His cock dragged against that spot again and again, deeper, harder, until your moans became breathless sobs of pleasure.

And then his hand slid lower.

You gasped as his fingers curled around your cock, already flushed and leaking. His grip was firm, confident—stroking you in time with the brutal rhythm of his hips. Each movement was perfectly synced, designed to unravel you. He knew your body too well—where to touch, how to touch, how to ruin.

"So perfect," Parker growled against your skin. "So fucking perfect like this—taking me like you're meant to."

You clenched around him involuntarily, your body trembling, and he groaned, low and ragged, his thrusts faltering for a split second before he gritted his teeth and drove in harder.

The heat in your gut was climbing—tightening. Every drag of his cock, every stroke of his hand was pushing you closer, closer, until it was too much. The tension coiled in your belly, pressure building to a breaking point as your moans turned frantic, your thighs shaking with the effort to stay upright.

"Come for me," he snarled, breath coming fast now. "Let go."

Parker's hand didn't falter—not once. His palm stroked you in relentless rhythm with the savage thrusts of his hips, pushing you to the edge and beyond. Your breath shattered into pieces, your body seizing up as pleasure exploded inside you like fire through your veins.

You came with a strangled, broken cry—your release spilling hot across his hand, your hips jerking helplessly as your vision blurred at the edges. You collapsed forward against the wall, only Parker's grip around your waist keeping you from falling apart entirely.

But he wasn't done.

He groaned behind you—raw, wrecked—as he slammed into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt. His cock throbbed violently, pulsing deep inside you as he spilled with a growl that trembled against your spine. He moaned your name like it was a prayer and a curse, hands gripping your hips so tightly it was all you could do to breathe.

Then, silence.

Only the sound of your harsh, panting breaths, the quiet hiss of fire from the sconces, and the ragged beat of two hearts pounding in sync. Parker rested against you, his forehead pressed to the back of your neck, sweat slicking his skin. His breath ghosted against your shoulder as he whispered, almost dazed, "Fuck... I needed that."

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, still clinging to the wall, your legs barely steady beneath you. "We're going to be late."

Behind you, Parker gave a lazy, satisfied hum. He slowly slipped out of you with a soft groan, one hand trailing down your side before squeezing your hip. "Let them wait," he murmured with a crooked smirk. "You're worth it."

For a long, breathless moment, the room held still.

The only sound was the low crackle of the sconces on the walls, their flames casting soft flickers over sweat-slicked skin and scattered clothes. Then, quietly, you heard him shift. Fabric whispered against skin as Parker bent down, retrieving your shirt from where it had fallen, and gently shook it out. Instead of tossing it to you or cracking a joke, he brought it up behind you—delicately dragging the silk across your lower back, wiping away the evidence of what had just taken place.

His touch was slow. Gentle. Reverent.

No teasing quip. No triumphant smirk. Just silence.

That, more than anything, made your brows knit.

You turned slowly, letting the wall support your weight, watching him as he stood and stepped back into his trousers with a kind of quiet efficiency. He moved fluidly, like he'd done it a hundred times before, but something was off. His head stayed slightly bowed, and the sharp line of his jaw tensed as he refastened his belt. He was chewing on something. Not food. Not words. A feeling, maybe. One he hadn't quite decided how to face.

You reached for the shirt he'd just used and slipped it on, the fabric cool against your flushed skin. But your eyes never left him.

"You're quiet," you murmured—not accusing, just noticing. Like stating a shift in the wind before the storm finally broke.

Parker looked up at that, and there it was: the flicker. Barely noticeable, but there. A tightness around his eyes, a weight behind them. The mask—the smirk, the flirt, the devil-may-care sparkle—was still there, but it didn't reach as far tonight.

"That wasn't a complaint, was it?" he asked with a forced grin, voice coated in the usual charm—but it landed like a sigh, not a tease.

You stepped toward him, the stone warm beneath your bare feet. Your voice stayed even. "No. But you didn't come in here just to fuck me against a wall either."

He didn't argue. Just sat down heavily on the edge of the velvet chaise, elbows on his knees, his fingers laced loosely in front of him. His shoulders—normally cocky, open, unapologetically confident—were sloped with a weight that didn't belong to physical strain.

He looked like someone expecting a blow he couldn't dodge.

"It's starting to feel real," he said softly, almost to himself. "All of it. The trials. The politics. The games. And the weight that comes after the crown."

You didn't interrupt. You just stood close, quietly buttoning your shirt, letting your presence speak louder than words.

"I've always played the fool," he continued, his voice steadier now, but not by much. "The charming heir, the distraction. The joke between Abigail's fire and Hunter's silence. No one expected anything of me. That was the point."

He glanced up at you, eyes searching.

"But now... tonight, they'll be watching. Measuring. Like I might actually win this. Like I might actually become the next leader of my father’s dynasty."

You didn't let him spiral further. You moved—dropped to one knee in front of him, your palm resting against his thigh, grounding him.

"Because you might," you said simply. Truthfully.

His eyes met yours, unguarded this time, stripped of the armor and wit he always wrapped himself in. "And what if I'm not ready?"

The words landed heavy. Honest.

You studied him—really studied him. Not the heir. Not the flirt. Not the performer. Just Parker. A man shaped by pressure and pain and shadow, suddenly teetering on the edge of something so much bigger than himself.

You tightened your grip slightly on his leg, voice low and certain. "Then we get ready together. You don't have to face this alone."

Something shifted between you—deep, quiet. Not lust. Not rivalry. Something older. Something rooted.

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Alright," he said softly. A promise, not just a word.

Then—finally—a hint of the old Parker crept in, the corners of his mouth curling with the ghost of a smirk. "But next time I fuck you..." he murmured, rising to his feet and brushing his fingers against yours as he passed, "I'm taking my time."

You snorted, rising after him. "You're lucky I let you in this time."

He looked over his shoulder, that smirk turning just a bit warmer. "Please," he murmured, with a familiar glint. "You always let me in."

#x male reader #gay #charmed #parker caine x male reader #parker caine #hunter caine #abigail caine

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

Text

BREWING OF FEELINGS

• SHAWN MENDES x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — When your best friend is practically family, you sign up for the good, the bad, and the completely ridiculous. You're their rock, their reality check, their safe place—no matter what. But nothing tests that bond quite like getting a wedding invitation... with your ex-fling on the guest list. That's the situation when Ella, your lifelong best friend, drops a letter that changes everything.

WARNING! FLUFF.

WORDS! 8.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! None at the moment, I’m too tired—although this sort of a slow burn with a promising ending. So bare with our lovely couple, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

PREVIOUS PART! —HOME, SWEET, HOME

THE SMELL of sizzling bacon and fresh pancakes filled the cabin as you moved effortlessly around the kitchen, your hands busy whisking eggs and flipping golden pancakes on the griddle. Cooking had always been second nature to you—a calming ritual that helped steady your mind, even on mornings like this.

The sound of the front door opening drew your attention briefly, followed by the unmistakable thud of sneakers being kicked off onto the wooden floor. Jake's voice rang out first, loud and cheerful. "Smells like heaven in here."

You didn't respond immediately, focusing instead on plating a stack of pancakes. But then you saw them out of the corner of your eye: Jake and Shawn, stepping into the kitchen, shirtless after an early morning run.

Jake moved with his usual ease, heading straight for the coffee maker without a second thought. But Shawn lingered near the doorway, just behind Jake, his chest still rising and falling from exertion. The faint sheen of sweat on his skin caught the morning light streaming through the windows, highlighting the sharp lines of muscle across his chest and stomach. His black running shorts clung low on his hips, the waistband of his underwear peeking out slightly. His damp hair was pushed back haphazardly, leaving a few strands falling forward.

Your eyes betrayed you, lingering for just a second too long before you forced them away. You turned back to the stove, flipping another pancake with deliberate indifference, the heat from the stove doing nothing to hide the faint warmth rising to your cheeks.

"Smells incredible," Jake said, pouring himself a cup of coffee. "You're a lifesaver, man. We'd probably be eating protein bars all week without you."

"Figured someone should feed you," you replied evenly, cracking another egg into the bowl. Your tone was calm, but you felt your pulse quicken slightly when Shawn finally stepped fully into the kitchen, his presence commanding even without saying a word.

"Morning," Shawn said softly, his voice still a little hoarse from the run.

"Morning," you replied, keeping your eyes fixed on the stove as you reached for the spatula.

Jake took a long sip of his coffee and leaned against the counter, completely oblivious to the undercurrent in the room. "Seriously, man, you didn't have to do all this. We're spoiled."

"It's not a big deal," you said with a shrug, sliding another pancake onto the growing stack. "Just trying to keep everyone alive."

Jake laughed, turning toward Shawn. "See? This is why we keep him around. I told you he could cook."

Shawn smiled faintly, stepping closer to the counter but keeping a respectful distance. "It smells amazing," he said, his voice low.

You nodded curtly, still not looking directly at him. "Breakfast'll be ready in a few minutes."

Jake, clearly energized from the run, began rattling off a story about something funny that had happened outside, gesturing animatedly while Shawn listened, occasionally chiming in with a quiet laugh. You kept your focus on the food, pretending the room wasn't shrinking around you with every passing second.

But as you flipped the last pancake onto the plate and turned off the stove, you could feel Shawn's eyes on you—watching, waiting, like he wanted to say something but wasn't sure how.

You exhaled slowly, picking up the plate of pancakes and turning to set it on the table. "Eat up before it gets cold," you said, your tone neutral, brushing past both of them as you moved to grab the bacon.

Jake clapped Shawn on the back. "Guess we earned it after that run, huh?"

Shawn didn't respond right away, his gaze flickering briefly toward you before he followed Jake to the table.

The sound of heavy footsteps thudding down the wooden stairs broke the growing tension in the kitchen. Lexie appeared in the doorway first, her hair a chaotic mess from sleep, her voice carrying its usual dramatic flair.

"Is that bacon I smell?" she called out, her eyes lighting up as she zeroed in on the kitchen. "I love you," she added, making a beeline for the coffee pot with zero hesitation.

"You only love me when there's bacon," you shot back, smirking despite yourself as you slid a fresh batch of crispy strips onto a plate.

"Accurate," she said unapologetically, pouring herself a generous cup of coffee. "But I'm not sorry."

Sophie was next, trailing sleepily behind with Nate and Matt close on her heels. Nate stretched his arms overhead with an exaggerated groan. "This smells like heaven," he said, his voice muffled by a yawn. "You've outdone yourself, Chef Extraordinaire."

"Breakfast royalty!" he added dramatically, throwing his arms up as he collapsed into a chair at the large wooden dining table. "We're not worthy."

You rolled your eyes at the theatrics but couldn't stop a small smile from tugging at the corners of your lips. "You're impossible," you muttered, grabbing a platter of pancakes and setting it down in the center of the table.

Matt clapped a hand on your shoulder as he passed, plopping into a chair with a grin. "Seriously, though, you're spoiling us. What's the catch? Do we owe you our firstborn or something?"

"Just your undying gratitude," you replied dryly, grabbing another plate of bacon and adding it to the growing feast on the table.

Sophie groaned appreciatively as she slid into a seat, grabbing a plate. "I could cry right now. You're a genius."

"Don't cry on the pancakes," you said, smirking as you handed her the syrup.

The table quickly filled with plates, silverware, and a steady stream of chatter. The group fell into an easy rhythm, teasing each other and passing around food as they woke up and came to life. Jake and Shawn joined the table, sliding seamlessly into the lively conversation as if the earlier tension had never existed.

For a moment, you allowed yourself to relax. The warmth of the morning sun streaming through the cabin windows, the smell of coffee and bacon, and the sound of your friends' laughter—it felt almost normal, almost easy. Almost like old times.

SHAWN SLID into the seat directly across from you, his movements unhurried but deliberate. The lively chatter of the group swirled around the table, a comfortable hum of teasing, laughter, and clinking plates. You focused on your own breakfast, carefully pouring syrup over your stack of pancakes, the golden liquid pooling on the plate. It was a simple task, but it gave you something to do other than acknowledge the occasional flicker of his gaze in your direction.

The quiet sound of his voice cut through the surrounding noise, soft and just loud enough for you to hear. "This is... really good," he said, almost hesitantly, as though testing the waters.

You glanced up, meeting his eyes for the briefest moment. There was something there—something you couldn't quite place. Gratitude? Nostalgia? Regret? Whatever it was, you didn't linger long enough to decipher it. Instead, you shrugged lightly, your voice even as you replied, "I've had practice."

His lips twitched, almost imperceptibly, into a faint smile. He opened his mouth as if to say more, but the conversation around the table shifted, cutting off whatever he'd been about to add.

"Alright, pancakes or bacon?" Matt declared, holding up a plate dramatically. "You can only pick one. Choose wisely."

"Pancakes," Lexie said without hesitation, snatching the plate from him. "Obviously."

"Wrong answer," Nate chimed in, shoveling a strip of bacon into his mouth. "Bacon for the win."

The table erupted into playful arguments about breakfast superiority, drawing everyone into the debate. You seized the moment, focusing back on your plate, though you could still feel Shawn's presence across from you. His gaze lingered for a second longer before he turned to join the conversation, letting the moment between you dissolve into the noise of the group.

But even as you pushed your fork through the soft stack of pancakes, you couldn't quite shake the feeling that Shawn's words—simple as they were—had carried a weight neither of you were ready to address. Not yet.

Ella cleared her throat with deliberate drama, rising halfway from her chair and clinking her spoon against her glass like she was officiating an important ceremony. The cheerful clatter of breakfast conversations faded as all eyes turned to her. She wore a mischievous grin, clearly relishing the attention.

"Okay, everyone! Since Jake and I are technically responsible adults now—" she paused as Lexie snorted into her coffee, causing a ripple of laughter around the table, "—we decided to plan some fun stuff for the week, so you all don't just sit around getting drunk and playing old-school Mario Kart like we're still in college."

"That feels like a direct attack," Nate said, raising a forkful of eggs with exaggerated mock offense. His expression drew another wave of laughter.

Ella grinned triumphantly. "It was."

Jake leaned forward from his seat beside her, resting his forearms on the table. "We figured, since we've got the whole week before the wedding, we'd mix it up a bit. Bring back some of the old traditions and maybe throw in a few new ones."

Lexie perked up, already intrigued, her coffee mug suspended mid-air. "Okay, but is this gonna be like that time you planned a 'fun hike' that turned into a five-hour death march in the middle of nowhere?"

Jake threw his hands up in mock surrender. "No extreme hikes this time. I swear. I've learned my lesson."

Ella smirked, pulling a neatly folded piece of paper from her pocket with a dramatic flourish. She flattened it on the table, smoothing out imaginary creases as though revealing some grand plan. "Alright, listen up! Here's what we've got lined up."

She began ticking off items with her finger. "Tonight, we're kicking things off with a bonfire by the lake—s'mores, drinks, stories... the whole nostalgic experience."

"Classic," Matt said, nodding in approval. "Perfect excuse to hear Nate's overly exaggerated camping disaster story for the hundredth time."

"I barely survived that trip," Nate shot back with mock indignation, earning another round of laughter.

Ella continued, undeterred by the group's antics. "Tomorrow, we've booked a boat rental for the entire day—sunbathing, tubing, swimming, and fishing, if that's your thing."

"Lake day, yes!" Sophie cheered, reaching across the table to high-five Lexie.

Jake leaned back in his chair with a grin. "And, since we know some people here thrive on competition..." His eyes flicked between you and Matt with a knowing smirk. "We've set up an old-school game tournament. Pool, darts, and, of course, Mario Kart."

The room broke into excited cheers and groans, the prospect of a heated throwback challenge clearly hitting the right notes.

"Hope you all like losing," Matt said confidently, stretching back in his chair with a self-assured grin. "I've only gotten better since college."

"You wish," you shot back, unable to resist a small smirk. "You still steer with the joystick like it's a spaceship."

"That's called precision," Matt replied with mock seriousness, setting off another round of laughter.

Ella tapped the table to bring the group's attention back, her grin widening. "Wait, wait—there's more!"

The chatter quieted, though you couldn't help but notice Shawn's gaze lingering on you for a moment longer than necessary after your brief, unguarded laugh.

"Thursday night," Ella continued, her voice softening slightly, "we're having a special dinner—all of us together. Something nice, before things get crazy with wedding prep."

The table stilled for a moment, the mood turning thoughtful. You could feel the nostalgia settling over everyone, wrapping the group in a quiet understanding of just how much these moments meant. Ella's words carried a weight that wasn't lost on anyone.

"And Friday?" Sophie asked, breaking the silence.

"Friday's surprise night," Jake announced, his grin taking on a mischievous edge. "We've got something big planned to end the week right."

"Define 'big,'" Lexie said suspiciously. "Because the last time you said that, we ended up camping in a thunderstorm with no cell service."

Jake laughed. "Trust me. You'll love it."

Ella leaned forward slightly, her expression soft and genuine. "We just... we really wanted this week to be about us. All of us. It's been way too long since we've done something like this."

There was a chorus of murmured agreement, heads nodding around the table. Even the usual banter and teasing quieted for a beat, replaced by the unspoken understanding of how much these connections meant. You glanced around the group, seeing the same sentiment reflected in everyone's eyes: this wasn't just another trip—it was something more.

And then, like clockwork, Matt raised his coffee mug high, breaking the moment with his signature grin. "To surviving Ella and Jake's intense activity list."

Everyone laughed, lifting mugs, glasses, and utensils in a chaotic toast.

"To the best week ever!" Ella corrected, clinking her glass against Jake's with a beaming smile.

The group echoed her cheer, the lively energy returning as plans for the day unfolded. You found yourself glancing at Shawn again, catching his thoughtful gaze as he watched you from across the table. It felt like old times for a second—a glimpse of something unspoken, still lingering between you.

As the group burst into playful teasing about who would dominate Mario Kart and who would inevitably tip the canoe later, you couldn't help but feel the quiet tug of something bittersweet, nestled beneath the surface of the laughter.

Something that felt a lot like hope.

THE BONFIRE had burned down to a steady glow, its flames reduced to smoldering embers that pulsed with warmth, cutting through the crisp night air. The temperature had dropped, and the group huddled closer around the fire, blankets wrapped snugly around shoulders and mugs of whiskey or coffee cradled in chilled hands. Matt, in his usual animated fashion, was midway through yet another outrageous tale from his self-proclaimed "adventurous" past.

"So there I was," he declared dramatically, gesturing wildly, "face to face with a snarling beast."

Sophie, already laughing so hard she could barely breathe, interrupted, waving her hand for him to stop. "You did not wrestle a bear!" she wheezed, doubling over with laughter.

"I didn't say I wrestled it, I faced it," Matt countered indignantly, his grin betraying him. "And technically, it was more of a... large raccoon. But the principle is the same!"

The group dissolved into uncontrollable laughter, the kind that came easily after a few drinks and years of shared memories. Even Jake, usually the calm one, was wiping tears from his eyes.

As the laughter ebbed, Ella leaned forward, her eyes glinting with mischief in the firelight. "Okay, okay. Enough about Matt's epic battles with wildlife. Let's do something real."

Lexie groaned loudly, leaning back in her chair. "If this is another one of your 'deep bonding moments,' I'm leaving."

"It's not bonding," Ella insisted, rolling her eyes, though her grin suggested otherwise. "I just think it's time to play Remember When. You have to share one memory from high school or college—something that still makes you smile. No dodging, no cop-outs."

The group exchanged wary but intrigued glances. There were a few groans, but nobody outright protested.

Jake went first, raising his hand like a kid in a classroom. "Alright. Remember that summer when Matt and I decided we could build a raft out of pool noodles?"

"Oh, God," Lexie groaned, already laughing.

"And we definitely thought it would float!" Jake continued, grinning. "Except it didn't even make it halfway across the lake before it started sinking."

"It was engineering genius," Matt interjected proudly. "We just needed more noodles."

"And maybe basic knowledge of buoyancy," Sophie quipped, earning another round of laughter.

Next, Sophie chimed in with her own story, her eyes sparkling with mischief. "Lexie and I crashed that homecoming dance junior year—remember that? We weren't even invited, so we pretended to be catering staff to sneak in."

"I still have the pictures!" Lexie added, cackling. "I looked ridiculous holding a tray of fake hors d'oeuvres."

The laughter came easily, rippling through the circle, but when it was your turn, the group fell quiet, their attention shifting to you.

You hesitated, staring into the glowing embers. The memories swirled in your mind like the sparks drifting skyward, so vivid you could almost feel the summer heat on your skin, hear the sound of distant waves lapping against the dock.

"I..." you began, your voice soft, "remember the first summer after high school. We all snuck onto the old dock by the lake at midnight. Just... lying there, staring up at the stars."

The group stilled, their faces reflecting the same wistful warmth that flickered in the firelight.

"We talked about everything," you continued, your voice growing steadier. "About what life would be like when we 'grew up.' About the things we wanted, the places we'd go." A faint smile touched your lips. "It felt like nothing would ever change."

A quiet hum of nostalgia settled over the group. Heads nodded slowly, smiles tugged at lips, but no one spoke. The memory was shared by all of you—a moment frozen in time, perfect in its simplicity.

"I thought," you added softly, your gaze dropping to the fire, "that things would always stay the same."

The air grew still, heavy with the weight of what had been and what had changed. The only sounds were the crackling fire and the distant rustle of trees swaying in the cool night breeze.

Across the fire, Shawn's eyes found yours. They were steady, unguarded, carrying a familiar intensity that made your breath hitch. His gaze held something unspoken, a flicker of shared memory that tethered you both to that long-ago night. For a moment, the world around you faded, leaving only the soft glow of embers and the weight of the history still pulsing between you.

The spell was broken when Lexie clapped her hands together loudly, her voice cutting through the stillness. "Alright, enough feelings. Someone pass the whiskey before this gets too sentimental."

The group laughed, the tension dissolving as quickly as it had formed. Matt eagerly reached for the bottle, making a joke about how Lexie always killed the mood.

As the conversation shifted back to lighter topics, your heart was still pounding. You tightened the blanket around your shoulders, your mind lingering on the memories and the way Shawn had looked at you—as though those moments hadn't just been a memory for him either.

The quiet ripples of the lake mirrored the ones inside you, soft but insistent, refusing to settle.

THE SUN blazed high in the sky, its golden rays casting sparkling reflections across the vast, mirror-like surface of Lake Marigold. The air was warm, laced with the crisp scent of pine and sunscreen, while a soft breeze rippled through the water, carrying bursts of laughter from your group. Ella and Jake had delivered on their promise of a perfect lake day with the old but reliable pontoon boat they'd rented—a roomy, slightly weathered vessel equipped with a cooler packed with drinks, inflatable water floats, and a Bluetooth speaker blasting a nostalgic playlist from your teenage years.

You stood at the edge of the boat, leaning casually against the side rail, the occasional cool spray from the lake refreshing against your sun-warmed skin. You wore your favorite swim shorts and a lightweight tank top, though the heat was quickly convincing you to shed the layer. The boat swayed gently, its rocking motion soothing, as if the lake itself was welcoming you back to simpler times.

"Cannonball competition!" Matt's voice rang out from the rear of the boat, shattering the relative calm. He launched himself off the deck with a dramatic leap, his arms flailing for effect before he plunged into the water, sending up a towering splash. The spray drenched everyone nearby, including Lexie, who squealed before holding up an imaginary scorecard.

"Ten out of ten for the splash," she called, lounging on one of the padded deck chairs with her sunglasses perched on her nose and a drink in hand. "Minus points for the form, though."

"You're all critics!" Matt yelled back from the water, grinning as he splashed toward the ladder.

Beside you, Nate appeared, his hair still dripping from his last jump. He leaned casually on the railing, his grin as wide as the lake. "You in?" he asked, raising an eyebrow in challenge.

You laughed, shaking your head. "I'm saving my energy for tubing. You're going down later."

"Oh, that's how it's gonna be?" Nate teased, leaning in closer, his voice dropping mock-seriously. "Better back that up, because I'm not letting go of that tube until I win."

"Hope you've been working on your upper body strength," you shot back, nudging him playfully with your elbow.

Before you could react, Nate's grin turned wicked, and his hand shot out to grab your wrist. "Or maybe I'll just take you down now."

"Nate—don't—!" you protested, laughing as you tried to pull free. But he was faster, and with a firm tug, he yanked you toward the edge. You tumbled together into the lake, the water wrapping around you in a cool, shocking embrace.

You surfaced with a gasp, brushing water from your face just in time to see Nate grinning triumphantly. "Told you!" he said, holding his arms up in mock victory.

"Payback's coming," you shot back, launching yourself toward him with a splash that sent him flailing. The laughter between you was easy, uninhibited, like the kind you hadn't felt in a long time.

From the boat, Shawn watched quietly. He stood near the railing, one arm resting casually against it while his other hand held a water bottle. His black swim trunks clung to him, and his hair was damp from an earlier swim, curling slightly at the ends. He hadn't said much all day, but his eyes stayed on you now, following the way you laughed and splashed with Nate like nothing else in the world mattered. His gaze was thoughtful, almost wistful, as if trying to decipher the person you'd become in the years since.

When you finally climbed back onboard, breathless and dripping wet, you tugged off your soaked tank top and tossed it onto an empty chair. The sun warmed your skin as you grabbed a cold drink from the cooler, and that's when Shawn saw it.

The tattoo.

A delicate stream of black-inked butterflies trailed gracefully down the side of your neck and shoulder, each one unique, their wings intricate and fluid. Interspersed among them were faint words in elegant, flowing script:

"Learn to love yourself first."

Shawn's gaze lingered, tracing the path of the ink like it was a secret waiting to be unraveled. He remembered you mentioning once, long ago, that you wanted a tattoo, though you'd never said what or when. Seeing it now—seeing you now, bold and unapologetically yourself—hit him in a way he wasn't prepared for.

Lexie, sprawled in her chair, noticed the tattoo first. "Damn!" she called out, lifting her sunglasses to get a better look. "When did that happen?"

You glanced over your shoulder, absently brushing your fingers over the ink. "Couple years ago," you said, your voice casual but distant. "It was... something I needed at the time."

"It's gorgeous," Lexie said sincerely, raising her drink in a mock toast. "Good choice."

Before you could respond, Shawn spoke, his voice low but clear. "It's... beautiful."

The sincerity in his tone made you pause. You turned to meet his gaze, and for a moment, something unreadable passed between you. His eyes were steady, full of quiet admiration and something deeper, something unspoken.

"Thanks," you said softly, holding his gaze a second longer than you intended before Nate called your name from the front of the boat, waving you over to help with the tube.

You nodded and turned away, leaving Shawn standing by the railing, his thoughts visibly racing as he watched you walk off.

The day carried on with wild tubing rides, splash wars, and sun-soaked moments that would become the kind of memories you'd talk about years later. But for Shawn, the image of your tattoo lingered in his mind—a symbol of how much you'd changed, grown, and healed.

And it reminded him of how much he still wanted to be a part of your life.

THE SUN had begun its slow descent, casting golden light over the lake and softening the edges of the world around you. The group had settled into quieter activities—some lounging on the boat's deck, others lazily floating on inflatable tubes tethered nearby. The energy from earlier had simmered down, leaving behind a calm, reflective atmosphere.

You had slipped away from the group, finding a quiet spot on the pontoon's rear deck. Sitting on the edge with your legs dangling just above the water, you trailed your fingers lazily through the cool surface. The rhythmic lapping of the waves against the boat was soothing, a moment of peace you hadn't realized you needed.

Footsteps on the deck behind you made you glance back. Shawn stood there, his hands stuffed awkwardly into the pockets of his swim trunks. His damp hair was slightly tousled by the breeze, and the sunlight caught on the droplets of water clinging to his skin, giving him a golden glow. For a moment, he just stood there, his expression hesitant, almost cautious.

"Hey," he said softly, his voice carrying easily in the quiet.

You turned back to the water. "Hey."

"Mind if I join you?" he asked, stepping closer.

You hesitated, considering your answer. Part of you wanted to stay in this moment of solitude, free from the complexities his presence always seemed to bring. But before you could think better of it, you shrugged. "Sure."

Shawn sat down beside you, mirroring your position with his legs dangling over the edge. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn't exactly uncomfortable, but it wasn't easy either. It was weighted, heavy with everything unspoken between you.

He finally broke the silence, his voice quiet but steady. "I've been meaning to ask... how's life been? Since, you know... high school."

You didn't answer right away, your fingers skimming the water as you watched ripples expand and fade into the lake. "It's been... a lot," you said finally, your tone careful.

Shawn nodded, as though he'd expected the vagueness. "I figured," he said softly. "I mean, with everything you've done... the way everyone talks about you now. It's incredible."

You let out a faint, humorless laugh, glancing sideways at him. "Yeah, it's been great. Busy. A whirlwind." You paused, your voice dropping slightly. "But not always as perfect as it might look."

Shawn's expression softened, and he leaned back on his hands, his eyes scanning your face. "I get that," he said. "Sometimes it's easier to just... keep moving forward. Makes it harder for people to see what's really going on."

You turned your gaze back to the lake, the truth of his words hitting closer than you liked. "Yeah. Something like that."

There was another pause, longer this time. Shawn shifted slightly, his movements careful, like he was testing the waters of a conversation he wasn't sure you wanted to have.

"You've... changed," he said finally, his tone thoughtful. "Not in a bad way. You just seem... stronger. Like you've figured things out."

You gave a faint smile, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. "Figuring things out is a process. I think I'm still in it."

"Your tattoo," he said, his voice almost hesitant. "It's beautiful. And it feels like it says a lot about what you've been through."

You stiffened slightly, surprised at how easily he'd read the meaning behind it. "Yeah," you said after a moment, your voice softer now. "It's a reminder. For me, mostly."

Shawn nodded, his gaze dropping to his hands. He seemed to weigh his next words carefully before speaking. "I've thought about you, you know. Over the years. Wondered how you were. What you were doing."

You glanced at him, catching the faint vulnerability in his expression. It was disarming, and for a moment, the guarded wall you'd built felt less solid.

"I wasn't sure you would've cared," you admitted, your tone sharper than you intended. "You didn't exactly... make it easy to think otherwise."

Shawn flinched slightly, but he didn't look away. "I know," he said, his voice laced with regret. "I made a lot of mistakes. Hurt you in ways I didn't understand back then. I was stupid and scared."

You swallowed hard, the old wounds he was touching on still raw in some places. "Yeah, well, we were kids," you said, your tone deliberately detached. "It's all ancient history now."

Shawn opened his mouth as if to argue, but then he stopped, his jaw tightening briefly before he spoke again. "Maybe it is," he said quietly. "But I still wanted to tell you that I'm sorry. For everything."

His words hung in the air between you, heavy with sincerity. You didn't know how to respond, so you didn't. Instead, you focused on the way the water glimmered in the late-afternoon sun, the ripples from the boat spreading out endlessly into the lake.

After a long moment, you finally said, your voice softer now, "I'm glad you asked how I've been. I think... I think I'm okay now. Most of the time."

Shawn's gaze flicked to you again, and for the first time, you saw something in his eyes that looked like hope. "I'm glad," he said, his voice quiet but warm.

The conversation drifted back into silence, but it felt lighter this time, less burdened. For now, it was enough.

THE CABIN had settled into an almost eerie calm, a sharp contrast to the earlier chaos. The living room bore the evidence of the group's gaming marathon—empty snack bowls balanced precariously on the edges of tables, half-finished drinks scattered across every available surface, and a few abandoned controllers lying in a tangled mess near the TV. Jake had claimed the crown of Mario Kart champion after a nail-biting final race against Matt, and the cheers and laughter that followed had felt like stepping back in time.

Now, the energy had drained from the space, leaving it quieter than it had been all day. One by one, the group had drifted off, retreating to their rooms with groans about sore muscles and heavy eyelids. The day's adventures—tubing, fishing, and far too much competitive gaming—had taken their toll.

You lingered behind, moving through the room with quiet purpose. You grabbed stray cups and empty cans, stacking them carefully before ferrying them to the kitchen. A throw blanket, half-slid off the leather couch, caught your eye, and you tossed it back into place, smoothing it out instinctively. The act of tidying, of restoring some sense of order to the space, felt grounding after the lively chaos of the evening.

The cabin creaked softly as you made your way down the dimly lit hallway toward the shared bathroom near your room. The faint scent of pine and lingering smoke from the earlier bonfire seemed to cling to the walls. You pulled your shirt over your head as you walked, the fabric sticking slightly from the long, active day. The promise of a hot shower was irresistible, a reward for the ache in your shoulders and the slight sunburn prickling at the back of your neck.

The bathroom was small but cozy, its wooden walls lined with hooks for towels and a small shelf cluttered with travel-sized toiletries. You turned on the shower, the old pipes groaning for a moment before the water began to flow. Steam quickly filled the space, curling around you and fogging up the mirror. The heat was immediate, soothing, as you stepped under the powerful spray, letting the water cascade over you.

The tension of the day began to dissolve as the water worked its way over your skin, washing away sunscreen, sweat, and the faint smell of lake water. You closed your eyes, tilting your head back, and let the steady rhythm of the droplets drown out everything else—the laughter, the noise, the subtle undercurrents of tension that had woven through the day.

For a few minutes, it was just you, the warmth of the water, and the comforting hum of the cabin settling into the night. The outside world faded away, leaving behind nothing but steam and the quiet sanctuary of the moment.

Meanwhile Shawn wandered down the dim hallway, the cabin unusually quiet after the day's lively energy. He was still sipping the last of his water, the coolness a welcome contrast to the warmth lingering in the house. The day had been long and full, but his mind kept drifting back to you—the way you'd laughed with Nate on the lake, the easy way you'd shared memories during the gaming marathon, and especially the conversation you'd had earlier on the boat.

He hadn't expected to feel so at ease with you again. The years between you, the mistakes, the regret—they'd weighed heavy on him for so long. But talking to you about your career, your tattoo, the way you seemed more confident and self-assured than ever, had stirred something deep in his chest. A mix of admiration, nostalgia, and something else he didn't quite have the words for.

The hallway creaked softly under his bare feet as he moved toward his room, the glass of water dangling loosely in his hand. As he passed the shared bathroom, the faint sound of running water registered in the back of his mind. For a moment, he thought it was the old pipes acting up, or maybe someone had forgotten to turn off the shower entirely.

He glanced at the light streaming under the door, assuming the room was empty. It wasn't unusual for someone to leave a light on in their rush to bed after a day like this. Without a second thought, he reached for the handle and pushed the door open.

The warm rush of steam hit him first, curling outward as the door swung wide enough to give him a clear view inside. His mind caught up a moment too late, his eyes taking in the figure standing under the shower spray, the glass door slightly frosted but not enough to obscure you entirely.

Shawn froze, the glass of water slipping slightly in his grip as his heart lurched into his throat. His first instinct was to look away, to backpedal, to somehow undo the mistake he'd just made. "Shit—sorry!" he blurted out, his voice sharp but laced with panic.

You spun toward the door, your hands instinctively reaching to shield yourself as best you could. "Shawn?!" Your voice was equal parts shock and mortification, the heat of the water now nothing compared to the burning rush of embarrassment flooding through you.

"I—I didn't know you were in here!" Shawn stammered, his face going red as he immediately turned away, his hand gripping the doorframe like it was the only thing keeping him from bolting. "I thought the light was just left on, I swear!"

"Get out!" you shouted, your voice muffled slightly by the sound of the shower spray

"I'm going! I'm going!" he said quickly, fumbling to pull the door closed behind him. The steam seemed to follow him as he stumbled back into the hallway, his pulse racing and his mind scrambling to process what had just happened.

Shawn stood there for a moment, the coolness of the hallway doing little to calm the heat in his cheeks. He ran a hand through his hair, letting out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.

Back inside the bathroom, you turned the water off with a sharp twist, the moment replaying in your head as you grabbed for a towel. Your heart was pounding, equal parts anger and humiliation swirling in your chest.

Shawn lingered outside the bathroom for a second longer, debating whether to say something or retreat entirely. But when he heard the sharp click of the shower turning off, he quickly made his decision, heading straight for his room without another glance back.

Whatever peace the night had held for either of you was long gone.

THE MORNING sun bathed the cobblestone street in a soft golden light, casting long shadows from the quaint storefronts that lined both sides. The group strolled together, their energy still buoyed by the lingering high of the week's adventures. The laughter and banter from the past few days seemed to follow you like a warm breeze, wrapping everyone in an easy camaraderie.

Lexie was darting in and out of shops, her enthusiasm infectious as she called out to Sophie, who trailed behind her with a resigned but amused grin. Every so often, Lexie would burst out with an exclamation—something about a vintage jacket or a ridiculous souvenir—and Sophie would groan playfully, shaking her head before following her friend inside.

Up ahead, Jake and Matt were locked in a lively debate, their voices carrying easily over the cobblestones. They were animatedly arguing about which old diner in town had served the best burgers during your teenage years. Jake was gesturing emphatically toward one corner of the street, while Matt shook his head, pointing in the opposite direction.

"You're insane if you think Charlie's had better fries!" Jake said, his tone incredulous.

"Charlie's fries were soggy half the time," Matt retorted. "Now, Mel's—that was perfection. Crisp, golden, and they gave you free refills on ketchup."

"You're basing your entire argument on ketchup?" Jake groaned, throwing his hands in the air. "I can't with you."

You walked a few steps behind them, laughing softly at their exchange but keeping mostly to yourself. The morning air was cool against your skin, and the quiet rhythm of your steps on the uneven stones grounded you as your thoughts wandered.

Shawn lingered toward the back of the group, hands tucked casually into the pockets of his denim jacket. His gaze moved over the street, the bustling shops, the familiar faces of your friends—but it always seemed to drift back to you. He walked with an easy, unhurried stride, but his thoughts were anything but calm.

He couldn't stop thinking about the night before—the moment in the bathroom that had caught both of you off guard. He'd felt a rush of embarrassment, of course, but beneath it, something else had stirred. In that fleeting, awkward moment, he'd felt the weight of how familiar you still seemed, even after all the time and distance that had stretched between you. It wasn't just the sight of you—it was the way you moved, the way you'd reacted, the way you'd looked at him, even in anger and shock. It had stayed with him, replaying in his mind long after he'd retreated to his room.

Now, as he watched you from a few steps behind, he felt the same pull, the same sense of gravity that had always drawn him to you. He wanted to say something, to bridge the gap that still felt so wide between you despite the small steps you'd taken back toward each other this week. But every time he opened his mouth, the words wouldn't come.

You glanced back briefly, catching his eye. For a moment, neither of you looked away, the world around you seeming to blur as the connection between you crackled like a live wire. Shawn's lips parted slightly, like he might finally say something, but then you turned back toward the group, leaving the moment suspended in the air.

"Hey!" Lexie's voice rang out, breaking the spell as she burst out of another shop, waving something in the air. "Look at this ridiculous hat!" She planted it on her head—a wide-brimmed monstrosity with fake flowers—and struck a dramatic pose, sending the group into peals of laughter.

"Perfect," Matt said, grinning as he gave her a thumbs-up. "That's exactly the vibe we're going for."

Shawn smiled faintly at the exchange but remained quiet, his attention still half-fixed on you. He wondered how long he could keep holding back, how many more moments he'd let slip away before he finally found the courage to tell you what was on his mind.

The cobblestone street felt alive with memories as you walked beside Nate, pointing out the old record store just a few doors down. The shop's faded sign and scuffed window displays were exactly as you remembered, a nostalgic throwback to teenage afternoons spent flipping through vinyl and saving up for limited-edition releases. Nate grinned as you shared a quick story about an epic argument with Lexie over who got the last copy of a rare album, the kind of playful bickering that had defined your group back then.

But mid-sentence, you faltered, your words trailing off as your attention snagged on a familiar pair across the street.

Caroline and James Whitmore.

Caroline stood in front of a boutique that practically screamed exclusivity, its polished windows and pristine displays a perfect match for her perfectly curated appearance. She adjusted her designer sunglasses with the precision of someone who wanted to be noticed, her posture straight and commanding like she was posing for the cover of a fashion magazine. Even from across the street, you could feel her air of superiority—the kind that had been her trademark since high school.

Her sharp gaze scanned the street lazily, as if she owned it. When her eyes landed briefly on your group, her expression barely changed. There was no recognition, no warmth, just a flicker of disinterest before she turned away, dismissing you all like you were background noise in her perfectly crafted world.

But it wasn't Caroline who really held your attention—it was the person beside her.

James Whitmore stood casually next to her, a takeout coffee in one hand and an easy smile on his face as he chatted with the shopkeeper in front of him. He was tall, with the same striking features as his sister, but that was where the similarities ended. James radiated warmth and charm, his relaxed demeanor a sharp contrast to Caroline's icy poise. While Caroline looked like she could cut someone down with a single glance, James had always been approachable, down-to-earth, and, well... genuinely likable.

Your memories of James were mostly positive—moments of easy conversation and unexpected kindness that had stood out in the whirlwind of high school drama. He'd been one of the few people in Caroline's orbit who didn't seem to care about wealth or status, a refreshing anomaly in a world that often felt dominated by people like her.

Nate followed your gaze, his expression shifting when he spotted them. "Wow," he said under his breath. "Caroline Whitmore in the wild. I thought she only existed in penthouses and glossy magazines."

You snorted, your lips quirking into a half-smile. "Guess even royalty needs a coffee break."

"James is still around too, huh?" Nate added, nodding toward him. "Man, I actually liked that guy. What's he doing hanging out with her again?"

"They're siblings," you pointed out, shrugging. "Even nice people have baggage."

Nate laughed at that, but his attention soon shifted back to your group, leaving you with your thoughts. Your eyes lingered on James for a moment longer, noting the way he laughed easily at something the shopkeeper said. It was strange—seeing him and Caroline together, the stark contrast between them as vivid as ever.

You turned back to Nate, brushing off the encounter with a casual air. "Come on," you said, nodding toward the record store. "I want to see if they still have that hidden section in the back."

But as you walked away, you couldn't shake the feeling that the Whitmores' sudden appearance was more than just a coincidence. Something about it stirred old memories, old tensions. And while James had always been a pleasant surprise, Caroline was a reminder that some things—and some people—never really changed.

THE DOOR of the record store swung shut behind you, the small bell above it jingling softly as your group stepped out onto the sunlit cobblestone street. You were still laughing at something Nate had said, your arms laden with a few choice finds from the store, when you turned the corner and almost collided head-on with a familiar face.

"Hey!" James Whitmore's voice rang out, warm and unmistakable. He crossed the street toward you with long, confident strides, his hazel eyes sparkling in the sunlight. His easy smile widened as he approached, and for a moment, it was like no time had passed at all.

"I thought that was you guys!" he said, his tone infused with genuine excitement.

Your steps faltered, caught off guard by the unexpected encounter. But as James stopped in front of you, his presence as charming and down-to-earth as ever, you couldn't help but feel yourself relax.

"Back in town, huh? For Ella and Jake's wedding?" he asked, looking at you with the same sincerity that had always set him apart from his sister.

"Yeah," you replied, nodding. "It's been a while."

"Way too long," he said, his gaze lingering on you. There was a warmth in his expression, something genuine that made your stomach flutter unexpectedly. "You look... good."

"Thanks," you said, feeling a faint blush creep up your neck. Before you could respond further, the sharp click of heels on cobblestones interrupted the moment.

"Oh. You people," came a familiar, disdainful voice. Caroline Whitmore stood a few steps away, her arms crossed and her sharp eyes narrowing behind oversized designer sunglasses. Her glossy hair shimmered in the sunlight as she flipped it over one shoulder with dramatic precision.

Caroline's voice dripped with condescension as she continued. "Didn't know they let tourists loiter downtown now."

Behind you, Matt let out a theatrical sigh. "Still a delight, Caroline," he deadpanned, earning stifled laughs from Lexie and Sophie.

Caroline's eyes darted to Matt, her expression as icy as ever, but she didn't dignify him with a response. Instead, she turned her attention back to James, her patience clearly wearing thin. "James," she said sharply, her tone carrying an air of authority, "Mother wanted you back ten minutes ago."

James didn't even glance her way, waving her off with a casual flick of his wrist. "Tell her I'm busy."

Caroline's mouth opened, likely to protest, but she seemed to think better of it. With a dramatic huff, she spun on her heel, her expensive heels clicking loudly against the cobblestones as she strutted back across the street.

"Good talk," Matt called after her, earning another laugh from Lexie.

James chuckled, shaking his head. "She hasn't changed a bit."

"Some things never do," you quipped, a grin tugging at your lips.

James laughed softly, his attention returning to you. "It's good seeing you again," he said, his tone quieter now, almost thoughtful.

"Yeah," you replied, matching his tone. "You too."

From a few steps away, Shawn lingered in the shadows of the moment, his hands stuffed tightly into the pockets of his denim jacket. His jaw tightened as he watched the interaction unfold, his gaze fixed on James. The easy way James leaned in, laughing at something you said, his hand briefly brushing yours—it was effortless, familiar, and far too comfortable for Shawn's liking.

Shawn's lips pressed into a thin line, his narrowed eyes betraying the practiced indifference he was trying so hard to maintain. He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as though the movement could somehow shake off the tension building in his chest.

Lexie appeared beside him like a wisp of smoke, silent and sharp-eyed. She tilted her head toward you and James, a knowing smirk tugging at her lips. "You're staring," she said quietly, her voice low enough not to draw attention but loud enough to needle him.

"I'm not," Shawn muttered, his voice clipped as he tore his gaze away, focusing instead on a crack in the cobblestones beneath his feet.

"Uh-huh. Sure," Lexie replied, her tone dripping with amused disbelief. She folded her arms, leaning closer. "He's very charming, isn't he?"

Shawn's jaw clenched visibly, the muscle twitching. "He's fine," he said flatly, his voice devoid of conviction.

Lexie laughed softly under her breath, a sound that was more perceptive than mocking. "Relax," she said. "It's just James. They've always been friends."

"Good friends," Shawn muttered before he could stop himself, the edge in his voice cutting through the quiet. His eyes flicked back to James, who was now lightly touching your shoulder as he spoke. The gesture was casual, innocent even, but it burned in Shawn's chest like a live ember.

Lexie's smirk faded, replaced by something softer, more thoughtful. She studied him for a moment, her perceptive gaze seeing far more than he was comfortable admitting. "You know," she said finally, her voice dropping, "if this is bothering you, maybe you should figure out why."

Shawn's jaw tightened further, but he didn't respond. He didn't need to—Lexie's point had already landed.

Before either of them could say more, James called over, his voice warm and inviting. "Hey, you guys coming to the brewery later? They're doing live music tonight."

"Absolutely!" Matt answered instantly, his enthusiasm cutting through any lingering tension. "We're so there."

James grinned, his hazel eyes flicking back to you. "Hope I'll see you there," he said, his tone meant just for you.

You felt your cheeks warm under his gaze but nodded, your smile easy and genuine. "Wouldn't miss it," you replied.

As James crossed back to the boutique, you watched him go, the exchange leaving you with a pleasant warmth. Talking to him had been effortless, like stepping into a time capsule of simpler days. It felt good—comfortable in a way you hadn't realized you'd missed.

Shawn, however, remained rooted beside Lexie, his posture rigid. His heart pounded with a mix of jealousy, regret, and something far more complicated than he was ready to name. His eyes flicked to you again, catching the faint smile lingering on your face as you turned back toward the group.

"See you tonight," you said, your voice carrying easily as you addressed the group—but your gaze lingered on Shawn just a moment longer. His expression was hard to read, the tension in his shoulders unmistakable, and you couldn't help but wonder what, exactly, was running through his mind.

#gay #shawn mendes #shawn mendes x male reader #fluff #x male reader

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

Text

HIS LOVE

• CLARK KENT x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — You'd spent years believing your husband, Clark, was untouchable — the very definition of strength and health. How could he not be? After all, he was Superman. But one night, that belief shattered when Clark stumbled home with the flu — feverish, miserable, and very much human. Suddenly, you found yourself in entirely new territory: caring for the man who had always seemed invincible, and realizing just how much even the strongest among us sometimes need someone to hold them up.

WARNING! FLUFF.

WORDS! 7.2k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with something cute for our love, Mr. Kent. It was almost a full on smut but I decided to keep it short and sweet—because it was adorable to see Clark all Sicky Vicky. Enjoy your reading ✨🫶🏽

BEING married to Superman wasn't something you stumbled into blindly.

You knew — from the very beginning — exactly what you were getting into. After all, you had been dating Clark Kent since high school, long before the cape, before the world saw him as a symbol of hope. Back when he was just the sweet, quiet farm boy from Kansas who sometimes disappeared without explanation, and who always looked like he carried the weight of the world on his shoulders even when he smiled.

You learned early on that loving Clark meant accepting every part of him: the extraordinary, the impossible, the human, and the alien.

The ups were breathtaking. Watching him save lives, watching people's faces light up just by seeing him swoop down from the sky — it filled you with pride in a way words could never fully capture. You got to see the purest side of him: the kindness he gave to everyone, the strength he wielded without arrogance, the way he never hesitated to put others before himself. And you got to see the side of him few others ever would — the man who loved quietly and deeply, who held you at night like you were his anchor, who whispered dreams about building a life together in a little house with a porch swing.

But there were the downs, too.

The late nights where he didn't come home right away because a mission had dragged on longer than expected. The mornings you woke up to find his side of the bed cold and empty, knowing he had heard a cry for help halfway across the world and hadn't thought twice about answering it. The terrifying, gut-wrenching moments when you watched a news broadcast showing Superman bloodied, battered, facing threats you couldn't even comprehend — moments when your heart froze in your chest, praying he would come back to you.

There were the public eyes, the constant whispers, the way your life could never be completely private. You learned to live with cameras flashing when you walked down the street hand in hand, to ignore the questions, the gossip. Being with Clark meant being a part of his legend, whether you wanted it or not.

And yet... despite all of it — because of all of it — you said yes.

You said yes knowing that you weren't just marrying the most powerful being on Earth. You were marrying the man who cried with you during sad movies. The man who burnt toast at least once a week and tried to hide it with that sheepish grin. The man who knew how you liked your coffee, who kissed your forehead every morning like it was a promise renewed. The man who had trusted you with every secret, every fear, every dream.

You had loved Clark Kent long before the world ever loved Superman.

And now, as his husband, you carried both the gravity and the wonder of that love every day. It wasn't always easy — but it was always worth it.

Because at the end of every mission, every battle, every impossibly long day, he always came back to you.

And you would always be there, waiting, ready to be his safe place — just as he had always been yours.

IT was nearing 11 p.m., and the apartment was cloaked in a kind of sleepy stillness that only late-night hours brought. The soft, persistent tick of the wall clock echoed through the open-concept space, mingling with the occasional rustle of pages turning from the stack of unopened mail beside you. You sat at the dining table, hunched over your laptop, the pale blue light from the screen casting faint shadows across your tired face. Half your attention was fixed on clearing out an embarrassingly overdue pile of work emails. The other half? It was firmly rooted in the quiet anticipation of the front door opening.

Clark had texted about forty minutes ago: finishing up at the Planet, be home soon. You'd glanced at the message, smiled faintly, and returned to your inbox—but with every passing minute, your ears were tuned sharply to the hall.

So when the door finally creaked open with a tired groan, you looked up immediately—and froze.

Clark stepped in, and your breath caught in your chest.

He didn't move like Superman. He didn't look like the invulnerable man who could fly through fire and face down titans. He looked... human. Painfully, unmistakably human.

His broad shoulders were sagging under an invisible weight, his damp hair stuck up in uneven tufts like he'd been raking his fingers through it all night. His dress shirt, usually so crisp and neat, was wrinkled and half-untucked, his tie askew. And his face—oh, his face. His eyes were red-rimmed, glassy, and his nose had that slightly pink, tell-tale flush around it.

He didn't even get two steps inside before he pitched forward with a forceful, muffled sneeze.

"hhHH'TSCHhh!... hhh'KNGGSHHh!"

You blinked, stunned.

Another fit hit him immediately, his large frame shuddering with each breathless expulsion. He barely managed to catch the sneezes in the crook of his arm as he stumbled toward the wall for balance, his other hand fumbling for a tissue that wasn't there.

"hh'RRSSCHhhh!... hh'GHhhSHh!"

Your mouth parted, a mix of concern and awe written across your face.

"...Clark?"

He sniffled, glanced over at you with bleary eyes, and gave you the most pitiful, congested groan you'd ever heard.

You quickly pushed your laptop aside and stood up. "Are you—are you sick?"

Clark tried to answer, but his body betrayed him again, doubling over with a wrenching sneeze that nearly knocked him off balance.

"hh'EHHHshh-CHHh! snrfff... 'Scuse be," he croaked, voice rough and wrecked beyond recognition.

You rushed to his side, gripping his forearm as he swayed a little. "Oh my god—Clark, you're sick."

He waved a hand weakly in protest. "I... I'b fide."

You gaped at him like he'd just told you he was an alien all over again. "Clark Joseph Kent. You are absolutely not fine. You're burning up!"

Your hand found his forehead, and your heart leapt. He was running a fever. Not just a little warm—hot. Hotter than any normal person should be. And the worst part? He looked surprised by it.

Clark leaned heavily against your side, utterly drained. "It's just a cold," he muttered hoarsely. "Probably caught it from Jenkins... He was sneezing all over the bullpen today. I figured—figured I'd be immune."

You stared at him, caught between genuine concern and complete disbelief. "You're Superman. You literally shrugged off a plasma blast last month. But Jenkins' sniffles got to you?"

Clark let out a snuffly, self-pitying sound as he pulled a crumpled tissue from his pocket and blew his nose with a honk that made you wince in sympathy.

"Don't laugh," he mumbled, seeing the corners of your mouth twitching.

You tried. You really did. But the sheer absurdity of it broke through, and a breathless laugh escaped you.

"I'm sorry!" you said quickly, reaching to guide him toward the couch. "It's just... You've fought alien warlords. And now you're losing a battle with rhinovirus?"

Clark groaned and all but collapsed onto the couch, flinging an arm over his face. "I'b dying," he said dramatically, voice muffled and thick.

"You're not dying," you replied, grinning as you tossed a blanket over him and began fussing with the cushions. "You're a dramatic overachiever with a cold."

He peeked at you from beneath his arm, eyes glassy but warm. "Lucky be," he whispered.

You softened immediately, crouching beside the couch to adjust the blanket around his shoulders. "Yeah, yeah. You're lucky I love you. Now hush and stay put. I'll get tea, meds, tissues—the whole kit."

As you stood to head for the kitchen, Clark reached out and caught your hand, his fingers wrapping loosely around yours. He looked at you, soft and sleepy, a shadow of his usual strength.

"Thank you," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "For always being here."

You squeezed his hand gently. "Always," you said. "Even when you're a sniffling mess."

He smiled—just a little—and settled back into the cushions with another sneeze that shook the frame of the couch. You shook your head affectionately, heading off to get the tea and tissues.

Superman might have been down for the count tonight, but as his husband, you were ready for battle. Armed with honey-lemon tea, menthol rub, and more tissues than a drugstore aisle.

Let the healing begin.

THE morning light bled gently through the bedroom curtains, casting long, honeyed stripes across the soft tangle of blankets cocooning Clark's oversized frame. He was nearly lost in them—only a mop of unruly dark hair and the bridge of his flushed nose visible above the mound of fabric. Every so often, a congested snore or a wet sniffle broke the silence, followed by a faint groan as he shifted restlessly in his sleep.

You nudged the bedroom door open with your hip, arms carefully balancing a breakfast tray laden with comfort: a steaming bowl of broth you'd seasoned just the way he liked, a glass of cool water beading with condensation, a small bottle of cold and flu medicine, a fresh packet of tissues, and a digital thermometer resting atop a folded napkin.

The door creaked softly as you entered, and Clark stirred, letting out a low, half-conscious groan that sounded more like protest than greeting. His eyes blinked open blearily, red-rimmed and glassy with fever. For a second, he just stared at you as if trying to make sense of whether you were real or part of a particularly vivid fever dream.

"Morning, sunshine," you murmured, voice warm and teasing. You set the tray on the nightstand and lowered yourself to sit on the edge of the bed, careful not to jostle him too much.

Clark attempted to sit up, only to collapse back against the pillows with a helpless grunt, dragging the comforter up to cover his face.

"Uh-uh," you said, already reaching for the thermometer. "Don't even think about moving. You're not going anywhere today."

A pathetic groan vibrated from beneath the covers. "I'b fide," he rasped from his cocoon of fabric. "I jus'... need tea. And mayde... a shower."

You pulled the blanket down just enough to reveal his face—sweaty, pink-cheeked, and pitifully snuffly. His hair was matted at odd angles and his nose was chapped at the tip, the clear sign of someone who had blown it far too many times.

"Clark, you can barely keep your head up. You're not going to the Planet today, and you're definitely not flying anywhere." You pressed the thermometer into his mouth before he could launch another weak protest.

He stared up at you with a wounded expression, as if being mothered offended his Kryptonian sensibilities.

The thermometer beeped, and you frowned as you pulled it free and checked the reading.

"102.3," you announced grimly. "That's it. You're grounded."

He coughed into his arm, breath hitching toward another sneeze. "hhh'TSCHHHhh!... hhhH'GGSCHhh! snrf" He reached blindly for the tissues, and you were already handing them to him.

"Bless you," you said, watching as he blew his nose with a long, exhausted honk. He dropped the used tissue into the wastebasket beside the bed and flopped back, his voice a hoarse mutter. "I'b Superman. I should be able to fight off a flu."

"And yet, here you are," you replied, smoothing your palm gently across his sweat-damp hair. "A sneezy, sniffly mess. Which, by the way, doesn't make you any less of a superhero. It just means you're not invincible."

He peered up at you, sniffling miserably. "You're scary when you're in nurse mode."

You leaned down and pressed a kiss to his fevered forehead. "Good. Maybe now you'll listen when I say stay in bed."

You shifted the tray toward him and uncapped the medicine. "Drink this, then try a little of the soup. I'll let you sleep after."

Clark reached weakly for the medicine, downing it with a grimace. "Tastes like... kryptonite in liquid form."

"You'd know," you said, handing him the spoon. "Now hush and eat before it gets cold."

He took the bowl, cradling it in his large hands like it was sacred, then took a slow sip. His shoulders relaxed just a little, the warmth clearly offering some comfort.

"You're the best," he croaked after a moment, glancing at you with bleary gratitude.

You smiled softly, brushing your fingers along his jaw. "I know."

As he settled back into the pillows, still sipping soup between sniffles, you curled up on the edge of the bed beside him, just close enough for him to reach out and rest his hand over yours.

YOU stood barefoot in the kitchen, the soft light of a gray morning filtering through the window above the sink. The air smelled faintly of lemon and eucalyptus — a scent you'd started diffusing last night in a futile attempt to clear Clark's sinuses — and the mug in your hand was warm against your palm as you stirred honey into a cup of steaming chamomile tea. With your phone wedged between your ear and shoulder, you tried not to spill any as you reached for the box of tissues on the counter.

"Yeah, I'm going to be out today," you said quietly into the receiver, your voice steady but laced with fatigue. "Clark's down with something, and... well, he's not great at being sick."

Your assistant on the other end — sharp, capable, and usually unshakeable — paused. "Wait, Clark's sick? As in, actually sick?"

You nodded absently, knowing she couldn't see you. "Flu. Or something flu-adjacent. He's been running a fever since yesterday, barely slept last night. It hit him hard."

"I didn't even think Clark Kent could get sick," she said with surprise. "He always seems like one of those guys who just powers through everything."

You smiled faintly, stirring the tea a final time. "He tries. That's the problem."

A muffled sneeze echoed down the hallway, followed by a rattling cough and the soft thump of something hitting the nightstand. You didn't flinch — you were already used to the chaos.

"Do you need me to handle the meeting with R&D?" she asked after a moment. "We're still expecting updated specs on the prototype by noon."

"I'll send over some notes," you replied, cradling the mug carefully as you moved toward the hallway. "But keep an eye on Luthor. If he tries to pull that timeline stunt again, I want to know before he opens his mouth."

There was a pause. Then: "Copy that. Hope Clark feels better soon."

"Thanks," you said, ending the call with a gentle tap of your thumb.

The house felt different without Clark moving through it — no sound of him shuffling around in socks, fussing over the coffee pot, or humming aimlessly to himself as he pretended to read three newspapers at once. The quiet had a weight to it. All that filled the air now was the occasional sneeze or the low, chesty cough coming from the bedroom.

You pushed the door open gently with your elbow.

Clark was a lump under the covers, curled on his side with the blankets pulled halfway over his head. Only the mess of his dark hair, sticking out in damp waves against the pillow, and the tips of his ears gave away that he was even awake. The tissue box was tucked under his arm like it might float away if he let go, and his glasses — forgotten — sat crookedly on the nightstand, fogged from last night's fevered attempts to stay upright.

You crossed the room quietly and perched on the edge of the bed. "Tea," you said softly.

Clark stirred, blinking at you through bleary, red-rimmed eyes. "You didn't go in?"

"Nope." You set the mug down on the nightstand and reached to brush a stray curl from his forehead. "LexCorp will still be standing tomorrow. You, on the other hand, sneezed hard enough to rattle the window at 4 a.m. So no, I'm not letting you out of this bed."

A sheepish smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Did I really?"

"You scared the cat. And possibly the neighbors." You leaned in and kissed his temple, which was still alarmingly warm.

He coughed, the sound rough and exhausted, and reached for the tea with both hands like it was holy. "You didn't have to stay."

"Yes, I did," you said plainly, grabbing a pillow and fluffing it behind his back. "Because if I didn't, you'd try to go to work and then collapse somewhere in the bullpen. Or on a subway. Or mid-commute."

He chuckled, then winced and curled into himself a little. "Okay. Point taken."

You passed him two cold medicine tablets and sat beside him, watching as he obediently swallowed them and took a sip of tea. His throat worked visibly, and then he exhaled slowly, already sinking deeper into the pillows.

"You're too good to me," he murmured.

You stroked your fingers through his hair gently. "I'm just the right amount of good to you. And you'll pay me back in foot rubs, long baths, and a weekend where I don't touch a single dish."

He gave a raspy little laugh, his eyes already fluttering closed. "Deal..."

Then twenty minutes later.

Twenty. That was all. Just long enough to toss a load of laundry into the machine, field two urgent emails from LexCorp's legal team, and—miraculously—put on real pants instead of the threadbare sweats you'd been living in since Clark's fever started. You hadn't even closed the bedroom door behind you when you left. Everything had seemed calm: Clark asleep, soft snores filling the room, tissue box within reach, a cool compress resting on his forehead. Peaceful. Contained.

So when you returned to the living room and were met with a scene that looked like a domestic comedy had collided with a weather disaster, you froze in the doorway, stunned into silence.

There he was—Clark in all his six-foot-whatever, fever-ridden glory—standing barefoot in the middle of the floor wearing his oversized Metropolis Meteors hoodie and a pair of pajama pants that had clearly lost the battle against whatever soup or oatmeal had spilled on them. His hair was a chaotic mess of tufts and spikes, as though he'd been caught in a blender or sneezed mid-brush and never recovered.

In one hand, he clutched a mop like it was some medieval weapon. A thin film of soapy water slicked the hardwood floor beneath him. And behind him? Burnt toast smoldered sadly on a plate near the sink, while the remnants of oatmeal—overboiled, hardened, and now clinging to the stovetop like dried plaster—begged for mercy.

Clark turned to you, watery eyes bright with some blend of pride and illness. His voice came out in a croaky rasp, made worse by congestion, but no less sincere.

"Surprise!" he declared. Then immediately sneezed.

"hhHRRrTSSCHh'uh! ... Hehh'GGSCHh!" The force nearly knocked him off-balance. He wobbled slightly, dropping the mop with a clatter as it narrowly missed your foot.

You stared at him, processing the flood of information: the puddle threatening the nearby power strip, the scorched breakfast, the smell of disinfectant wafting through the air from... somewhere. The man you loved stood like a soggy warrior in the aftermath of battle, looking both miserable and hopelessly pleased with himself.

"Clark," you said, your tone walking the tightrope between horrified and endeared. "You tried to cook... and mop?"

"Multitasking," he croaked proudly, wiping at his nose with the sleeve of his hoodie, which you mentally added to the 'must-wash' pile.

You sighed, stepping gingerly over the puddle and gently prying the mop from his hand. "Okay. First of all, we're not gonna flood the living room. Second, we are definitely not burning toast on my watch."

"I was trying to help," he mumbled, shoulders sagging as the full weight of his fevered rebellion hit him. "I hate feeling useless. Lying in bed doing nothing all day drives me insane."

You softened immediately, kneeling down to start mopping up the puddle. "I know you were. But sweetie, you're literally leaking. Your eyes, your nose, your energy levels — it's all coming out of you like a faucet. This," you gestured to the oatmeal carnage, the scorched bread, and the damp floor, "is not helping."

Clark sniffled, trailing behind you with a roll of paper towels and the expression of a scolded Labrador. "I miscalculated."

"You think?" you muttered, wringing out the mop. "For the record, even at full health, you're banned from solo cooking anything that involves boiling water or bread."

"But I make great grilled cheese," he argued weakly.

"That was once," you shot back. "And it only worked because I supervised and you didn't sneeze into the skillet."

He offered a sheepish, pink-cheeked smile—whether from fever, shame, or both, you couldn't tell—and dropped onto the couch with a weary sigh. He pulled the blanket over his lap and nestled into the cushions, clutching the tissue box like a lifeline. You watched him for a moment: the way his lashes fluttered from fatigue, the soft sniffle that punctuated every breath, the unmistakable vulnerability in how small he looked when he didn't have the strength to pretend otherwise.

"Couch," you said firmly, tossing the now-damp towel into the laundry basket. "No more mop missions. No more breakfast experiments. You're officially on rest duty."

"Yes, Doctor," he mumbled, voice trailing off as his head lolled back against the pillow.

"And you're lucky you're adorable when you're a disaster," you added, walking over to press a kiss to the top of his tousled head.

He murmured something unintelligible and nestled deeper under the blanket, already drifting toward sleep. You stood there for a moment longer, surveying the semi-contained chaos and listening to the soft sound of him breathing. The storm had passed—for now.

And you knew, as you always did, that no matter how strong he was in the world outside, here at home, he was allowed to unravel.

And you'd always be there to gather the pieces.

THE evening had finally exhaled into a rare kind of hush.

Golden lamplight bathed the living room in a soft glow, and the steady tap of your fingers on the keyboard was the only sound beyond the occasional hum of traffic filtering in through the window. You were curled into your usual corner of the couch, a blanket over your legs, your laptop balanced comfortably across your thighs. A half-drunk mug of tea sat nearby, forgotten in the lull of productivity.

The house still carried traces of the day's earlier chaos — the faint tang of citrus disinfectant clinging to the air, and a lingering whiff of burnt toast that not even an open window had managed to erase. You'd spent part of the afternoon mopping up sudsy water and scraping oatmeal off the stove, but now, with everything in its place and your feverish husband tucked away for a nap, the world felt briefly — blissfully — quiet.

Until it didn't.

From the hallway came the unmistakable sound of socked feet dragging across the hardwood floor. You paused mid-sentence, fingers hovering over the keys as you turned your head.

Clark emerged from the bedroom like a man resurrected... albeit slowly and with questionable coordination.

He had a fleece blanket was haphazardly draped over his frame like a superhero cape on its last day of duty. His pajama pants had a suspicious soup stain near the knee, and his hair stood up in jagged tufts, flattened on one side from his pillow and sticking out like a sunburst on the other.

A balled-up tissue peeked out from the hoodie pocket, and his nose... well, it had crossed the threshold from pink to full Rudolph status.

He sniffled, cleared his throat with a congested rasp, and made a slow, exaggerated beeline for the TV.

"I'm picking a movie for us," he announced, voice hoarse but determined.

You didn't look up. "Is this movie going to involve explosions, intergalactic warfare, or dragons?"

"No," he said far too quickly.

You smirked into your screen.

He began scrolling through Netflix with all the gravity of someone solving a national crisis. "Why are all these rom-coms about bakers falling for small-town mechanics?" he grumbled. "Do they think the only career path to love is pastry?"

"It's called joy, Clark," you said, eyes still on your email. "Some of us like frosting and Christmas tree farms."

After a few more dramatic scrolls and a few muttered complaints, he settled on a 2009 romantic drama with a title so generic it might have been randomly generated. The kind of movie that was guaranteed to include a slow-motion kiss in the rain and a dramatic airport monologue.

He collapsed onto the couch beside you with a theatrical sigh.

You didn't react.

He sighed again, louder.

You kept typing.

Then came the nudge: a gentle tap of his knee against yours.

Still nothing.

Finally, the pièce de résistance: a congested whine, dragged out for maximum pity.

"Babyyyy..."

You sighed and glanced at him over the top of your laptop. Clark Kent, usually a beacon of strength and stoicism, was giving you the most pitiful pair of puppy-dog eyes imaginable. His bottom lip jutted just slightly. His hand emerged from beneath the blanket and reached for you blindly like he might dissolve without contact.

"I just..." he murmured, voice thick with congestion, "I just need... something. Contact. A little bit. Like... a foot. Or a shin. I'll settle for shin."

You closed your laptop with a resigned huff and set it aside. "You're impossible."

"I'm delicate," he corrected, snuggling deeper into the couch cushions like an overgrown child. "And love-starved."

You shook your head and extended your legs across his lap. He immediately grabbed the edge of the blanket and tucked it around them like you were royalty and the couch was your throne.

His hand rested gently on your calf, thumb rubbing slow, grateful circles.

"Better?" you asked, resting your head back against the couch.

"Much," he murmured. "You're warm. And not covered in tissues."

A beat of silence passed between you — peaceful, close — before you added, "This doesn't get you out of the kitchen damage report."

He groaned, throwing his head back dramatically. "I was trying to help!"

"And I love you for it," you said, chuckling. "But I'm also hiding the mop.

He chuckled too, the sound low and wheezy. "Probably wise."

You glanced at him — hair a mess, face flushed, already halfway to sleep — and smiled softly.

No matter the chaos, the sneezing fits, the scorched breakfast, or the mop-induced flood... this right here, the quiet moments tucked between the mess, were your favorite.

You reached over and brushed a stray curl from his forehead, watching the tension melt from his brow before focusing on the movie.

Maybe thirty minutes into the movie, your focus had drifted to the man curled up beside you.

Clark had claimed your legs the moment you'd relented, tucking them over his lap like they were his by right — and honestly, they kind of were. He was still wrapped in that rumpled hoodie, the sleeves bunched at his forearms and the hood slightly askew like he'd pulled it on during a sneeze attack and never fixed it. His cheeks were still pink from the fever, his nose a little raw around the edges, and his hair — good god, his hair — looked like it had squared off with a wind tunnel and lost. But beneath all the sick-day wreckage, he looked content. Warm. Peaceful.

And then, without a word, he reached under the blanket and began gently rubbing your foot.

Your eyes darted down, confused by the sudden shift from passive snuggling to purposeful movement. "What are you doing?" you asked, half-suspicious, half-intrigued.

Clark looked up at you like it should've been obvious. "Foot massage," he said hoarsely, congestion clinging to his voice. "As part of my apology."

You quirked an eyebrow. "I thought the apology was picking a movie and then begging me to let you touch my shin."

"That was the emotional groundwork," he replied, pressing his thumbs into the arch of your foot with surprising skill. "This is the follow-through. I'm a man of layers."

"Apparently."

You leaned back against the couch cushion, watching him. His brows were drawn slightly in focus, lips parted as he concentrated on getting the pressure just right. His thumb traced a firm circle beneath your toes, then slid along the heel, pausing to knead at the ball of your foot like he'd done this a hundred times. It was slow, patient, and unexpectedly soothing.

"You really don't have to do this," you said softly, your voice dipping toward something tender.

Clark looked up at you briefly, and there it was again — that quiet sincerity, buried under the sniffles and the hoodie and the ridiculous mop of hair. "I want to," he said simply. "You've been dealing with me all day — the sneezing, the kitchen disaster, the oatmeal incident... You deserve at least this."

You exhaled, long and slow, as the last of the tension started to melt from your legs. His hands moved with steady purpose, never rushing, never too much. You could feel the care in every touch.

"Better?" he murmured.

You nodded, eyes fluttering closed for a second. "Yeah. Honestly, yeah. Way better."

He gave a crooked, sleepy grin — then sneezed violently into his elbow.

"hhH'RRSSCHhh! ... snff Sorry," he groaned, reaching for one of the many tissues tucked beside him.

"Still romantic," you teased, smiling at him with affection.

Clark gave you a sheepish look as he blew his nose. "I contain multitudes."

You laughed — full and soft and honest. He grinned back at you, flushed and ridiculous and somehow still devastatingly beautiful. Even with a tissue in hand and a voice like gravel, he was every bit the man you loved.

"You're a disaster," you said fondly.

He reached for your other foot with a sniffly sniff and a determined gleam in his eyes. "Then let me be your disaster."

Your chest tightened — in the good way. In the I-didn't-know-I-needed-that-until-right-now way.

You didn't reply. You just watched him, your leg rising slightly as he cradled your ankle, his fingers curling around you with quiet devotion. His touch was gentle, intentional — not just a foot rub, not really. It was him finding a way to say thank you without needing to say much at all. A way of caring for you when he barely had the energy to care for himself.

And in that soft, flickering light — with the bad movie murmuring in the background and the world tucked away outside — you let yourself fall into the warmth of it. His body, his hands, his love. The slow, clumsy comfort of being seen.

It wasn't perfect. It was sneezy, and warm, and chaotic, and utterly human.

And it was exactly right.

As his hands were still on your foot — strong, slow, deliberate — his touch had shifted. The pressure wasn't just for comfort anymore. His thumbs traced firmer circles along your arch, and then up the slope of your ankle, trailing just under the hem of your pajama pants.

You glanced at him, raising a brow. "That doesn't feel very flu-safe."

He didn't look up, just let out a soft hum. "I'm feeling slightly better," he said, voice still rough around the edges, but lower now — velvety, with that familiar weight he only used when he wasn't just being affectionate. When he was looking at you like you were the only thing in the world that could make him feel better.

Your breath caught slightly as his hands moved higher, both now working their way slowly up your calves under the blanket. His fingers trailed the seams of your pants, brushing lightly against bare skin. You felt heat crawl up your neck.

"I think," he murmured, finally looking up at you through those heavy-lidded eyes, "the most effective way for me to recover is... physical closeness."

"Oh really?" you asked, amused, your voice low. "Is that a scientific conclusion, Doctor Kent?"

He smirked, a little crooked and a little unwell — which somehow only made it sexier. "Absolutely. Proximity to my husband dramatically increases immune response. Especially when said husband is warm, shirtless, and on top of me."

You rolled your eyes, but the flush in your chest betrayed you. "Clark, you literally sneezed on yourself ten minutes ago."

He leaned forward, his hands leaving your legs just long enough to slide over your hips, tugging you closer, until your laptop slipped off to the side with a soft thud. His breath brushed against your jaw.

"I'll try not to sneeze on you," he whispered, voice gravelly and quiet, "if you promise to keep touching me."

His lips hovered at the edge of your throat, warm and soft — and then he kissed you, slow and deep. Not the fevered, messy kind you might've expected, but something more deliberate. Like he was savoring it. Like he needed it.

You melted into it. One hand found the back of his neck, the other slipped beneath the collar of his hoodie, and you felt his skin, warm and humming. His hands gripped your waist, guiding you gently into his lap. He breathed you in like you were the cure to whatever was burning through him.

"Clark..." you warned softly, even as you gave in.

"I'm fine," he murmured against your lips. "I promise. I just need you."

You could feel the truth in it — in the way his hands trembled slightly, not from weakness, but from want. From relief. From the ache he'd been carrying all day, not just in his body, but in his chest.

What started as comfort had turned into something else — something hot and slow and tangled under the blankets, with fever-warmed skin and deep, grounding kisses. He pulled you closer, held you tighter, like maybe this was the only medicine that mattered.

And in that moment, you weren't worried about colds or chaos or chores. Just him. Just this. The soft, breathy sounds between kisses, the rough edges of his voice saying your name, the steady hum of connection crackling between your bodies like electricity waiting to catch.

Clark's kiss then deepened, his hand sliding under your shirt with a warmth that made you shiver, despite the heat radiating from his skin. Fevered or not, there was nothing weak about the way he pulled you closer, like every inch of space between you was an offense he needed to correct.

You straddled his lap fully now, hands gripping his shoulders for balance, his hoodie soft under your fingers. His hands were roaming �� reverent, familiar, but hungry — trailing down your back, under your waistband, pulling you flush against him.

"You're burning up," you whispered against his mouth, half a tease, half a concern.

"Not sick," he breathed, lips ghosting along your jaw, your throat, your collarbone. "Just want you."

And god, did he mean it. He kissed you like it was the first time, like he'd missed you for years even though you'd been beside him all day. His lips were hot and slightly chapped, and you didn't care. His fingers pushed your shirt up higher, and you raised your arms just long enough to let him tug it off. The blanket slipped away, leaving the two of you tangled in heat and breath and nothing else.

You could feel how much he wanted you — hard and needy beneath you — and when your hips shifted, drawing a low groan from deep in his throat, it lit something electric between your ribs.

He gripped your waist and rolled his hips up slowly, deliberately. You sucked in a breath.

"You sure?" you asked, grounding yourself for a moment, looking into his eyes.

Clark's gaze locked with yours — glassy, intense, but steady. "I've never been more sure of anything."

You kissed him again — rougher this time — and he answered with equal urgency, his hands sliding down to grip your thighs as he shifted beneath you. You could feel the tension in his body, the ache, the way he was holding back just enough to stay gentle — but only just.

"Bedroom?" you murmured between kisses.

He didn't answer with words. He stood, lifting you easily with one arm around your back and the other under your thighs, making you gasp as he carried you like you weighed nothing. Fever and all, he was still him.

You pressed your face into his neck, laughing breathlessly as he carried you down the hall.

"Clark, you're supposed to be resting."

He kicked the bedroom door open. "I'll sleep after."

The moment you hit the mattress, his body was over yours — warm, solid, flushed with desire and something deeper. He didn't rush. He undressed you with his mouth more than his hands — kissing, licking, biting lightly down your chest, your stomach, your hipbones — like he was committing every inch of you to memory all over again.

When he finally pushed into you, it wasn't rushed — it was deliberate, almost reverent. He sank into you slowly, the stretch and slide sending a shudder rippling through your entire body. The world narrowed to the feeling of him filling you completely, deeply, a perfect, grounding rhythm that made your spine arch and your fingers clutch at his back, desperate for more.

The heat between you was staggering — not just the natural fever of bodies colliding, but something deeper, something burning and frantic and sacred all at once. His skin was almost unbearably hot against yours, slick with effort, his muscles trembling as he fought to keep his control.

Your name broke from your lips in a ragged whisper — once, twice, and then over and over again, like a prayer you couldn't stop offering. Every deep roll of his hips pulled another breathless sound from you, every grind closer to the edge, yet still he moved carefully, thoughtfully, as if memorizing every gasp, every flutter of your heart against his chest.

He leaned down until his forehead rested against yours, his breath stuttering unevenly across your lips, his lashes clumping from sweat. His eyes — blown wide, dark with need and something achingly tender — locked onto yours as if you were the only thing anchoring him to the earth.

"I love you," he rasped, the words torn from somewhere deep inside him, groaned right into your mouth like a vow he needed you to feel as much as hear.

You grabbed his face between your hands and pulled him into a bruising kiss, pouring all your urgency, all your need, into him. "Then show me," you whispered against his lips, daring him, challenging him.

And he did.

Again and again — harder, deeper, each thrust more desperate than the last, as if he could carve the words into your skin with the way he moved inside you. You lost yourself in him, in the burning crash of pleasure, in the broken sounds he made as he unraveled right alongside you. Together, you fell — into the heat, into the love, into the place where nothing else existed but the two of you, tangled and gasping, holding on for dear life.

THE next morning, sunlight crept in slow and golden through the bedroom windows, pooling across the tangled mess of sheets, limbs, and scattered clothes on the floor. Your body ached in the best way — the kind of ache that came from being thoroughly loved, multiple times, in ways that completely ignored the fact that one of you had been sick just twelve hours ago.

Clark was still sprawled beside you, bare-chested, blanket barely covering his hips, hair even more chaotic than yesterday — and somehow, impossibly, he looked smug. He stretched, yawned, then rolled onto his side and looked at you with a sleepy grin.

"Morning," he said, voice still gravelly but noticeably less congested.

You raised an eyebrow. "Well, someone's immune system seems to have made a miraculous overnight recovery."

He gave you a lazy shrug and leaned in to press a kiss to your shoulder. "Must've been all that... therapeutic physical contact."

"Oh, that's what we're calling it now?" you said, laughing as you rolled onto your back.

He grinned, full mischief now. "Hey, I'm feeling great. Like I could bench-press a tractor and then write a Pulitzer-winning article about it."

You looked at him, deadpan. "Clark, you sneezed directly into my hair last night."

He winced. "That was... accidental. And deeply unfortunate."

You mock-glared. "You're lucky you're hot."

"Lucky?" he said, leaning over and nuzzling your neck. "Babe, you were the one begging for round two."

"I was coerced by Kryptonian abs and a tragic man-cold. There was sympathy involved."

Clark snorted and dropped back onto the pillow dramatically. "Unbelievable. I pour my heart into a passionate night of healing, and all I get is slander."

You smirked and rolled on top of him, straddling his hips, palms flat on his chest.

"Oh, I didn't say it wasn't amazing," you said, dragging your hands slowly down his stomach. "I'm just saying — if I wake up with the flu tomorrow, you're making me soup and watching five hours of trashy reality TV without complaining."

Clark groaned like you'd asked him to fly into the sun. "Five hours?"

"Minimum. And I get full control of the remote."

He squinted at you, then sighed in defeat. "You really know how to keep a man humble."

You leaned down and kissed him, slow and teasing. "Someone's gotta keep you in check."

He grinned against your lips. "Well then, I guess I'll just have to make you sick enough to cash in on your nurse routine."

You pulled back and gave him the most betrayed look you could muster. "Clark Joseph Kent. Did you just imply you'd infect me on purpose?"

He laughed so hard he coughed — which turned into a sneeze — which turned into you smacking him in the chest with a pillow.

You grabbed the nearest pillow and smacked him square in the chest. "I knew you weren't fully recovered!"

"I regret nothing!" he wheezed, laughter already bubbling up again as he lunged for you.

You shrieked as he rolled, flipping you beneath him with ridiculous ease, pinning you under the blankets and grinning like he was twelve and had just won a tickle fight.

It was going to be a long morning — full of teasing and heat and probably a few more "therapeutic" activities.

And honestly? You wouldn't change a damn thing.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dc #superman x male reader #clark kent x male reader #clark kent #superman #gay #clark kent imagine

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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you do character animation?! that's so cool!

Yeah, it’s something I’ve changed my major ( GAME ART AND ANIMATION )to this semester and so far not disappointed. It’s tricky and time consuming but the results are worth it, honestly.

#dreamersword

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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Hi, I love your stories. The way you write is truly incredible.

That said, if you don't mind, I'd like to make a story request. You see, I couldn't help but look at your profile picture and wonder.

How about a Damian Wayne x Male Reader story where the reader is an Anodite (or Gwen Tennyson's race, I can't remember her name well, I think she was an Anodite? Correct me if I'm wrong)

I don't know, maybe during an argument with Bruce and his brothers, Damian angrily escapes from the mansion where he is surprised by a boy with apparent amnesia who escaped from Lex Luthor? It turns out the evil bald man wanted to use him to experiment with his body, Damian a little doubtful, but at the same time curious takes him with him. Maybe you could add a Thamarean rank and have them learn the language with a kiss? I don't know 🤭 but that's the main idea.

I hope I'm not bothering you with this 😓

A LONG WAY FROM HOME

• DAMIAN WAYNE x MALE!READER

SUMMARY — After a disastrous mission strains his relationship with his family, Damian Wayne isolates himself in Gotham City—only to witness a meteor crash in a local park. Expecting debris, he instead finds a teenage boy—unconscious, glowing, and surrounded by a powerful pink aura.

WARNING! FLUFF. Violence. PG.

WORDS! 15.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Here we are with our first request of the list and yes, Gwen is an Anodite. This was very interesting to write because I wasn’t sure of the angle that I was going for. I wrote two separate versions of this and chose this one. I’m still working on my other requests/works while trying to do my character animation finals. Anyway, enjoy your reading.✨🫶🏽

DAMIAN WAYNE carried a legacy that few could imagine and even fewer could survive. Every name tied to him was a weight—a title soaked in blood, power, and expectation. He was the grandson of Ra's al Ghul, a man whose name whispered through history like a ghost story told in secret, the immortal leader of the League of Assassins, who sought to shape the world through violence and control. From that lineage, Damian inherited a destiny forged in centuries of conquest, strategy, and unwavering purpose.

He was also the son of Bruce Wayne—Gotham's enigmatic protector, the Batman. A man who turned grief into mission, who wore trauma like armor and demanded excellence from all who stood beside him. Bruce raised him not as a boy, but as a soldier. Under Batman's watchful eye, Damian was expected to be more than just capable—he had to be precise, composed, and morally grounded in a world that had offered him little reason to believe in right and wrong.

Then there was his mother—Talia al Ghul. Brilliant, calculating, and lethal, she raised Damian with the League's doctrine etched into his bones. Before he could read, he was trained to disarm, to disable, to kill. Before he ever understood mercy, he understood efficiency. His childhood was a battlefield disguised as education. Every lesson came at a cost. Every success was expected. Every failure punished. He didn't grow up; he was forged.

When he finally took up the mantle of Robin, it wasn't to play sidekick—it was war. He fought beside Batman not as a boy eager for approval, but as a warrior trying to reconcile the man he was raised to be with the one his father hoped he could become. Every punch he threw, every enemy he brought down, was a step in a lifelong tug-of-war between legacy and identity.

But through all of it, there was one truth Damian held tighter than any blade: he was not a liar. He might be brutal. He might be cold. His confidence often came off as arrogance, and he rarely bothered softening his words. But he didn't deal in lies. To lie was weakness. It was dishonor. It was betrayal—not just of others, but of himself.

He had been trained to see deception as a tool, to use it, master it. But he refused to let it define him. Honesty, to Damian, wasn't kindness—it was a form of strength. It was control. Every truth he spoke was deliberate, sometimes cruel, always unflinching. It was the one code he had carved out for himself, separate from both the League's corruption and the Bat's rigid morality. Truth was the one thing no enemy could twist and no ally could question.

Damian Wayne could be many things—an assassin, a vigilante, a son, a warrior. But a liar? Never.

THE MISSION had gone sideways before it even started. The intel was bad—half-sourced chatter from unreliable contacts. The timing was off—an hour too late to catch the deal in progress, and just early enough to walk right into a kill box. It was supposed to be a clean op: in, intercept, out. Instead, it turned into a firefight in a warehouse rigged with explosives and death traps, where every exit led to another ambush. Damian fought alongside Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Red Robin, each of them moving like parts of a machine built for war. But even the best-trained machine breaks when every variable turns against it.

By the time they limped back to the Batcave, suits scorched, blood dried on knuckles and faces, the air was already thick with tension. No one said it, but they all felt it—that heat beneath the surface, that pressure building in their lungs and throats. The silence didn't last long.

Damian had barely unclasped his gauntlets when Nightwing's voice snapped across the cave like a whip. "What the hell was that?" It wasn't just frustration—it was betrayal, confusion, disbelief all rolled into one.

Red Hood didn't wait for answers. He stepped forward like a fuse already burning, shoulders squared, helmet off, face dark with fury. "You want to explain why the whole damn place was rigged and you didn't say a word?" His voice was sharp, his stance aggressive—like he was ready to throw more than just words.

Tim stood a little apart, arms crossed, expression drawn tight. He didn't raise his voice, but the weight of his disappointment hit harder than the others' rage. "There were choices made that didn't line up with the plan," he said, gaze locked on Damian. "You made calls no one authorized."

They closed in—not physically, but verbally, surrounding him with doubt and accusation. It was like standing in the eye of a storm while lightning cracked in every direction. Each brother threw their own version of the same demand: What were you thinking?

Damian stood at the console, the pale blue light casting shadows across his face. His arms were crossed, shoulders rigid, every muscle tight with restraint. He didn't back down, didn't shift under their stares. His expression was unreadable—anger buried beneath control, emotion masked by discipline. But his eyes didn't waver.

Nightwing moved like a caged animal, pacing in quick strides, his voice rising as he listed out every misstep. "You ignored protocol. You split from formation. You led us into the ambush."

Red Hood's voice cut in, louder, raw. "You could've gotten us all killed, and you act like it was just another sparring session."

Tim didn't yell, but his dissection was surgical. "You made decisions alone. You didn't trust us enough to share intel. That's not how a team works."

And still—Damian didn't flinch. His voice, when he finally spoke, was level. Cold. Final.

"I wasn't wrong."

"I didn't lie."

"I did what you wouldn't."

His tone wasn't defensive. There was no desperation to be understood. He wasn't trying to win them over—he was stating facts. Stone on steel. He held the line, unshaken even as Red Hood stepped into his space, fists clenched at his sides, daring a reaction. Damian didn't give him one. When Tim shook his head, eyes heavy with disappointment, Damian didn't look away.

They were furious. And maybe they had the right to be. But anger didn't rewrite the truth. He hadn't betrayed them. He hadn't sabotaged the mission. He'd made a call in the field when no one else had all the facts. And he'd saved lives, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

So he stood there, letting their anger wash over him, letting their words crash and echo through the cave. Not defending himself. Not apologizing. Just holding the truth in front of him like a blade—and daring anyone to call it a lie.

Even Bruce joined in.

He had stood apart during the chaos—silent, still, barely more than a shadow cast by the glow of the Batcomputer. Arms folded across his chest, cape draped like a curtain of judgment, the cowl masking everything but the weight behind his silence. The others had raged, thrown their accusations like blades, but Bruce had waited. Watching. Listening. Measuring.

When the storm finally began to die down, when his sons' voices dropped from shouts to heavy breaths and clipped remarks, Bruce stepped forward. One step. No theatrics. No anger in his voice—just cold certainty.

"Damian," he said, his voice low and steady, "your actions nearly cost lives tonight."

He didn't yell. He didn't raise his voice or add heat. He didn't need to. The sentence landed with surgical precision—clean, quiet, and devastating. It wasn't just a critique. It was a verdict. The kind that didn't invite a response. The kind that carried the weight of both the cowl and the father beneath it.

Damian didn't blink, but his jaw tightened like a trap springing shut. His fists curled so tight at his sides that his knuckles whitened beneath his gloves. Every breath was a battle—shallow, controlled, forced through clenched teeth. He said nothing. Because if he spoke, the words would come out as venom.

It wasn't the team's outrage that hit him hardest. It wasn't Red Hood's fury or Nightwing's disbelief or Tim's cold precision. It was that. One sentence. One judgment. Delivered without anger, without hesitation, and without faith.

The Batcave felt colder than it had minutes before. Every monitor hummed like a reminder of everything that had just been said. The shadows felt deeper. The walls closer. The air tighter.

Damian looked at Bruce—just once. His father stood like a statue of finality, eyes hidden behind white lenses, unmoved. Unreachable.

That was enough.

Without a word, Damian turned. His cape snapped behind him like a second heartbeat, echoing each sharp footfall as he walked away from the console, from his brothers, from him. He didn't have a destination. He didn't need one. He just needed distance—space between him and the fury tightening in his chest like a vice.

He wouldn't beg for understanding. He wouldn't explain himself to people who had already decided who he was. Not to his brothers. Not even to Bruce.

Let them think he was reckless. Let them believe the worst. He knew the truth. And right now, that truth was the only thing keeping him from tearing the place apart.

As he reached the main hall of Wayne Manor, the warm glow from the chandelier cast long shadows across the marble floor. Alfred stood at the base of the grand staircase, perfectly composed in his crisp suit, hands folded neatly in front of him. His expression was calm, but his eyes tracked Damian with quiet concern.

"Master Damian," he said, gently, like someone easing open a door they weren't sure they had the right to touch.

Damian didn't answer. He didn't slow. His shoulder brushed past Alfred's arm, sharp and unyielding, and he kept moving like the words hadn't been spoken at all.

Alfred didn't follow. He didn't call after him. He'd seen that walk before—shoulders rigid, head low, stride too precise to be anything but restrained fury. It wasn't the time to intervene.

Up the stairs. Down the west hall. Past oil paintings and silent clocks. Damian reached his room and shoved the door open, then slammed it behind him hard enough to rattle the frame.

He stripped off the Robin suit like it burned him. Gauntlets peeled off and thrown across the room. Boots kicked aside. The cape—torn, soot-streaked, still reeking of smoke—hit the floor in a crumpled heap. The tunic came last, dragged over his head and tossed without care. He stood there, chest heaving, the silence pressing in around him like a weight.

Cold air from the manor's vents hit his sweat-damp skin. He yanked on a black hoodie—plain, loose, anonymous. Dark jeans. Sneakers. Civilian gear. No symbol. No armor. Nothing to connect him to them.

He didn't leave a note. Didn't shut off the light. Didn't even look back.

He walked to the tall window that faced the estate's southern grounds. His fingers moved automatically—unlocking the latch, sliding the glass open, letting in the rush of cool night air. Trees rustled in the distance. The moon cut through the clouds, casting silver across the hedges below.

Without a moment of hesitation, he stepped onto the windowsill. Crouched. Focused. And dropped.

He landed in the hedges with barely a sound, rolled once, then straightened, already moving. No backup. No comms. No tracker. He'd made sure of that.

He didn't have a plan. Didn't need one. He just had to get away. From the cave. From the silence. From him.

Because staying meant swallowing what they'd said. Accepting what they thought of him.

And Damian Wayne refused to be caged by anyone's version of who he was—not even his father's.

DAMIAN’S FOOTSTEPS echoed in soft, steady beats against the cracked concrete, a quiet rhythm in the stillness of Gotham's late-night sprawl. The city, always restless, had slowed to a quieter pulse—no sirens, no crowds, just the hum of streetlights and the occasional hiss of wind slipping through alleyways. His hood was pulled low, shadowing his face. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his jacket, fingers curled tight against the lining. He walked without urgency, but with purpose, like movement alone could keep the storm inside him from surging back to the surface.

The roar of the Batcave, the voices, the judgment—all of it felt distant now, like a memory already starting to erode at the edges. The chill of the night air nipped at his cheeks, grounding him. Each breath came easier than the last. Every step further from Wayne Manor loosened something tight in his chest.

He turned a corner onto a quieter block and spotted a tiny juice bar nestled between a closed laundromat and a graffiti-covered bodega. Its flickering neon sign buzzed lazily in the window: OPEN 24 HOURS. Inside, it was empty, save for a tired-looking clerk half-asleep behind the counter.

Damian stepped in, keeping his hood up. The place smelled faintly of citrus and disinfectant. He scanned the menu, pointed at the only thing that sounded remotely tolerable. "Spinach, apple, ginger," he said, voice low.

The clerk didn't ask questions. Just gave a nod, blended the drink with mechanical efficiency, and slid it across the counter. Damian dropped a few bills on the counter—cash, always—and walked out with the cup in hand, the door's bell jingling behind him.

He made his way toward Robinson Park, slipping past shuttered storefronts and dim intersections. The smoothie was cold and sharp on his tongue—the kind of flavor that woke you up, cut through fog. The mix of bitter greens and ginger burned just enough to feel real. That was what he needed. Something real.

The edge of the park was quiet, the lamps casting soft halos across the paths. Trees rustled with wind overhead, branches shifting like old bones. Damian moved along the perimeter, not drawing attention, not needing to. His silhouette was just another shape in the dark—small, hunched, hooded. No mask. No emblem. Just another teenager in Gotham.

His heart wasn't racing anymore. The fire in his chest—the heat from the confrontation, the shame, the fury—it had cooled to a low burn. Still there, but manageable. His mind, usually a battlefield of reflexes and calculations, was still. Not empty, but quieter. Focused.

He sipped the smoothie again and took a breath so deep it stretched the tightness in his ribs. No shouting. No orders. No father waiting in the dark, arms crossed in judgment.

Just wind, and concrete, and space to breathe.

He didn't know how long he walked. It didn't matter. He wasn't chasing anything. He wasn't running from it either. He just needed to exist outside the weight of legacy and expectation. Outside the cave. Outside the mission.

Tonight, Damian was just a teen in a hoodie, walking under streetlights in a city that didn't know him.

And for the first time in hours, he could finally think.

Damian eventually drifted toward the heart of Robinson Park, his footsteps slow, deliberate, worn smooth by the weight of everything he wasn't saying. The smoothie was long gone, tossed in a bin near the rusted entrance gate, forgotten like the rest of the night's bitterness. The park was nearly deserted—too late for joggers, too early for the early risers. The only sounds were the soft hum of the city beyond the trees, the flickering buzz of half-dead streetlamps, and the breeze whispering through overgrown hedges.

Moths flitted lazily around the lamps, wings catching the dim light like flakes of ash. Damian moved along the winding path, eyes low, hands deep in his hoodie's pockets. The chaos of Gotham—the noise, the fire, the shouting—felt miles away, even though it was barely out of sight. The park existed in a pocket of stillness, insulated by tall trees and iron fencing. The skyline loomed on all sides, but here, in the center of it all, it felt like time had slowed.

He reached a worn bench near the park's neglected fountain. The wood was weathered and slightly crooked, one leg sinking into the dirt, but it held his weight as he sank into it. He slouched back, arms folded, his breath fogging in the cool night air. His eyes drifted upward, scanning what little he could see of the sky.

Gotham didn't allow for stars—not really. Too much light, too much smog. But Damian looked anyway. A few dim points of light clung to the black, stubborn and far away. A plane passed overhead, then another, blinking methodically. His thoughts quieted. The silence wasn't loaded, wasn't judgmental or tense. It was clean. Uncluttered. He could almost feel the anger draining out of him, like heat leaving metal.

Then, a flicker.

A streak of white light cut through the sky—fast, silent, unmistakable. A shooting star.

He blinked, barely believing he'd seen it. It was gone in an instant, like a thread yanked from the edge of the universe. He didn't make a wish. That wasn't his style. He didn't believe in signs or fate or magic falling from the sky.

But still... something inside him eased. Not healed. Not fixed. Just—eased.

He kept staring upward, his eyes searching the darkness, half-expecting to see another. And then, he saw something else.

The light hadn't vanished.

It was growing brighter.

Larger.

And it was coming closer.

His breath caught. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as instinct surged through him like a jolt of electricity.

That wasn't a meteor.

It was a missile. Or worse.

And it was aimed straight at him.

The moment shattered. The calm ripped away. A piercing, high-pitched whine screamed through the sky, followed by a trail of fire and smoke that tore through the atmosphere like the world was splitting open. Damian didn't think—he moved.

He launched off the bench, diving to the side just as the object blazed overhead. The heat was searing—so intense it singed the back of his hoodie and stung his skin. The air cracked with a sound like thunder and metal colliding.

The impact was cataclysmic.

The object slammed into the park with a roar that shook the earth. A shockwave erupted, ripping through the grass and soil, flinging debris in all directions. Benches splintered like matchsticks. Streetlamps bent and shattered. The fountain exploded—chunks of stone and jets of water hurled into the air like a dying gasp.

Damian hit the ground hard, skidding through the grass, dirt flying into his eyes and mouth. He rolled, coughing, until he landed behind a toppled trash bin. It wasn't much, but it was cover. He crouched low, hoodie scorched, adrenaline pumping like fire in his veins.

Everything rang. His ears. His head. The world was chaos again.

And at the center of it—the crater.

Smoke coiled from the ruptured earth, glowing embers littering the torn grass. The heat was still radiating, pulsing like a heartbeat. And in the middle of it, nestled in molten soil and fractured rock, was something that wasn't metal, wasn't stone.

It was glowing. Faint at first, but steady. A soft, pulsing light—like it was breathing.

Damian pushed himself upright, his muscles tense, boots crunching over scorched grass and broken stone. He brushed the dirt from his sleeves with short, sharp motions, never once taking his eyes off the smoking crater that had carved itself into the heart of Gotham Park. His breathing was shallow but steady, the aftermath of the blast still echoing in his bones.

Somewhere beyond the trees, car alarms blared in overlapping patterns—a chaotic symphony of sirens and panic that rolled through the dark streets like a wave. Shattered glass glittered in the grass. The park's lampposts flickered erratically, casting long, jerking shadows across the wreckage. The air was thick with the acrid scent of scorched earth, burnt wiring, and something stranger—something faintly metallic and ozone-slick, like the moment before a lightning strike.

Damian moved forward, slow and methodical, his footfalls silent despite the debris underfoot. The crater yawned before him, a jagged hole ripped into the earth, at least ten feet across, maybe deeper. Its edges were charred black, ringed with hissing embers and twisted patches of melted stone. Heat pulsed from its center, a wave of dry intensity that prickled his skin through the fabric of his hoodie.

And then he saw it. Or rather, him.

At the center of the crater—surrounded by fractured earth and glowing debris—was a boy.

Damian stopped cold, the tension in his frame going taut like a wire about to snap. His eyes narrowed, scanning the scene with trained precision, breaking it down like a tactical feed. The teen looked... normal. Human. No claws. No wings. No grotesque mutations or cybernetic implants. He appeared to be around Damian's age, maybe slightly older—fifteen, sixteen at most. His build was lean, wiry. His skin was dusted with soot and sweat. His dark hair clung to his forehead in messy strands. His clothes, though scorched and singed at the edges, were mostly intact—black pants, a thin jacket, shirt torn near the collar.

But the thing that shattered any illusion of this being ordinary was the light.

A soft, radiant aura pulsed around the boy's body. It shimmered with a strange, translucent pink hue, almost liquid in the way it moved—like it was alive. It didn't burn like fire or spark like electricity. It throbbed, slow and steady, mimicking a heartbeat. The glow bled into the surrounding crater, casting flickering shadows and distorting the air like rising heat off asphalt. Damian could feel it—tingling across his skin, humming in his teeth, stirring something ancient and electric deep in his chest.

He took a half-step closer.

Every instinct he'd ever learned screamed danger. This was unknown tech or alien power—or something worse. No parachute. No protective gear. The kid had fallen out of the sky, torn through the atmosphere like a comet, and was lying there breathing like it was nothing.

Damian's hand inched toward the hidden blade tucked inside his sleeve, fingers brushing the familiar grip.

Still, the boy didn't move.

Was he unconscious? Faking? Waiting?

The silence thickened around them, broken only by the soft crackle of burning debris and the distant wail of emergency sirens approaching from far across the city. Damian didn't flinch. He stood at the edge of the crater, eyes locked on the glowing figure below, his body ready to move in any direction—attack, defend, retreat. But his mind raced with sharper questions.

Who is he? What is he?

And what the hell did he just bring to Gotham?

Damian moved in, step by slow step, his boots grinding softly against scorched grass, crushed leaves, and fractured bits of concrete still warm from impact. The air thickened with each footfall. It wasn't smoke or fire—it was the aura, radiating off the boy like heat off molten metal. The closer Damian got, the more it pressed against him. Not painful, but oppressive. Like standing too close to a reactor—silent, thrumming, and ready to blow.

That glow—bright pink, tinged with violet at the edges—pulsed in steady rhythm, forming a thin shell around the boy. It rippled every few seconds, warping the air around it like a mirage. There was no sound, no crackle or hum, but Damian could feel it, deep in his bones. Every instinct told him to be careful. To back off.

He didn't.

He studied the boy's body, every inch of it, eyes sweeping over the shape, looking for twitches, breath, flickers of motion. Nothing moved, except the slow, even rise and fall of his chest. Not labored. Not ragged. Controlled. Like sleep—or sedation.

Damian stepped right up to the edge of the crater, the pink light casting faint shadows across his face. And now, for the first time, he got a clear view.

This wasn't some civilian who fell out of the sky. The teen was wearing a suit—a full-body tactical ensemble, sleek and streamlined, with overlapping armor plating that looked forged more than manufactured. It wasn't bulky. It was precision-built, contoured to move. The materials didn't match anything Damian had ever seen in the League or the Batcave. It shimmered faintly under the aura's glow—silver and deep matte black, threaded with microscopic circuitry that pulsed through the fabric like living veins. Tech that was way beyond anything most people had access to.

And then his eyes locked onto the chest plate.

Beneath a layer of ash and dust, half-obscured by scorch marks, was a logo.

A stylized green and purple "L," ringed by a polished metallic circle.

LexCorp.

Damian went still. The muscles in his neck coiled tight. His breath slowed.

Luthor.

The name hit like a punch to the sternum. Cold. Familiar. Dangerous.

Lex Luthor didn't do charity. He didn't hand out suits to lost children or build armor for random experiments. If this teen was wearing LexCorp tech—this advanced—it wasn't by accident. He was designed for something. A test subject. A weapon. A ticking bomb. Maybe all three.

Damian's mind went into overdrive, piecing together every angle. A boy falls out of the sky in a Luthor-built suit, radiating some unknown energy, and lands in Gotham of all places? That wasn't bad luck. That was a message. Or a move in a game no one else knew had started.

He circled the crater slowly, eyes never leaving the boy. The aura pulsed again—brighter this time—but didn't expand. No sudden flares. No instability. Just that constant throb, like a heartbeat out of sync with the world.

Damian reached for the communicator in his hoodie pocket, fingers brushing the edge.

He should call Bruce. He knew that. This was bigger than him. It was alien tech—or worse. The kind of thing that demanded containment protocols, scans, lockdown procedures. A dozen contingency plans were drilled into him for situations exactly like this.

But his hand stopped.

He remembered the way Bruce had looked at him—past him, really. The cold judgment. The distance. The lack of trust. He thought of his brothers, surrounding him with doubt, accusing him, cutting him off before he could even explain. They'd see this teen and jump to conclusions. Just like they had with him.

Weapon. Threat. Contain it.

Damian clenched his jaw and lowered his hand.

Not yet.

He'd figure out who this boy was. What he was. What Luthor had done.

On his own.

Before anyone else got their hands on him.

Suddenly, Damian's head snapped up at the sound—faint, but unmistakable. Sirens. At first, just a single wail somewhere in the distance, but quickly joined by others, layering over each other like warning bells in a war zone. Red and blue strobes began flickering through the canopy of trees that bordered Gotham Park, distorted by branches and leaves, but getting closer with every second.

He clicked his tongue sharply, annoyed at himself. His hand moved on instinct to his side—reaching for the comfort of his utility belt, for a smoke pellet, a grapnel gun, something.

His fingers met empty fabric.

No belt.

No gadgets.

No weapons.

No commlink.

Just jeans, a hoodie, and scorched sneakers.

Civilian.

His jaw tightened. He hadn't planned for this. He wasn't on patrol, wasn't chasing leads or tailing suspects. He'd left the mansion in a storm of anger, needing space, needing air. This was supposed to be a walk. A night to breathe. To be left alone. Not... this. Not a living weapon falling from the sky wearing a LexCorp insignia like a branded curse.

His mind spun fast, recalibrating.

No gear meant no backup. No way to ping the Batcave, no call to Oracle, no silent signal to Nightwing or Tim. Bruce would know something had happened—he always did—but he wouldn't know Damian was here, standing at ground zero. And that mattered. Because if the GCPD showed up first, or worse, if ARGUS or DEO or one of the other government agencies monitoring Gotham's paranormal messes got their hands on this guy...

It would be over. Damian knew how they worked. The boy would be bagged, tagged, and dissected before anyone even figured out he had a name.

He looked down again, the pink light from the aura casting a soft glow on Damian's face. The kid still hadn't moved. Still breathing, still unconscious. Whatever force shield protected him hadn't weakened, but it hadn't lashed out either. It pulsed gently, steadily. Like a warning. Or a countdown.

This was no ordinary tech. LexCorp hadn't just built a suit—they'd built this. A person wrapped in power, disguised as a boy. Or maybe a boy buried under the weight of something far more dangerous.

The sirens were getting closer now, echoing across the park in sharp bursts. And then—thump-thump-thump—the deep, mechanical rhythm of helicopter blades cutting through the night sky. Searchlights flared to life in the clouds above, wide beams sweeping the park, carving through the darkness like knives.

Damian's breath hitched for a second. He backed away from the edge of the crater, eyes flicking across the treeline, scanning escape routes, blind spots, anything that would get him and the kid out before the spotlight locked in.

They had maybe two minutes. Less if someone on the ground already had visual.

No plan. No gear. No time.

But Damian had never needed permission to act.

He made a call, quick and quiet, to the only person who wouldn't question it.

Himself.

He turned back toward the crater, narrowed his eyes, and prepared to move. This boy didn't belong to the cops. He didn't belong to Lex. And he damn sure wasn't getting left behind.

Damian crouched low at the lip of the crater, the ground beneath him cracked and scorched, still radiating a dry, searing heat that clung to the soles of his boots. Smoke drifted in lazy spirals from the fractured earth, and the stench of ozone and burned metal lingered in the air. The boy lay sprawled across the torn ground like a dropped marionette, limbs slack, his chest rising and falling in a slow, almost mechanical rhythm.

Damian moved with practiced caution, shifting his weight forward until he was just within reach. His fingers hovered over the pink glow that cocooned the boy's body, the heat prickling against his skin like static before a lightning strike. The aura buzzed faintly—not a sound, exactly, more like a pressure in the air, vibrating against his bones. It was wrong. Not magic. Not tech. Something else entirely.

Still, he pressed in.

The instant his fingertips brushed the edge of the armored suit, the boy's eyes snapped open—wide, bright, and electric with terror.

Before Damian could fully process it, the boy lunged upright, his movements impossibly fast, as if his body had been spring-loaded for panic. He jerked into a crouch, limbs tense, hands braced against the dirt like an animal about to bolt. His mouth flew open, and a stream of words came tumbling out—fast, frantic, and completely unintelligible.

It wasn't English. It wasn't anything Damian had ever heard before. And he'd heard a lot.

The language was guttural and sharp, but carried a strange rhythm, like there was a structure to it, maybe even a syntax—like it was half-spoken, half-transmitted. Not random babbling. Not madness. Language. But alien.

Damian's brain raced through his mental database: not Kryptonian, not Martian, not Tamaranian or Rannian. Nothing from Thanagar. Nothing from the League's interstellar records or the Batcave's archives. This was something new.

The boy scuttled backward in jerky, uncoordinated movements, as if he wasn't entirely sure how his own body worked. He stumbled over his own legs, breathing fast, shallow, frantic. The aura around him pulsed hard—hotter, brighter, erratic. It crackled with raw energy, casting streaks of pink light across the crater walls like lightning in a storm cloud. Damian could feel it on his skin now—tingling, alive, almost sentient.

The boy's eyes darted everywhere—trees, sky, shadows. His hands clenched into fists, then opened again like he couldn't decide whether to attack or run. His muscles were locked in survival mode. His face—too young for this, too human for this—was twisted in fear, not aggression.

Damian slowly raised his hands, palms up and empty. No weapons. No sudden moves. His voice was steady, even. "Easy. I'm not here to hurt you."

The boy didn't flinch at the sound of his voice—but he didn't understand it either. His eyes locked onto Damian's face, scanning him with a mix of suspicion and desperate hope, like he wanted to believe the tone, even if the words meant nothing.

Damian held his ground, every instinct telling him to stay low, non-threatening, patient. He watched the boy closely—the way his gaze jumped to exits, the way his body flinched at every distant noise, every flicker of movement. There was trauma behind those eyes. Not fear of a stranger—fear of what would happen next.

Someone had done this to him. Had conditioned this kind of reaction.

Damian's gaze dropped to the chest plate again, and the LexCorp insignia stared back at him like a brand burned into steel. Green and purple. Cold. Corporate. Clinical.

And suddenly it all fit.

This wasn't just a LexCorp suit. It was containment. Control. A cage. The boy wasn't wearing it. It was wearing him.

Someone—Luthor—had built this boy into a weapon. Had torn out whatever life he had before and filled it with fear, programming, instinct. Damian didn't know if it had been surgery, brainwashing, genetics, or all of the above. But he knew what he was looking at now.

A victim.

And possibly the most dangerous one he'd ever encountered.

Damian's jaw clenched. His voice dropped to a near whisper—more for himself than for the boy.

"I don't know what he did to you," he said quietly, "but I'm not him."

The boy didn't answer. Didn't understand. But he didn't run either. Didn't strike. His breathing was still ragged, but slower now. Controlled.

For now, that was enough.

However, the sirens were no longer a distant echo—they were here, howling through the city like wolves circling prey. Their pitch bounced between the high-rises that framed Robinson Park, echoing off steel and glass with maddening intensity. Spotlights from incoming helicopters swept across the treetops, cutting long, blinding arcs through the smoke and casting flickering shadows across the cratered ground.

Damian's pulse surged—not with fear, but with focus. His mind snapped into overdrive, calculating routes, timing, probabilities. If the GCPD arrived first, they'd lock the scene down, raise questions no one had answers to, and cart the kid off to a black site before anyone could intervene.

They were running out of time.

He turned to the boy, still seated at the center of the crater like a fuse waiting to be lit. The pink aura around him sparked erratically, no longer a steady pulse but a wild, unstable shimmer, like the shielding was struggling to hold its form. The boy's chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven breaths, but his eyes were locked on Damian—watchful, cautious, uncertain.

Damian stepped forward, carefully, extending a hand again.

"We have to move. Now."

The words were firm, urgent—but low. Controlled.

The boy tensed, eyes narrowing—

BOOM.

The sky split open above them with a sound so loud and sharp it tore through the air like a bolt of steel. Not thunder. Not natural. Something designed to announce its presence.

Damian's head snapped up.

A streak of silver and violet burned through the clouds, trailing smoke and static behind it like an open wound in the sky.

They came in fast—two of them—descending with terrifying precision.

Robots.

Sleek. Streamlined. Built for war.

No bulky joints or exposed mechanics—these things were clean-cut and refined, humanoid only in shape. Their alloy plating was matte silver with faint traces of violet light pulsing beneath the surface, and propulsion jets roared from their backs and legs in perfectly controlled bursts. No wasted movement. No hesitation.

Military drones—LexCorp military drones.

Each one had a red, horizontal visor glowing across its faceplate like a scanner locked in permanent sweep mode. Their arms, thick and modular, were weaponized—no hands, just built-in tech: plasma cannons, grappling systems, something bristling beneath panel plates that hadn't fully deployed yet.

And right in the center of their chests, plain as day, was the LexCorp insignia.

Damian's stomach turned to stone.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught movement—fast. The boy reacted the moment the drones pierced the cloud cover.

His entire body tensed, every line of him pulled taut like a bowstring. His fingers clenched into trembling fists, and his aura surged with raw, unfiltered energy. What had been flickering and weak suddenly roared to life—brighter, angrier, hotter. Pink light bled into white at the edges, casting wild shadows against the crater.

His breathing shifted—sharper, rougher. His eyes flared, fully glowing now, not just lit by panic but something else. Something darker.

Rage.

Recognition.

Damian didn't need translation. The boy knew exactly what those machines were.

These weren't just weapons. They were memories. They were trauma in metal form.

Damian's mind connected the dots instantly: LexCorp drones. Precision-engineered. Retrieval tech.

This boy didn't just fall out of the sky. He escaped.

The boy sucked in a breath, chest rising like he was about to scream or explode. Maybe both. The air around him began to shimmer with raw heat, distorting reality like a broken lens.

Above them, the drones locked on, their visors glowing brighter as targeting systems engaged. Limbs shifted. Panels opened. Servo motors adjusted with terrifying exactness as they initiated descent, flanking the crater like vultures circling a carcass.

Damian backed up a step, instincts flaring.

This was about to go loud.

The first GCPD squad cars screeched to a halt at the edge of Robinson Park, their tires carving deep grooves into the grass as they swerved off the road and slammed to a stop. Doors flew open. Officers spilled out in a rush—guns drawn, eyes wide, adrenaline firing before they even knew what they were looking at. Flashlights flicked on. Shouts pierced the night.

"Hands where we can see them!"

More cruisers arrived behind the first wave, their red and blue strobes bouncing wildly across the trees and grass, throwing frantic shadows across the crater's edge like a strobe-lit battlefield. Within seconds, the chaos multiplied. GCFD trucks rolled up next, firefighters already jumping from their rigs, lugging stretchers, oxygen tanks, and hose reels. Smoke still hung in the air like a shroud, forcing some to pull masks up over their faces as they moved through the wreckage, looking for casualties.

In the center of it all, Damian and the boy stood alone—surrounded.

The boy was still in the crater, huddled in the pulsing glow of his aura, which flared and dimmed like a short-circuiting sun. Damian crouched close, shielding them both from panicked eyes and twitchy trigger fingers.

He didn't get the chance to explain.

Because that was when the sky cracked open.

Whrrr-KRAAAACK!

The sound ripped through the night like a lightning strike from a god.

The human-sized machines, built like soldiers—sleek, armored, efficient. They didn't hover awkwardly or stumble on landing. They glided, using bursts of blue-white propulsion to position themselves with surgical control.

Damian didn't have time to react before the first drone opened fire.

Blue plasma streaked through the air in neat, controlled bursts—retrieval fire, Damian realized instantly. Designed not to kill, but to disable. Paralyze. Subdue.

One bolt struck just feet from a GCPD officer, sending him flying into a tree with a choked cry. Another tore a gaping hole through the side of a fire engine. Panic exploded across the scene. Officers dove for cover, some screaming into radios, others dragging the wounded out of the line of fire. Firefighters dropped their gear and scrambled behind their trucks, eyes wide with disbelief.

Damian reacted on instinct, spinning toward the boy. "Get down!"

But he didn't have to.

The boy's body was already responding. His eyes flared—pink light pouring from them in full, unfiltered brilliance. His hands snapped up, not in defense, but in reflex—pure, unconscious survival. The aura around him swelled outward with a sudden boom of invisible force, expanding into a dome of shimmering light.

The plasma bolts struck the barrier with high-pitched hisses, splashing across the surface like acid on glass. The dome held. It absorbed the hits, sending ripples across the mana field that shimmered like heat over asphalt.

Damian blinked. His knees hit the scorched ground beside the boy.

Not tech. Not Kryptonian shielding. Not a force field.

Mana.

Raw magic.

The energy wasn't being controlled—it was channeling through him, untrained, instinctual, but real. The boy didn't even seem to realize he was doing it. His jaw was clenched, his breathing ragged, sweat beading on his face as he tried to hold the shield. His gaze flicked wildly between the drones above and the cops behind them, panic fighting instinct in every movement.

He was protecting everyone. Even the people who had pointed guns at him moments before.

The drones kept firing—precision bursts, low-yield plasma meant to weaken shields, not destroy. The aura flickered under the pressure, pulsing erratically, and Damian knew it wouldn't hold forever.

His brain shifted gears. He scanned the battlefield like a general, every moving part a variable. The cops weren't the target. The fire crews weren't even in the equation.

The drones were locked onto the boy.

They're following a directive, Damian realized. Retrieve the asset. Ignore everything else.

He crouched beside the boy, voice low and sharp. "They're here for you. Just you. If we can draw them out of the park, they'll follow."

The boy didn't speak. He didn't need to. His glowing eyes locked onto Damian's with recognition—maybe not of the words, but of the intent.

He nodded once. Quick. Nervous. Willing.

Damian rose to a crouch, scanning the perimeter. Flashing lights. Guns. Civilians. Confusion everywhere. No time to explain. No time to get clearance. He shouted toward the nearest group of officers, ducked behind a cruiser.

"Get everyone out of the park! Now! They're not after you—they're here for him!"

An officer popped up. "Who the hell are—?"

"MOVE!"

The tone in Damian's voice cracked like a whip—pure command, clean and lethal. It was the kind of voice Batman used when the time for questions was over.

That got them moving. One of the lieutenants began shouting into a comm unit, barking orders.

"Evacuate the perimeter! Move the wounded to the south end! Get the civilians clear!"

Damian turned back to the boy, hand on his shoulder.

"Drop the shield when I say. Then run. Don't look back."

The pink dome flared again as another volley slammed into it, cracking the air with heat and static. The drones tightened their formation, weapons whirring, scanners pulsing red.

There was no more time.

Damian's plan was reckless, half-formed, and dangerous as hell.

But it was better than watching this kid get dragged back into whatever nightmare Luthor had built.

And if they pulled it off, they'd both live long enough to figure out who he was.

And what exactly Lex Luthor had turned him into.

The instant the last of the civilians were cleared—herded south under frantic GCPD commands, stumbling through smoke and flashing lights—Damian acted.

"Now," he said, low and sharp, eyes locking with the boy's.

The boy hesitated—just for a breath—but then exhaled hard, a ragged, shuddering release of tension. The barrier flickered, pulsed once in defiance, then shattered like glass under pressure. Pink light dissolved into a mist of glowing particles that drifted upward, catching in the smoke before fading entirely.

Damian didn't wait.

His hand snapped out and latched onto the boy's wrist—tight, firm, not hurting but unbreakable. He pulled.

"Run."

They moved as one.

Damian led the charge, weaving through the edge of the crater with fluid speed, his boots hitting scorched grass and cracked soil in perfect rhythm. Behind him, the boy stumbled at first, legs unsure, body disoriented from trauma and overload. But Damian didn't slow. He yanked once, just enough to force motion—and then, the boy matched his pace.

Not perfect. But fast.

They tore through the wreckage-strewn remains of Robinson Park, weaving around shattered benches and smoking rubble, darting between trees half-crumbled from the crash impact. Sirens blared behind them. Radios crackled. Shouts echoed off the trees.

But none of that mattered now.

Because the drones noticed.

The shift was immediate.

In the sky above, the two LexCorp units pivoted mid-flight with eerie synchronicity, scanners pulsing a deeper red, their bodies rotating with a mechanical hiss. Their weapon systems shifted, recalibrated. Their target designations changed.

They weren't focused on the crater anymore.

They were focused on movement.

On escape.

On them.

A shrill whine split the air as both drones surged forward, propulsion systems igniting in a howl of blue light. They dropped altitude fast, engines screaming as they locked in on their fleeing targets.

"Move!" Damian barked, yanking the boy hard as they ducked around a crumbling statue, the marble split from base to head by the shockwave. They dove through a twisted line of hedges, limbs whipping at them like claws, dirt and soot kicking up underfoot. "They're locked on. We pull them away from the park, they'll follow. They won't risk hitting bystanders."

The boy didn't answer. Couldn't. But Damian felt it—the resolve in the way his grip tightened, in the way he kept pace, his breath ragged but steady. No more hesitation. Just forward.

They sprinted through the park's darker edges now, where the lights from the police cruisers couldn't reach and the trees formed jagged silhouettes in the smoke. Around them, the world became a blur of motion—branches cracking underfoot, ruined lampposts leaning at dangerous angles, scorched grass giving way to raw earth.

A plasma bolt struck behind them—FOOM!—exploding a tree in a burst of splinters and flame. Another followed, slicing through the air with a flash that lit Damian's path in eerie blue. Heat licked at his back, close enough to feel, not close enough to kill. Yet.

"Keep low!" Damian shouted. "Cut left!"

They ducked beneath a bent steel archway once meant to mark a walking trail. The boy moved faster now—fear or instinct, Damian couldn't tell—but he was keeping up. Close.

More shots rained down, tearing craters into the ground just feet behind them. One bolt slammed into a light post ahead, sending it crashing across their path. Damian vaulted it in a single motion, tugging the boy with him. They rolled, hit the ground, and kept going.

His mind ran calculations with every breath. The drones were fast, but predictable. Tactical AI. They'd prioritize capture over chaos. That gave him an angle—if he could get enough distance, enough cover, he could set an ambush. Maybe hijack one. Maybe lure them into a blind spot. Something.

But he needed time.

He needed a minute.

Even thirty seconds.

And so far, they were still alive.

His lungs burned—not from the exertion, but from the pressure that tightened in his chest with every step. The tension was suffocating, coiled tight beneath his ribs, a mix of calculation and cold adrenaline. They were nearing the edge of Robinson Park now, the eastern border—where the trees thinned out, the manicured grass gave way to cracked pavement, and the ruins of an old greenhouse rose up ahead like the bones of a forgotten time.

It was open ground.

No dense foliage to duck into. No alleyways. No shadows deep enough to disappear in. Just broken walkways, overgrown vines, and shattered glass that crunched underfoot like brittle ice.

They had maybe twenty more yards of breathing room. No more.

And the drones knew it.

With a thunderous boom, the ground jumped under Damian's feet. A LexCorp drone dropped from the sky in a controlled descent, landing directly in their path. Its propulsion jets scorched the ground in a flare of blue light, blasting debris outward in a ring of smoke and ash. The pavement buckled beneath its weight, and it landed in a low, mechanical crouch—like a predator bracing to pounce.

A second later, another drone crashed down behind them, cutting off their retreat with the same brutal precision.

Boxed in.

Damian skidded to a halt, boots grinding against cracked stone. His arm instinctively shot backward, tightening around the boy's wrist to steady him. He shifted, placing himself slightly in front, his body falling into a low, ready stance—compact, balanced, dangerous. His eyes locked on the machines.

The drones stood tall, rising from their landing crouches with eerie synchronization. They towered over Damian, their frames built like humanoid tanks—sleek matte alloy plating with violet-blue trim, no wasted mass, just pure design. Their visors glowed blood-red in horizontal bars across expressionless faces, pulsing in slow sync like they were breathing together. Shoulder panels hissed open with sharp mechanical bursts, revealing retractable weapon ports and compact launcher units embedded just beneath the surface.

The air felt charged, vibrating faintly with the hum of active systems powering up.

Then, for the first time, one of them spoke.

“ANODITE: COMPLY."

The voice was low, processed, and inhuman—cold as steel, flat as glass. It echoed slightly, like it wasn't meant for ears but for data logs.

The boy behind Damian went still. Completely still.

"ANODITE: STAND DOWN. RETURN FOR IMMEDIATE DECONTAINMENT."

Damian's eyes narrowed.

Anodite?

Not a name.

A classification. A tag. The way you labeled a weapon, a test subject—something made, not born.

The boy—Anodite—reacted like the words had struck him across the face. His chest hitched. Shoulders tensed. The soft pink glow that had been dimming since the start of their flight now flared to life, bursting in erratic pulses down his arms, lighting up the veins across his neck like molten lightning. The air around him seemed to warp, distorting slightly with every flicker of the aura.

Damian glanced over his shoulder.

The boy's expression had cracked.

Terror still lived behind his glowing eyes, but something else was bleeding through now—anger. Raw, wounded, buried deep and starting to surface. The kind of fury born from being caged for too long. From being named by people who never once asked who you were.

Damian's voice cut through the silence, sharp and flat.

"He's not going with you."

The drone's head tilted—just slightly. It processed the voice. The refusal.

"NONCOMPLIANCE DETECTED. LETHAL FORCE AUTHORIZED IF RETRIEVAL FAILS."

With a high-pitched whine, the drones' weapon systems extended fully—barrels telescoping into place, emitters glowing with concentrated plasma, targeting optics clicking and adjusting with precise, cold efficiency. Their stances shifted, locking into combat posture. No more warnings. No more restraint.

They were preparing to end the resistance.

Damian felt the boy step closer behind him, his aura flaring brighter, the heat radiating in waves now—raw energy with nowhere to go.

Cornered.

Outgunned.

And out of time.

But Damian didn't flinch.

He raised one hand, fingers flexing slightly—no weapons, no tech, just intent.

"Then you'll have to go through me first."

And in that instant, between the machines' hum and the boy's rising power, Robinson Park became a powder keg.

The words "lethal force authorized" were still hanging in the air, echoing in the static-charged silence, when Damian's eyes snapped left. His mind processed the terrain in a flash—debris, shattered stone, broken limbs of trees—and then he saw it.

Half-buried beneath a mound of scorched dirt lay a fractured metal pipe, about three feet long, likely torn from underground infrastructure during the impact. It was twisted, blackened at the edges, one end jagged like a broken blade. But it was solid. Dense. Enough weight to matter in the right hands.

‘Mine.’ Damian lunged without hesitation.

In one fluid motion, he snatched the pipe off the ground, twirled it once in his grip to feel the balance—slightly front-heavy, but manageable—and then launched forward.

The nearest drone was already tracking him.

A bolt of blue plasma screamed through the air, passing inches from his shoulder and slamming into a nearby tree. The explosion lit up the park like a flash grenade—splinters and bark raining down as the trunk shattered in a bloom of fire and smoke.

Damian didn't flinch.

He'd faced live fire before. He'd trained in worse. The only difference now was that he had no armor. No gadgets. No WayneTech to bail him out. Just a pipe, his speed, and a lifetime of learned violence burning in his blood.

He ducked under another shot, muscles tight with adrenaline, and sprinted toward a crumbling stone bench. His foot hit the edge and he vaulted up, using the fractured structure as a springboard. In midair, he twisted his body, bringing the pipe down like a hammer.

CRACK.

The metal slammed into the drone's shoulder joint with a sound like a car crash. The casing dented inward with a crunch of metal and a burst of orange sparks. The impact staggered the drone, forcing it to reel back half a step, its servos whining as it recalibrated.

Damian hit the ground in a roll, recovered instantly, and came in again—this time low, swinging the pipe in a brutal arc toward the joint behind the machine's knee.

CLANG.

Direct hit.

The drone jerked violently, systems compensating to stay upright, but the damage showed—its movement glitched for a split second, just enough for Damian to register a small victory.

Then came the counterstrike.

The machine pivoted with terrifying speed and swiped at him with its forearm, the limb moving like a piston. Damian barely avoided the brunt of it, but the blow grazed his ribs and sent him tumbling across the pavement. He hit hard, rolled, and came up on one knee, chest heaving, pipe still in hand.

His side screamed with pain.

But he didn't stop.

Behind him, the second drone stepped forward, weapons still trained but not firing.

Because the boy—the Anodite—hadn't moved.

He stood frozen, his feet planted in the dirt, the glowing aura around him flaring with erratic surges of light. His fists were clenched so tight his knuckles had gone white, and his whole body trembled like a live wire. His breathing was shallow, panicked. His eyes, wide and haunted, were fixed on the drones—not with confusion, not anymore, but with raw, animal fear.

The name had done something to him. Anodite. It wasn't just a code—it was a leash. A trigger. A wound.

He wasn't acting like a weapon now.

He was acting like a prisoner who knew the guards had come to drag him back.

"Hey!" Damian shouted, teeth clenched as he dodged another shot that seared past his ear. The heat of it burned a streak across his cheek. "Snap out of it! I can't do this alone!"

The drone pressed forward, stepping into range again. Damian ducked another swipe and swung upward with the pipe, slamming it into the joint beneath the machine's arm. More sparks flew, and the drone recoiled—but barely.

Damian's grip slipped. His stance faltered. One more hit, and he might not get back up.

He planted his foot, pushed through the pain, and struck again—aiming for the joint at the hip this time.

Another hit.

Another hiss of heat.

But he was running out of gas. Fast.

The drones were recovery units built for battlefield extractions. Subdue. Secure. Survive. They were machines designed to outlast resistance, not overpower it immediately. Which meant Damian wasn't fighting for victory—he was fighting for time.

And time was almost gone.

He turned, bruised and bleeding, toward the boy still frozen in place, trembling behind him.

"You have to fight," Damian growled, voice low, ragged. "Whatever they did to you—whoever they made you think you were—forget it. You're not theirs anymore."

The boy's glow intensified, veins lighting up like molten circuits beneath his skin.

Still trembling.

Still scared.

But something in his eyes shifted.

The light stopped flickering.

And for the first time, it started to focus.

Meanwhile, the drones recalibrated with cold, mechanical efficiency, their movements precise and terrifyingly fast. Both units shifted their weight in perfect sync, armor plates realigning with sharp hisses and clicks as internal systems adjusted. The one directly ahead of Damian stood to its full height—easily over seven feet—plasma cannon sliding into place along its right arm, glowing coils locking into alignment. Its chest thrummed with energy, the LexCorp insignia pulsing faintly beneath the surface.

The second flanked him to the right, every motion clinical. It stepped wide, positioning itself to cut off any escape route. Their formations were textbook—military-grade containment tactics. Squeeze the target, fire from opposing angles, eliminate resistance before it could gather.

Damian didn't need to guess what was coming.

The cannons charged.

A rising, teeth-clenching whine filled the air as energy built within the weapons—concentrated plasma, drawn into glowing, unstable spheres at the tips of the barrels. They pulsed like sickly stars, their light staining the smoke-polluted air. The frequency of the sound made his skull ache. His fingers tensed around the pipe—a weapon already warped and blackened from impact. It shook in his grip, half-useless now, but he didn't let it go.

His breath came ragged and shallow, muscles screaming from the last round of fighting, every inch of him bruised and burning. But he stood his ground.

He wouldn't beg.

He wouldn't flinch.

If this was it, he'd face it on his feet.

Then—everything changed.

A sudden pressure surged through the air, not a sound but a sensation—a deep, resonating hum that rippled through the ground like the distant thrum of a monolith awakening. It vibrated through Damian's boots, through his chest, through the bones in his arms.

He had just enough time to pivot halfway—eyes wide, instincts firing—

Then the world exploded in pink light.

A tidal wave of raw mana energy erupted behind him, slamming into the drones like a battering ram made of sound and fire. The force of it knocked Damian off his feet instantly. He didn't resist—it was like being hit by a shockwave from a grenade. He tucked into a roll, just like he'd been trained, letting the momentum carry him across the torn ground. He hit hard—shoulder, hip, ribs—but he kept the pipe. Always keep your weapon.

Air punched from his lungs.

He landed hard, dust and ash in his mouth, stars in his vision.

But when he looked up—he saw him.

The boy.

No longer frozen. No longer trembling.

He stood in the blackened heart of the battlefield, feet planted in the scorched earth, back straight, chin raised. The fear was still in his eyes, but it had changed. It wasn't paralyzing now. It was forged. Channeled. Controlled.

His arms were raised, both hands glowing with radiant pink energy, pulsing with raw power that lit up the entire clearing. Not flickering. Not wild. Focused. The aura wasn't just clinging to him anymore—it expanded outward in arcs and tendrils, crackling through the air like enchanted lightning. Magic, but alive. Elemental.

A force becoming aware of itself.

The drones had been thrown like toys—one smashed into a thick tree trunk, splitting it down the middle with a deafening crack, its body sparking and twitching. The other had been launched into a shallow ditch, skidding across gravel and soil, leaving behind a smoking trail of gouged earth and shattered plating.

And the boy hadn't moved an inch since.

He just stood there.

Breathing hard.

Power flowing around him like a storm barely held in check.

Damian, still on one knee, eyes stung from the light, felt something rare coil in his chest—a flicker of awe, tightly laced with relief.

He did it.

He fought back.

And now the battlefield wasn't two drones closing in on a boy too scared to move.

Now it was them who had something to fear.

Though the silence after the blast was short-lived—just a breath, just long enough to register the devastation the boy had unleashed. Then came the sound.

A shrill, mechanical screech tore through the smoky sky above them.

Damian's head snapped up.

From the haze and cloud cover, more shapes dropped like fangs falling from a steel jaw—dark silhouettes lit by blue flame. Jet thrusters ignited with a banshee howl, scorching arcs into the smoke as they descended. One by one, they hit the ground with bone-rattling force, their landings throwing up waves of dust and dirt, impact craters blooming beneath their armored feet.

Two.

Four.

Six.

Eight.

They formed a perfect half-circle—symmetrical, exact. No wasted movement. A wall of precision-engineered soldiers in humanoid frames, their matte alloy surfaces gleaming under the flashing light of the fires they'd left in their wake. The whir of internal mechanisms followed, a rising hum that grew into a chorus of death. Red visors flared to life across all eight units, scanning and locking on with laser accuracy.

No voices this time. No commands.

No mercy.

Just war.

All eight drones raised their arms.

Click. Whine. Lock.

Then came the storm.

A blistering barrage of plasma fire roared toward them in synchronized bursts, white-blue bolts screaming through the air in arcs of deadly light. The sky itself seemed to catch fire. The first impacts hit the ground around them like bombs, vaporizing grass, splitting earth, turning once-familiar trees into erupting columns of ash and splinters. The remnants of park benches twisted into molten slag. The very air shimmered from the heat, folding in on itself like it was being torn.

Damian barely had time to brace before the world turned white.

But they weren't incinerated.

Because the boy didn't fall.

He held.

The mana shield sprang up around them like a rose blooming through fire—vibrant, alive, defiant. The magic expanded in a radiant dome, stretching wide enough to protect them both. Every blast of plasma struck it like a drumbeat of war, hammering it again and again, and with each strike the shield rippled violently—but held.

Flashes of pink clashed against the white-blue of LexCorp's assault, bathing the battlefield in surreal, flickering light. Every impact sent tremors through the ground. Every second it held felt like a miracle.

Damian stood close, shielded just behind the boy, his arm raised to protect his face from the worst of the radiant heat. The air smelled of ozone and scorched metal. Smoke rolled around them like waves.

He risked a glance sideways—and what he saw hit harder than the explosion.

The boy was rooted in place, arms raised, fingers spread wide as if physically holding back the incoming storm. His whole body trembled—not with fear, but exertion. Veins along his arms glowed faintly pink, like the power was running directly through his bloodstream. Sweat poured from his brow in thick rivulets. His jaw was clenched tight, his eyes wide, but focused.

The shield shimmered. Cracked. Reformed.

But it held.

"He's pushing himself too hard," Damian muttered under his breath, his voice nearly lost in the roar of weapons fire. He dropped low, eyes scanning the chaos—looking for angles, escape routes, blind spots in the drones' formation. Anything. He'd fought trained soldiers, maniacs, meta-humans—but this was different. This was cold, relentless, designed.

They were being driven back inch by inch. The drones advanced like a living wall, precise and unrelenting. Every few seconds, they moved forward in formation, stepping through the smoke like executioners, never breaking rhythm.

The plasma never stopped.

Still, the boy didn't fall.

He didn't cry out. He didn't collapse.

He refused.

He stood between them and death like a dam holding back a flood, his magic flaring brighter with every breath he took—every heartbeat a declaration of defiance.

Damian could feel the ground beneath them crack.

Could hear the drones' servos tightening.

Could smell the ozone burn rising sharper.

They couldn't hold out forever.

But for now—for this moment—

He was still standing.

The boy hadn't spoken—not a word, not even a sound—but his silence said everything.

His expression had changed. The fear that once dominated his face had drained away, leaving something colder, something ancient. His jaw was set. His stance, unshakable.

And his eyes—

They blazed.

Not softly. Not subtly. Not like before.

Twin beams of white-hot light erupted from them, brilliant and absolute. Damian instinctively raised a hand to shield his face, the intensity forcing his pupils to contract. It was like staring into the heart of a star.

Then he realized: the shield wasn't holding anymore.

It was growing.

No longer a barrier fending off attacks, it was a siphon—pulling in power. The boy wasn't just defending. He was feeding.

The earth trembled beneath their feet, but it wasn't the drones this time—it was him.

The grass around them blackened in seconds, shriveling into brittle curls before turning to ash. Leaves on nearby trees quivered violently, vibrating as though caught in a wind that didn't exist. Then, one by one, they collapsed inward, disintegrating as their color drained. The life was leaving them, funneled somewhere unseen.

Damian's eyes dropped to the ground. Cracks spiderwebbed beneath the boy's feet, veins of glowing pink mana pulsing through the earth like bioluminescent roots. They spread outward, claiming more of the park with every second. The boy was drawing energy from the world itself. Nature, space, air—all of it bled toward him.

Damian stepped back—carefully. His heart beat faster, not from fear, but from caution. Something was happening. Something huge. And he wasn't sure if even the boy could control it.

Then it broke.

The shield burst outward—not violently, not destructively, but like a soap bubble finally collapsing under pressure. A wave of pressure exploded across the park, visible in the way leaves and dirt flew away in concentric ripples. Trees bent. Benches overturned. The closest drones staggered, forced to adjust, recalibrating their stances mid-step.

In the center of it all—at the epicenter of the storm—he changed.

Damian could only watch.

The boy's skin darkened in real time, shifting from its pale tone to a deep, flawless shade of purple. It gleamed like wet obsidian under starlight, smooth and mirror-like. But it wasn't just color—it was texture. His form became partially translucent, as if his body was made of magic wrapped around light. You could see the mana moving within him, arcing across his limbs, pulsing beneath the surface like liquid lightning.

Then his hair ignited.

It flowed upward, no longer strands but streamers of radiant energy—pink, impossibly bright, alive. It moved like silk caught in a current, trailing behind him in long, elegant tendrils. Each strand flickered and flowed as if responding to the rhythm of the power now bursting from his core.

Wings formed next.

Not feathered. Not mechanical.

Wings of pure mana erupted from his back—arched, swirling constructs of energy that flickered like candlelight but held shape like blades. They shimmered in constant motion, wingspan wide, fluid, alive.

His eyes—if they could still be called that—were gone.

No whites. No irises.

Just twin orbs of solid, blinding white light, glowing with a purpose that was no longer human. They burned with will, not emotion. Not anger. Not fear.

Power.

Damian stood frozen, pipe still clutched in one trembling hand, breathing hard as he stared up at the boy.

He had seen gods wear flesh. He had stood beside Kryptonians. He had fought Martians. He had stared down monsters built in labs and legends born of prophecy.

But this—this was different.

This wasn't a weapon.

It was a being.

Raw magic, concentrated into form, barely human at all anymore. Alien. Elemental. Alive in a way most people could never be.

The drones hesitated. Their visors flickered rapidly, red light blinking in erratic patterns as their targeting systems faltered. They were trying to process what they were seeing—trying to match it with any profile in their databases. But this form... this transformation... wasn't in their programming.

Damian didn't speak. Didn't move.

He wasn't sure he could.

Because the figure standing before him might have once been a terrified boy.

But now?

Now he was something else entirely.

All eight drones locked on as one, their targeting systems flashing crimson in synchronized pulses like a war drum. The transformation hadn't caused hesitation—it had triggered escalation. The LexCorp protocols didn't register awe. They registered threat level. And this new form—the radiant figure cloaked in energy and pulsing with alien mana—had just maxed out that scale.

The drones reoriented with chilling precision, each adjusting its stance a fraction of a degree, forming a deadly arc around their target. Their cannons rose in perfect unity, mechanical joints whirring, targeting optics focusing to microscopic tolerances.

Then they fired.

Eight streams of superheated plasma exploded from their cannons in a blinding volley—pure destruction compressed into white-blue lances of energy. The park lit up in a cataclysmic blaze. Trees, grass, earth—everything around the line of fire was swallowed in screaming light. The blasts converged on the boy like a pack of guided missiles, air howling in protest as the barrage ripped toward him.

And yet—he didn't flinch.

Not an inch.

As the plasma reached him, his body reacted in an instant. The glowing tendrils of mana that trailed behind him like a living comet snapped forward. They coiled around him with impossible speed, weaving into a tight, spiraling shield—an armor of energy that wrapped around his form like a chrysalis.

But this was no dome. No static barrier.

This was living defense—dense, reactive, hungry.

The plasma struck.

And vanished.

No explosion. No concussive backlash.

The bolts hit the mana shield and were absorbed, sucked into its swirling layers like water disappearing into dry sand. Each blast disappeared on contact, devoured by the boy's shield with eerie, effortless silence.

No smoke. No heat.

Just light.

And the light grew brighter.

The boy's entire body pulsed with it. From his chest to the tips of his fingers, from the soles of his feet to the fiery strands flowing from his head, veins of glowing energy flared in brilliant, branching patterns. The plasma wasn't damaging him—it was feeding him. He was a conduit now. A living conversion engine. Everything they threw at him only made him burn hotter.

The drones kept firing, locked into their loop of calculated aggression, their systems blind to the futility. To them, it was just math—more fire, more pressure, more control. But they didn't understand what they were facing.

And neither, Damian realized, did he.

From his position crouched several yards away, hidden in the shadow of a shattered tree, Damian watched in stunned silence. His chest heaved. The air smelled like scorched ozone, and the earth beneath his boots was still trembling with residual power.

He had seen shields. He had seen absorption tech—hell, Bruce had once built a suit that could store kinetic energy.

But this wasn't tech.

This was instinct.

The boy wasn't just protecting himself. He was consuming their weapons. Drinking down the very force meant to destroy him. And growing more powerful with every passing second.

The energy around him shimmered in waves, heatless and surreal, warping the air like a mirage. Debris floated. Cracked bits of stone and twisted grass hovered for moments before falling again. Gravity itself seemed to bend near his form.

This wasn't containment.

This wasn't defense.

This was ascension.

Damian's jaw tightened as the truth settled like ice in his gut.

LexCorp hadn't just created a weapon.

They had awakened something ancient. Something magical. Something far beyond the limitations of code and steel and protocols.

And now, as the drones poured their fire into him—unaware that their efforts were only sharpening the blade that would soon be pointed back at them—l

Damian felt it in his bones before his mind caught up. Static crawled across his skin like a warning, prickling the hairs on his arms and neck. The ground beneath him vibrated—not violently, but with a deep, steady rhythm, like the earth itself was holding its breath.

At the center of it all stood the boy—no, Anodite—bathed in radiant, otherworldly light.

His entire form glowed now, not in flickers or pulses, but in a sustained brilliance that outlined every muscle, every motion. The pink energy around him was no longer wild—it was shaped, refined. Controlled. His skin shone like polished crystal laced with veins of liquid light. His eyes, twin spheres of blinding white, stared into the distance without blinking, emotionless and infinite. The space around him warped with heatless pressure, air bending into waves, like reality itself was trying to accommodate his presence.

Then—he moved.

A single breath escaped his lips, silent and calm.

He raised both hands, palms open toward the sky, as if offering something—or preparing to take it.

The glowing tendrils of mana trailing from his back snapped to attention, then surged outward like awakened serpents, crackling with raw power. They spiraled into the air, twisting and coiling, each one a conduit of focused energy waiting to strike.

For a heartbeat, everything froze.

The drones—still locked in combat protocol—began to reposition. Their targeting systems flickered. Red lights scanned and re-scanned, recalibrating to track this new level of power. They were preparing to adapt, to fall back, to change tactics.

They didn't get the chance.

The boy unleashed hell.

With a flash of motion and no audible command, a massive pulse of mana erupted from him—pure energy forged into a blinding sphere of pink-white light. It didn't roar. It expanded. The initial blast was silent, almost peaceful, a radiant bloom of power stretching outward at impossible speed.

Then came the sound.

A deep, thunderous boom exploded outward, rolling across the park like the voice of a god. Trees bent and snapped. Park benches were flung like matchsticks. Nearby windows shattered in waves. Dust and debris were swept up in a spiraling vortex of displaced energy.

The drones were caught mid-movement.

They didn't burn. They didn't explode.

They came apart.

The mana hit them like a cleansing flame, unraveling them on a molecular level. Their sleek, armored shells cracked and split open, light spilling out through every joint. Their bodies disintegrated into showers of particles, glowing briefly before dissolving into the air like ash in a storm.

One by one, the eight advanced LexCorp combat units were erased.

Gone.

The explosion left behind a massive crater that radiated outward in jagged lines, earth torn up in concentric rings around the boy. Chunks of soil and stone still rained down as Damian threw himself behind a nearby tree stump, shielding his head as the heat of the blast rippled over him. The sound left his ears ringing, and for a moment, his vision blurred from the intensity of the light.

Then—silence.

Pure, absolute silence.

When Damian lifted his head, the battlefield was unrecognizable.

The scorched remains of the park smoldered quietly. Trees were stripped of leaves. Ground was blackened and cracked. At the epicenter of the blast, framed by a slowly fading corona of pink lightning, the boy stood motionless.

His body still glowed, though the light had dimmed slightly. Mana flared gently along his skin, flowing through him like a current. His hair—still a streaming flame of ethereal light—floated weightlessly in the air behind him, shifting in patterns that made no sense to physics.

His expression was blank.

Not angry. Not triumphant.

Just... still.

The ruined earth beneath Damian's boots crackled faintly with residual mana, glowing pink veins slowly dimming, pulsing slower and slower as the energy bled away into the cooling night. The silence that followed wasn't peaceful. It was unnatural—too complete, too heavy, like the entire park was holding its breath.

The boy—Anodite—was swaying.

His body, once radiant and charged with impossible power, now shimmered weakly, the glow around him flickering like a dying star. His dark, obsidian-like skin rippled as if struggling to hold its shape, until slowly—inevitably—it began to fade. His ethereal form unraveled in layers, like a mask peeling away under heat. The mana tendrils that had whipped and defended, that had torn drones apart like paper, flickered out one by one, vanishing into the night like embers carried off by wind.

His skin lightened.

His glow dulled.

The celestial pink fire that had made up his hair collapsed into soaked, black strands clinging to his face and neck, heavy with sweat and heat. His wings, once broad arcs of liquid energy, crumpled inward and dissolved into thin air.

And then his eyes.

The blinding white orbs dulled. Dimmed. Faded until only his natural eyes remained—glassy, dazed, unfocused. He looked around like he didn't recognize any of it. Not the crater. Not the smoke. Not even himself.

His head turned, slowly, like he was underwater.

And his gaze found Damian.

No fear. No panic. Just exhaustion so deep it looked ancient. Like he'd been carrying it for years, not hours. Their eyes met—and then his body collapsed.

Everything gave out at once.

His knees buckled. Shoulders sagged. His entire frame folded like a puppet whose strings had been cut mid-movement. He hit the ground with a heavy, graceless thud, the impact stirring a cloud of dust and ash around his slack body.

"No—" Damian breathed, already moving.

He sprinted across the crater without thinking, his boots kicking up broken earth and scorched grass. In seconds, he dropped to his knees beside the boy. His hands moved with urgency born from training—checking the pulse in the neck, pressing a hand to the chest. Still breathing. Still alive. But barely.

His skin was damp with sweat, clammy and cold beneath Damian's palm. His breathing was shallow, every breath thin and uneven. His limbs trembled faintly with residual power, like the echo of a storm long passed. He wasn't injured. There were no burns, no bruises. But he was spent—drained down to the bone, every ounce of energy poured into that final surge of defense and release.

"You held it together through all that," Damian muttered under his breath, more to himself than to the boy. "You don't get to crash now."

He pulled the boy gently into a recovery position, cradling his head with one hand and keeping the other steady over his chest, counting the rhythm of each shallow rise and fall. Damian's eyes flicked up to the skyline beyond the shattered treeline. Still no movement. No cops. No drones. But they wouldn't stay alone for long. Someone was coming. Bruce, probably. Or worse—LexCorp, ready to reclaim what they'd lost.

But for now, they had this moment.

And then the boy stirred.

Barely.

His lips moved—dry, cracked, trembling. The sound that came from them was a whisper. Delicate. Soft and fragmented, like a language bleeding through a cracked window. Damian leaned closer, heart thudding in his chest.

The boy spoke.

The words were foreign. Not gibberish—structured. Beautiful, even. Fluid and melodic, filled with syllables that had never been shaped by a human tongue. The language wasn't from Earth. Damian knew dozens of alien dialects, and even he couldn't place it.

But the meaning... something about the tone hit differently. It wasn't a command. It wasn't even a warning.

It was grief.

It was memory.

It was a name—or a goodbye.

Damian didn't know which. And he didn't ask.

Before he could try to respond, the boy moved again.

Slowly, trembling, one hand rose and found the front of Damian's hoodie. Fingers brushed the fabric, soft, searching, as if to confirm something was still real. Damian froze, uncertain.

Then, the boy leaned forward.

And kissed him.

It wasn't forceful. Wasn't romantic. It was gentle. Quick. A press of warmth against Damian's lips—trembling and featherlight. Not driven by adrenaline. Not desperation. It was something quieter—a gesture stripped of logic, shaped by instinct.

Then the boy slumped, the last of his strength gone. His head rested against Damian's chest, body limp, his eyes fluttering half-closed.

But just before he slipped away, he whispered one more word.

"Thank you."

Soft.

Breathless.

In heavily accented English, but unmistakably clear.

And then he passed out.

His body went still, a faint smile ghosting across his lips as unconsciousness took him.

Damian knelt there in silence, the smoke still curling through the ruined park, the ground warm beneath them. Sirens wailed faintly in the distance, growing louder. The breeze stirred ash and leaves, but he didn't move.

He just held the boy close, watching over him as the chaos faded.

Whatever this was—whoever he was—this wasn't the end.

But right now, the boy was safe.

And Damian would make sure he stayed that way

LATER THAT night, high above the Earth, the Justice League's Watchtower hovered in its eternal orbit—silent, pristine, a fortress of steel and starlight among the void. Inside, in one of the war rooms ringed with holographic panels and data streams, Damian stood with his arms tightly crossed, his posture rigid. Behind him, a large 3D projection of Robinson Park flickered in midair, the display rendering the damage in hyperreal detail.

The scene spoke for itself: a blackened crater at the heart of the park, ringed in scorched earth, melted walkways, and fragmented metal. Traces of pink energy shimmered faintly across the terrain like residual heat from an invisible fire. The flickering trails of magic danced in slow pulses, still too volatile to classify by Watchtower sensors.

The silence in the room was thick.

Superman stood nearby, tall and unmoving, his arms crossed over his chest. His face was set in a mask of quiet concern, but his eyes betrayed unease—an unease that deepened as Damian finished recounting what had happened.

Jon Kent stood beside his father, posture tense and leaning forward slightly, eyes wide. He kept glancing between the projection and Damian, like trying to reconcile the two—what he was seeing and what he was hearing.

Batman loomed behind his son, cape draped over his shoulders, silent and unreadable. His face betrayed nothing, but Damian could feel the intensity of his father's scrutiny, the sharp, surgical calculation of a man who was already mapping out contingency plans behind that mask.

"And that's when he passed out," Damian said flatly, his tone stripped of emotion but not of weight. "After obliterating eight fully armed LexCorp drones in under ten seconds. They were in kill mode. He didn't hesitate. The amount of mana he drew in... it wasn't ambient. It was alive. Instinctual. Like it responded to his will the way muscles respond to pain."

Superman exchanged a glance with Batman, his brow furrowed. "And you're certain the armor was LexCorp?"

"I saw the insignia myself," Damian said. "It wasn't slapped on. It was part of the suit's internal architecture. He wasn't wearing it—he was fused to it."

Jon spoke next, his voice quieter. "But... he looked human?"

Damian paused, eyes narrowing as he remembered the boy's collapse, his hands shaking, the soft weight of his body against the charred grass. "Almost. But when he changed, it was like watching a mask dissolve. His entire physiology shifted. Skin, bone structure, light displacement. Magic didn't just cloak him—it rewrote him."

Until now, Starfire had remained silent, her arms loosely folded, her golden gaze fixed on the projection. The soft glow from the hologram lit her orange skin with shifting patterns of light, but her eyes were focused far beyond the room.

Then she stepped forward.

"You said he became dark," she said, her voice calm, thoughtful. "Semi-translucent... and his hair became pink flame?"

Damian nodded slowly, gaze narrowing. "Like it wasn't hair at all. More like... energy, shaped into strands. It moved without wind. It moved like it was alive."

Starfire nodded once. Her eyes flared slightly as a memory surfaced. "I know what he is."

All eyes turned to her.

"Or rather," she corrected gently, "what he is. He is not from Earth. That boy is an Anodite."

Damianmoan straightened slightly. "That's what the drones called him before they initiated fire."

"They knew," Starfire said. "Because they built their weapons with him in mind."

She turned to the others, her voice steady, but serious. "Anodites are ancient. A race of mana-based beings that exist almost entirely outside known galactic governance. Most of them dwell in uncharted sectors—places not even the Green Lanterns map regularly. Their bodies are not made of flesh in the way we understand it. They are born of magic—pure magic. They do not learn to wield it. They are it."

Jon looked visibly stunned. "You've seen one before?"

"Yes," she said. "Tamaran was briefly allied with their world during a peacekeeping mission in the Outer Nebula. They are not violent. But they are feared. Because if provoked... a single Anodite can alter the course of a war."

Superman's eyes narrowed. "And this one was enhanced by Luthor."

"Worse," Damian said. "He was altered by him. Engineered. That armor wasn't armor—it was a cage. A conduit designed to control how and when he accessed his own abilities."

"And it failed," Batman said quietly.

Damian nodded. "Completely."

Starfire's gaze darkened. "That makes him vulnerable. An Anodite raised away from his people, stripped of his identity, forced to serve someone like Luthor... He may be powerful, but emotionally? Psychologically? He is fractured. A being made of instinct and emotion, trained like a weapon and left to rot."

"He didn't trust anyone," Damian said. "Not at first. He didn't speak. He didn't fight until he had no choice. When he looked at me, it wasn't with fear—it was with expectation. Like he was used to being exploited."

Superman exhaled slowly. "If Luthor put his hands on something like that... we can't afford to let him get close again."

"He won't," Damian said firmly. "We'll make sure of it."

Batman stepped forward finally, the weight of his presence grounding the room. "We don't just protect him from Luthor. We protect him from everyone who will come next. Because now that he's revealed himself, every agency, every intergalactic faction, and every corporate predator who traffics in power will come looking."

Starfire nodded. "He is a star-born being of magic, left stranded among humans. If he is to survive, he will need more than shelter. He will need a place to belong."

Damian's eyes dropped for a moment, his expression tightening.

"Then I'll give him one."

The room fell into silence again, the image of the destroyed park hovering behind them like a ghost.

Outside the Watchtower's viewing windows, the stars drifted silently across the blackness—cold, endless, and watching.

THE HUM of the Watchtower's life support systems thrummed softly beneath their boots as Damian, Jon, and Starfire moved down the long corridor that curved gently with the arc of the space station. The polished silver walls reflected the low amber lighting of the simulated night cycle, casting long shadows that followed them in silence. Though Earth had long since rolled into the early morning hours, the artificial calm of the Watchtower did little to soothe the weight pressing on all three of them.

No one spoke as they walked. They didn't need to.

When they reached the reinforced doors to the infirmary, they parted with a gentle hiss, letting out a cool, sterile breeze tinged with antiseptic and ozone. The lights inside were soft and dim, set low for rest, but everything gleamed with precision. Med-pods lined the far wall in pristine rows, their curved exteriors like sleeping shells awaiting occupants. But only one was in use.

The Anodite boy lay within it.

He looked almost normal now—blanket drawn to his waist, arms limp at his sides, eyes closed. Peaceful. If you didn't know better, he could've passed for any unconscious teenager recovering from exhaustion. But if you looked closely, there were signs: faint ripples of pink light still traced delicate patterns under his skin, glowing softly with every slow breath. Mana. Dormant, but present. Waiting.

Jon drifted closer, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets, the corners of his mouth turned down in something between concern and wonder. He stared at the boy's face for a long time before speaking.

"He doesn't look like someone who took out a fleet of LexCorp drones by himself."

Damian stood beside him, arms crossed tight, eyes narrowed. "That's what makes him dangerous," he said. "He doesn't look like a threat. Not until you're already on fire."

Jon glanced at him, but said nothing.

Starfire moved to the other side of the pod. Her posture was relaxed but attentive, the soft glow of her skin reflecting faintly off the medical interface. Her eyes were fixed on the boy—not in suspicion, but in recognition. Like someone looking at an ancient text they hadn't seen in years.

"You said he spoke?" she asked Damian quietly.

He nodded. "Right before he blacked out. Before he spoke English. Not any dialect I recognized. It wasn't even structured like language—more like... vibration. Something tonal. I've studied dozens of alien scripts and syntaxes. This wasn't one of them."

Starfire stepped closer, her eyes never leaving the boy. "That was Anoditian. Their speech is more than language. It's resonance. Their mana carries their meaning. They don't just speak—they express."

Damian raised an eyebrow. "Then how do you understand them?"

Starfire turned to him with a serene smile. "Again, Tamaraneans and Anodites share a long, quiet history. We shared... customs."

Jon tilted his head. "What kind of customs?"

Starfire's expression didn't change. "Kissing."

Damian blinked. "What?"

Starfire nodded. "Tamaraneans absorb language through physical contact. A kiss creates a neurological link—temporary, but complete. Anodites... their version is deeper. It is tied to mana. It creates an imprint, a resonance link between two beings."

Damian stiffened slightly. His arms remained crossed, but his jaw tensed. "So when he kissed me—"

"He was reaching for connection," she said gently. "To understand you. To anchor himself. That kind of gesture, especially for one of his kind... it means trust. Rare, deliberate trust."

Damian looked down at the boy in the pod. The calm rise and fall of his chest. The fragile mana pulse under his skin.

Jon spoke softly. "He's really not just some experiment, is he?"

Starfire hesitated for a breath. Then she moved toward the pod and laid her hand lightly on its rim. "He's more than rare," she said. "I recognized the pattern of his aura. The fractal formation that pulsed when he transformed—it's unique. It belongs to the House of Noctyrae."

Damian frowned. "That means something to you?"

"It should," Starfire said. "That is the ruling family of the Anodite system. He's not just one of them. He's their heir."

Jon's eyes widened. "He's a prince?"

"The crowned prince," she confirmed. "And he is here. Alone. Bound in LexCorp tech. That suggests only two possibilities—he was stolen... or he fled."

Damian felt his stomach tighten. "Luthor got his hands on the heir of a mana-based civilization. And he tried to turn him into a weapon."

Starfire nodded solemnly. "And failed."

The room went quiet again, the soft beeping of the pod's monitor the only sound. The boy stirred slightly, a ripple of light fluttering beneath his skin like lightning behind clouds. Damian stepped closer, watching him carefully.

"He didn't trust me at first," Damian said. "He didn't trust anyone. But when he looked at me after the fight... something changed."

Starfire gave a small smile. "You carry his imprint now. His bond. When he wakes, he will look for you first."

Damian's eyes didn't leave the boy's face.

"I'll be here," he said quietly.

And he meant it. Every word.

#x male reader #dc x male reader #dc #damian wayne x male reader #damian wayne imagine #gay #batboys #anodite

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dreamersworldduh · 2 months ago

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Ooo yas can you say who the upcoming fics are about? For example Inmate!Dick Graysonor whatever.

Thank you either way !!!!

Jeremy Gilbert ( request )

title — HOW ABOUT A BET

Damian Wayne ( request )

title — A LONG WAY FROM HOME

Inmate!Dick Grayson

title — GUIDANCE ( sequel to PROTECTION )

Dick Grayson ( request )

title — A THIN LINE BETWEEN LOVE AND HATE

Tim Drake ( request )

title — LOVE & TECHNOLOGY

Parker Caine ( request )

title — FRIEND OR FOE

Clark Kent ( HIS series )

title — HIS LOVE

Jason Todd

title — STRESS RELIEF

Damian Wayne ( INSUFFERABLE series )

title — INEVITABLE

Scott McCall

title — HIS BEST FRIEND’S BROTHER

Stiles Stilinski

title — SEXUAL ENCOUNTERS ( sequel to CLUSMY CONFESSIONS )

Chris Evans

title — PAINTING WITH A TWIST

Tyler Lockwood

title — SIRELINES

Nate Jacobs ( HIS AWAKENING series )

title — HAPPILY AFTER EVER?

Shawn Mendes ( HOME, SWEET HOME series )

title — BREWING OF FEELINGS

Conner Kent ( Beyond the Stars series )

title — BEYOND THE FUTURE

It’s 6am and I just got off of work, but I had to get this out before I collapse into a coma. Feel free to have a guess based off each titles. Nighttt.

#dreamersword

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dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

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other than the dick part 2 fic, are there any other fics or requests you’re planning at the moment?

Currently, I have 11 requests in my inbox and I have 5 fics that I’m planning. It sounds like a lot but I’m working on them 2 at time.

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dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

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We're getting part 2 off the Dick Grayson prison stuff? I LIVEEEE

🫶🏽✨ COMING SOON!

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dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

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what’s your writing process like??

like deciding who the write for, ideas, structuring the plot and writing itself? or is it just decided in the moment?

I love all your work both original and requests so was just curious! Especially since you seem to produce such great fics in such little time!

First and foremost, thank you—truly—for all the love and support. 🫶🏽✨

Procrastination.

1000% Procrastination.

Honestly, when it comes to creating my original work, my inspiration comes from all over the place—it’s never just one thing. Sometimes I write from personal experience, pulling directly from moments I’ve lived, emotions I’ve felt, or memories that still linger in the back of my mind. Other times, I dive into the ( what ifs )—scenes I’ve imagined living out, fantasies that haven’t happened but feel real enough to write about. And then there are those random moments where ideas just pop up out of nowhere—like I’ll be in my bed or work and suddenly a idea hits me out of the blue.

That’s where the daydreams come in—they’re like mini-movies playing in my head at the most random times. Or I’ll be watching a show or movie, and something will spark—maybe a line, a look, or just a vibe—and I’ll instantly pause everything like, ( Hold on, let me write this down real quick. ) Inspiration strikes me in the weirdest yet most amazing way, and I just try to catch as much of it as I can before it slips away.

STRUCTURING

Some stories arrive fully formed, like a movies playing in my head—I see the beginning, the middle, and the end as clearly as if I’ve lived it. The characters, their arcs, the emotional beats—it’s all sketched out in my mind before I even start writing but I make sure to noted it before my ADD kicks in. However with others, I walk in blindfolded, guided only by an idea—an image, a feeling, a quote stuck up in my head. I don’t always know where I’m headed, but I go with the current. There’s always a method to my madness, an idea that anchors me as I let the words forge their own path. It’s messy, magical, and sometimes annoying—but it’s where some of my favorite surprises live.

I am detailed oriented because I really want you all to feel the emotions or at least paint the scenes so vividly that as you read, it’s like a movie playing in your mind. I want you to see the colors of the room, hear the rhythm of the dialogue, and feel the tension hanging in the air. But more than that, I want you to connect with the characters on a deeper level.

CHOOSING

Ooo, when it comes to choosing the men, I automatically go with my personal choices from shows or movies or even scenes I seen. Like the guys, I’ve been day-dreaming about stomping the yard in my backyard. Like the ones I have various of gifs saved in my phone. They live rent-free in my head and naturally find their way into my writing, because if I’m going to build a fictional world, why not fill it with the men who already keep my imagination spinning?

I also make an effort to choose some male characters who don’t get nearly enough love or attention in the MALE READER community. There are so many male characters/celebrities out there who get overlooked simply for male x male action and I want to change that. To give you all stories you didn’t even realize you were craving. ( that might sound conceited but heh )

My socials also help with giving me ideas on which many men to choose from. They can be helpful and persuasive. Or can install a small infatuation with hot fine men who don’t even know I exist.

REQUESTS

Now, when it comes to requests, many of them already come with seeds of inspiration—little glimpses of the plot, hints of conflict, and sometimes even a rough idea of how it should all wrap up. That foundation makes it so much easier for me to jump in and start building. I can take those initial ideas and weave in my own flair.

Other requests are a bit more open-ended—they might just give me a name or a simple scenario to work with, and honestly, I love that just as much. It’s like being handed a blank canvas with just one brushstroke on it. It gives me the freedom to shape the story from the ground up while still staying true to the core of what the requester wants.

EXECUTION/TIME ( spoilers ahead )

The writing process tends to take me a good amount of time—and that’s mostly because, well… I’m long-winded in the best (and most dramatic) way. I’m not the type to just skim over a scene or give you the bare minimum. No, I need to feed y’all—like really serve a full-course meal of details.

If I’m lucky enough to have a free day with no distractions, I’ll fully dedicate that time to writing—like, I’ll dive in headfirst and make it my whole mission for the day. I’ll block everything out, get comfortable, maybe throw on a playlist or some background noise, and just write. Chances are high it’ll get posted that same day.

But on the flip side, when life’s hectic and I’ve got a million things going on, I still try to carve out little pockets of time—whether that’s ten minutes between tasks, a quiet hour late at night, or even typing a few lines on my phone while I’m out.

Now, when it comes to executing the writing—I have a way of setting up the blog — down below ⬇️

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dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

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for what celebs do you write for?

Honestly, there’s no specific ones—just tell me who and I’ll let magic do it’s work.

0 notes

dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

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your fics always being almost 10k is sooooo good, i have some fun things to read tonight! 😌

can't wait for whatever's next!

THANK YOU! ENJOY YOUR READING!✨🫶🏽

#dreamersword

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dreamersworldduh · 3 months ago

Text

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.

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