#connecting two souls across the universes

[kingdom-of-peace]

Spotlight. pt.3 | N.R

Older!News Anchor!Natasha x Younger!Female!Professor Reader

Masterlist

Summary: Natasha Romanoff, one of the most recognized faces in television, finds herself under unexpected scrutiny when a young academic’s lecture on media ethics gains traction online — setting the stage for an unlikely rivalry that blurs the line between enemies and something else entirely.

Warnings: 18+, age gap (natasha laste 30s. reader 27ish), implied smut

Word Count: 5.3k+

A/N: Honestly, I struggled a bit with this chapter, but here it is. Also, university has started again, so I’m not sure how regularly I’ll be able to update. FYI English isn’t my first language.

As you step onto the stage, the applause still lingered in the air, a faint echo from Natasha’s introduction. Your nerves were frayed—your thoughts scattered. Though the applause had begun to fade, you were almost certain you hear a few excited cheers from the back. The lights hit you full force, momentarily blinding, but then you see her—already seated, composed, back straight and expression unreadable under the stage glow. Your eyes meet for a split second. It’s fleeting, but unmistakable: the glint of a challenge in her gaze, as she seems to look right into your soul. 

In that moment, you’re fairly certain you forget how to breathe. You don’t even recall shaking Karen Page’s hand—somehow, you’re just suddenly seated between Carol and Wanda, heart pounding in your ears. Natasha remains at the far end of the panel, her gaze unwavering. You cast her a quick glance again and just as quickly look away. 

The blonde moderator opened the talk with a few light questions, easing the panel into a comfortable rhythm. But for you, everything blurred into background noise. Your thoughts were spinning, your focus slipping. Of all the people in the world, why did it have to be her? Sitting there like she owned the space— back straight, composed, unreadable, Natasha Romanoff was the last person you wanted to see tonight.  

Maybe she hadn’t seen the lecture. Maybe she didn’t connect the dots —just one more critic lost in the noise. But from the way she looked at you, calm and razor-edged, you already knew better. Then you remembered Wanda’s words from earlier—her oddly specific interest in your work, the way she lit up when talking about your thesis. It hit you like a punch. Wanda worked for the same network. Of course she did. And if Wanda knew... Natasha definitely knew. They could be colleagues. Friends, even. 

Your stomach sinks. 

Two full hours. Two hours of sharing a stage with a woman who might very well despise you. And if she didn’t before, she might by the time this is over. A soft nudge pulls you out of your thoughts. Wanda, seated beside you, gives you a subtle look—Karen had asked you something. 

You blink, scrambling to re-enter the moment. “I’m sorry, could you repeat the question?” you ask, offering a sheepish smile. The audience chuckles, the tension lightened for just a moment. But on the far end of the table, Natasha doesn’t laugh—she just watches. Still. Quiet. Waiting. 

Natasha could hardly believe what she was seeing. You, sitting across from her, drawing laughter from the audience with that nervous charm and awkward humility—as if you belonged here. As if this wasn’t some elaborate stunt. Her jaw tightened. She would absolutely be having a word with the event manager and Pepper. Why hadn’t anyone warned her? A heads-up, even a vague mention, would have spared her the whiplash and she could have prepared, maybe even not attended at all. 

Theories surged in her mind, each more irrational than the last but fuelled by the unmistakable sting of anger and betrayal. Had you tracked her? Dug up where she’d published, manipulated connections, pulled strings? Maybe you had gotten cozy with the right people—slept your way into a book deal just to ride the same wave she had. And now here you were, smugly seated across from her, like this panel was some twisted stage you’d orchestrated just to taunt her. 

Well, if it was mind games you wanted, you were about to learn exactly how far Natasha Romanoff would go when someone tried to outmanoeuvre her. 

Then your thesis comes up. 

“Professor, in your recent paper, you argue that modern journalism blurs the line between information and branding. Some would say that’s a direct critique of network television—and perhaps even of our own Ms. Romanoff. Would you agree?” 

You feel the bottom drop out. Of course, everybody on the damn planet had seen it. 

Your voice is even, but inside, you're scrambling. “The argument wasn’t about individuals,” you begin carefully. “But about the system. News anchors—intentionally or not—can shape public perception through their tone, their language, their posture. That kind of influence comes with a responsibility we often overlook.” 

Natasha leaned forward, her smile razor-thin. Just as Karen opened her mouth to speak, she cut in—calm, composed, but unmistakably firm. “That’s an interesting perspective,” she says smoothly. “Though it’s easy to critique the system when you’re not the one inside it. The pressure, the immediacy, the responsibility to tell the truth—those aren’t abstract ideas in a newsroom. They’re our job.” 

You nod slowly. “I understand. But responsibility doesn’t vanish under pressure. If anything, it grows.” 

Her eyes narrow. “So, visibility equals corruption? Or just when it applies to people like me?” 

Wanda tried to defuse the tension with a diplomatic interjection. “I think what she’s getting at is institutional, not personal. We’ve all seen the shift—news turning into entertainment, anchors into personalities. It’s not about us. It’s about the landscape of media in general.” 

You pick up the thread, grateful. “Exactly. I didn’t mean it personally. It’s about systemic trends.” Natasha chuckles, but there’s no humour in it. 

“Funny. It felt personal yesterday evening, when my name was trending all over the internet. Or maybe just scrolling through hundreds of comments accusing me of selling out—after your lecture aired.”

The room stills. You open your mouth to respond, but Natasha cuts in. 

“But I suppose someone barely old enough to rent a car wouldn’t understand the weight of public trust. The world isn’t a paper you can edit until it says what you want it to.” A few murmurs ripple through the audience. 

The age jab lands harder than it should. 

Your jaw clenches. Maybe you were young. Maybe you didn’t have two decades of newsroom experience. But you had fought for your place in the world—sleepless nights, self-doubt gnawing at your insides, deadlines you thought would break you. And you made it. On your own merit. 

Karen tries to pivot, sensing the heat, but you find your voice again—clearer this time. Sharper. “Maybe you’re right,” you say, tone steady. “But critical distance gives people like me perspective. When you’re too deep inside a machine, it’s easy to stop questioning how it works. Or who it’s serving.” 

A beat of silence. Karen blinks, searching for a lifeline. Wanda stiffens. Steven shifts uncomfortably. Carol looks longingly towards the exit. But Natasha leans in, voice low and lethal. 

“So now I’m complicit? Part of a corrupt system? Tell me—do you think I enjoy lying to the public?”

You hold her gaze. “I think you stopped asking yourself if you were.” Gasps ripple through the audience. 

Phones go up. Live streams start. Someone in the back mutters “Oh my god. It’s happening”

And that’s when it truly begins. Not a shouting match. Something colder. Sharper. Like duelling match but with two intelligent women at the forefront. You trade backhanded insults. Philosophical jabs. Ethically loaded hypotheticals. Every word is laced with meaning—some direct, some so subtle only the two of you could hear the real message. 

Wanda watches like she’s witnessing the final round of a high-stakes tennis match. Stephen Strange throws in a joke or two to lighten the mood, but they don’t land. 

Karen finally steps in, voice strained, redirecting the conversation with white-knuckle control.  “Let’s shift gears for a moment. We’ll now open the floor for audience questions.” 

Hands shot up. 

The panel moderator silently hoped the audience questions might shift toward safer ground—perhaps touching on publishing trends or media literacy in schools—but of course, the spotlight remained locked on the two women. A few polite questions were tossed toward the other panellists, but it was clear where the room's tension—and attention—truly lay. 

A woman in the third row stood. “This is for both the Professor and Ms. Romanoff. Do you think the rise of personal branding among journalists is helping or hurting public discourse?” 

Natasha answered first. “It’s both. We live in an age where people expect authenticity. They don’t trust faceless institutions. A strong personal voice cuts through the noise.” 

You replied a beat later. “And that’s true—but the danger is that sometimes that voice becomes the story. And when that happens, we lose the ability to separate opinion from fact.” 

The audience member raised an eyebrow. “So, are you saying Ms. Romanoff is contributing to that confusion?” 

You hesitated. “I’m saying the system rewards performance more than accuracy. And she’s a Master of Performance.”

There it was. 

The crowd leaned in. 

Natasha didn’t flinch. “Better a master of performance than a theorist who’s never seen the battlefield.” 

The audience let out a collective gasp at both veiled insult, the tension now drawn tight like a wire stretched to its limit. Sensing the rising intensity—and with several more questions circling the same charged dynamic—Karen Page eventually cleared her throat and began steering the panel toward its closing remarks. “Thank you to our panellists for such a vivid discussion. We’ll end the formal portion here. Audience members are welcome to stay for a reception in the lobby, where you can meet the authors and speakers directly.” 

You exhaled slowly, unsure if you had survived or ignited something irreversible. 

The applause is cautious, like the audience isn’t sure if it should clap—or brace for the aftershocks. But even as the cameras shut off and the studio begins to clear, you can feel her watching you. Still. And this time, you don’t look away. 

But then, without a word, she turns abruptly—shoulders stiff, pace brisk—and disappears behind the stage curtain. You hesitate for only a second before walking in the opposite direction, the echo of your footsteps swallowed by the quiet hush of backstage. 

You took a breath and stepped back into the corridor, where a few assistants were already guiding the panellists toward the reception area. Wanda gave you a soft pat on the shoulder as she passed—no words, just a knowing glance that said you survived, somehow. Carol offered a half-smile, but even she looked mildly shell-shocked. 

You stood off to the side of the stage, applause still echoing faintly in your ears. The panel had ended—technically. But inside, you were still unravelling. 

You weren’t sure what the crowd had seen. A debate? A spectacle? A duel?

What you did know was that her words were still humming in your chest, sharp-edged and carefully aimed. And your own—honest, maybe too honest—had landed too. 

- - -

The reception hall was already filling with people—readers, students, faculty, media professionals, all buzzed from the evening’s tension like they'd just witnessed something barely contained. A few tables had been set with drinks and finger food, but no one was really eating. Too many eyes scanning the room. Too many whispered conversations. 

You felt Darcy’s hand slip into yours from the side. 

“Okay, I take it back,” she whispered. “That was not just a panel. That was academic Thunderdome.” 

You tried to laugh. It came out as a weak exhale. 

People started approaching. Some with wide eyes, offering praise about your “courage” and “sharpness,” others asking polite, half-veiled questions about whether the clash had been staged. A few people tried to steer the conversation toward the thesis itself, but inevitably, it circled back to Natasha. 

“You really held your ground,” someone said, admiration mixed with morbid curiosity. 

“I don’t know how you weren’t intimidated by her,” another added. “She’s like a myth.” 

You smiled where appropriate, answered what you could, but your eyes kept drifting to the entrance. Natasha hadn’t come out to mingle yet. Either she’d slipped away entirely or she was somewhere behind closed doors, recalibrating. You couldn’t blame her. You were half considering doing the same. 

At some point, a well-dressed man from the publisher approached you with a glass of wine and a proud smile. “You’ve stirred quite the conversation tonight,” he said. “You may want to prepare for a few interview requests this week.”

Great. Exactly what you wanted. 

More cameras. More scrutiny. More chances for Natasha Romanoff to see your face and remember what you’d said. 

Darcy leaned in again. “Please tell me we can go get pizza after this.”

You nodded faintly, your gaze still on the door. “If I make it out alive, first round’s on me.” 

You were halfway through your third interview—this time with a podcast producer who introduced herself as “just here to amplify sharp women”—when it happened. 

The energy in the room shifted. Not subtly. Not gently. 

It was like someone flipped a switch and every head in the reception turned. The low murmur of conversation softened, then sharpened again—but now it was different, laced with excitement. 

You didn’t need to look to know. Natasha Romanoff had entered the room. 

You kept your focus on the question being asked—something about how your academic work translates to non-scholarly spaces—but your voice faltered for a beat as the sound of camera shutters, screams and faint enthusiastic greetings swept in like a wave. Since when where news anchors precepted like superstars, maybe you judgement of her influence was false, people seemed to worship her.  

“Miss Romanoff, can we get a picture?” 

“Could you sign this?” 

“Your last broadcast was incredible—I never miss The Hour!” 

Natasha’s voice rose softly above the rest, gracious and calm, expertly controlled like the rhythm of her show. You glanced up, just for a second. 

She was glowing in the spotlight of attention. Not performatively—effortlessly. Every gesture efficient. Every smile precise. She signed autographs with ease, posed for a few selfies, exchanged short, perfectly worded compliments with admirers. A young journalism student nervously asked about her career path, and Natasha offered a few polished sentences that somehow sounded both spontaneous and quotable. 

She never once looked your way. 

But the smirk curled at the corner of her lips said enough. 

She was enjoying herself—enjoying the control, the admiration, the way the audience moved to orbit her again, as they always did. You recognized it not as arrogance, but something sharper. Intentional. 

She was reminding everyone—and you—why she was the face of network journalism. 

Your interviewer, oblivious to the spiral tightening in your chest, leaned in again. “Sorry, what were you saying about bridging the gap between theory and practice?” 

You blinked, tore your gaze away, and forced the academic answer back onto your tongue, even as the weight of her presence settled at the edges of your thoughts like a shadow stretching across the room. 

Because whether she looked at you or not—she was there. And somehow, that felt louder than anything she’d said on stage. 

-- 

Natasha hadn’t stormed off stage, but her exit had been swift—unapologetically so. Down the corridor, past the waiting crew, into the solitude of her dressing room. Her name was printed in gold lettering on a paper placard taped to the door. The door clicked shut behind her with a soft finality, shutting out the residual noise of applause and questions and commentary. 

The lights above the mirror hummed as she stared at herself—flawless on the outside, but her mind was still echoing with your voice, your phrasing, your carefully veiled barbs. 

She didn’t sit. She paced. 

Pepper was already inside, arms crossed, phone in hand, the expression on her face far from pleased. “Well,” she said flatly, “that could’ve gone worse. But not by much.” Natasha didn’t respond. She took a bottle of water from the counter, twisting the cap without drinking. Her jaw was set. 

Pepper’s phone buzzed. She glanced at it, sighed audibly, then looked up. “ I’m not going to lie—you two are trending again. And this time with significantly more people live-commenting on your little sparring match.” Her tone was clipped, restrained but sharp. “I need to get back to the office and get ahead of it before someone runs a headline that says you started a live debate club.” 

Natasha’s lips twitched, not quite a smirk, not quite regret. 

Pepper went on. “And when you go out there please — don’t start another discussion with her. Your public image is the most important thing right now, and you already gave them enough content for the week.” 

“She came for me first,” Natasha muttered, more to the mirror than to Pepper. “She knew exactly what she was doing.”. 

“Doesn’t matter,” Pepper snapped. “You lost your cool, Natasha. You let it show. That’s not you.” 

A knock came at the door—two quick taps. “Uh… hi, it’s Peter?” came the tentative voice from the other side. “Pepper said to check if—”.

 “Now’s not the time, Peter,” Pepper cut in, not raising her voice, but making it final. 

There was a short pause, followed by an awkward, “Got it. I’ll… just grab the equipment outside.” They listened to his footsteps retreating down the hall. 

Pepper sighed again, rubbing her temples. “You’re walking into a reception room full of people who already think they witnessed the cold open of a scandal. Smile. Shake hands. Be charming. And whatever you do, keep your comments to small talk and selfies.” 

Natasha finally sat down, tilting her head toward the mirror.“She wanted a fight,” she said quietly, more to her reflection than to Pepper. “So I gave her one.”

Pepper sighed, grabbing her clutch, adjusting her coat. “That doesn’t mean you have to back down—but you need to lead with your head, not your ego. That’s why people love you, Natasha. Just don’t give them a reason to stop.” A moment of silence passed between them. Then, with one last look, Pepper headed for the door. “You’re brilliant, Natasha, but reckless. I can’t keep cleaning up after both.” 

And just like that, Natasha was alone again—just her, her reflection, and the simmering aftertaste of a public clash that had left her rattled in ways she wasn’t ready to admit. 

She gave herself exactly thirty seconds. Then she stood, smoothed her suit, and walked toward the door—every step measured, every movement a reset. 

Time to reclaim the room. 

By the time she entered the reception hall, the shift was immediate. People turned, like they always did. Natasha gave no indication she’d just been dissected on stage by a woman ten years her junior in front of hundreds. Her smile was sharp, her posture relaxed, and her presence deliberate. 

She posed for pictures, offered autographs, shook hands. A familiar rhythm. Performative, yes—but she knew how to make performance feel personal. A few compliments here. A dry joke there. She could see the tension melt in shoulders, the way admiration returned to eyes that had earlier been watching the clash like a sport. 

And still, she did not look at you. 

Not once. 

But she felt your presence—like static at the edge of a broadcast. She could feel your gaze flickering her way in intervals, could hear your voice in conversation a few feet over. 

She didn’t need to look. 

She knew you were watching. And that was enough. 

- - -

On the other side of the room, you had finally broken free from the string of interviews, now standing beside Darcy, who was doing her best to distract you from what had happened on stage barely thirty minutes earlier—with little success. Every few minutes, your gaze involuntarily drifted across the room toward the news anchor. 

People moved past you in waves. Some offered sympathetic or quietly encouraging glances, the kind that said “you did your best” without saying anything at all. Others, however, looked at you as though you’d just set fire to a national monument. Those ones were easy to spot—their shirts bore Natasha’s face, or they clutched glossy photos of her with pens in hand, waiting for a signature like she was a headlining act, not a journalist. 

Since when were news anchors treated like celebrities? 

You couldn’t imagine anyone lining up for autographs from another host—not with that kind of devotion. Not with merch. But when you looked back in Natasha’s direction, she was thriving. Not smiling widely or basking in the spotlight in some cliché way—but entirely in control. Every word she spoke seemed to land with precision. People leaned in closer, laughed on cue, watched her like she was the only person in the room. 

And that’s when it hit you. 

Maybe she wasn’t just a well-known journalist. Maybe she wasn’t just the polished face of a primetime news slot. Maybe Natasha Romanoff had influence that ran far deeper—cultural, not just professional. And maybe you had underestimated that power far more than you’d care to admit. 

Shortly after Natasha had left with Wanda, soon followed by Carol, only Stephen Strange remained, casually engaged in conversation with one of the senior editors. Most of the audience had dispersed after Natasha’s exit, and with no one approaching you or Darcy any longer, you took it as your cue to leave. After exchanging brief goodbyes with a few familiar faces, you made your way to the dressing room. 

On the way home, the two of you grabbed a pizza from your usual spot. Once you reached your apartment building—conveniently located just across the street from Darcy’s—Darcy immediately kicked off her heels, having spent the entire walk back complaining about how badly her feet hurt, and made a beeline for your couch. You headed into the kitchen, grabbing a couple of drinks, ready to unwind and put the whole ordeal behind you. Naturally, however, Darcy had other plans. 

She was already sprawled across the couch by the time you returned from the kitchen, two cold drinks in hand. Her heels had been unceremoniously abandoned by the door, and she had claimed the entirety of the sofa like a victorious general post-battle. 

"You know," she began, accepting the drink you offered her without looking up, "for a panel supposedly about “Media’s Role in Modern Discourse”, that was an absolute circus."

You sank into the armchair across from her, letting out a long breath. "It derailed the moment Natasha answered that question about institutional accountability." 

Darcy snorted, nearly choking on her drink. “She didn’t just respond—she unloaded. I swear, for a moment I thought Karen Page was going to dive under the table. And then she zeroed in on you like you were the main course.” 

You exhaled slowly, fingers tracing idle circles through the condensation on your glass. “I knew it might get tense, but I didn’t expect her to go that hard. Or for it to get so personal.” 

Darcy swung her legs down from the couch, sitting upright, her expression shifting from amusement to something more thoughtful. “She’s intense, yeah. But damn—Romanoff doesn’t back down. It’s kind of impressive, in a terrifying way.” 

You glanced over at her. “You’re not wrong.” 

“But you held your own,” she added quickly, pointing at you with a half-empty bottle. “You didn’t let her push you off balance, and you made her work for every comeback. Honestly, I think that’s why she went for the jugular. You didn’t play along.” 

There was a pause—less charged, more reflective. 

“I just wanted to talk about the media system,” you murmured. “Not become the evening’s main event.” 

Darcy offered a dry smile. “Yeah, well, you challenged the queen on her home turf and didn’t get burned alive. That’s its own kind of win.” 

You managed a quiet laugh, the weight of the night still hanging over you. The silence that followed was heavier this time, settling between you like dust after impact.

Then Darcy smirked faintly and raised her bottle in mock solemnity. "You know, I always thought she was an eleven out of ten—but as your friend, I can honestly say she’s dropped to a ten." 

You let out a laugh, low and involuntary. Classic Darcy—an ill-timed joke right when the air got too thick. 

Another pause stretched out, quieter now. Darcy lifted her bottle again, this time with less irony and more reverence. "To the red-headed storm."

You clinked bottles softly. But your eyes drifted to the window, toward the dark street outside. Across it, lights glowed softly in Darcy’s building. Beyond that, the city exhaled into the night. You hadn’t checked social media. Not yet. You knew it was out there—the clips, the discourse, the commentary. The moment Natasha leaned in and made it personal, the internet had probably exploded. You could feel it in the way people looked at you after at the reception. Curious. Charged. Entertained. 

But for now, the silence of not knowing felt safer. 

Still, any lingering guilt about how the panel unfolded had mostly faded. You hadn’t gone in with a grudge. You’d been nervous, thoughtful, maybe even hopeful. But she was the one who’d made it a battlefield. She was the one who turned critique into accusation, disagreement into insult. 

If she wanted it to be a game of control, she should’ve known making it personal never sat well with you. And as the day settled behind you and the night drew in, you weren’t angry. Just tired. But you knew somewhere out there, Natasha was already ten steps ahead—again. 

--- 

The car was quiet for the first few blocks, the hum of the engine and the occasional flicker of passing headlights casting long shadows across the leather seats. Natasha sat with her arms folded, her posture as composed as ever, though her gaze remained fixed out the window. 

After the evening’s events, Natasha felt a quiet sense of confirmation settle in her chest. Everything about you—the pointed phrasing, the subtle jabs cloaked in theory, the way you held the room’s attention with a calculated ease—only reinforced what she’d suspected from the start. You weren’t naïve or overwhelmed. You were deliberate. Strategic. Beneath the academic polish was someone who knew exactly where to press. And Natasha had seen that kind of ambition before. It rarely came without sharp edges. 

Wanda was seated beside her, headed to the same destination—she lived just one floor below Natasha. The younger woman broke the silence first. "You didn’t have to go that hard," she said gently, her voice low but not reproachful. "She wasn’t ready for that public conversation, and you knew it." 

Natasha didn’t turn her head. "Exactly."

Wanda exhaled through her nose, not quite a sigh. "You think that makes it better?"

"It makes it honest." Natasha’s tone was clipped, but not cold. "I’m not interested in waiting for everyone to catch up. They invited me to speak. I did." 

"You spoke," Wanda agreed, her eyes on the passing cityscape. "But she didn’t hear you. You didn’t want her to hear you. You wanted her to flinch." 

Natasha didn’t reply immediately. The silence returned, heavy but not uncomfortable. She’d spent a lifetime sitting in silences much worse. Wanda had a way of always being plausible—never forceful, never wrong—like she saw through Natasha not with judgment, but with an unsettling kind of clarity that made evasion feel pointless. 

After a moment, she said, "They build these panels to look like they’re welcoming hard questions, but they only want palatable truths. Sanitized, symbolic. I’m not going to wrap everything I know in polite euphemism just to make her feel enlightened." 

Wanda nodded slowly. "You’ve always had a talent for cutting through the script." 

Natasha turned toward her then, just slightly. "And you always try to soften the blow." 

"Someone has to," Wanda said, not with judgment, but a hint of sadness. "Not because you're wrong. But because people shut down when they feel exposed." 

"Maybe they should," Natasha said. "Maybe that's the only way anything changes—when they're uncomfortable enough to stop pretending." 

The car slowed in front of the building. The driver didn’t ask questions; he knew better. Natasha stepped out first, Wanda following close behind. They entered the lobby without speaking, the muted elegance of the space doing nothing to diminish the weight of the evening. 

Inside the elevator, Natasha pressed the button for the top floor. Wanda hit the one just below. The doors slid shut with a soft chime. 

The elevator began to slow. Wanda turned toward her, searching her face for something—softness, regret, anything. But Natasha remained still, eyes forward, calm and unmoved. 

"Don’t turn your clarity into isolation," Wanda finally said softly, as the doors opened on her floor. "You don’t have to be at war with everyone to be right."

Natasha gave the faintest of smiles, not bitter, but resolute. "I’m not at war, Wanda. I'm just done bending over backwards." 

The elevator chimed softly as the doors slid open. Wanda stepped out, pausing just before the doors closed. "Good night, Natasha."

"Good night," she replied, already watching the numbers shift as the elevator resumed its climb. 

Alone now, Natasha let the stillness settle in again. She wasn’t angry. She wasn’t shaken. She had said what needed to be said—without apology, without compromise. The city stretched beneath her feet, full of noise and noise masquerading as dialogue. 

As Natasha stepped into her apartment, the first and only to greet her was Liho like every night, weaving figure-eights around her legs with a soft, insistent purr. The scent of something warm still lingered in the air. Dinner had been left out—neatly covered, precisely arranged. Her household assistant had already come and gone, as usual. No note, no conversation. Just the quiet presence of care left behind in the form of a rice and salmon dish kept warm on the stove. 

Natasha sat at the kitchen island, picking at the rice dish. Liho, already well-fed, stationed himself at her feet with the air of a creature who hadn’t seen a meal in days. She rolled her eyes and flicked him a piece of salmon. He caught it mid-air like a practiced thief. 

Her mind was far away, drifting back to the panel, to your voice, to the tension that had gripped the room like a wire strung tight between two opposing poles. She’d won, hadn’t she? Public perception was on her side. The photos, the compliments, the attention—they had reassured her of her position. 

Then the buzzer broke the silence. She walked to the speaker and pressed the button. “Yes?” 

“It’s downstairs, Miss Romanoff. There’s someone here to see you,” came the familiar voice of the Concierge. 

Natasha didn’t hesitate. “Send her up.”

A couple of minutes later, a pretty blonde was standing in her doorway. A journalist she’d met briefly at the reception, to whom she’d slipped her address with a note scribbled in the margin of her business card: “Come by later if you want to talk off-record.”

It wasn’t about talking. Natasha didn’t need conversation. She needed distraction—something soft, something simple, something that didn’t ask questions. And the woman was all of that. 

Later, when the apartment was dark and quiet, and the woman lay sleeping beside her, Natasha stared at the ceiling, wide awake. And her thoughts, traitorous as ever, circled back to you.

You—seated across from her on that stage, too composed for your age, too sharp for someone so new to the public eye. You, who had looked at her not like a myth, but like a problem to be dissected. You, whose words still echoed in her ears despite the champagne compliments that followed her all evening. 

She had won the night. But somehow, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she hadn’t won the war. You were still there—lodged somewhere beneath her skin. And Natasha Romanoff didn’t like leaving things unresolved.

-

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A/N: Thanks so much for reading and for all the feedback on the last part! The story will start picking up the coming chapter. Natasha will get whiplashed poor thing lol.

Tags: @nebthetautora @womenarehotsstuff @doddledoo @caramelcat123-blog @jassgunner

[yeonbam]

the way I have every single tag about lgief muted everywhere since the evening... first because I didn't want to get spoilt before finishing... now I don't have the heart to unmute and see them again lest I go through it in a way worse than I am right now... you'd think it's a bad ending with the way I'm acting but it's BECAUSE it wasn't a bad ending. it's because it was the perfect possible ending Ever.

[ninibeingdelulu]

Calmness ✧

Plot: Ken and you have a real daughter.

A/N: kinda short :(

Soft evening light filtered through the den, casting everything in that warm, nostalgic glow you'd come to associate with pure contentment over these past few blissful years together.

Ken's attention remained transfixed on that vintage baseball game rerun flickering across the flatscreen.

Body settled deep into those overstuffed couch cushions with one leg casually crossed over the other in peak middle-aged dad repose.

But it was the tiny, swaddled bundle cradled against his barrel chest that held your rapt fascination from the archway.

Soaking in every precious detail of their serene tableau with an overflow of maternal adoration swelling in your breast.

At just three months old, your newborn daughter remained utterly oblivious to her surroundings - cherubic features smoothed into perfect repose while bronzed lashes fanned over porcelain cheeks.

One little fist tucked up beneath her chin while the other tiny starfish hand rested atop Ken's broad pec, rising and falling with each of his steady rumbles.

Her doting father absently brushed the pad of his thumb in soothing circles over the minuscule knuckles. Never once taking those transfixed mahogany pools off your slumbering miracle's face as if committing every microscopic shift to eternal memory.

That singular worshipful reverie you'd immediately recognized and fallen hopelessly in love with all over again these past few weeks.

The exact same soul-deep look Ken once bestowed solely upon the orphaned kaiju he'd raised before watching her depart for greener pastures - now magnified tenfold through his unbreakable connection to your shared offspring.

A permanent reminder of the family you created together from that cosmic loneliness.

"She's not at all like Emi was , is she?" You murmured, footsteps barely audible across the plush carpet until dropping onto the open cushion space beside him.

Ken responded with only a low rumbling hum from his broad chest while immediately unfurling that sheltering arm around your shoulders.

Cocooning you into his solid, familiar warmth until your cheek smooshed comfortably against the firmness of his shoulder. Close enough to press a wandering caress across your tiny miracle's silken crown.

"No - she's not. She's ours." A meaningful pause preceded Ken's soft, gravelly rasp ghosting across your hairline. "Our daughter...our real baby that you gave me, sweetheart. One I'll guard with my life the same way I do for you always."

Melting into the tender, possessive squeeze encircling your trim waist, you craned your chin up against his collarbone to receive that lingering brush over your puckered lips.

Ken's soulful gaze locked onto yours - swimming depths of protective ferocity tamed only through utter reverence for the two solitary souls anchoring his universe now.

The unspoken mantra of doing anything to safeguard the loves of his life until extinction itself.

"You've already given me more than enough happiness to last a trillion lifetimes, babe. Thank you," he whispered hoarsely against your skin.

"For being everything I could've dreamed during those cold, empty decades..."

You stifled the tiny sniffle by reclaiming his questing mouth in a searing, needful communion - conveying through satin caresses alone just how desperately you treasured this man and the profound sanctuary of family he'd bestowed upon you.

Your Ultraman, protector, partner, and living legacy of insurmountable love all in one. Cradling you both to his gallant hero's heart for eternity.

[gallusrostromegalus]

I did not care at all for Aizen Sosuke when I first read bleach. I found him boring, and worst, unthreatening.

So it's pretty jarring for me that I have been OBSESSED with him in your AU. I'm rotating him at great speed

Walt Disney was a jackass who was flat-out wrong about a lot of very important things, but he employed a great many geniuses of storytelling, and there's a piece in Disney Animation: The Illusion of Life by Frank Thomas and Ollie Johnson that discusses a key feature of Disney Studios Character Design:

"Of all characters, villains are the most fun to develop because they make everything else happen. They are the instigators, and always more colorful than the Hero. They may be dramatic, awesome, insidious or semi-comic, but they MUST be appealing. Almost any story becomes innocuous if all the evil is eliminated, but we do not necessarily gain strength by being frightening. we want a character that will hold the audience and entertain them, even if it's a Chilling Type of Entertainment."

And I've found that to be an important principle of character design, especially the kind of canon restructuring I do.

Aizen had a LOT going for him in canon- for all of Bleach's other faults, Aizen's conspiracy and THE REVEAL are spectacularly constructed and executed. I legit screamed and threw my mug across my dorm room when I read it in the manga the first time. He's also conventionally attractive and the translations I was reading gave him the speech patterns of Every Douchebag In Your 101 Political Theory Who Thinks He's The Smartest Man In The Room, which made him a terrific combination of Unfortunately Charming, Menacingly Competent and Engagingly Obnoxious.

...But he falls flat in a few key places.

Aizen's reasoning could be MUCH more sympathetic- After all, he is RIGHT. Soul Sciety does suck ass and all the options kind of suck. Who designs a universe like that? An asshole who needs killing, that's who. The best kind of Unhinged Madmen are the kind who spell out their reasoning and you realize that there but for the grace of Not Having Super Powers Go I. Canon!Aizen makes a few Good Rhetorical Points, but seems to lack any personal connection to his all-consuming plan.

Another issue is that nearly every villain with A Plan has a clear end goal AND a lot of the menace is drawn from the fact that the plan *could* work. Aizen's plan for betraying the court guard and then killing them off before proceeding into the Royal Realm to Kill God sorta falls apart when it's clear he planned to use pretty much all his accumulated forces dealing with the court guard and doesn't seem to have a plan for the Even More Powerful Royal Guard, let alone God. For how meticulously planned the rest of the plot is, the last two VERY IMPORTANT steps are just handwaved.

So I sat down and started with the plot beats Aizen MUST hit, and tried to imagine what kind of guy would he have to be to get there? And I came up with this:

Sosuke Aizen is a fundamentally good man with genuinely good intentions who is really trying his best for the whole world.

Think about it- what lengths would you NOT go to if you think you found a genuine shot at Fixing Everything Wrong With The World Forever? We all talk about killing Hitler if we found an actual Time Machine- would you do it if your only chance was when he was a baby? Would you kill an infant if it meant you could stop World War II before it starts? Of course you would! One small life for over 75 million? You'd be insane not to! What if you found out that you could prevent the future extinction of Humanity by killing your best friend today? Ten Billion lives? For theirs? It's simple, really- Hell, it's your Moral Obligation to do that if you were SURE!

-And Aizen IS sure. He is absolutely, totally, completely sure that He Can Save Everyone if he just gets rid of that idiot sitting on the throne of heaven. He's seen the plans! He knows where the gate of heaven is! It's So SIMPLE he just has to get inside, and he knows EXACTLY how to do it, yes it'll be hard and there will be... unpleasant parts but. IT. WILL. WORK.

He is of course, insane.

Aizen didn't have One Bad Day that set him irrevocably on the path of madness. It was a succession of catastrophic disappointments and realizations that he was living in a fundamentally irrational world that made irrational thinking look sane. The Catastrophe that befell his family, working for the central 46 and later the court guard and seeing how the organizations were inept to the point of abuse or corrupt to the core, learning that The Actual House Of God is a place he can just? Go to? Anyone would start thinking you were just a handful of white lies and homicides away from Fixing Everything, Forever.

Not only is Aizen insane, he is nowhere near as smart as he thinks. He is smart- He does have a knack for being able to guess just what will spur someone to action or make them recoil in fear. But mostly he gets extremely lucky Many, Many, MANY times. On some level I think it gives him Confirmation Bias that this is what he's supposed to be doing. Aizen is also nowhere near as smart as (nearly) everyone else thinks he is. His bizarrely good luck makes him look like a hyper-competent genius when really it was really the catastrophic failure of Soul Society as a Society that let a merely mediocre conspirator to evade detection for so long.

Being that he is at most, mediocre, he had to have Outside Help, specifically Gin's emotional support and Tousen's Competence- and if there's a part of the fic that stays true to canon, it's this.

Gin is Aizen's emotional rock in Canon. He's the ONE guy that Aizen genuinely trusts, and considers his 'my only real partner' in his scheme. There's more than one occasion in the manga where Aizen more or less asks Gin "Is this actually a good idea?" and Gin backs him up every time.

...Which is more than a bit at odds with Gin's later stated goal of "I did all this to kill you at your most vulnerable to protect rangiku" . It never rang true to me. So I started thinking why on EARTH Gin would be backing Aizen up like that, and realized there was a hole in my world building that he slotted into nicely :)

On the other hand, the entire fic was started because I didn't like how Tousen's character arc ended, so you can imagine how much he's changed.

But in canon, TOUSEN DOES ALL THE FUCKING WORK.

Lab work? Tousen.

Supervising the arrancar directly? Tousen

Actually getting victims for the Hogyoku experiments? Tousen.

Altering all the archives to keep Aizen's plot hidden? Tousen.

Sending all the Orders allegedly from the central 46? Tousen.

Making sure Unohana believes Aizen's fake body is real? Tousen.

Managing all the day-to-day operations at Las Noches? Tousen.

There's even this little exchange, which is Tousen's first appearance in the Manga:

Aizen establishes this entire meeting is a little fake-out a few pages later with "now isn't that a convenieint time for the alarm to go off?"

which makes him look like he's investigating, but he's also going "Good job on disrupting everyone with the alarm Gin!" It's ballsy of Aizen to do a check-in on his plan with his main nemesis in the room, but also his style.

I think the same thing is happening here with Tousen. To make sure Ukitake wouldn't raise a huge fit about the proposed execution of his beloved lieutenant, which might fuck everything up for Aizen because Ukitake is one of like, three people Yamamoto will listen to (sort of).

...So he had Tousen poison Ukitake to keep him out of the way.

ALL. THE. FUCKING. WORK. It's even in his name! The characters for "Tousen" Refer to a legendary scholar the emperor of China sent out to discover the secret of immortality- only to kill the scholar when he returned with that secret. The character for "Kaname" means "Necessary/Vital/keystone" or "to organize/take account of". His name LITERALLY means "Scholar who is essential for the plan (that we're going to kill later)"

Another thing Kubo did well in Bleach: his name game is Off The Fucking Charts.

-but I digress.

In AEIWAM, it's much the same only this time Aizen sees this very dangerous witness who is immune to his illusions but also extremely snart and capable young man and instead of risking being caught out by the one damn guy who can see right through him, opts to Curse Kaname into doing as Aizen says, and doing all the fucking work of this conspiracy against his will.

It's Not Nice, but Aizen genuinely thinks he's doing Kaname a favor by subjecting him to this degrading and incredibly painful servitude- I mean, Aizen's only other option was to Kill him to keep his silence, and isn't it wonderful that you get to help fix the universe? You're the one always going on about Justice, I don't understand why you didn't jump at the chance to mete out some Divine Justice.

An Excerpt from the captain's meeting in between the Massacre that made the visored and Zaraki's arrival, when Kaname realizes Yamamoto is 100% serious about his promotion to captain of the 9th and goes to throw up in the garden. Aizen offers to go check on him while Unohana very politely reads the general the riot act:

---

"You broke your toy Aizen." Kaname coughs.

"…I really am sorry for running you ragged like this. I really shouldn't have gotten so mad about you hiding the the hogyoku- it was very petty of me." The bastard sighs, taking off his glasses and rubbing his face, entirely genuine.

Kaname stayed on his hands and knees, weaving slightly as another wave of nausea flowed through him, powered by disgust and rage.

"How about this- I've got a lot coming up with the new job, training Gin and disposing of Kiganjo- So how about I promise to not give you any orders for a while? You will have to keep our arrangement a secret and not interfere, of course, but other than that, you're free to do as you please for- a year and a day is traditional isn't it? No, that's not going to heal by then- Oh, would you look at that!"

Kaname didn't have the strength to offer his usual rebuttal that he won't look at anything, ever. The sides of his head tingle like his skul was being pressed between two enormous hands made of static electricity.

"It's 11:11! Alright, I won't give you any Orders until 11:11 am on November 11th, 1911. That's easy to remember! What do you think?" Aizen continued cheerfully, patting his back and the Curse nails.

"…I can't." Kaname groaned. He could scream if he had the energy, but due to Aizen's Illusions, nobody would hear him. "I actually physically can't think. Please…"

"Of course! You really are such a help to me, it would be a shame to lose you. I'll even amend our contract, so you don't get paranoid-" There was a sizzling sound and a new stroke of hot pain up Kaname's spine as Aizen did something to the wretched Bakudo. "There. No compulsions for eleven years and a day. What do you say?"

Kaname grimaced, but dropped his head. Save the energy to fight another day. "…thank you, Aizen-sama."

"Good man! Let's get you on your feet." Aizen beamed, putting his glasses back on and offering him an arm.

---

He genuinely thinks that he's doing everyone a huge favor and if they don't get it it's because they're just not smart enough, but it's alright, He's a Benevolent God and they'll appreciate all his hard work the next time around :)

Aizen is a man who is FULL of joy. He loves what he does! He actively takes pleasure in it! And I think that's something that REALLY delivers in terms of sympathy AND horror for him. Who *Wouldn't* have a great time actually fixing the universe? He's a good man who enjoys doing good works, and this is the greatest work of all!

It also Delivers on the Horror when I get to write the deliciously fun scenes where Aizen is Elbows-deep in a novel War Crime and waxing poetic about how GREAT this is, or being confused why the people around him are reacting with fear. Don't you want to make everything better too?

[spiritualitygeek]

PAC: Their Sexual Fantasies About You (Fs channeled reading)

Disclaimer: This content is intended for adults aged 18 and over. Minors are strictly advised not to engage. This reading is for entertainment purposes only and should not be used as the basis for any major life decisions, particularly regarding health, finances, or legal matters. Viewer discretion is strongly advised.

1->2

3->4

5->6

Pile 1

Your future spouse is deeply sensual, the kind of lover who worships through touch. Their love language is physical, and they crave intimacy in the slowest, most tantalizing ways—drawing out every sensation, every breath, until you’re trembling under them.

They have a vivid imagination, and one of their favorite fantasies involves you, them, and a hot, steamy shower. They picture dim lighting, scented candles flickering, the air thick with heat as water cascades down your bodies. They imagine pressing you against the cold tile, the contrast against your warm, flushed skin sending a shiver through you. Their hands would be everywhere, lathering soap over your curves, massaging, exploring—taking their time to savor the feeling of your body beneath their touch.

They want to watch the way the water clings to your skin, how droplets race down your neck, your shoulders, your back. They fantasize about kneeling before you, kissing and biting their way up your thighs, their tongue tracing the path of the water. Or maybe they imagine pulling you into the bathtub instead, submerging you both in warmth, your bodies tangled together, slick with heat and desire.

But it doesn’t end there. No, in their mind, it always leads to something deeper, something raw. They picture you bent over beneath the rushing water, your back arched as they grip your hips, taking you in slow, deep thrusts that drive you insane. The sound of water splashing, heavy breaths mingling with the steam, the way your fingers claw at the fogged-up glass—every detail is burned into their thoughts.

For them, it’s not just about sex. It’s about immersion, about touch, about feeling every inch of you and making sure you feel every inch of them. They want to consume you, to make you melt under their hands, to hear your breath hitch as they claim you again and again—until the water runs cold and you’re both too exhausted to move.

Pile 2

Your future spouse sees sex as something deeply spiritual—an act of pure, soul-deep connection. They don’t just crave physical intimacy; they long to merge with you in a way that transcends the body, where every touch, every breath, every movement pulls you both into something sacred, something beyond the limits of flesh. They’ve already had you in every way imaginable—in their mind, in their fantasies, in the realm where energy speaks louder than words. If you've ever woken up from a heated dream, your body aching for someone whose face you can't quite remember, that was them, reaching for you across the unseen.

They're shy, reserved in the real world, not the type to sleep around or waste themselves on meaningless encounters. Sex, to them, isn't just pleasure—it's devotion, it's surrender, it's a universe unfolding between two souls meant for each other. Maybe they’ve been with others before, maybe they tried, but it never touched them the way it was supposed to. It was empty, disappointing, just flesh meeting flesh with nothing deeper beneath it. That’s why they stopped, why they decided to wait, to keep themselves for something real. For you.

But don’t mistake their restraint for innocence. They’re intensely sexual, their desire coiled tight, waiting to be unraveled by you. They might not have let themselves fully indulge before, but when they do—when it’s with you—they won’t hold back. They'll give you everything, let you break them apart and put them back together, let you push them to limits they didn’t know existed. There will be no shame, no hesitation—just raw, soul-consuming passion.

Maybe this is a twin flame connection, something written in the stars long before you even met in this life. They already feel you in their energy, in their dreams, in the silent moments where desire turns into longing. And when you finally come together in the flesh, it won’t just be sex—it’ll be a fucking revelation.

Pile 3

Your future spouse has a filthy mind—there’s no other way to put it. They’re into role-play, but not the tame kind. No, they love pushing boundaries, testing limits, watching the way your face shifts between shock and curiosity when they whisper their dirtiest thoughts in your ear. They’re the type to drop a fantasy so unfiltered, so downright filthy, that you'd pause mid-movement just to process if you heard them right. And they’ll revel in that moment, in the way your breath hitches, in the way your body betrays your innocence, betrays how much you want to hear more.

They've been a player for most of their life—cocky, experienced, and damn good at what they do. Not just because they’ve had practice, but because they know how to read a woman’s body like a language only they can translate. And with you? You’re their masterpiece. They love that you’re soft, untouched in ways that matter. It makes it all the more thrilling to corrupt you, to drag you into the depths of their desire and show you just how much you can take. Maybe they never thought of themselves as having a corruption kink before, but with you? With the way you shiver under their touch, the way you hesitate yet secretly crave everything they offer—they can’t get enough.

And they have one particular fantasy that won’t leave their mind: recording you. Not just for the act itself, but for the aftermath. For the teasing. For the way you’d turn red when they play it back, when they make you watch yourself unravel, your voice desperate, your body wrecked from the way they take you—hard, fast, relentless. You, who looks so innocent, so untouched, but when they have you? When they ruin you? You beg for more, again and again. And nothing turns them on more than knowing they’re the only one who gets to see you like that.

Pile 4

Your future spouse has a deep-seated desire for validation, stemming from unresolved Mommy/Daddy issues that they want to explore in the most intimate ways. They are drawn to the idea of submission, of kneeling at your feet—not out of weakness, but out of a need to worship and adore you. In their fantasies, they’re not just a lover—they’re completely surrendered to you, craving every bit of your power and control.

They get off on being claimed, on feeling as though you own them, body and soul. This goes beyond mere submission—it’s about giving you total dominion over them. They want you to take charge, to dominate them in ways that leave them breathless and wanting more. The thought of you being possessive, even a little toxic, thrills them—it stirs something deep inside them, something raw and primal. They want to feel like they are your property, your plaything, and they’ll do anything to make you feel in control.

Their kink for degradation comes alive when you punish them for their disobedience. They’ll test your limits, push your buttons, and look for ways to provoke you—just to see how far you’ll go. They want to see you angry, demanding, asserting your authority over them. And when you punish them, when you make them kneel and beg for your forgiveness, that’s when they truly feel seen, truly feel alive. It’s a heady mix of pain and pleasure, where each punishment brings them closer to the ecstasy of submission.

And then there’s the element of possession. They love the feeling of being owned, of having you claim them in ways that leave no doubt about who’s in charge. They don’t just want to be your lover—they want to belong to you completely, to feel your mark on them, to know that no one else will ever have them the way you do. The idea of you stepping on them, of taking them to their limits and beyond, excites them in ways they can’t even fully explain. They want to be taken, molded, shaped by you into whatever you desire, and they’ll gladly fall to their knees—physically, emotionally, spiritually—to prove their devotion.

Pile 5

Your future spouse has a taste for the unconventional, likely stemming from their exposure to erotic content that has shaped their sexual fantasies and desires. They don't just want to experience sex—they want to explore it in all its forms, including the thrill of multiple partners. This might involve both men and women, a dynamic where you’re not just with them, but also with others. It excites them to think about having you with someone else, to share you, to see you pleasure and be pleasured by someone else, while they do the same with another partner.

They fantasize about a foursome, an experience where the two of you are deeply immersed in a shared sexual encounter with others—whether it's watching you with someone else while they're engaged with someone else, or the two of you getting intertwined with others in a mix of bodies, moans, and pleasure. For them, it’s about pushing boundaries, about the heat of watching and being watched. They want to see you with others, to witness the way you move, the way you moan and respond to someone else’s touch, all while they’re lost in someone else’s body. It's a heady, erotic experience—orgasms building in waves as you all share the same space, bodies colliding in sync.

But here's the key—they are not about pushing you into anything you’re uncomfortable with. They’re fully aware of boundaries and are respectful of your desires. If you're into it, they'll embrace that side of themselves and be ecstatic to share that kind of sexual experience with you. If you're not into it, they won’t pressure you—they understand that everyone has different needs and desires, and they won't cross a line you’re not willing to go past. Ultimately, their fantasy revolves around the idea of sexual freedom and exploration, but always with mutual consent and respect.

Pile 6

Your future spouse is the ultimate exhibitionist, someone who thrives on the thrill of being watched, especially when it involves showing you off. They love the idea of making you theirs in the most public, daring, and provocative ways. It's not just about getting off—they want to see how you respond when the stakes are high, when there’s a risk of being caught, of others seeing your intimate connection. They’re addicted to the power dynamic that comes with being bold and brazen in public spaces, and they can’t wait to put that into practice with you.

One of their wildest fantasies is fucking you naked against the glass windows of your master bedroom, letting the world outside see how much they desire you, how passionately they can claim you. They fantasize about bending you over the balcony, the cool night air brushing against your heated skin, while they pound into you from behind. It’s not just sex—it’s a display, a way to show off just how sexy and dominant your connection is, how they can make you come undone in ways no one else could ever imagine.

They aren’t just limited to the privacy of your home. This extends to public places, like a secluded spot at the beach, where they can take you from behind, the waves crashing against the shore, your bodies moving together under the cover of the rocks, but still within reach of anyone who might happen to pass by. They love the danger, the excitement of possibly being caught, of teasing the world with the idea of what’s happening just out of sight.

They're the type to sneak off to the restroom during a packed party or club, pulling you into a stall for a quickie, not caring in the slightest that someone could walk in on you. The thought of being interrupted, of someone hearing the sounds of your bodies together, makes them harder, faster, hungrier. They crave the audacity of it all, of fucking you in a dark movie theater, with people sitting just a few feet away, completely unaware of the wild, dirty act unfolding between the two of you.

It was my first time channeling sexual messages. I hope I did it justice and it resonated.

For more pac content or free personal readings, follow me and stay updated.

- Love, Snow <3

[astraeus-tree]

Disparities Between Our Souls

Batfam x Neglected!Reader

Pairing: Reader x Miguel O'hara

Neglected!Reader who is transported into the ASTV universe and becomes a spider before being transported back to Gotham with their beloved

Idea -> Prologue

You were the oldest child of Bruce Wayne but came to the manor after Dick and Jason

You grew up with your aunt who took you in after your mother died soon your their birth

As time passed, your aunt's health worsened and she wasn't able to sustain both of you anymore

Searching through things to sell for money, she comes across a letter addressed to her from your mum, and in the letter she finds out that you are a child of Bruce Wayne

You get a blood test, it's positive and auntie decides to take her chances and send you off to live a better life as the child of a billionaire

At first it seems alright, not exactly the best but at least you had money and some company

You find out about the vigilantism a few months into their stay at the manor

Unfortunately, it's also a few nights before Jason's death and you are left to deal with overwhelming emotions alone after his death, especially when Barbara is soon found with her legs ruined by the same person who murdered your dear brother

When Tim comes you're pushed to the side even more as Bruce focuses on training him and Dick stays mostly at Bludhaven

Steph comes soon after him, but she wasn't really apart of the family and she always focused on proving herself to your father

Cassandra was introduced not long after, you wanted so badly to bond with her but with her inability to speak first few months, a language barrier was set between you two, and when that was eventually fixed, there simply weren't any opportunities to connect

Jason's return is unexpected and you want so badly to greet him with a hug, but you are pushed away

Damian is introduced and you can see the hate in his eyes as he explains that you're a liability to the family, unable to defend yourself should (when) a threat arise

You want to move out of this manor, clearly you were not welcome here anymore, but even though you were the child of Bruce Wayne, you yourself were not rich and finding a safe apartment or house in Gotham would cost you a fortune

Most of their funds also went to support their auntie as wellInstead, they opt to stay in their room at all times, moving with the shadows within the mansion, anything to stay away from their family's sights

During all this, your auntie is left with an illusion of you living a happy life

On a normal night, you wake up to excruciating pain in your arm and your body as heavy as lead

You can do nothing as heat overtakes your body, your vision is blurry and your breaths are short and quick

You think you see a colourful circle that looked oddly like a portal in the corner of their eye, but you couldn't tell if that was your mind was deceiving you

You didn't have time to decide as you passed out soon after

5 years later

You swing around the spider HQ to your darling’s office, food in hand

“Miguel, I have food for us”

You two were enjoying you food when an unknown and strange portal opened near them, you thought it looked familiar but you couldn't place your finger on it

Miguel put his hand in front of you, shielding you from whatever could come out of the portal

But instead of something or someone coming out, you two were sucked into it instead and dropped off into another world, presumably

The place you were dropped was dark, gloomy, rainy and oh-so familiar

You turned to your partner, pulling your mask over your head and urging him to do the same

“We have to get home. We cant stay here.”

Relationships and Ages (Pre-time skip)

Bruce (TBD)

His neglect for you was not intentional, but when he has a city to save at night, and basically run at day, there isn't much time to spare

Especially when he has to focus on training the other children so they don't harm themselves in the field of vigilantism

He loves you, he does, but he has to focus on what is more important

Dick (23)

Perhaps if you were introduced earlier, you two would've been closer, but unfortunately, you didn't, you came when he moved to Bludhaven, when he was focused on making a name for himself other than "Batman's Robin"

He has no major feelings for you, you are his older sibling and that's it

Jason (20)

You two were close when he was Robin, to him, you were the perfect older sibling, someone he could rely on

The only qualm he had was that he had to keep the vigilantism a secret from you, there were so many times he had almost spilled the secret out when he was talking to you

After his death, he still loved you, but he was afraid to see your reaction when you finally saw him

To him, you were innocent, a civilian needed to be far away from the crime lord, Red Hood, as far as possible to keep you safe

If only he knew how much damage he had done by doing that

Tim (18)

You didn't really get to bond

With Tim busy training as Robin then it turning to solving cases, he was spread thin

His free time was mostly spent napping anywhere he could, and that often meant you had no time to spend together

You two had no strong relations to each other, but you did admire Tim for his wits sometimes

Damian (10)

He was excited at first, to have somebody also be the blood-child of Bruce Wayne, but when he saw you, he was utterly disappointed

To him, his harsh words to you was him preparing you for the real world

Perhaps he still had hope for you, but for now he couldn't understand anything but hatred

Duke (16)

At the time of your disappearance, he wasn't introduced to the family yet

However, he knows of your existence due to the news

Babs (24)

You two were friends before, being the same age and all

But she soon became too busy with business of Oracle to focus on your friendship

Perhaps you two could rekindle that friendship, but for now there's barely any feelings held towards each other

Steph (19)

You two never really had time to bond, as said before she was just too busy with other stuff like her father and proving herself

If given the opportunities, you two could probably be close friends, but sadly you two weren't

Cass (20)

Your only sister in the family, you had hope that you two would be close, but with the language barrier it was hard to do so

When you were taken away, you two were forming a friendship, although it was definitely in the early stages, it was there and it was blooming

Alfred (Idek)

He was there sometimes and he wasn't there other times

He was busy working behind the scenes and keeping the manor clean

But when he was cooking, you would sometimes join him and it'd be a quiet, almost silent, bonding time

Wow this ended up being way longer than I thought

Ironically enough, as I was editing this, the fanfic/ao3 curse hit me and I almost got into a car crash. We are all good tho, no one got hurt and the cars are mostly fine!

Please let me know your thoughts! I'm not sure if I'll actually write this since my motivation comes and goes but if there's someone out there who really wants me to, I might continue it

Btw Bruce is older than canon, so pls don't think he had reader as a teen 😭, I swear he was at least 18. Speaking of ages, they aren't really important, they are just mostly there as my guidance in writing should I ever need them

Most of my DC/Batfam knowledge comes from fanon stuff so if they're ooc or they aren't that well written, my apologies. You're welcome to point any mistakes out and I'll try to fix it <3

If you can tell that I don't know the batgirls that well, I apologise again

This is my first time posting an actual story on tumblr so pls go easy in me

Have a great day/night <3

Edit - Fixed minor spelling mistakes

This was inspired by all the Neglected!Wayne fics, specifically Undoing Fate by Rizzanon, Ghosts of the Past by Nebulousmoon3990 and Not Your Classic Vigilante by Detectivemervelingcomics

[thediormulan]

PICK A CARD

THE FIRST ENCOUNTER: A VELVET PROPHECY OF TOUCH, AND SOUL & TIMING

This one’s for the lovers,

the sacred bodies,

and the breathless moments we haven’t lived yet—

but feel in our bones.

Inspired by the divine @tajjmiere—thank you, angel, for this delicious idea—I present to you a velvet-soft, soul-deep Pick-a-Card reading on your next intimate encounter.

There are four piles to choose from, each a gateway into the sensual prophecy of your first time with them.

If this touched something sacred in you—imagine what I could channel just for you. To receive a personalized velvet prophecy, book a 1:1 Velvet Offerings. Let’s summon what your soul has been aching to remember.

This reading is for all genders, all bodies, all orientations…

PILE ONE: “The Mouth Before the Touch”

He tastes your name before he learns it. You arrive as prophecy on his tongue.

This connection isn’t slow—it’s sacred. It doesn’t tiptoe in; it tongues its way through your nervous system like it’s been here before. Before words, before time, before reason. The moment his lips part for yours, it’s not just chemistry—it’s cosmic choreography. Your breath hits his like scripture remembered, and suddenly his mouth becomes the altar where devotion gets practiced, not promised.

He doesn’t kiss to conquer. He kisses to confess.

You feel it: the pull of every past life he couldn’t hold you in. The ache of every timeline that almost let you meet. He doesn’t just want to touch you—he wants to translate you, syllable by syllable, from moan to mantra. There’s no performance here. Just presence. Just a slow burn of curiosity unraveling into surrender. You, in all your velvet wildness, become the lesson his body never knew it needed to learn.

This first encounter doesn’t ask for permission—it arrives already written in both your bones. He follows the trail of your name on his tongue like a sailor following stars. And when he finally tastes you? Not just lips. Not just skin. But soul? He’ll swear it was prophecy. And he won’t be wrong.

Angel Number: 144 — You’re protected while rewriting the script of intimacy.

Song: “On the Ocean” – K’Jon (He’s already on his way, angel—anchored in your frequency.)

Confirmation Letters: A, S, V, T, M

From Your Higher Self: Let him melt. Let him marvel. Let him remember. You are not an acquired taste—you are the first flavor he’ll never forget.

From the Universe: Your body is a door, not a wall. Let love walk through—barefoot, breathing, ready.

Drop a water emoji, lip emoji, or whisper a lyric in the comments if this pile cracked open your mouth and made it remember who you kiss for.

PILE TWO: “The Ache that Smiled First”

He felt you in his bones before he reached for your waist.

This isn’t a love that startles—it’s a love that settles.

A sacred ache that stretches itself across timelines and finds its rhythm in the space between your breath and his pause. He doesn’t rush the moment. He holds it like a prayer. Because before he even laid hands on your waist, he felt you. In the marrow. In the silence between his sentences. In the ache behind his eyes that told him: She’s the one I’ve always been bracing for.

When he sees you, it’s not lust—it’s recognition.

His body doesn’t clamor for yours out of hunger, but out of reverence. You’re not something to be claimed, you’re something to be held. And he does—first with language, then with stillness, then with the kind of touch that feels like exhale. You are the Offering, and he unwraps you slowly, like a gift the stars made just for his hands. He doesn’t undress you to consume—he reveals you to remember. Every detail. Every softness. Every scar you tried to silence. And still, he smiles.

Because you’re not too much for him.

You’re the reason he finally put his sword down.

And when you touch?

It won’t feel like the start of something reckless.

It’ll feel like coming home in a body that’s never made you apologize for needing rest.

Angel Number: 2121 – Your love is mirroring you back into wholeness.

Song: “Wait for It” – Leslie Odom Jr. (Because he’s not afraid to arrive slowly, fully, completely.)

Confirmation Letters: L, H, K, R, P

From Your Higher Self: “You will not have to explain your softness. He’ll already know it was hard-won.”

From the Universe: “Love is not late. It’s arriving with perfect, holy slowness. Prepare the bed.”

Pile Two:

Tag someone who needs to hear: “You are not too much.”

Drop a candle or mirror emoji if this awakened a truth you didn’t know you were ready for.

PILE THREE: “The Thigh Between Timelines”

When he touches your leg, the future folds open like silk.

This isn’t foreplay—it’s a prophecy.

The moment his hand meets your thigh, the air doesn’t thicken, it parts. Like silk unraveling between dimensions. He’s not reaching for pleasure—he’s unlocking it. And you? You don’t gasp because you’re surprised. You gasp because your body remembers something your mind hasn’t caught up to yet. It’s not just touch—it’s a timeline collapsing. A memory from the future flooding your skin. You’ll feel what hasn’t happened yet, and still… you’ll know.

The High Priestess says he doesn’t need your answers. He craves your mystery. His fingers don’t fumble—they listen. Mars in Pisces confirms: he moves with a dreamer’s roughness. He’s gentle, but not passive. Dominant, but not performative. You’ll feel it in your thighs before your voice can catch it—that sacred pulse. The Tower reversed doesn’t shatter—it seduces. And Strength? His touch regulates you. You’ve never melted like this. Not because you’re weak. But because for once, you’re safe enough to let go.

This is not sex.

This is time travel.

This is you, fully seen, fully known, fully ignited.

Angel Number: 777 — This encounter is divinely timed. Aligned. Sacred.

Confirmation Letters: E, J, Z, F, Q

From Your Higher Self: “You were never asking for too much—you were just waiting for a timeline that could hold you.”

From the Universe: “His hands are not for controlling. They’re maps to your resurrection.”

Pile Three

Drop a fire emoji or leg emoji if this reading activated something you know has always been waiting for the right touch to remember.

PILE FOUR: “The Name He Moaned Without Learning”

He spoke your name from the soul before he heard it from your lips.

In this sacred initiation, his touch restores cosmic balance—every caress a manifestation of karmic justice. As he murmurs your name, it is not a syllable of mystery but a proclamation of your radiant truth. His voice, raw and reverent, transforms your body into a living garden where every petal of vulnerability blooms under the steady gaze of Venus in Aquarius—a beauty that is revolutionary. In the quiet pulse of your shared breath, where connection rises above climax, you become the sacred vessel in which past dysphoria cracks and dissolves, replaced by incandescent wholeness. Tears may fall like shimmering remnants of grief mid-embrace, yet each tear is cherished, a hymn of completion echoing through the chambers of your heart. You claim your pleasure audibly, boldly, like the resounding chorus

You are no longer a whisper in the dark—

You are a name sung before it’s spoken, a vibration in his core that found its way into his mouth even when his tongue had not yet tasted the sound. This connection is not an accident; it’s karmic justice. Justice upright shows that every touch you’ve endured, every name that mispronounced your essence, has led to this. A love that doesn’t rush, that knows your divinity before it’s ever revealed. The Vessel Cracks reversed tells us your dysphoria is healed not because he does it for you, but because he sees you in all of your power—and you never have to hide again.

His gaze? It’s revolutionary. Venus in Aquarius reveals that he doesn’t just see your beauty, he sees the awakening of a new world in it. You’re not just a body to be consumed; you are the revolution he’s waited for. The Heart Oracle confirms that connection is born before climax. You build this trust in every moment. It’s about softness and safety—when your heart opens, so does your body. Ace of Pentacles says your body is sacred earth—his touch plants seeds of nourishment that will sprout into deep intimacy.

And when tears fall, as they inevitably will, The Shimmering Grief reveals that they’re not a weakness. They’re a sacred offering. He doesn’t shy away from your vulnerability—he kisses it, cradles it, holds it in reverence. Ten of Cups is the promise of union—a union so deep that the emotional climax meets the physical, blending together in a seamless dance of connection. 7 of Swords reversed means no secrets here. No hiding. You are raw, unfiltered, and beautiful in your truth. Sacral Sovereign Oracle confirms you own your pleasure, fully, loudly, without apology. And The World upright seals it: this is completion. This is the full-circle return to who you’ve always been. You are no longer a hidden soul—you are a body, a name, and a force to be reckoned with.

From Your Higher Self:

“You are not a secret. You are not a test. You are his initiation.”

From the Universe:

“Speak your name into the sheets. Let the echoes wake the ancestors.”

Pile Four:

Drop a name, nickname, or sacred initial you want to be moaned next time someone touches your soul.

May this reading awaken the part of you that’s ready to be loved without translation.

Whether you’re manifesting slow kisses, soul recognition, or sacred hands that finally understand—it’s already on its way.

Thank you again to @tajjmiere for helping birth this magic—I hope you and the collective feel seen, held, and turned all the way on.

If you’re ready for a prophecy crafted just for your spirit,

Book a private Velvet Offering here.

Let’s speak the unspeakable. Let’s summon what your soul already knows.

Channeled by Dior Harris.

Stay infinite. Stay divine. Stay velvet.

À bientôt, mon ange.

[mononijikayu]

ikaw lang— fushiguro megumi.

"Thanks. he muttered, his voice softer this time, almost shy. He still wasn’t used to letting people in, but for some reason, with you, it didn’t feel so bad. You smiled again, that same warm smile that made something inside him flutter. "Anytime." you replied, and Megumi knew you meant it. “Let me take care of you again, okay? When this happens.” “......You didn’t need to—” You shake your head, smile even wider.  “But I want to, okay?”

GENRE: Alternate Universe - Canon Convergence;

WARNING/s: Fluff, Romance, First Love, First Meeting, Comfort, Hurt/Comfort, Light-Hearted, Slice of Life, Friendship, Confessions, Humor, Mutual Affection, Love, Pining, Hugging, Mention of Injury, Mention of Fighting, Mention of Blood, Depiction of Medical Aid, Fushiguro Megumi is In Love, Sorcerer! Megumi, Non-Sorcerer!Reader, Megumi and Reader Are A Bit Older;

WORDS: 6.5k words.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: this song is really cute. i should rest after this because ive been writing all the other poll related works and my eyes hurts. i might open commissions some time so i can get new glasses 🤔 but anyway, i hope you like this as much as i do. i love you so much 🫶

main masterlist

if you want to, tip! <3

:•:•:•:•:•:•:•:•☾☼☽•:•.•:•.•:•:•:•:

HE WONDERS WHAT HE DID TO BE THIS HAPPY. Fushiguro Megumi often finds himself lost in thought, trying to piece together how he ended up with someone like you as his lover. It’s a mystery to him, one that he turns over and over in his mind, especially in the quiet moments when he watches you from across the room.

The two of you couldn’t be more different. Megumi has always been reserved, the kind of person who prefers the solace of a quiet corner, away from the spotlight. He’s never been one to seek attention, content to blend into the background, observing rather than participating. 

And then there’s you, today. The person he loves the most.

You, who are the complete opposite of everything he thought he needed. You walk into a room and light it up effortlessly, drawing people to you like a lighthouse in a rough storm. Your presence is magnetic, radiant—wherever you go, you leave a trail of warmth and joy, like the sun casting light on everything in its path. If the sun existed in Megumi’s universe, it would undoubtedly be you, the brightest star in his sky, illuminating even the darkest parts of his world.

Sometimes, Fushiguro Megumi wonders how someone like you could ever be drawn to someone like him. He’s not flashy, not outgoing or overly expressive. But then, you’ve never needed him to be. From the moment you met, you saw something in him that no one else did. You didn’t mind his quiet nature; in fact, you seemed to appreciate it, to cherish the way he found comfort in the shadows while you thrived in the light.

Every time Megumi sees you, his heart races uncontrollably. It’s a feeling he can’t quite describe, this mixture of awe and disbelief that he’s lucky enough to have you by his side. You have a way of making him feel things he never thought possible—emotions that run deep and wild, far beyond the calm exterior he usually shows the world.

And whenever you flash him that smile, the one he loves so much, he feels his composure slip. His face turns scarlet, his heart stumbles over itself, and he panics slightly, wondering how he’ll ever survive the intensity of his feelings for you.

But what truly leaves Megumi breathless are your eyes.

He’s always been captivated by them, even before he realized he loved you. There’s something in the way your eyes shine that draws him in, that makes him feel like he’s seeing something otherworldly. When you look at him, it’s like the rest of the world fades away, leaving only the two of you in a moment of pure, unfiltered connection.

Your eyes are windows to your soul, reflecting every emotion, every thought, every ounce of love you hold for him. And Megumi, who is often so unsure of himself, finds a sense of peace and belonging in those eyes. They are his sanctuary, his guiding light, the proof that he’s not alone in this world.

Sometimes, when you catch him staring, you’ll tilt your head and ask him what he’s thinking. And every time, Megumi struggles to find the right words, because how can he possibly explain the way you make him feel? How can he put into words the overwhelming mixture of gratitude, love, and fear that courses through him whenever he’s with you? All he knows is that, in those moments, he’s reminded of just how extraordinary you are, and how incredibly lucky he is to have you.

You are the sun in his universe, the brightest star in his sky, and with every passing day, Megumi falls deeper in love with you. And even though he’s not always able to express it, he hopes that when you look into his eyes, you can see just how much you mean to him—how much he adores every part of you, and how grateful he is to share his life with someone as wonderful as you.

Each time you raise your head and let Megumi gaze into your eyes, he’s struck by how they seem to shimmer with an otherworldly light. It’s not just the way they sparkle, but the depth and complexity they hold within them, as if your eyes contain entire galaxies, full of stars, planets, and endless mysteries.

To Megumi, your eyes are like a universe unto themselves—vast, beautiful, and impossible to fully comprehend. He can never quite find the words to describe the wonder they bring him, because, in truth, they’re unlike anything he’s ever known. They’re out of this world, something magical and extraordinary that he’s lucky enough to witness every day.

And every day, Megumi is reminded of just how fortunate he is to have you by his side. There are moments when he’s caught off guard by the simple yet profound realization that someone as remarkable as you chose him.

He’ll be lost in thought, or caught up in the routine of daily life, and then you’ll look at him, your eyes meeting his, and all those thoughts scattered like leaves in the wind. In those moments, nothing else matters—just the connection between you, the unspoken bond that ties your hearts together.

Megumi finds that the most beautiful part of his day is when you look back at him. Your eyes, shining with a brilliance that words can’t quite capture, speak volumes in a language only the two of you understand. They tell him of the abundant love you hold for him, a love that fills his heart with warmth and light.

He’s always been shy, a little reserved, and sometimes he struggles to put his feelings into words. But when you look at him with those sparkling eyes, he wishes he could find the courage to tell you just how much it feels like heaven on Earth when you let him see the hearts hidden behind the bright beam of your gaze.

Megumi knows that you’re patient with him, that you understand his quiet nature, but sometimes he worries that he doesn’t show you enough how deeply he loves you. He wishes he could be more expressive, that he could find the words to tell you everything he feels.

But when words fail him, he hopes that you can see it in the way he looks at you—in the way his breath catches, in the way his heart races, in the way he’s completely and utterly captivated by you.

To Megumi, your eyes are not just beautiful—they are a reflection of the love you have for him, a love that he treasures more than anything in the world. Every glance you share, every moment your eyes meet his, is a reminder of how lucky he is to have found someone like you. And even though he may never fully grasp the magic you bring into his life, he knows that he will spend every day trying to show you just how much you mean to him.

To Megumi, it feels like stars might actually be falling from the sky, captured in the light of your gaze. Every moment he gets to see those eyes, he feels like he's witnessing something otherworldly, something that makes all the differences between you melt away, leaving only the overwhelming love he has for you.

Even though Megumi isn’t always good with words, he sometimes wishes that you could simply look into his eyes and just know that he loves you more than anything in the world. He hopes that you no longer feel the need to ask over and over, like you used to, because the truth is, you’re the only one he has ever truly loved—and the only one he ever will.

But sometimes, a nagging doubt creeps into his mind. He worries that his quietness might not be enough to convince you of how much you mean to him. He fears that he’s not doing enough to show you just how deeply he cares, because he struggles to express his feelings out loud. Yet, despite those fears, Megumi is determined to try harder, to find ways to show you his love so that you never have to doubt it.

If there were a way, Megumi wishes you could look into his heart and believe without a shadow of a doubt that you are the only one his heart has ever loved. And as he gazes at you now, he silently hopes that you can feel the depth of his affection in the way he looks at you, even if the words aren’t always there.

Fushiguro Megumi vividly remembers the first time he saw you for the first time. That was that day, during middle school. It was an ordinary day, and he wasn’t expecting anything to change. And for that change to be for the best.

He was known for being a bit of a loner, someone who kept to himself and occasionally got into trouble for his rebellious streak. He wasn’t exactly a model student, and most people gave him a wide berth, not wanting to get involved with someone who had a reputation for being a delinquent.

But then there was you, when you were younger.

He had just been reprimanded by one of the homeroom teachers for getting into another fight—something that had become more common as he struggled to navigate the challenges of his teenage years.

Or rather, just the annoyance he had for people he considered to be cruel, horrible people. But he supposed he was also angry, frustrated with the world, and on the verge of lashing out again when you approached him.

You were new, just transferred to the school, and Megumi was sure that you, like everyone else, would steer clear of him. But instead, you walked right up to him, your eyes full of concern rather than fear or judgment. You were like the sun blocking his eyes when he met you. You changed his whole world that day, he likes to think. 

"Hey! Are you okay?" you had said softly, your voice calm and soothing. "Oh no, you got some dirt on your shirt—is that a cut on your side?"

Fushiguro Megumi had been taken aback for a long time. The last time must have been when Gojo said he’s taking him and Megumi in. There were very few things that had Megumi fazed, stuck in his tracks, and at a loss for words.

Perhaps the act of kindness being shown to him was one of those points. But he doesn’t think you’ve blamed him. He wasn’t used to anyone talking to him like that—without the underlying wariness or caution. He didn’t know how to respond, so he just shrugged, trying to brush you off. 

“I’m fine.” he muttered, his tone gruff, hoping you would just drop it and leave him alone. "Don't worry about me. Move on."

But you didn’t leave. Instead, you stood your ground, your eyes filled with a concern that he hadn’t seen in a long time. It was as if you could see right through his tough exterior, straight to the part of him that was hurting, and you weren’t about to let it go unnoticed. You shook your head, your hands reaching out to gently tug at his sleeves, drawing his attention back to you.

When he finally looked at you, he was surprised to find that you seemed more distressed about his well-being than he was. There was a softness in your gaze, mixed with a quiet determination that caught him off guard.

"It doesn’t look like it! See? It hasn’t stopped bleeding. you replied gently, your voice free of any reproach, but filled with genuine worry. 

Megumi followed your gaze to the cut on his arm, a wound he hadn’t given much thought to in the heat of the moment. But seeing the concern etched on your face made him pause.

You hesitated for a moment, as if unsure of how to proceed, before speaking again. "But if you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay. I just… I just wanted to make sure you’re alright." 

“Don’t worry about me—”

Your voice wavered slightly, betraying the depth of your concern, and it made something inside Megumi’s chest tighten. "At least maybe let me help you clean that nasty cut."

Megumi blinked, taken aback by your persistence. He was used to people either ignoring him or chastising him for getting into trouble, but you were different. You weren’t trying to fix him or tell him what to do—you were simply offering to help, to be there for him in a way that no one else had been. It was a kindness he wasn’t used to, and he didn’t quite know how to respond.

For a moment, he considered brushing you off, telling you he didn’t need any help, that he could handle it on his own. But something in your eyes stopped him. There was a sincerity there, a genuine desire to take care of him, and it made him realize how rare it was for someone to care like that.

"Fine." he finally grumbled, though his voice had lost its earlier edge. He couldn’t quite bring himself to meet your gaze, instead focusing on the ground as he added, "But it’s really not that bad."

You didn’t seem convinced, but you didn’t push him further. Instead, you smiled—a small, relieved smile that made his chest feel warm in a way he wasn’t used to. "Let’s just get it cleaned up, okay?" you said softly, leading him to a nearby bench.

As you carefully tended to his wound, Megumi found himself stealing glances at you, wondering why you cared so much. You were new to the school, new to his world, and yet here you were, going out of your way to make sure he was alright. It was strange, but also… comforting.

"Why do you care?" he asked quietly, surprising even himself with the question. It wasn’t something he’d meant to say out loud, but now that the words were out there, he couldn’t take them back.

You paused, looking up at him with those kind, worried eyes. "Because you deserve it." you replied simply, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "Everyone deserves to be cared for, you know?"

Your words hung in the air between you, and for a moment, Megumi didn’t know what to say. He’d never thought of himself as someone who deserved kindness, especially not from someone like you. But hearing you say it so matter-of-factly made him wonder if maybe, just maybe, you were right.

You took Megumi to the nurse’s office, your concern evident in every step you took. He had tried to brush off the cut on his arm as no big deal, but you weren’t having any of it. As you entered the office, you headed straight for the supply cabinet, rummaging through it to find the emergency kit.

Megumi watched you with a mixture of apprehension and admiration. His face was tense, a mixture of discomfort and embarrassment clearly visible. He had never been one to draw attention to himself, especially not for something he considered minor. Yet here you were, focused and determined to make sure he was taken care of.

You pulled out the first aid kit and set it on the counter, your hands moving quickly and efficiently. “Alright, let’s get this cleaned up,” you said, your voice steady and reassuring.

Megumi shifted uncomfortably, clearly aware of the fuss you were making. “You didn’t have to go through all this trouble. It’s just a scratch,” he muttered, trying to downplay the situation.

You gave him a stern look as you began to clean the cut. “It’s not just a scratch if it’s bleeding. Besides, it’s my job to make sure you’re okay. You’ve been taking care of everyone else, so let me take care of you for once.”

He sighed, though he couldn’t help but feel a little comforted by your persistence. As you carefully applied the antiseptic and bandaged his arm, Megumi stole glances at you, noticing the focused expression on your face. Despite his initial resistance, he was grateful for your concern.

“You really don’t have to do this,” he said again, though his voice lacked conviction this time.

You glanced up at him with a small, reassuring smile. “I know, but I want to. You’ve always been there for me, and it’s only fair that I return the favor. Besides, you look like you’re in no condition to argue right now.”

Megumi managed a small, appreciative smile despite his discomfort. “Thanks. I guess I’m just not used to this… kind of attention.”

You finished wrapping the bandage and patted his shoulder gently. “Well, get used to it. Because I’m not going to let you get away with not taking care of yourself. And don’t think I won’t be checking on you if you ever get hurt again.”

He looked at you, the tension in his face easing as he met your gaze. “I’ll try not to get hurt then. Or at least try to let you know before it gets this bad.”

You laughed softly, your eyes crinkling with warmth. “Good. And remember, if you ever need anything—whether it’s help with a cut or just someone to talk to—I’m always here for you.”

Megumi’s heart swelled with a mix of gratitude and affection. Even though he had tried to downplay the situation, your unwavering concern made him feel valued in a way he hadn’t felt before. He knew that no matter what happened, he could always count on you to be by his side.

As you finished bandaging his cut, Megumi felt a strange sense of calm settle over him. For the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel so alone. Maybe it was because of the way you looked at him, or the way you didn’t push him to talk about things he wasn’t ready to share. Or maybe it was just because you were there, offering your help without expecting anything in return.

"Thanks....I guess." he muttered, his voice softer this time, almost shy. He still wasn’t used to letting people in, but for some reason, with you, it didn’t feel so bad.

You smiled again, that same warm smile that made something inside him flutter. "Anytime." you replied, and Megumi knew you meant it. “Let me take care of you again, okay? When this happens.”

“......You didn’t need to—”

You shake your head, smile even wider.  “But I want to, okay?”

He didn’t know how to reply. He rubs the back of his neck. “You’re a weird one.”

“EH!? But I’m not!”

As the two of you sat there, the world seemed to quiet down around him, leaving only the gentle presence of the person who had somehow managed to slip past his defenses and show him a kindness he hadn’t realized he was missing.

Megumi didn’t know what to say. He was used to people either avoiding him or giving him grief for his behavior, but you were different. You weren’t trying to lecture him or push him away. You were just… there, offering your kindness without expecting anything in return.

From that day on, you always treated him with the same patience and understanding, even when he continued to get into trouble. You never judged him, never scolded him. Instead, you listened, offering support when he needed it and giving him space when he didn’t. You seemed to see past the rough exterior, recognizing that there was more to him than just the delinquent reputation he had built.

At first, Megumi didn’t understand why you were so kind to him. He didn’t think he deserved it, and part of him expected you to give up on him eventually. But you never did. No matter how many times he got into trouble, you were always there, offering him a smile or a word of encouragement.

Slowly, he began to soften around you. He started to look forward to the moments when you would seek him out, your presence becoming a source of comfort in his otherwise turbulent life. You became his anchor, the person who made him believe that maybe he wasn’t as bad as he thought.

It wasn’t long before Megumi realized that his feelings for you had grown into something deeper. At first, he had tried to convince himself that what he felt was simply gratitude, an appreciation for the way you treated him with such genuine care and respect. But as time passed, he found himself thinking about you more and more, his thoughts lingering on the little moments you shared.

Like that time in the library, when you had insisted on helping him with his homework. Megumi had been struggling with a particularly difficult problem, his frustration mounting with each failed attempt to solve it. You had noticed his struggle and quietly slid your chair closer to his, gently guiding him through the problem with a patience that both surprised and comforted him.

“There, see? You’re getting it!” you had said, a bright smile lighting up your face as you watched him work through the problem.

Megumi had looked at you then, really looked at you, and something inside him had shifted. It was the way you had been so kind, so encouraging, without a hint of judgment or condescension. The way you had treated him like he mattered, like you genuinely wanted to see him succeed. It was a feeling that was foreign to him, yet it warmed him from the inside out.

Another moment had come when the two of you were walking home from school. It had started to rain unexpectedly, and Megumi had cursed himself for not bringing an umbrella. But before he could worry too much, you had pulled out your own and held it over both of you, smiling up at him as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

“Come on, let’s share. Can’t have you getting soaked.” you had said, your voice cheerful despite the downpour.

As the two of you walked side by side, your shoulders brushing occasionally, Megumi had felt his heart do a strange little flip. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from glancing at you out of the corner of his eye, noticing the way the raindrops clung to your hair, how your smile remained unwavering despite the weather.

In that moment, something had clicked for him. It wasn’t just your kindness that drew him to you—it was the way you made him feel safe, understood, and… cared for.

The realization had hit him one afternoon when you both were at the park. You had been talking animatedly about something, your hands gesturing as you spoke, your eyes sparkling with excitement.

Fushiguro Megumi had been content to just listen, watching the way your expressions changed with every word. And then, without warning, you had turned to him, catching him completely off guard with a look of such warmth and affection that it nearly knocked the breath out of him.

“What?” you had asked, laughing lightly when you noticed the way he was staring.

Megumi had opened his mouth to respond, but no words had come out. Instead, he had felt a strange mix of emotions bubbling up inside him—nervousness, excitement, something that felt suspiciously like hope. It was then that he realized: this wasn’t just friendship or simple admiration. It was something deeper, something more.

He liked you. A lot.

The thought had sent a rush of warmth through his chest, leaving him both exhilarated and terrified. Megumi wasn’t used to these kinds of feelings, and he wasn’t sure what to do with them. But as he looked at you, standing there with that bright smile on your face, he knew one thing for certain—he wanted to be around you, to make you smile like that as often as he could.

“Nothing.” he had finally managed to say, a small, shy smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “I was just… thinking.”

“Thinking about what?” you had asked, tilting your head curiously.

Megumi had hesitated for a moment, but then he had decided to be honest, even if he couldn’t say everything that was on his mind. “About how… I like spending time with you.”

Your smile had grown even brighter at his words, and you had reached out to lightly punch his arm in that playful way you always did. “Well, I like spending time with you too, Megumi.”

And just like that, Megumi had known that he was done for. He liked you—really liked you. And even though the thought scared him, it also filled him with a strange sense of happiness, one that he wasn’t sure he’d ever felt before. From that moment on, Megumi couldn’t deny it anymore. He liked you, and he wanted to see where these feelings would take him.

Looking back, Megumi often finds himself reflecting on how profoundly different his life might have been if you hadn’t approached him that day. It was a pivotal moment, one that he now sees as the turning point in his journey.

Before you, he had felt like a perpetual outsider—misunderstood, labeled as a troublemaker, and largely ignored by those around him. He had been resigned to his role, to the way people saw him, without much hope for change or growth.

But then you came into his life, a beacon of kindness and patience in a world that had been mostly indifferent. You saw something in him that no one else had—a potential for change, a person worth caring for. Your approach had been gentle but resolute, offering him a friendship and understanding that he hadn’t known he needed.

You didn’t judge him for his mistakes or his quiet demeanor; instead, you reached out to him with a genuine concern for his well-being. It was this unassuming kindness that started to crack open the hardened shell he had built around himself.

Now, years later, Megumi often wonders if he would have ever found the strength to change if it hadn’t been for you. He thinks about the way you had treated him back then, how your unwavering support had slowly begun to reshape his view of himself.

It was as if you had quietly whispered to him that he was worth something, that he had the potential to be better, and that there was more to him than just the surface-level troubles. And in doing so, you had planted a seed of hope and self-worth that gradually grew into something stronger and more resilient.

As the two of you sit together now, the evening sun casting a warm, golden glow through the window, Megumi can’t help but be reminded of how far he’s come. The comfort and familiarity of your presence have become a cherished part of his life.

He often steals glances at you, unable to fully comprehend just how lucky he is to have someone like you by his side. The way you’re sitting there, so effortlessly at ease, makes his heart swell with a deep affection that words can hardly capture.

You’ve caught him staring more than once, and each time, you respond with that soft, knowing smile that makes his heart skip a beat. It’s a smile that reassures him, that reminds him of the love that started on that day in junior high, when you saw him not as a problem or a troublemaker, but as someone worthy of care and respect. That smile, simple yet profound, continues to be a source of comfort and joy for him, a daily reminder of how much you mean to him.

In those moments, as he looks at you and sees the warmth in your eyes and the gentle curve of your lips, Megumi is filled with a deep sense of gratitude. He thinks about how his life might have been different without your influence, and he realizes just how much you’ve changed him. The love he feels for you is rooted in that initial connection, and it has only grown deeper and stronger with time.

Megumi knows now that the love he has for you began with that first act of kindness you showed him, and it has only been enriched by the years you’ve spent together. As he sits there beside you, basking in the glow of the setting sun and the warmth of your presence, he can’t help but feel that he has found something truly extraordinary—something that started with a simple gesture of care and has blossomed into a love that he never thought possible.

You lean in slightly, noticing how quiet he’s been. "Megumi. Oiiiiiii, Megu–Megu~ Gumiiiiii!”

He sighed, looking at you. You have energy again, after resting. “What is it?”

“You truly okay?" you ask, your voice gentle and inviting.

He hesitates, his cheeks turning a light shade of pink. "It’s nothing. Don’t worry about me.” he mumbles, looking down at his hands, fidgeting slightly. "Just thinking about the past. Nostalgia."

You tilt your head, your eyes sparkling with curiosity and affection. You smiled. "You’re always so cute, Megumi.” You sighed, as you reached out gently to touch his hand. ”You’ve been staring at me all evening. If you have something to say, you can tell me, okay?”

Megumi swallows, gathering his courage. "It’s just… your eyes…" he finally says, his voice barely above a whisper. "They’re… really beautiful. And just…..you. I think how lucky I am to be with you.”

You blink in surprise, not expecting such a heartfelt compliment from him. "Oh, my beloved Megumi." you murmur, feeling a warmth spread through your chest. "Thank you."

Megumi slowly looks up at you then, his own eyes filled with a tender sincerity that makes your heart flutter. He took a breath before letting his eyes wander at the sight of you, his beloved marvel. His wonder in life. He gives you a faint smile. 

"When you look at me like that… it feels like I’m seeing stars." he continues, his voice growing softer, more vulnerable. "Like… every time I see your eyes, it’s the most beautiful part of my day. And… I don’t know how to say this right, but… it’s like there’s love shining behind them, so much that it feels like heaven."

Your heart swells with emotion, and you squeeze his hand gently. You lifted his hand to your lips and looked at him tenderly as you pressed your lips against the top of his hand. He doesn’t know when his heart will calm down. But when it’s you, he doubts if it will ever happen. 

"Megumi, that’s one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said to me." you reply, your voice filled with warmth. "And just so you know, when I look at you, I feel the same way. You make every day feel like the brightest one I’ve ever had. Because when I look at you, I ask, ‘how did I deserve this boy?’ Because, you’re too good to me.”

He smiles shyly, his blush deepening as he takes in your words. "I’m glad….that you feel like I do too." he murmurs, his fingers intertwined with yours.

"I always will." You reassured him, grinning at him lovingly.

"I… I’m not good with words, but I want you to know how much you mean to me. Every time you look at me, it’s like… it’s like I’m the luckiest person in the world."

You lean in closer, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek. "You don’t have to say much, Megumi. I can see it in your eyes too." you whisper, your breath warm against his skin. “That’s more than enough for me, know that. Okay?”

Megumi’s heart swells, and for a moment, he forgets about his usual shyness. "I love you." he says softly, the words slipping out before he can stop them. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Your smile widens, your eyes shining even brighter. "I love you too, Megumi." you reply, your voice filled with the same sincerity and warmth that he sees in your gaze every day.

And in that moment, with your hands intertwined and your eyes locked, Fushiguro Megumi knows that there’s nothing more beautiful than the love you both share. And he truly believes that. He thinks that you’re the love of his life. And he has no intention of letting you go.

Megumi's heart races as the words hang in the air between you. He's never been the best at expressing his feelings, but something about being with you makes it easier—like the words come naturally when you're around. You pull back slightly, just enough to look into his eyes again, your own filled with the same warmth and love that makes his heart flutter. 

"You know, Megumi." you start, your voice soft and affectionate, "I always feel like I’m the luckiest person too. Because even when you're quiet or shy, I can feel everything you don’t say in the way you look at me. It’s like you’re telling me a million things with just a glance."

He bites his lip, trying to find the right words to respond. "It’s hard for me to… say things out loud sometimes. And it’s hard to be honest at times." he admits, his gaze lowering for a moment before meeting yours again. "But when I’m with you, it feels different. Because when I’m with you, I’m just….me.”

You smile at him, a soft, understanding smile that makes him feel even more at ease. "You don’t have to say everything, Megumi." you reassure him. "I can see it in your actions, in the way you care for me, and in those beautiful eyes of yours. You’re always telling me how you feel, even when you think you’re not. I love that about you, don’t worry.”

Megumi blushes, the compliment making him feel a mix of embarrassment and joy. "You… you think my eyes are beautiful?" he asks, his voice small, almost disbelieving.

"Of course I do." you reply, leaning in to rest your forehead against his. "They’re one of my favorite things about you. They’re so expressive, even when you’re being quiet. I can always tell what you’re feeling just by looking into them. Your eyelashes too. They’re always pretty!”

His breath hitches at the closeness, your words making his heart swell with emotion. "I… I’m glad you think that." he murmurs, his eyes locked onto yours. "Because… When I look at you, I see everything I could ever want.”

Your heart skips a beat at his confession, and you close the small distance between you, pressing a tender kiss to his lips. It’s soft, sweet, and full of the love that you both share, a love that needs no words to be understood.

When you pull back, you see that Megumi’s face is a deep shade of red, but there’s a small, content smile on his lips that makes your heart soar. "You really know how to say the perfect thing, don’t you?" you tease lightly, brushing a stray strand of hair away from his face.

He chuckles softly, his shyness momentarily forgotten as he looks at you with nothing but affection. "Only because it’s you." he replies, his voice steady and full of sincerity. "You make it easy."

You both sit there for a moment, just enjoying the comfort of each other’s presence. Megumi’s hand is still entwined with yours, and he gives it a gentle squeeze, as if to remind himself that this is real—that you’re real, and that you’re his.

"I never thought I’d be this happy, you know?" he admits quietly, almost as if he’s afraid that saying it out loud might break the spell. "But with you… it’s like every day is a dream."

You smile, your heart swelling with love for the boy who, despite his quiet demeanor, has given you more happiness than you ever imagined. "Then let’s keep dreaming together, Megumi." you whisper, leaning in for another kiss. "Because I never want this to end."

The warmth of the setting sun bathed the room in a golden hue, casting a gentle glow that seemed to amplify the intimacy of the moment. Megumi and you were nestled comfortably together, sharing a quiet sense of peace that had settled between you. This was paradise, Megumi thinks. This was heaven on earth. You and you alone, in his arms — he could not ask for anything more.

Megumi glanced at you again, his eyes reflecting the soft light. “What good did I do to be with you?”

You tilted your head, smiling at him with a mixture of curiosity and affection. “Why do you say that? What makes you feel that way? You did everything good. You do deserve me."

He hesitated, his gaze falling to the floor as he tried to find the right words. “It’s just… you’ve always been there for me, even when I didn’t really know what I needed. I was so closed off and messed up back then. But you saw something in me, something I didn’t even see in myself.”

You reached out, gently placing your hand on his cheek to lift his gaze to meet yours. “I saw a person who needed kindness and understanding, and I’m really glad I could be there for you. But you did the hard part, Megumi. You changed and grew, and that’s all you.”

He shook his head slightly, his eyes never leaving yours. “I couldn’t have done it without you. And now, every day with you feels like a gift. I keep thinking about how different things could have been if you hadn’t come into my life. It’s overwhelming sometimes.”

You chuckled softly, your fingers brushing his hair back from his forehead. “Well, I’m glad I did. And I’m glad you’re here with me now. It’s like we were meant to find each other, don’t you think?”

Megumi nodded slowly, his expression thoughtful. “Yeah, it does feel like that. I keep thinking about how we met and how everything just seemed to fall into place after that. It’s like you were the missing piece I didn’t know I needed.”

Your eyes sparkled with affection as you leaned closer. “And you were the person who showed me what it means to be patient and understanding. We’ve both learned so much from each other.”

He smiled, a rare, genuine smile that made his eyes crinkle at the corners. “You’ve made me a better person. I feel like I’ve become more open, more willing to trust and care. It’s all because of you.”

Your heart swelled at his words, and you wrapped your arms around him in a gentle hug. “I’m just glad I could be a part of your journey. And I’m excited for everything that’s still to come for us.”

Megumi returned the hug, holding you close as if he never wanted to let go. “Me too. I want to make sure I’m always there for you, supporting you just like you’ve supported me. I don’t want you to ever doubt how much you mean to me.”

You pulled back slightly to look into his eyes, a soft smile playing on your lips. “You don’t have to worry about that. I know exactly how much I mean to you. And I’ll always be here for you, just like you’ve always been there for me.”

As the two of you sat together, the warmth of the setting sun casting a gentle glow over the room, Megumi felt an overwhelming sense of contentment. He knew that with you by his side, every day would be brighter, every challenge more bearable.

And as he looked into your eyes, he realized that the love he felt was a constant, reassuring presence—one that made everything feel right in the world.

[bensolosbluesaber]

Nowhere to Run: Part 1 (Miguel O’Hara (Spider-Man 2099) x Spider-Woman!f!reader)

Pairings: Miguel O’Hara (Spider-Man 2099) x Spider-Woman!f!reader

Warnings: Hints of suicidal ideation on reader’s part, Fang stuff (Miguel uses fangs on reader), Chasing, Miguel is maybe ooc (I only saw the movie once and was mostly trying to keep from audibly moaning every time he was on-screen), Miguel and reader fight - he does some damage, Poison, Wounds, Not edited (but I will come back for some minor edits later on), Let me know if I missed anything

Summary: After the collapse of your universe, you resort to jumping around the multiverse to survive. Evolution gave you the powers needed to escape your universe. Technology of your own design stopped the glitches. But you haven’t found a way to escape the man relentlessly hunting you across every universe - Spider-Man 2099. ~2,500 words

Angst, hurt/comfort, eventual happy ending

A/N: This is for all of us who watched the Nueva York chase scene/train sequence and thought ‘when do I get to be Miles?’ This is dedicated to the Miguel O’Hara editors on TikTok - you guys are doing god’s work over there (especially with the captions). There shouldn’t be any spoilers in here beyond what was shown in trailers, but tread as carefully as you feel you need.

EDIT: Part 2

--

A persistent tingle deep in your mind vibrated madly the closer Spider-Man 2099 was to you. It was your Spidey-sense warning you of danger.  For the first few months, you managed to stay several universe’s ahead of the terrifying Spider-Man variant, but after running for months with no one to help you, dodging the Spider-Person in each universe, and growing more exhausted with each portal you opened, 2099 was catching up.

He was catching up quite literally. The man was a few blocks behind you, pursuing you through the streets of a Queens in a universe you had never seen before. Buildings were built into trees. The entire city was a perfect symbiosis between nature and technology. It was beautiful, but there was no time to appreciate it. The time on your wrist ticked down. Seventy-six seconds. Seventy-five.

You shot out another web. It caught a window, and you took a sharp corner then another trying to lose the hunter.

Seventy seconds until you could safely open another portal. Well safe was a relative measure. Ideally you would allow a full day between jumps, but if you only had twelve hours, well then odds of survival rose to about fifty-fifty. Anything less than twelve hours and implosion was basically guaranteed.

Sixty-eight. You extended your legs for more momentum, rolled in the air, shot out two webs and used them to zip forward. Sixty-two. 2099 was fast, faster than you. You didn’t dare to look back to see if he was still in pursuit.

He protected the multiverse, kept it from collapsing in on itself, and you put the entire web of connection at risk just by being alive outside of your universe. You didn’t begrudge 2099 for what he thought he had to do. Maybe it was true that your presence could cause a universe to collapse, but you were careful not to stay for too long, not to interact with the Spider of that universe, not to fight any super-villains. If he could just understand that you were careful, that you didn’t want a multiversal collapse anymore than he did, maybe he would be reasonable.

Then again, maybe not. He was relentless, and from what little you had heard of Spider-Man 2099, he wasn’t one for talk and negotiation.

Fifty-five. You dived down, shot another web, swung again. You could never go back to your world’s boundless emptiness and not another living soul. That thought kept your exhausted muscles working. Fifty. The void was all that remained of your collapsed universe, a void in which you could not die but where no one else could live.

Forty-eight. Forty seven. This block was all future, half-built apartment buildings.

Thirty. You’d long ago lost your suit. All that remained was the mask that obscured your face. You must look ridiculous swinging around in stolen street-clothes: a baggy sweatshirt, leggings, dirty sneakers.

Twenty-one. Nearly there. Just a few-

A solid mass of muscle stole the breath from your lungs and flattened you into a cement wall. Claws shattered the cement beside your head into a fine gray powder. A hand closed around your throat, and you were crushed between the blue and red clad Spider-Man and the wall.

He was pure muscle. This was the closest you’d ever been to 2099, and his sheer size was terrifying. The red lines on his mask narrowed with his eyes as he studied you.

Eighteen. You pushed at his broad chest, struggling desperately to fight him off, but he was enhanced too and probably well-fed and rested - two things you were not.

“Stop fighting me,” 2099 growled into your ear, his voice a deep rumble that you felt in his chest.

“I won’t go back.” You choked out the words while you planted a knee against him and tried to kick him away. Your efforts were utterly useless. Quite literally, you could feel muscles rippling across his chest and arms as he held you against the wall while you trid to wriggle free.

In the corner of your eye, you watched the red numbers tick down. Six. Five. Was it even possible? It had to be.

2099 brought you forward then slammed you into the wall again. The impact made your head spin. The red lines of his mask doubled and tripled. He was trying to get something around your wrist.

“Hold still!”

Two.

With the last vestige of strength left in your body, you brought a hand to his face and shot a wad of webbing at his eyes. He growled and stopped his attempt to hand-cuff you - or whatever he was doing - to wipe the webbing away. For a second he was distracted. You imagined the glowing golden portal. Closed your eyes. Energy sparked in your body, coursed through your veins and arm. You shot a web at the wall behind you. It shimmered gold, dim gold, but still gold.

There was a moment where you thought it hadn't worked. Then the wall crumbled away and you felt wind whip you backward as a bright gold light filled the space. 2099 reached for you, claws extended. Four knife-like talons dug into your shoulder, ripping through the ratty sweater, digging into your skin, and tearing four long bloody stripes into your flesh as the portal drug you away..

You planted both feet on his stomach and kicked him off. A bright red web shot out from 2099’s hand to tangle in a tree. The last thing you saw was 2099 falling then catching himself before you tumbled away from him and toward a new universe.

--

It was raining on this new Earth. Actually, ‘raining’ was a bit of an understatement. It was absolutely pouring, and you were soaked before you hit the ground. Hard.

You hadn't been as focused as you needed to be, and the portal had opened in the sky and dropped you ten feet to the roof of a towering building in some universe’s version of New York. You couldn’t tear the mask from your face quick enough as you gasped desperately for air. 2099 was strong, and he’d smashed you half a foot into solid cement.

Your ribs ached. So did your head for that matter. But it was the dull ache spreading across your shoulder, down your arm, and seeping through your muscles like liquid fire that really made you afraid.

The gray of your stolen sweater was soaked in crimson blood. Carefully, you pushed the stained fabric over your shoulder.

Shit. Shit!

Beneath the torn fabric, your skin glowed a sickly, dare you say radioactive red - the same red as 2099’s suit. His talons must have been poisoned, and now that poison was making it’s way through your body, causing unknown damage and immense pain. There had to be a lab on this Earth. Right? If you could only get there, you were smart enough to whip up an antidote.

But as you stood, it was obvious that you wouldn’t be going anywhere. The poison was potent and fast-acting. Insanely, you wondered if it was really poison or if you should be calling it venom. It didn’t matter, because a moment after gaining your feet, your legs failed. You careened forward and nearly smashed your head again, only just catching yourself before slowly laying down in the rainwater.

City lights sparkled in the distance and reflected in the puddle forming around your head. Purple and blues and few bright yellows. Not a bad view if this was how you died. If only the poison weren’t so painful. You wanted to scream, but you lacked the strength.

A familiar tingle shot across your spine a second before the bright gold light of a portal obscured the reflection of the city lights. No! He was so close when you jumped universe’s. He must have tracked you; no wonder he hadn't bothered to chase you through the portal.

You scrambled backwards weakly, your feet struggling for purchase on the slick roof as the broad shouldered man appeared. He was wreathed in gold light. You couldn’t jump again, couldn’t even stand, could barely drag your body through the rain as Spider-Man 2099 strode closer.

“Nowhere to run,” he said. His voice was flat, like he took no pleasure in finally having you trapped.

“I won’t go back!” You tried to sound tough, strong, but your voice cracked over the words. “There’s nothing there. I can’t. I’d rather die than- than go back to nothing. 2099, don’t send me back”

Your fingers felt the ledge of the building and empty air beyond it. Poison. Fall. The clawed Spider-Man. A slow descent into madness trapped in the empty and endless remains of your home universe. A fall seemed fastest. But you didn’t want to. You were scared. You didn’t really want to die. Your shoulder throbbed and head filled with fog. The skin was glowing such a bright red you could see it in the corner of your eye.

In the brief moment you hesitated, he was on you. 2099’s red webs wrapped around your chest, and he yanked you forward and away from the ledge. You crumpled at his feet, and he just stared down at you through that mask. His blue and red mask swam in your vision as you stared up at him. Was it the rain that was so cold? Or was it the poison? No, venom. Poison? Venom?

2099’s face got bigger as he knelt beside you.

“What is this?” He pulled at the torn sweater, his gaze falling on the bright red mottling your skin.

Miguel O’Hara had never seen his claws damage anyone like this. There was no venom in them… unless in whatever universe you had come from something about them was venomous. It was possible. His fangs were venomous, that he did know.

Miguel pulled off his mask, the adrenaline of the chase fading while he watched you struggle for life. He’d meant to stop you, take you back to base, figure out where you’d come from… not kill you. He ran his tongue over one of the fangs protruding from his mouth.

The next thing you knew, 2099 was sitting next to you and pulling you onto his lap. It might have all been a dream, you couldn’t tell. The lights were so beautiful. Your head lolled to one side, your whole body limp as a ragdoll in his muscular arms. His face filled your vision and blocked out the pretty lights.

He had a strong jawline, dark curls, sharp cheekbones, a broad nose, and were those fangs? And were his eyes glowing red? Yes, two orbs as red as the suit and your poisoned skin shone down at you. He was pretty too. This had to be a dream. The monster chasing you couldn’t be so handsome. You blinked, eyes unfocused. Your Spidey-sense was going wild, but you couldn’t bring yourself to fight. 2099 was warm, and you could go to sleep right here.

He shifted your body again so your side was pressed against his chest. “2099,” you whispered weakly, pathetically.

“I’m sorry for this,” he whispered in that low growl. Now it was tinged with what almost sounded like real regret. “It’s the best I can think of.”

He guided your head to rest in the curve of his shoulder, face turned toward his neck. One hand brushed hair away from your neck, the other wrapped around your waist. His fingers were no longer clawed, and his movements were gentle as he held you close, muscles tensing underneath your body. The expression on his face was tender. It seemed impossible that this was the same man who had made you his prey for months.

“Don’t panic now,” he whispered as he lowered his lips to your neck. “Stay still.”

You were barely aware of what was happening. His lips were warm, then four sharp pricks stung the base of your neck just above your collarbone and the deep poisoned wounds. Panic tried to rise in your throat, but you weren’t conscious enough to really process that a man currently had his fangs sunk into your throat. He drew back and spit out bright red poison, then bit into you again. Then again. And again.

Miguel was exceptionally careful with you, holding you perfectly still and being sure to sink his fangs into the same spot each time so as not to mark your skin any more than necessary.

Slowly, the world began coming back into focus. You were exhausted, but the poison was being was successfully being leeched from your system by his fangs. Brown curls were the first thing you became aware of, then the almost unnatural warmth coming from the man beneath you, then the cold pricks on rain on your back, then... then that something was biting you. Before you could wrench your head back, a large hand cradled the back of your head. You desperately tried to struggle as you realized what this vampiric Spider-Man was doing to you. The muscles in his arm flexed as he held your head still.

2099 pulled his fangs from your neck, spit bright red then let go of your head. You sat up quickly. The movement made you dizzy.

“I know you’re scared.” Miguel could see the fear in your eyes. He nodded to your still glowing shoulder. It was dimmer now and hurt less, but it was still obvious poisoned. “But this is working. Let me help you.”

You were looking him right in the eyes, the glowing red eyes, and though you didn’t trust him, you knew instinctively he was right.

“Okay,” you breathed lowly.

You laid your head on his shoulder. Miguel could feel how your whole body trembled, but whether it was from fear or cold or something else entirely he couldn’t tell. When his lips touched your skin you whimpered. That was fear.

Miguel still had one arm around you, but he took your hand in his free one, interlaced your fingers, and squeezed once. Then he sunk his fangs into your neck. It stung a bit but didn’t really hurt. Now that your were conscious, you could feel the poison being drawn toward the spot where his mouth connected to your skin. That didn’t really hurt either. It was like stretching a sore muscle - a satisfying pain that ultimately brought relief.

2099 drew back to spit out his poison. When was the last time you’d touched someone like this? A touch that was more than an accidental brush in the street - or a purposeful one so you could steal someone’s wallet. 2099 was your enemy, your hunter. He was dangerous. But he was saving your life and holding you so tenderly it made your chest ache.

“Once more,” he promised.

His fangs brushed over your skin for the last time. You pulled your hand from his and splayed your fingers across his chest. 2099 brought his now free hand to your poisoned shoulder and pushed the ripped fabric apart.

Miguel watched the last of the poison be pulled from your veins as it filled his mouth. He spit it out then turned back to study how your body was pressed against him.

“Can you stand?” He asked.

“I don’t know,” you answered honestly. Then panic hit and you jerked back, still sitting on his lap but with your face now safely away from his fangs. “You- you’re going to send me back. 2099, please don’t.”

“Why do you keep calling me that? My name is Miguel.”

Miguel. 2099 had a name. Of course he did, but hearing it made him seem so human. And his face was handsome. That was no venom or poison induced hallucination. The man was beautiful.

“And no. Not yet.”

“My universe collapsed. There’s nothing for me to go back to.”

His red eyes softened as they met yours.

“We won’t send you back to an empty universe,” he paused, and one side of his lips twitched up. “You ran because you thought I’d send you back to a void? I see I have quite the reputation.”

Miguel lifted you to your feet easily. He set you on your feet and tapped the watch-like contraption on his wrist. You leaned against his muscled chest for stability. Even without his poison, you were still wounded and tired and malnourished. A portal spiraled out in front of you both.

“You promise not to send me back there?” You looked up at Miguel. He squinted at the portal’s bright light and tugged the mask back over his face.

“Promise.”

To be continued... 

Part 2

-- 

A/N: Part 2 will be a little time jump, and we’ll actually see Miguel and reader get into a relationship!

My Masterlist

--

Taglist (Want to be added? Click here.) - 

@copingchaos @n1ght5h4d3-24 @paintmekala @chaoticevilbakugo @janebby @chaoticevilbakugo @weirdo125 @roseqzpd @bitchyglitterfox @m0nster-fvcker @romanarose

Won’t Tag: @janebby @marvelescvpe

If you want taken off, just let me know! I took a guess on who might be interested.

[dreamersworldduh]

Is requests still open? If yes, can you make a Hal Jordan x M!Reader where the reader is also the member of the JL (It decided by you his powers), and Hal is casually admiring him then eventually asked to go on a date with him with a touch of smut on the end.

Sorry if I may ask for too much, please. Just take your time!! And also, love your fics!! ^^

SECRET ADMIRER

• HAL JORDAN x MALE READER

SUMMARY — Hal Jordan never expected to fall this hard. What started as playful admiration of Y/N's extraordinary power and effortless grace on the battlefield quickly turned into something more. From flirtatious banter during Justice League missions to an unforgettable first date, Hal found himself drawn deeper into Y/N's orbit. Their chemistry was undeniable, their connection effortless, and soon, one night together turned into something more—something real.

WARNING! 18+ MDNI. Suggestive Langauge. Violence. Swearing.

WORDS! 9.6k

AUTHOR'S NOTE! Sorry about the delay, but I have fallen for Nathan Scott and I have been writing about him for a bit, daydreaming but don’t worry I’m checking back into reality. Anywho, enjoy your reading✨🫶🏽

The battlefield was a maelstrom of destruction, a chaotic symphony of clashing energies, monstrous war cries, and the distant rumble of collapsing structures. Hal Jordan stood at the heart of it, his emerald-clad form unwavering as he scanned the battlefield. His sharp green eyes locked onto Y/N, a mixture of admiration and intrigue flickering within them. He had witnessed countless warriors, battled cosmic titans, and stood against the wrath of gods, yet something about Y/N was... different.

Y/N stood amidst the chaos like a beacon of untamed power, an enigma of both human resilience and Anodite supremacy. He was neither fully mortal nor fully ethereal, yet he commanded the raw, boundless energies of the universe as though they were an extension of his own will. His body shimmered with an aura of undiluted mana, a luminous cascade shifting seamlessly between hues of deep violet, iridescent indigo, and brilliant silver. The very air around him pulsed and crackled with an intensity that made the fabric of reality quiver in his presence, as if space itself bent in deference to his power.

As the enemy forces—grotesque, otherworldly invaders from the farthest reaches of space—swarmed forward in a frenzied wave, their monstrous forms blotting out the light, Y/N barely flinched. His fingers twitched, a faint glow igniting at his fingertips before flaring into a blinding, celestial blaze. Without a single wasted motion, he raised a hand, and the energy obeyed like an extension of his soul.

A tidal wave of unfiltered mana erupted from his palm, cascading forward with an elegance that bordered on divine. It surged across the battlefield, a radiant force of destruction and beauty, sweeping through the advancing horde like a cleansing fire. The invaders were obliterated on contact, their forms dissolving into nothingness, leaving only the lingering echoes of their existence in the wind. For a fleeting moment, silence fell over the battlefield, the only illumination coming from the ethereal afterglow of Y/N's unleashed might.

Hal exhaled, leaning against a floating construct of his own creation—a luminous green platform, solid yet weightless under his touch. His arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable as he studied Y/N. Unlike most warriors, who fought with grit, rage, or desperation, Y/N wielded his power with an effortless grace. Every movement was precise, deliberate, as if he were composing an intricate symphony rather than engaging in a battle for survival.

It was mesmerizing.

"You make this look easy," Hal finally remarked, his smirk barely concealing the awe in his voice. The glow of his power ring flickered against the radiant light of Y/N's swirling mana, two forces of unimaginable power coexisting in perfect contrast—one forged by will, the other by sheer, unrelenting magic.

Y/N turned slightly, his eyes gleaming like distant stars, depths of wisdom and unspoken power lurking beneath their gaze. The energy coursing around him swirled and coiled like a living entity, responding to his presence, attuned to his every thought. There was something both intimidating and fascinating about the way he carried himself—unshaken, assured, as if he had long since come to terms with the enormity of his existence.

"It helps when you're part Anodite," he quipped, his voice laced with quiet amusement. There was a knowing smirk on his lips, one that spoke of experience beyond years, of a power so deeply ingrained in his being that it was as natural as breathing.

Hal chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief. "Remind me not to get on your bad side."

But even as he spoke, his gaze lingered on Y/N, unable to pull away. It wasn't just the power, the elegance, or even the sheer destructive force Y/N wielded with such ease. It was something deeper—an essence, an unknowable brilliance that set him apart from anything Hal had ever encountered.

Y/N wasn't just strong.

He was something else entirely. A force that defied classification, a being that could tilt the scales of any battle with the flick of his wrist. And for the first time in a long, long while, Hal Jordan—Green Lantern of Sector 2814, a man who had faced the unimaginable—found himself in awe.

The battle was far from over, but as the next wave of enemies charged forward, Hal wasn't just thinking about victory anymore.

He was thinking about the sheer, terrifying, and extraordinary force that fought beside him.

Y/N moved like a celestial force given form, his presence exuding a raw, mesmerizing energy that bent reality itself. Each flick of his wrist sent dazzling arcs of mana cascading through the battlefield, tearing through the monstrous invaders with unrelenting precision. Their grotesque forms barely had time to register their destruction before they disintegrated into motes of nothingness, consumed by the sheer potency of his attacks.

Hal had encountered countless warriors, beings of immense power that could shake the cosmos with a thought—but Y/N? He was something else entirely. There was a seamless, almost artistic grace to the way he fought, as if the battlefield was his canvas and magic his brush. His every movement was controlled, deliberate, and yet carried an air of effortless mastery that Hal couldn't tear his eyes away from. And if he was being completely honest with himself, the way those pulses of glowing mana outlined Y/N's well-toned physique certainly didn't go unnoticed.

His admiring gaze was rudely interrupted by the sudden crackle of static in his earpiece, followed by a low, gravelly voice that carried every ounce of irritation one would expect.

"Jordan. Get your eyes off Y/N's ass and focus on taking down the creature."

Hal blinked, momentarily startled before a slow, amused smirk curled across his lips. He barely turned his head, still watching as Y/N dodged a hulking beast's attack with an effortless backflip, mana swirling around him in hypnotic waves. The smirk only grew.

"C'mon, Bats," Hal drawled lazily, leaning further into his construct as if he were watching an entertaining performance rather than an all-out war. "You're monitoring from the Watchtower. Don't tell me you're not at least a little impressed."

"That's not the point," Batman snapped, his tone carrying that signature mix of exasperation and barely restrained irritation. "The creature is still standing. Quit gawking and do your job."

Hal hummed noncommittally, but his attention was already drawn back to Y/N, who was currently dismantling another wave of enemies with almost casual ease. His luminous mana pulsed in rhythmic bursts, glowing embers of violet and silver lingering in the air like celestial dust. It was hypnotic—the way his body twisted and turned, dodging incoming attacks with liquid fluidity before retaliating with breathtaking precision.

With a knowing smirk, Hal finally responded, "Nah, Bats. He's got it under control."

On the other end, there was an audible sharp exhale, followed by what Hal could only assume was Batman pinching the bridge of his nose in sheer frustration.

Unbothered, Hal simply crossed his arms, tilting his head slightly as he continued his very important task of 'monitoring' Y/N. The way he fought—every movement sharp, yet fluid, exuding confidence in every strike—was damn near hypnotic.

"Man," Hal murmured to himself, ignoring the chaos still unfolding around him, "it's like watching a damn fireworks show. A really attractive one."

"I swear to god, Jordan—"

Hal, still grinning, cut the comm line before Batman could finish his impending threat. With the Dark Knight suitably ignored, Hal returned his full attention to the spectacle before him. After all, why interfere when perfection was at work?

The battlefield lay in eerie silence, the aftermath of battle lingering like the final notes of a war song. The once-roaring chaos had settled into an almost reverent stillness, the only remnants of the monstrous foe now nothing more than drifting embers of dissolved energy. The air remained thick with the scent of scorched earth, metallic ozone, and the residual charge of magic that had been unleashed moments prior. Wisps of violet and silver mana still crackled in the air like spectral fireflies, drawn toward Y/N's fingertips before dissipating into the void.

Y/N exhaled slowly, lowering his hand as the last flickers of power receded beneath his skin. His breathing was controlled, steady—though there was no denying the sheer force he had just wielded. His presence alone radiated energy, a quiet yet commanding force of nature.

From above, Hal Jordan let out a low, appreciative whistle, cutting through the tension like a blade. He remained casually perched against one of his glowing emerald constructs, arms crossed, his ever-present smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. "Well," he drawled, "if that wasn't the most graceful ass-kicking I've ever seen, I don't know what is."

Y/N turned slightly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward in mild amusement. "You could've helped, you know."

Hal pushed off his construct, activating his ring once more as he floated down beside Y/N, his green aura casting a soft glow against the residual shimmer of mana in the air. "Oh, trust me, I was helping." He grinned, gesturing toward himself with mock grandeur. "Moral support, expert-level commentary, and, most importantly, making sure you looked damn good while doing all the work. Arguably the most important job out here."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance in the motion. "Right. Sure, Jordan."

Hal chuckled, but there was something else in the way he looked at Y/N now—a lingering glint in his eye, something just beneath the surface that he wasn't quite ready to name.

With the battle won and the city below now secured, the two of them lifted effortlessly into the sky, breaking through the upper atmosphere with practiced ease. The world fell away behind them, fading into the vast stretch of space. Up here, beyond the chaos and destruction, the universe stretched infinitely before them, stars glimmering like scattered diamonds against the endless black. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that only existed in the void—heavy, yet peaceful.

Hal flew alongside Y/N, hands resting behind his head in a seemingly relaxed pose, though his gaze kept flicking toward him every so often. The glow of Y/N's mana still pulsed faintly around him, a subtle luminescence that made his features stand out against the cold backdrop of space. Hal felt something tighten in his chest—not in fear, not in unease, but something else. Something unfamiliar. He had seen power before. He had seen warriors, legends, gods. And yet, there was something about Y/N—his presence, his confidence, the way he carried himself like he belonged among the stars themselves—that made Hal pause.

He wasn't sure what it was. And frankly, he wasn't sure he wanted to analyze it too deeply just yet.

Instead, he opted for what he did best—charming, casual, and just a little reckless.

"So," Hal began, tilting his head slightly as he turned toward Y/N, "I was thinking... We've saved the world, kicked some serious ass, and probably made Bats roll his eyes so hard he's given himself a migraine." He paused, purely for dramatic effect, watching the faint curiosity spark in Y/N's expression before continuing, "Seems to me like we deserve a reward."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, smirking slightly. "And what exactly do you have in mind?"

Hal's grin widened, though there was something genuine behind it—something just a little less playful, a little less deflective. He shrugged, floating just a little closer. "Dinner. You, me, somewhere nice—preferably a place where we're not getting shot at, blasted, or dealing with some intergalactic nightmare." He raised an eyebrow. "What do you say?"

Y/N regarded him for a moment, as if considering, weighing the offer like one would a well-placed bet. Then, with a soft chuckle, he nodded. "Alright, Jordan. You're on."

Hal couldn't stop the surge of satisfaction that spread through him at those words. He wasn't entirely sure what this was—just a bit of fun, or maybe something more—but whatever it was, he was more than willing to find out.

As the Watchtower loomed in the distance, the stars reflecting in their eyes, Hal found himself looking forward to whatever came next.

As Y/N and Hal Jordan descended onto the Watchtower's pristine metallic flooring, the soft hum of their energy dissipated into the hushed stillness of the station. The docking bay, illuminated by the ambient glow of reinforced LED panels, stretched before them in sleek, futuristic elegance. Beyond the Watchtower's expansive windows, Earth hung suspended in the void—a breathtaking sphere of blue and white, small yet vibrant against the backdrop of infinite darkness. It was the kind of sight that could make anyone pause, that could remind even the most seasoned heroes of the beauty of the world they fought to protect.

But Hal Jordan was preoccupied with something far more intriguing.

"Well," Hal declared, rolling his shoulders with a lazy grin, "I'd say that was a hell of a team-up. We saved the day, looked damn good doing it, and—most importantly—I managed to score a date. All in all, not bad for a day's work."

Y/N chuckled, shaking his head as he ran a hand through his slightly tousled hair, a few errant strands still wild from the intensity of battle. "I don't know if I'd call it a 'team-up,' considering you spent most of the fight standing around and watching."

Hal gasped in mock offense, placing a hand over his chest as if wounded. "Hey now, I was tactically observing. You were putting on a whole damn light show out there—I didn't wanna interrupt the magic."

Y/N smirked but didn't press the argument. Instead, he stretched slightly, rolling out his shoulders before exhaling. "Right. Well, I'm gonna go wash up. See you later, Jordan."

With that, he turned on his heel and strode toward the locker rooms, the faint glow of residual mana still crackling in the air around him like distant static. Hal, however, remained standing where he was, hands on his hips, watching Y/N disappear down the corridor. A slow, smug smile crept onto his face.

Yeah. Today had been a very good day.

Without wasting another second, Hal pivoted and made his way toward the common area. He knew exactly who he needed to find.

As expected, Barry Allen was there, comfortably leaned back at one of the sleek, high-tech lounge tables, flipping through a stack of mission reports at super-speed. His fingers blurred as he rapidly scanned through the data, his mind processing information at an incomprehensible rate. Hal, of course, had absolutely zero interest in mission reports.

Clapping his hands together, he announced his arrival with the energy of someone who had just won the lottery.

"Barry, my guy," Hal drawled, dragging out the words as he strolled up with the confidence of a man who had just conquered Mount Olympus itself. "Guess who just landed himself a date with the most ridiculously powerful, unfairly attractive half-human, half-Anodite badass?"

Barry didn't even look up. "Please tell me it's not you."

"It is me."

Barry groaned audibly, finally setting the reports down before giving Hal a long, suffering stare. "Why do you sound so proud? You annoyed that poor guy into dating you, didn't you?"

Hal scoffed, placing a hand on his chest. "Absolutely not. It was pure charisma. Natural charm. Irresistible good looks."

Barry blinked once. "So, annoyance got you the date. Got it."

Before Hal could retaliate with a rebuttal, a much deeper, far more unimpressed voice cut through the air like a blade.

"Jordan."

Hal tensed slightly. He knew that voice. He also knew exactly how much trouble he was probably about to be in.

Turning slowly, he found Batman standing in the corner, arms crossed, the dark folds of his cape making him look as immovable as a statue. His glare was sharp, unwavering—silent, yet speaking volumes.

Hal coughed, attempting to school his expression into something casual. "Uh, hey there, Bats. You hear the good news?"

Batman's glare did not waver. "Yes. And I also heard you spent more time admiring Y/N than actually contributing to the fight."

Barry, who had previously been exasperated, suddenly perked up with an eager grin. "Oh, this I gotta hear."

Hal held up both hands in defense, his ring pulsing faintly as he gestured wildly. "Okay, first off—not true. I was supervising. Second, Y/N had everything under control. And third—" He smirked. "Can you blame me? The guy is a walking celestial light show with the body of a damn Greek statue."

Batman exhaled through his nose in what could only be described as the long-suffering sigh of a man trying very, very hard not to commit murder. "You're impossible."

Hal's grin widened. "And yet, completely lovable."

Batman turned sharply on his heel and walked away, his cape billowing in a dramatic flourish. He didn't say another word, but the tense way he carried himself screamed frustration.

Barry, meanwhile, had officially lost it. His laughter echoed through the room, full of unrestrained amusement. "Oh, man. I cannot wait to see how this date turns out."

Hal plopped down in the seat across from him, still grinning like he had just won a bet. "Trust me, Barry—neither can I."

The entrance of Celesté, one of Coast City's most renowned fine dining establishments, gleamed under the warm glow of golden chandeliers. The faint clink of crystal glasses and the soft murmur of refined conversation drifted through the air, punctuated by the lilting notes of a grand piano nestled in the corner. Everything about the place exuded elegance—from the impeccably dressed waitstaff to the delicate flicker of candlelight reflecting off polished silverware.

And standing at the entrance, adjusting the cuffs of his sleek black tuxedo, was Hal—a man who, under normal circumstances, would rather be in his flight suit or his Green Lantern uniform. Dressing up wasn't exactly his thing, but tonight? Tonight was different.

Tonight, he had a date with Y/N, and there was no way in hell he was half-assing it.

Despite his usual easy confidence, Hal found himself rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an invisible tension. It wasn't nerves, not really—he didn't do nerves—but there was an anticipation buzzing beneath his skin, a restless kind of excitement that had nothing to do with the mission reports he had totally ignored earlier that day.

He checked his watch, lips twitching into a smirk. Any second now.

And then—like the universe had been waiting for the perfect moment—Y/N stepped through the restaurant doors.

And Hal's breath? Yeah, it hitched.

The shift in the atmosphere was almost palpable. Y/N carried himself with an effortless confidence that commanded attention, but it was the way the tailored suit hugged his frame that made the whole thing downright unfair. The smooth, high-end fabric moved with him, accentuating sharp lines and quiet power, each stride filled with the kind of grace that couldn't be taught.

His hair was styled—refined enough to suit the occasion, but still holding just enough of that untamed edge to remind Hal exactly who he was dealing with. And that? That was dangerous.

For a moment, Hal just stared.

Holy. Hell.

Y/N's gaze swept across the restaurant before locking onto Hal, and just like that, Hal snapped out of it, forcing his signature cocky smirk back into place as if his brain hadn't short-circuited seconds earlier. He squared his shoulders, exuding every bit of the cool, effortless charm he was known for.

Showtime.

"Well, well," Hal drawled as Y/N came to a stop in front of him, his tone smooth, but his eyes shamelessly lingering for just a second longer than necessary. "I was already looking forward to tonight, but man—you just made my entire week."

Y/N let out a low chuckle, his lips curving into something amused, and Hal felt a flicker of satisfaction at the sound. "That so?"

Hal gestured with an exaggerated sweep of his hand. "I mean, look at you. That suit? Criminally good. You clean up ridiculously well, and frankly, I think it's kinda unfair to the rest of us."

Y/N arched an eyebrow, the hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. "Coming from the guy who looks like he just walked off the cover of GQ?"

Hal's grin widened, preening just a little as he straightened his tie. "What can I say? I had to step up my game for you."

For a fleeting second, something flickered in Y/N's eyes—something warm, something genuine. It wasn't just amusement anymore; it was appreciation, maybe even something fond.

And that? That was a win.

Y/N exhaled softly, his voice smooth as he said, "Well, you did a good job."

Hal's grin turned just a little smug as he extended an arm in an exaggerated gentlemanly fashion. "Shall we?"

Y/N rolled his eyes, but there was no real annoyance behind it. Instead, he took the offered arm, the warmth of his touch settling against Hal's suit sleeve, and together, they stepped further into the restaurant.

The golden candlelight flickered around them, the hushed ambiance of the room embracing them in an atmosphere of something undeniably electric.

And in that moment, as Hal walked beside the most ridiculously powerful, unfairly attractive, and completely intriguing person he had ever met—he knew one thing for certain.

This? This was already shaping up to be one hell of a night.

The soft hum of conversation wove through the elegant restaurant like a well-rehearsed symphony, mingling with the delicate clinking of silverware against fine china. The warm glow of flickering candlelight bathed the room in an intimate ambiance, its golden hues casting elongated shadows along the crisp white tablecloths. The air was rich with the tantalizing aroma of expertly crafted dishes, each plate an artful display of culinary mastery.

At the center of it all, seated at a secluded table near the window, were Hal Jordan and Y/N.

For once, they weren't warriors, they weren't heroes locked in battle—they were simply two people, enjoying the company of the other. No cosmic threats loomed over them, no urgent mission awaited. Just this moment, unburdened and uninterrupted.

Hal leaned back in his chair, his broad shoulders easing into the plush seat as he lazily swirled the deep red wine in his glass. The crimson liquid caught the candlelight, casting rippling reflections onto the table's surface. Gone was his usual cocky bravado—the one he wielded like a second skin in the field. Instead, he had settled into something more relaxed, the version of himself that only surfaced when there was no need to impress—not that he needed to.

After all, Y/N had already agreed to this date.

Across from him, Y/N looked effortlessly composed, his well-tailored suit somehow still pristine despite the long evening. Yet, there was something warm in the way he chuckled at Hal's last remark, amusement flickering in his eyes.

"So let me get this straight," Y/N said, setting his fork down with a smirk. "You crashed a fighter jet on purpose just to prove a point?"

Hal grinned, holding up a finger. "Technically, I landed it in a way that looked like a crash. Huge difference."

Y/N shook his head, his smirk deepening. "And your superiors just... let that slide?"

"Nah, they were too impressed I actually pulled it off." Hal leaned forward slightly, voice dropping into a smooth, conspiratorial tone. "Besides, I've always been good at getting out of trouble."

Y/N hummed, lifting his glass to his lips before taking a slow sip. "More like good at getting into trouble."

Hal laughed, tipping his glass toward him in a mock toast. "Fair enough." He set it down, resting his elbow on the table as his gaze softened with curiosity. "Alright, enough about me. I know what you're like in the field—calm, collected, freakishly powerful—but outside of the whole 'saving the world' thing, what's your deal? What do you do when you're not making Batman twitch with stress?"

Y/N smirked, clearly enjoying the question. "You mean when I'm not dealing with you flirting in the middle of a fight?"

Hal placed a hand over his heart, gasping dramatically. "Hey, I multi-task."

Y/N chuckled, leaning back slightly as he considered the question. "Honestly? I like the quiet. I spend so much time surrounded by chaos that when I finally get the chance, I just want to be somewhere peaceful. Reading, stargazing, finding those little moments where I don't have to be 'on' all the time."

Hal studied him, intrigued. "Huh. So you're the 'find peace in the little things' type?"

Y/N nodded slightly, twirling his glass absently between his fingers. "Something like that." He tilted his head, his expression thoughtful. "What about you? When you're not flying around with that power ring, what does Hal Jordan do to unwind?"

Hal smirked. "Besides annoying Batman?"

"Besides annoying Batman."

"Well," Hal tapped his fingers against the table, as if contemplating, before shrugging. "I like fast cars, good drinks, and making bad decisions in Vegas—sometimes all at the same time."

Y/N chuckled. "Somehow, that doesn't surprise me."

Hal grinned but then, after a pause, his smirk faded just slightly. He hesitated for a fraction of a second before finally adding, "But when I actually want to relax?" His fingers traced the rim of his wine glass before he admitted, "Flying."

Y/N lifted a curious brow.

"Not with the ring," Hal clarified. "Just flying. When I was a kid, my dad used to take me up in his jet, and ever since then, being in the air just... calms me down." He exhaled, a rare glimpse of sincerity slipping through. "It's the one place where it's just me, the sky, and nothing else. No responsibilities, no pressure, just freedom."

Y/N watched him carefully, his expression softening ever so slightly. "That actually makes a lot of sense."

Hal arched a brow, amusement flickering in his eyes. "Oh yeah?"

Y/N offered a small smile. "Yeah. You spend so much of your time fighting for everyone else. Guess it's only fair you have something that's just yours."

For a second, Hal blinked.

He was used to the banter, to the playful teasing, to keeping everything light—but this? This was understanding.

And it threw him off guard.

For a brief moment, neither of them spoke. But the silence wasn't awkward—it was comfortable, filled with unspoken words neither of them felt the need to voice. The candle between them flickered gently, its golden glow dancing along their features as a soft piano melody drifted in the background.

Then, because Hal Jordan had never been one to let a moment linger too long, he leaned back and grinned.

"Well, damn," he mused, flashing a charming smirk. "I was just trying to impress you with my whole 'deep, brooding pilot' side, but you actually went and got all insightful on me."

Y/N chuckled, shaking his head. "Don't worry, Jordan. You're still just as ridiculous as ever."

Hal smirked, lifting his glass. "And yet, here you are. On a date with me."

Y/N rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched into something fond as he clinked his glass against Hal's.

"Guess I must like ridiculous."

And just like that, Hal felt that same victorious spark again—but this time, it wasn't about the chase, or the flirtation, or the thrill of the moment.

This time, it was real.

And for once?

He wasn't in any rush to figure it out.

The city had settled into a quiet, comfortable rhythm, its usual chaos giving way to something far more tranquil. The distant hum of traffic blended seamlessly with the muffled sounds of laughter from late-night diners and the occasional honk of a car horn. A cool breeze drifted lazily through the streets, carrying the faint scent of rain-soaked pavement—a reminder of the earlier downpour that had long since dried beneath the glow of neon lights and streetlamps.

Beneath that glow, Hal Jordan and Y/N walked side by side, their pace unhurried, their footsteps in sync as they navigated the quiet streets.

Hal had long since abandoned the last remnants of his formal composure—his tie loosened, tuxedo jacket slung over his shoulder, and hands tucked casually into his pockets. The evening had gone better than even he had expected. Dinner had been incredible, conversation never dulled, and there was an undeniable energy lingering between them, something that had been simmering beneath the surface all night.

And Hal? He was in no hurry to let the night end just yet.

"You cannot tell me," Hal said, nudging Y/N's shoulder with a smirk, "that a guy like you doesn't have a list of crazy fan encounters."

Y/N shot him a questioning glance, amused.

Hal gestured broadly. "I mean, c'mon—you're a walking celestial light show. Someone's definitely tried to propose to you mid-battle before."

Y/N let out a soft chuckle, shaking his head. "Surprisingly, no. Though I did have someone try to start a cult around me once. That was... an experience."

Hal stumbled slightly, stopping in his tracks as he turned to gawk at Y/N. "A cult? Oh, now you have to tell me that story."

Y/N smirked, ever the enigma. "Maybe another time."

Hal groaned dramatically. "You're killing me here."

Their laughter softened, gradually fading into something quieter, something unspoken. The warm glow of the streetlights bathed them in golden hues as they reached the entrance of Y/N's apartment building. The polished glass doors reflected the city behind them, the moment suspended in time, as if the universe itself wasn't quite ready to let them go their separate ways.

They slowed to a stop, the space between them small, but charged.

Y/N slipped his hands into his pockets, glancing toward the doors before looking back at Hal. "Well... guess this is my stop."

Hal nodded, rocking back on his heels slightly. "Yeah... damn, and here I was, hoping this street just kept going forever."

Y/N's lips curved into a smirk. "Smooth, Jordan."

Hal flashed his most roguish grin. "I try." But there was something softer in his eyes now, something far more genuine than his usual bravado.

For a beat, Y/N just watched him, as if studying something about him he hadn't quite figured out yet. Then, without warning, he leaned in and placed a quick, teasing kiss against Hal's cheek.

"There," Y/N murmured as he pulled back, his voice laced with amusement. "Consider that your reward for not being too obnoxious tonight."

Hal froze for half a second, his brain short-circuiting before he blinked and turned to look at Y/N, a mixture of amusement and disbelief crossing his face. "Oh, that's dirty. You're really just gonna do that and walk away?"

Y/N tilted his head, pretending to think it over. And then—before Hal could process it—Y/N closed the distance again.

This time, it wasn't just a tease.

This time, it was a kiss—real, deliberate, and slow enough to make time itself hesitate.

It wasn't rushed, wasn't hesitant. It was confident. Certain. Like Y/N had decided something, and this was how he wanted Hal to know.

Hal barely had time to react before instinct took over—his fingers twitching with the urge to grab Y/N's waist, to pull him in, to deepen it. The city, the streetlights, the night itself—all of it faded into the background noise as Hal let himself get lost in it, in the feel of Y/N's lips against his, in the quiet intensity that had been simmering between them all night.

And then, too soon, Y/N pulled back, a smug little smirk tugging at his lips as he watched Hal try to process what just happened.

Hal blinked. Once. Twice.

Then, slowly, his lips stretched into a grin—one that was equal parts impressed and thoroughly wrecked.

"Okay..." Hal exhaled, dragging a hand through his hair as if to ground himself. "Yeah. Way better than the cheek kiss."

Y/N chuckled, his voice smooth. "Glad you approve."

Hal licked his lips absently, still feeling the ghost of the kiss there. "So, uh... where does that leave us?"

Y/N's smirk deepened just slightly as he reached for the door handle, pausing just long enough to glance at Hal with something undeniable in his gaze.

"It leaves us with you coming upstairs with me."

Hal blinked, then arched a brow, his grin widening. "Oh."

Y/N simply shrugged, but there was something teasing in his expression, something that said he knew exactly what he was doing. "Unless you'd rather go home and spend the rest of the night thinking about that kiss instead."

Hal let out a breath of laughter, shaking his head. "Nope. Absolutely not."

With that, Y/N pushed the door open, stepping inside with effortless ease, tilting his head slightly in a silent invitation.

And without hesitation, Hal followed.

The moment Y/N and Hal stepped inside the apartment, the door had barely clicked shut before Hal was on him. With a swift motion, he pressed Y/N back against the nearest wall, his body a solid, warm presence against him. The tension that had been simmering all night—through lingering glances, teasing words, and unspoken promises—snapped like a live wire, igniting something urgent, electric, inevitable.

Hal's hands found Y/N's waist, fingers pressing just firm enough to pull him in, as if closing the last inch of space between them was the only thing that mattered. Their lips crashed together in a kiss that was hungry, heated, laced with both impatience and purpose.

Y/N smirked against Hal's lips before flipping their positions in a blur of motion, suddenly pressing Hal back against the wall instead. The shift was seamless, a silent challenge exchanged between them.

"Eager, are we?" Y/N murmured, his breath warm against Hal's mouth, teasing, yet laced with something undeniably predatory.

Hal chuckled, the sound low and rough, his smirk never faltering. "You invited me up." His hands skimmed along Y/N's waist, palming the sharp lines of his hips before giving a light, suggestive squeeze. "What'd you think was gonna happen?"

Instead of answering, Y/N claimed his mouth again—but this time, the kiss was slower, deeper, dripping with something intoxicatingly deliberate. His fingers worked on the last bit of Hal's already loosened tie, pulling it free with practiced ease before his hands slid downward, working at the buttons of Hal's dress shirt.

Hal responded in kind, his own hands already tugging at Y/N's suit jacket, sliding it off broad shoulders and letting it pool onto the floor. Their movements were urgent, desperate, a battle of dominance wrapped in heated friction, neither wanting to slow down.

Somehow, in between kisses, between touches, Y/N guided Hal backward down the dimly lit hallway, their lips barely separating, their hands mapping every inch of exposed skin as they impatiently shed layers between them.

Hal let out a quiet groan when Y/N's hands slipped under his tuxedo jacket, pushing it off in one smooth motion before immediately tearing at the buttons of his shirt. The fabric slid down Hal's toned arms, exposing warm, sun-kissed skin, the sculpted planes of his chest now illuminated by the faint glow of the city skyline bleeding through the windows.

Y/N paused for just a second, his eyes trailing appreciatively over Hal's frame—not out of surprise, but undeniable appreciation.

Hal, noticing the moment, smirked, his breath still uneven. "You're staring," he teased, voice slightly breathless, though unmistakably cocky.

Y/N's lips curled into a smirk of his own, his fingers tracing slow, feather-light paths down Hal's abdomen before giving a firm push, guiding him backward until the mattress caught him. "You like the attention."

Hal grinned, reclining back on his elbows as Y/N climbed over him, the heat between them suffocatingly thick. "Can't blame you for looking." He reached for Y/N's own shirt, making quick, impatient work of the remaining buttons before pushing the fabric down broad shoulders. "But let's even the playing field."

With one final tug, Y/N's shirt joined the growing pile of discarded clothing on the floor, leaving them both bare from the waist up. The temperature between them spiked, skin meeting skin as their bodies pressed flush together in another kiss—this one slower, richer, deeper, filled with a quiet hunger that neither of them intended to leave unsatisfied.

Hal's fingers skimmed downward, his hands settling on Y/N's belt, pulling it free in one fluid motion. Y/N responded in kind, unbuckling Hal's belt and sliding it off with expert ease, the leather making a quiet whispered snap as it was discarded.

Their hands continued their exploration, neither wanting to waste a second, their movements fevered and searching—stripping away the last barriers between them one piece at a time until there was nothing left but bare skin, heat, and the raw pull of gravity between them.

Hal let his gaze sweep over Y/N, his smirk briefly faltering as something darker, more primal flickered in his emerald eyes. He had always known Y/N was powerful—he had fought beside him, seen him in battle, unmatched and untouchable—but this was something else entirely.

Y/N, catching Hal's gaze, arched a single brow, his smirk sharpening. "Not surprised."

Hal chuckled, dragging his hands down Y/N's sides, his thumbs grazing along the sharp cut of his hips. "Oh, you were thinking about it, huh?"

Y/N hummed, leaning in just enough that their lips barely brushed, a tease, a challenge. "I had my suspicions."

Hal's grin turned wicked, his fingers flexing deliberately against Y/N's waist. "Glad to know I didn't disappoint."

Y/N's fingers ghosted over Hal's chest, tracing the defined lines before pressing him back onto the mattress, their bodies following in one seamless motion. His voice was silky smooth, teasing, but dripping with something far more dangerous as he murmured,

"Let's see if you live up to the attitude."

Hal let out a low, pleased chuckle, his gaze dark with undisguised anticipation. He propped himself up just enough to meet Y/N's lips again, his hands already sliding over bare skin, tugging him closer, claiming him with the same reckless confidence that had always defined him.

"Oh, trust me," Hal murmured against Y/N's mouth, his breath hot, his grin devilish.

"I always deliver."

Soon the sheets beneath them were already a tangled mess, twisted and bunched where their bodies had moved, their warmth sinking into the fabric. Y/N was above him, his hands braced against the firm expanse of Hal's chest, fingers splayed over taut muscle as he moved with a rhythm that was deliberate, intoxicating, and entirely unhurried.

Hal lay beneath him, his head tilted back slightly, breath escaping in uneven gasps and quiet groans, but his eyes remained locked onto Y/N—half-lidded, dark with something insatiable. He was drinking in everything—the way Y/N moved, the way his lips parted slightly with every breath, the way his body responded with effortless control and quiet dominance.

Hal's grip on Y/N's waist tightened, fingers pressing into warm skin just enough to leave faint impressions, as if silently staking his claim.

"Damn," Hal groaned, his voice rough, uneven, as he let his hands roam over Y/N's back, tracing the ridges of muscle before gripping just a little firmer. He wasn't leading—he didn't need to. He was content to follow, to watch, to feel. "You really know how to take control, don't you?"

A slow, wicked smirk played on Y/N's lips as he continued his steady, calculated movements, his rhythm precise—teasing, yet never cruel. His fingers dragged deliberately down Hal's chest, nails grazing over heated skin before settling against his sides.

"You did say you liked a little chaos," Y/N murmured, his voice laced with amusement, but beneath it was something darker, something hungry.

Hal let out a gravelly chuckle, though it quickly dissolved into a sharp inhale when Y/N shifted just right, the change in motion sending a ripple of pleasure through him. His fingers flexed against Y/N's hips, guiding, encouraging, but never fully taking over. No—he wanted to feel every moment of this, wanted to watch Y/N unravel him piece by piece.

The room was filled with the sound of ragged breaths, low murmurs, and the faint rustling of fabric against skin, their movements measured yet deliberate, indulgent. The push and pull between them—this quiet battle for control and surrender—was a dance neither of them was in any hurry to finish.

Y/N's breath hitched slightly as he leaned down, pressing his forehead against Hal's, their lips brushing without fully meeting, teasing that last sliver of restraint still lingering between them.

"You're taking this way too well," Y/N muttered, his words a quiet taunt, though his voice was breathless, heated.

Hal smirked, his hands sliding up Y/N's spine, fingers dragging, tracing before gripping his shoulders. "Oh, don't worry," he murmured, his tone rough, teasing, edged with something smug yet undeniably wrecked. His lips barely grazed the corner of Y/N's mouth, his breath hot against his skin. "I can handle you."

Y/N let out a low hum, a sound of satisfaction, before pulling back just enough to meet Hal's gaze head-on. The moment stretched between them, their bodies flush and burning, the weight of their unspoken challenge settling in the air like the final note of a song waiting to be played.

And then—with slow, deliberate ease—Y/N continued.

The pace never faltered, never rushed, but the heat between them only intensified, growing thicker, heavier, their bodies moving in sync, breath mingling in the dimly lit room.

Then Hal decided to take control, the shift was seamless, as if it had always been inevitable. With a firm grip on Y/N's waist, he moved with fluid, effortless strength, flipping their positions in one smooth motion. The rumpled sheets cradled Y/N's back as he landed beneath Hal, the fabric warm, tangled, an echo of the heat lingering between them.

The air between them pulsed, thick with something raw, electric, unrestrained. Hal hovered over him, muscles taut, his body a solid weight above Y/N's, their breaths mingling, overlapping, heavy with anticipation. His emerald gaze burned, taking in everything—the way Y/N's lips were already parted, the way his chest rose and fell, the undeniable invitation in his eyes.

Hal leaned down, capturing Y/N's mouth in a kiss that was deep, consuming, and utterly unrelenting. There was nothing hesitant about it—only heat and hunger, only the undeniable pull of gravity between them. His hands mapped their way down Y/N's sides, fingers tracing every sharp line and soft curve, lingering just long enough to draw a shiver from beneath him.

And then, with practiced ease, he slid his hands lower, gripping firmly at Y/N's thighs before hooking his legs around his waist in one swift, commanding motion. Their bodies collided again, flush against each other, the friction igniting something deeper, something dangerously intoxicating.

The pace shifted—no longer teasing, no longer experimental. Deliberate. Controlled. Every movement was measured, but filled with Hal's signature confidence, that undeniable cocky charm that made it clear he knew exactly what he was doing.

And judging by the way Y/N arched beneath him, the way his breath hitched at every slow, precise motion, Hal knew he was right.

A smirk ghosted against Y/N's jawline before Hal let his lips drift lower, grazing the sensitive skin just below his ear. His breath was hot, teasing, his voice laced with something smug, something darkly amused.

"Thought you liked being in charge?" Hal murmured, his words dragging across Y/N's skin like a slow burn.

Y/N's hands had already found purchase on Hal's back, nails pressing just enough to leave faint scratches, little reminders of the push and pull between them.

His voice was breathless, but still laced with defiance, that ever-present challenging spark in his gaze.

"I do," he murmured, legs tightening around Hal's waist, pulling him even closer. His smirk was dangerous, eyes dark with amusement and something far more primal. "But I don't mind letting you try and keep up."

Hal let out a deep, gravelly chuckle, his grip tightening just slightly, enough to make a point. He pressed in deeper, the movement slow, precise, devastating.

"Oh, sweetheart," he drawled, his tone dripping with amusement, arrogance, and something darker, "I don't try—I deliver."

Y/N barely had time to fire back before Hal's pace changed again, the rhythm stronger, more focused, deliberate in every push and pull between them. A sharp gasp escaped Y/N, and Hal drank it in, memorized it, let it fuel the fire already burning deep within him.

Their bodies moved in perfect sync, the world outside this moment irrelevant, insignificant. The only thing that mattered was this, the way Y/N responded, the way Hal could pull him apart and put him back together with nothing but touch, movement, tension.

Y/N's fingers tangled in Hal's short, tousled hair, fisting the strands, pulling him down into another kiss—this one hot, urgent, filled with something dangerously addictive. Hal groaned into it, his hands roaming, gripping, claiming, as if trying to etch this moment into existence, refusing to let a single second slip away.

This wasn't just taking control—this was staking a claim, ensuring that every movement, every moment, every lingering breath was something Y/N would feel long after the night was over.

And judging by the way Y/N clung to him, his body tense, trembling, lost in the sensation, Hal knew he was doing exactly what he promised.

The faint hum of the world outside—the distant murmur of traffic, the occasional honk of a car horn—faded into nothingness, swallowed by the symphony they created together.

The rustle of sheets. The rhythmic sound of their bodies moving in perfect sync. The deep, ragged breaths, punctuated by gasps and murmured curses—it was a melody that belonged only to them, a song of tension, release, and something far more consuming.

And Hal couldn't take his eyes off Y/N.

The way his body arched beneath him, the sheen of sweat glistening on his skin, catching the faint light and making him look almost ethereal. The way his lips parted, breath hitching, spilling out ragged, intoxicating moans, each one a spark igniting something primal, all-consuming inside Hal.

Y/N was breathtaking.

Absolutely wrecked—but still so in control, the contrast devastatingly beautiful. His usual sharp wit, that calculated confidence, was softened now, undone by sensation, by Hal.

Hal's grip tightened on Y/N's hips, fingers digging into warm skin, grounding himself as he watched the way pleasure carved itself into every inch of Y/N's expression. His chest rose and fell in uneven waves, his head tilting slightly back, exposing the smooth column of his throat—an invitation, deliberate or not.

And god, the sounds spilling from his lips—low, breathy, sultry—made something deep in Hal's chest tighten, something raw and possessive clawing its way to the surface.

He wanted to draw out every sound, to push Y/N to that edge over and over, just to hear that perfect melody again.

"You look so damn good like this," Hal murmured, his voice thick, rough, filled with something deeper than admiration, heavier than lust. His lips found Y/N's jaw, trailing slow, open-mouthed kisses along his throat, his collarbone, savoring the way he shivered beneath him.

"Could watch you like this forever," Hal admitted, his words gravelly, reverent, pressing harder, lingering longer, lips moving with purpose, with claim.

Y/N let out a breathless chuckle, though it was fractured, unsteady, as if he were barely holding onto control. His fingers dug into Hal's back, nails dragging faint red lines down heated skin.

"Cocky," Y/N muttered, his voice husky, teasing, but it wavered at the edges, betraying just how lost he was in the moment.

Hal's smirk curved against Y/N's skin, mischievous, knowing, before he rolled his hips just right—a deliberate, calculated movement that sent a sharp gasp tearing from Y/N's lips, his fingers tightening against Hal's skin.

"Damn right," Hal breathed, voice rich with amusement and something darker. He leaned back just enough to drink in the sight of him, eyes dark with hunger.

His smirk widened. "And judging by the way you're falling apart under me? I'd say I've earned it."

Y/N let out a shaky, uneven exhale, his head tilting back against the pillow, exposing himself to Hal completely, his body arching instinctively to meet every movement.

Hal memorized everything—the way Y/N reacted, the raw emotion flickering behind those darkened eyes, the sounds that sent shivers racing down his spine.

It wasn't just about this, about the way their bodies moved together in perfect sync—it was about him.

Y/N.

Every moment with him was intoxicating, a force Hal wasn't sure he could ever step away from, even if he wanted to.

And as he leaned down, capturing Y/N's lips again, pouring every bit of that realization into the kiss, Hal knew one thing for certain.

He would never get enough.

The early morning light filtered through the sheer curtains, casting a soft, golden glow over the room. It painted gentle patterns across the rumpled sheets, illuminating the faint traces of last night—the scattered clothes on the floor, the lingering warmth between tangled limbs, the quiet, unspoken intimacy woven into the stillness.

Outside, the city was beginning to stir—the distant hum of traffic, the occasional chirp of birds, the subtle rhythm of a world waking up. But inside the apartment, everything was quiet, wrapped in the kind of warmth and serenity that Hal Jordan had never been one to chase.

Yet, here he was.

Hal inhaled deeply, stretching slightly before his mind caught up to where he was—and, more importantly, who he was with.

A smirk curled at the corners of his lips as memories of last night flooded back—every touch, every sound, every moment that had left him wrecked in the best way possible.

Yeah... he had definitely outdone himself this time.

But what really had him feeling like he was on cloud nine wasn't just the mind-blowing night they had—it was this. The quiet aftermath.

The feeling of Y/N's warm, relaxed body pressed against him, his back flush against Hal's chest, his slow, even breaths ghosting over the pillow.

Hal let his arm tighten slightly around Y/N's waist, pulling him closer, reveling in the way their bodies fit so naturally together. Y/N's skin was still warm, his bare back smooth against Hal's chest, his scent lingering from last night—a mix of something intoxicating and uniquely him.

God, this was nice.

Hal let out a deep, satisfied sigh, nuzzling into Y/N's shoulder, content in a way he rarely let himself be.

He had never been one for cuddling after sex—it always felt too intimate, too much. But with Y/N?

Yeah. He liked this.

Maybe even more than he was ready to admit.

He was just settling into the moment, relaxing fully, when it happened.

Y/N shifted.

A small, unconscious movement, the kind that happened in the hazy depths of sleep. But the effect?

Immediate.

Because Y/N had pressed back against him, his bare ass fitting perfectly against Hal's lower half, sending a jolt of awareness straight through him.

Hal stilled.

For a moment, he tried to process the situation, tried to tell himself he was a grown man with self-control, for god's sake.

Then Y/N shifted again, pressing even closer, his breathing still slow, steady, completely unaware of what he was doing to him.

Hal's grip on Y/N's hip tightened instinctively, his fingers flexing as heat pooled low in his stomach. His breath hitched, and he closed his eyes for a second, silently cursing the universe.

Oh, come on.

Hal tilted his head back against the pillow, exhaling sharply through his nose, trying—desperately—to ignore the fact that his dick had very different plans.

This is fine, he told himself. I can ignore it. I can be normal about this.

Y/N let out a soft sigh in his sleep, his body molding even further into Hal's, and Hal immediately knew—

Nope. Nope. Not fine. Not even a little bit.

His jaw clenched, his fingers digging slightly into Y/N's hip as he fought every instinct telling him to wake Y/N up in a very, very interesting way.

His options were limited.

He could either:

A) Wake Y/N up.

B) Suffer in silence while Y/N continued to sleep peacefully, blissfully unaware that Hal was fighting for his damn life.

He sighed dramatically, resting his forehead against Y/N's shoulder, his voice a low, tortured groan.

"You're killing me here," he muttered, knowing full well that Y/N was still lost in sleep, completely unaware of his struggle.

Hal wasn't sure how long he could last like this, but one thing was certain—

Mornings with Y/N were going to be very, very dangerous for his self-control.

Y/N slowly stirred from his sleep, stretching slightly against the warmth surrounding him. His mind was still groggy, lost somewhere between dreams and reality, but the steady rise and fall of a firm chest against his back made him remember exactly where he was—and who he was with.

A small, satisfied smirk tugged at Y/N's lips as last night's memories resurfaced. Oh yeah. That happened.

Still feigning sleep, he remained still for a moment, listening to the quiet sounds of Hal breathing behind him—slow, controlled, forced. It was subtle, but Y/N could feel the tension in Hal's body, the way his muscles were coiled, how his hand was resting just a little too stiffly on Y/N's hip. And then... there it was. The unmistakable hardness pressing against the small of Y/N's back.

Well, well, Y/N thought, suppressing a grin. Good morning, indeed.

Deciding to have a little fun, he shifted slightly, pressing back against Hal just enough to gauge his reaction.

The result was instant. Hal inhaled sharply through his nose, his grip tightening ever so slightly on Y/N's waist as if trying to will himself to stay still.

Y/N fought back a chuckle, but he wasn't done yet. He stretched again, slower this time, deliberately rolling his hips ever so slightly, pressing himself further into Hal's very obvious problem.

Hal let out a soft hngh sound—barely audible, but Y/N heard it. He grinned to himself.

"You awake, Jordan?" Y/N asked, voice thick with sleep, as if he hadn't just set Hal up for absolute torture.

Hal let out a slow, controlled exhale. "Mmhmm," he replied through gritted teeth.

Y/N hummed, shifting again—just a fraction, just enough to make Hal's fingers twitch against his skin. "You sure? You seem a little... tense."

Hal groaned softly, pressing his forehead against the back of Y/N's shoulder. "You're killing me, you know that?"

Y/N smirked, finally turning his head just enough to glance back at him. "Oh? Something wrong?"

Hal's fingers dug into Y/N's waist, his jaw clenched. "You know what's wrong."

Y/N turned fully now, shifting onto his back so he could face Hal properly. And damn—the look on Hal's face was priceless. His usual cocky confidence was hanging by a thread, his lips parted slightly, eyes dark with barely restrained frustration.

Y/N reached up, running a slow finger down Hal's chest, watching with amusement as his muscles tensed under his touch. "I seem fine," Y/N said, his voice dripping with playful innocence. "You, on the other hand..." His gaze flickered downward with an exaggerated slowness noticing Hal's dick hard and firm before meeting Hal's eyes again. "That looks like a problem."

Hal exhaled sharply through his nose, his hand moving up to cradle Y/N's jaw, thumb brushing over his cheek in a way that was far too affectionate for how frustrated he clearly was.

"You love testing my patience, don't you?" Hal murmured, voice low, rough.

Y/N grinned up at him. "Well, you're fun to mess with."

Hal's lips twitched into a smirk. "That—" he suddenly rolled his hips just enough to turn the tables on Y/N, making him gasp this time—"was a mistake."

Y/N's breath hitched slightly before he narrowed his eyes playfully. "Oh? Gonna do something about it, flyboy?"

Hal's grin widened. "Oh, you have no idea."

And just like that, the morning took a very interesting turn.

[doctorsilverhead]

Can you do TFP Optimus x reader x Bay Optimus, please? I don't know how to pull this scenario but having both the leaders is a dream come true aaaaaa!!! 😔🫶🏻

Soft Spot (TFP Optimus X Bay Optimus X Human Reader)

The sun had set over the vast expanse of the Nevada desert, casting a warm glow across the Autobot base. You stood on the observation deck, gazing up at the twinkling stars that adorned the night sky. A gentle breeze caressed your face, carrying the faint scent of desert flora.

Suddenly, the familiar sound of heavy footsteps echoed behind you, and you turned to find the towering figure of Optimus Prime approaching. His azure optics shone with a gentle radiance, and a warm smile graced his metallic features.

"Enjoying the evening, [Your Name]?" he inquired, his deep baritone voice resonating within your very being.

You nodded, a smile spreading across your lips. "It's beautiful out here. I never get tired of watching the stars."

Optimus moved closer, his massive frame casting a shadow over you. "The cosmos holds countless wonders, and yet, the beauty of this planet never ceases to amaze me."

As you gazed up at him, a familiar rumble caught your attention. Turning, you saw the sleek form of the Bay Optimus Prime rolling towards you, his alt-mode gleaming under the moonlight. He transformed, his powerful frame unfolding with fluid grace, and stood beside his counterpart.

"Greetings, [Your Name]," he said, his voice rich and commanding.

You found yourself caught between these two magnificent beings, your heart racing with a mixture of awe and affection. The TFP Optimus reached out, his massive hand gently cupping your form, while the Bay Optimus leaned down, his face mere inches from yours.

"We have been drawn to you, [Your Name]," the TFP Optimus murmured, his optics shining with a tenderness you had never witnessed before.

The Bay Optimus nodded, his gaze intense yet filled with warmth. "Your courage, your compassion, and your unwavering spirit have captured our sparks."

In that moment, time seemed to stand still as you found yourself enveloped in the embrace of these two legendary Primes. Their energy fields intertwined, creating a harmonious resonance that enveloped you in a cocoon of pure, unconditional love.

As their metallic forms pressed against you, you felt a connection deeper than anything you had ever experienced before. A bond that transcended physical boundaries, a union of souls that defied the boundaries of species and reality.

In that moment, you knew that your destiny was forever intertwined with these noble warriors, and your heart swelled with a love that knew no bounds. In this dance across dimensions, you discover that love, in all its forms, is the truest form of magic, a force that binds the universe together, making even the impossible, possible. And in the heart of this cosmic ballet, you stand, a testament to the power of love that knows no bounds, a bridge between worlds, a beacon of hope for all beings, human and machine alike.

pt 2???

[galedekarios]

thinking about how gale's love language is acts of service.

people have talked at length about how he cooks for everyone at camp.

"the hand that feeds is the hand that's loved. it'll never leave your side now."

but that's not all of it, and it's a red thread that weaves itself through almost all his interactions throughout the game.

"magic is... my life. i've been in touch with the weave for as long as I can remember. would you like to experience this?"

gale shows the protag his world, his life, trying to connect them to the weave as he had once been, when he was still a chosen, still an archmage. it's not quite the same, it doesn't come quite as easy. still.

"i'm so very glad you came. to share this with me. i know this is all unreal, but i created it for you. you must know that you're... that you're very special to me. if things were different, if we were home, i'd have taken time to do things properly. to say it all better. but time is short. i'm in love with you."

gale knew he was living on borrowed, he knew it would run out eventually, even well before elminster came to deliver mystra's instructions.

he can't give the protag something different and they aren't home and they're not going to go home at the end of this. he knows this. time that once seemed so infinite when he was young is now whittled down to a single last night.

a last night that he uses to turn a dark and cursed land into a beautiful forest, northern lights dancing across a starry sky. he can't go home, he can't take the protag home, but he can give them an illusion of the centre of his universe, with all the well-loved things in it. there's no pretention here. books strewn across the floor, across the desk. sculptures, paintings, music. a view of home. the smell of the sea breeze.

baring his heart as well his soul in the little time he still has left to use how he sees fit.

"let me show you more. when you wake, it will be back in our small, dirty, bloody patch of existence. but stay with me now. there are endless worlds out there. countless ways to declare love. infinite ways to express it. too much for one night... but we shall try."

let me show you waterdeep, let me show you my home, my universe. let me show you how it would have been, could have been, if i did have time. let me show you more. let me show you how much i love you in the one night we may have left together.

let me give my soul to you, in confidence.

"i'd actually been thinking of introducing the two of you anyway. over a sumptuous home-cooked meal, if that sounds at all to your taste? i make it to my mother's recipe."

he wants to give the protag a chance to get to know tara, the one constant in his life, the one who became his only friend, his safe haven in the storm, the one that bore witness to his greatest triumphs and most abject failures. he wants to cook for them. he wants to take them home so very badly—

and yet he knows he won't make the date.

"then have me, but have the best possible version of me. [...] think of what i offer: the vastness of eternity to explore, the weave at our fingertips... you would really prefer me as i am?"

he could be more for the protag, if they wish him to be. could be more, could be better.

without all the flaws, without all the things that make gale only who he is. the things that sometimes simply aren't enough. he could be everything that plain old gale dekarios, that even the wizarding prodigy gale of waterdeep, could never be.

[certifiedbun]

Needy

Crowe x Reader One Shot

And the universe said I love you

When you were young, before everything fell apart, your father would tell you stories. Short stories, but one always stood out amongst the rest. A farmer and a star. Falling for each other in the only way beings like themselves could. Fiery and intense, but at the same time, so tender and soft you’d fall harder in love. As a child, you wondered if you could have that. Father spoke so fondly of the experience, you couldn’t help but want it too. 

And then, then you met Jericho Ichabod. Everything fell apart, and you forgot about the star and the farmer. In your darkness, Jericho was too bright, too loud, too much for you. And when you forgot the glow of the sun, even an ember seemed to burn. But, kissing Crowe? It burns like a hearth on a winter night, comforting and all encompassing. You couldn’t dream of leaving. Under the watchful gaze of the stars and the blanket of night, your souls blend and become something new. 

Parting for air feels like suffocating. Navy blue eyes stare into your own with such a soft gaze. His face flushes, red tinting his tan skin, and everywhere you look, you see hearts. Hearts in his eyes, in the shape of his nose, in his hair, even in the grass surrounding you. Your hands wander, cupping his cheek before tracing the edge of his jaw. The exposed skin of his neck looks so comforting, your face is nestled there before you can think. 

“What are we…?” It’s such a small question, whispered too quietly for Crowe to hear. Your hands play with the loose strands of dark brown hair that surround Crowe. A steady hand is placed on your back as Crowe holds you close. He rubs circles in the small of your back, and faintly, you can hear him.

“What did you say?” You can hear the smile in his voice, and you can’t help but grin in return. Small chaste kisses on his neck make him laugh under you, and his arms wrap tighter around your waist. “Well?”

“I asked,” you sit up slightly, looking Crowe in the eye. It’s not easy. He looks at you with a moonstruck expression, so earnest that your face heats up under the pressure. “What are we?” 

“What are you hoping for us to be?”

“Ah…” Your face burns hotter under the expectant stare. You know the answer, and yet, you’re scared to say it. 

“Can I tell you what I want us to be? And apologies in advance, it is a little selfish.” He sits up, his hands steady on your waist as he looks at you. The distance between you shrinks. You’re as connected as you can be with clothes in the way. “I’d like us to be together. More than friends, more than lovers. It’s selfish and crass, but I don’t want to share you with anyone.”

He nuzzles his face into your neck, his lips brushing against the exposed skin there. Your hands grip his shoulders, holding onto the purple shirt and wrinkling the fabric as your skin grows hot. “I want to wake up next to you. Spend my quiet mornings with you and find the world born anew in your eyes. It’s this… all-consuming want, and it’s so selfish–”

“No, it’s not.” The blanket of stars wraps around you both, locking you two together in a room with only yourselves as witnesses. “I think… I’ve always felt that way, even back when we first met in sophomore year.”

Before you know it, you’re kissing again. Lips touch every expanse of exposed skin as if the bruises in the shape of each other will live eternally on your skin. Part of you hopes they will. Let everyone know that Jericho Ichabod is loved by you and only you. You separate, and the needy part of you hates it. 

“Can you stay with me tonight? I’m not ready to let go yet.” A deep blush spreads across his cheeks, tinting his face even in the low light. There’s a silent nod as your foreheads touch. Begrudgingly, you pull away and stand up. You must look disheveled, and Crowe looks no better. Grass stains that will be a pain to get out cover you both, but you can’t find it in you to care. 

The whole way back to your apartment, Crowe holds your hand. It feels so natural walking through the door with him, like this was meant to be. Your future could be this. It will be. 

And the universe said I love you because you are love.

[aventurineswife]

After seeing Sunday playing piano in his trailer, i started thinking about sunday with a pianist!reader. Maybe they'd play stuff together or maybe even the reader is better than him and he's flustered or smthn... The brain wormsss gahh

A Duet of Souls

Summary: In the quiet of the Astral Express observatory car, you and Sunday share a moment of connection through music. After playing a soft, melodic piece on the piano, Sunday reveals his own secret talent for playing, and the two of you engage in a duet. As you play together, the music creates a peaceful, intimate atmosphere that allows Sunday to relax and open up.

Tags: Sunday x Reader, Duet, Connection, Intimacy, Vulnerability, Reflection, Piano, Bonding, Quiet Moments.

A/N: HE SO PRETTY WAHH!! ☹️😭 (I'm still loyal to aven), tell me why cure just played while I was editing this 💀... (The fact I was thinking about it like: “Imagine Spotify plays CURE lol”)

The Astral Express was more than just a train; it was a floating sanctuary in the vastness of the universe. You often found yourself lost in the sounds of the stars, the subtle hum of the tracks beneath your feet. It was on one of those nights, after a long journey, that you were drawn to the quiet, gentle hum of a piano.

The observatory car was empty, save for you, seated at the gleaming instrument. Your fingers moved across the keys, creating a soft, melodic tune that resonated in the quiet. You had always been passionate about music, but here, in this strange world of stars and limitless possibilities, the piano seemed to speak to you in a way no words ever could.

You lost yourself in the music, your fingers dancing across the black and white keys, weaving a complex, intricate melody. The notes floated through the air, blending with the whispers of the universe.

It was then that you heard footsteps behind you.

“Your music is... quite mesmerizing,” a smooth voice said.

You turned slightly, seeing him standing just beyond the door — Sunday. His usual composed expression was softened by the subtle warmth in his eyes. He wore his signature tailcoat, the dark blue and white contrasting sharply against the golden details. His halo hovered faintly behind his head, casting a soft, ethereal light across the room.

You smiled, a little taken aback by his sudden appearance. “Thank you. I was just letting the music take me somewhere.”

Sunday stepped closer, his gaze shifting to the piano. “I see... I must admit, I’ve always admired music. I’m a bit of a pianist myself.”

You raised an eyebrow, surprised. “Really? I didn’t know that. I’d love to hear you play sometime.”

Sunday chuckled softly, his gaze flickering to the piano as though the instrument were an old acquaintance. “Perhaps not now. I’ve mostly played alone, but I do enjoy the art.”

You smiled, motioning toward the bench. “Well, maybe we could play together? I’d be curious to see what you can do.”

His eyes gleamed with intrigue, though there was a slight hesitation in his posture. “I’m not sure I’ll be able to keep up with you,” he said, but the playful edge to his tone betrayed his amusement.

You raised an eyebrow, a challenge in your gaze. “Let’s make it interesting, then. How about a duet?”

For a moment, Sunday seemed lost in thought. The idea of performing with someone — sharing a space so intimately — was a foreign concept to him. But then, with a quiet breath, he stepped forward and sat beside you, taking his place at the other end of the piano.

You began to play a simple piece, one you knew well, but with an underlying complexity to it. Sunday watched your hands move with focus, almost studying the motions. His fingers hovered above the keys, unsure.

"Just follow my lead," you said gently.

Sunday nodded, his fingers finally pressing down on the keys. At first, his melody was hesitant, almost tentative, but as he picked up the rhythm, his playing became smoother, more fluid. You adjusted to his pace, blending your pieces together as if the music were weaving a story.

For a while, you both played in sync, the melody ebbing and flowing like a gentle tide. The sound filled the room, and for the first time, Sunday seemed to relax, his usually stoic expression shifting to one of quiet enjoyment. He looked at you, an unspoken appreciation in his eyes.

After a while, the music slowed, coming to a soft, lingering end. Sunday sat back, a small smile gracing his lips. He was uncharacteristically quiet, his gaze still on the piano keys.

“You were right,” he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. “That was... enjoyable. You’re an extraordinary pianist.”

You blushed at the compliment, shrugging slightly. “You weren’t bad yourself. You caught on faster than I thought.”

Sunday’s smile widened, though there was a hint of something deeper in his eyes. “Perhaps,” he said, his voice carrying a touch of playfulness. “But I believe I still have much to learn from you.”

You laughed softly, feeling the tension ease between you two. “I’d be happy to teach you more. Music is meant to be shared, after all.”

He nodded, the glimmer in his eyes softening. For a moment, there was a rare vulnerability in his gaze, one that you could almost touch if you reached out.

Sunday leaned back against the bench, eyes still fixed on the piano. "You know," he mused, his voice quieter now, almost wistful, "there is something... comforting about this. Music has a way of drawing us away from the noise of the world."

You met his gaze, recognizing the deeper meaning behind his words. "It’s true. In a way, music can be its own form of escape. A place where everything else fades away."

Sunday nodded, the faintest of smiles returning to his lips. “Perhaps, in the end, that’s all anyone really seeks — a peaceful refuge from the world.”

There was a moment of silence between you two, filled only by the soft echoes of the piano’s last notes.

"I suppose," you said softly, your voice matching the contemplative tone of his, "but maybe there's room for more than just escape. Maybe there’s room for growth, too."

Sunday looked at you, his eyes searching yours for a moment, as if pondering your words. Then, with a soft chuckle, he stood, offering you his hand.

"Perhaps you are right," he said, his tone gentle but thoughtful. "I look forward to exploring more with you, both in music and... in other ways."

You took his hand, feeling the warmth in his grip, and stood together in the quiet afterglow of the music, a sense of shared understanding lingering between you both.

In that moment, the universe didn’t seem so vast, nor so cold. With music, with each other, there was warmth. There was connection. And in Sunday’s gaze, there was the faintest glimmer of hope — a hope that, perhaps, even in his dream of peace, there could be room for something more.

[lay-z]

I'm sad for some reason I think I'm getting close to getting my period, so... I'm yearning for a fictional man and I'm hurting, because I can't have him 🥺❤️‍🩹 Also, I'd like to explore some slow burn type of romance and keep Simon's past traumas in mind! Pairing: civvie!F!Reader x Simon 'Ghost' Riley Warnings/Info: Reader is demisexual; cussing; tw: mental issues; insecurities; slow burn; awkwardness; humor Word count: 3.5k The one where two broken people connect.

You've already decided that you've given up on finding, not love, but companionship.

You've given up on love a long time ago, long before you'd reached your late 20s.

An old, creative and gentle soul, weighted down and scarred by childhood bullying, constant criticism by your family, societies bloody beauty standards and things you suffer from which you didn't even know how to describe let alone name in your youth.

Demisexuality? Body dysmorphia? Eating disorders? Anxiety? Insecurities, so deeply rooted, that they border on self-hatred?

And no, you never went to therapy – no. Gods, no, because if you go to therapy, you're mental, right? And how can your poor mother tell the rest of the family that you're mentally unstable? That something is wrong with her little, darling daughter? Hm?

So, no therapy, because your hyper-independence got your back. You're used to that, learned it in your younger years; always there for others, but no one ever stepped up for you, except yourself. Yet you're cursed to be an empath, so you never stopped caring for others, even if it killed you inside.

Giving. Giving. Giving. Tearing yourself apart to please and give up the love that brimmed in your kind heart. Never receiving anything good and soft, like some cheap whore, until there was little left of love to give.

Now you've turned cynical, cold, and lonely – or that's what you keep telling yourself to keep the façade up. Hiding behind humour and feigned nonchalance, because you're an entertainer. Always have been. You would've been an amazing actress, but when you were younger, your mother told you that you could never be the love interest, so why bother go to acting school and actually do something you enjoy?

You rarely wallow in self-pity anymore; only occasionally, right before you get your period and your hormones make you feel sad and depressed, make you break and hate yourself. Quiet and in secrecy, in the safety of your dark bedroom, or in front of the bathroom mirror – just to play out a sad scene in your delusional mind. Probably with a fictional man, someone who'd never hurt you – in your alternate universe.

Accept. Adapt. Overcome. Repeat.

It isn't ideal, but you've found coping mechanisms that work for you, albeit some unhealthy ones and you've survived so far. Emphasis on survived, not lived.

You're so deep in your thoughts, on the brink of dissociation, that you don't even realize you've been staring – again.

Your eyes flutter briefly, focusing back on the here and now until you realize what or, rather, who you have been staring at like some creep.

Fuck.

It's that man with the skull mask, not a ski mask, but a balaclava – you've googled it the first time you'd seen him around the café. You'd even researched if face coverings like that are illegal in the UK – turns out they're not, unless you refuse to take it off when a police officer orders you to.

He's staring right back at you; dark brown eyes unblinking, skin around the eye holes covered up by some black smudge – combat or war paint, probably. Sitting at the table right across from you by the cafés large windows; incredibly out of place for such a soft and quaint establishment. Nursing a tea, looking menacing and intimidating with his massive physique and black clothing, yet his eyes hold something more than stoicism in them. You know, because you see it yourself when you look into any mirror.

Bottled up emotions, a myriad of them, simmering just below the surface like a dormant volcano, ready to erupt someday.

You narrow your eyes then, force yourself not to tilt your head to the side like a curious puppy would do, because you don't want him to know that you're actually perceiving him this time – and not merely daydreaming and brooding like you usually do. Cursing internally, when you eventually lose this staring competition that you've completely just made up in your mind, because his eyes are too intense and he's obviously immune to social awkwardness, you reach for your lukewarm  matcha latte, taking a small sip as you turn your head away to stare out of the large shop windows, pretending to watch passers-by.

You force yourself to focus on the shitty UK weather outside, resting your chin on the back of your hand, elbow propped up on the cheap table. Rain and wind and colourful leaves grazing the wet pavement as the seasons start changing and autumn begins creeping in. You like autumn, prefer it over summer every year – and your mind begins to drift again, distracted by random strangers outside, grey clouds in the sky and fat raindrops pitter-pattering against the windows.

Meanwhile, his eyes never waver from you, and Simon catches himself wondering, what you might be thinking about now.

Time passes, and you try to keep your routine up – going out for a coffee once or twice every week, so you won't die of loneliness or isolation. At least, the café is nice, the baristas as well, it's not far from your flat and it's usually not that crowded nor busy.

Or so it was during summer.

Now, all people want to do is drink their coffees and teas inside, apparently, since the temperatures have dropped, along with the leaves.

After ordering your matcha latte, you turn around to see that your favourite spot by the window has been occupied in the past six minutes of standing by the counter. If only the lady in front of you had ordered her bloody tea and biscuits a smidge faster, but nah, you're not that lucky.

Groaning internally, you move to the table across from your fave, pulling one of the two plastic chairs out with more force than necessary because you're petty and annoyed. It's loud – not too loud, actually, but louder than it usually is – and you curse yourself for going out. You should've just stayed in this afternoon, curled up on your couch, playing some Baldur's Gate or so.

Some minutes pass after receiving your hot beverage and you've managed to drown out the noises and successfully ignore the sudden hubbub around the café.

That is until you notice a looming presence next to you; aura thick like molasses and prominent like the smell of gasoline, you don't know if you like it or not. It does catch your attention, though, and you turn your head to the left, eye-level with his denim-clad crotch, perhaps a little too close for the acceptable social standards.

Furrowing your brows in both confusion and offense, you have to tilt your head back and lean back in your chair to meet his eyes. How can those eyes be soft and aloof at the same time?

"Uh, hi?" You say then, brows still furrowed; not a greeting but an out for him to excuse himself for getting too close and fuck off again.

"Yer in me seat." He counters bluntly, voice incredibly rough and accented and muffled by the fabric of his mask as he gestures at the table with his gloved hand and holding a small coaster with a steaming cup of tea on top of it in the other one delicately. It looks comical and stupid, yet somehow endearing.

You're dumbfounded for a moment, blinking up at him in disbelief before finding your wit again, nodding your chin at the two chatting women sitting at your favourite table.

"And they're in mine," you say matter of factly, "If we go by that logic." You add dryly, picking up your latte, because the conversation is surely over.

He stays by your side, unmoving like a marble statue, dark eyes flickering somewhat nervously between you and the empty chair across from yours. Simon doesn't know how to properly interact with a civilian anymore; let alone a female civvie, and he ponders for a moment if he should just leave again, have a cuppa at his own flat.

But Simon's therapist had advised him, pleaded with him, to at least try and make a friendly connection with someone outside of his military comfort zone and well, here you are. At least your face is familiar already and you look harmless...safe.

"May I...sit with ye, lass?" He almost grits through his teeth, doing his best to ignore the way his heart beats hard against his ribcage as he waits for your rejection.

You pick up on the vulnerability in his voice, his demeanour, as if asking costs him some courage; truth be told, it would cost you some, too. Perhaps it's the fact that you've become silent acquaintances over the past few weeks; meeting up at this place without even meaning to. Each of you alone, always.

You stop in your movements, lifting the rim of your mug just to your lips before lowering it again, holding his gaze without taking a sip.

Sit with me? You muse to yourself, surveying him up close briefly and for the first time, at least consciously. He shifts on his feet some, heavy black boots – always boots, always layers of dark clothing, always the skull balaclava, no matter the temperature.

However, despite his looks, despite his authoritative and all-consuming aura and your better judgement, you nod once, cursing your intuition and empathy, nudging the empty chair away from the table from beneath it with your foot – a wordless permission, or perhaps an invitation?

And Simon exhales a long breath through his nose, jaw unclenching slightly as he gives a curt nod, sets his tea on the table and takes a seat on the offered chair. Easy.

And that is that.

The next time you're at the café, you breathe a sigh of relief to find it relatively empty for the time, except for some elderly customers and students working in silence on their laptops.

You're delighted to find your favourite table empty again and you order your usual matcha latte with coconut milk before eagerly sinking into the chair at 'your' table with a contented sigh and a good view on the people and life outside the cosy café.

Then your peace is once again disturbed by the soft clink of a tea cup being placed on the table, followed by the empty chair across from you scraping over the old hardwood floor, before he slips into the seat with a quiet huff.

"Your table is free," you tell him immediately, leaning to the side to look past his massive frame at the unoccupied table behind him.

"Aye, I know," he responds gruffly, folding his forearms on the table while he looks outside the window, "Figured we can ah safe space by sitting together." He suggests with a nonchalant shrug, though internally, Simon's stomach is clenching with nerves and anxiety. He despises feeling awkward and being in situations he cannot control.

Yes, it does feel incredibly awkward, but deep down you're too nice to tell him to fuck off, because he hasn't given you a reason to do so. When you were forced to share a table last time, you sat in somewhat comfortable silence, though you'd definitely finished your drink faster than usual back then before uttering a polite goodbye and slipping away.

"I guess so," you mutter in return because he's already sat down anyway.

Silence ensues, but you can't ignore the sudden tension of unasked questions and the pressure of social interactions. Then, it's too quiet in the establishment, and you both suddenly and silently hate it.

"Ye enjoy observin' people?"

His question catches you off guard because he sounds genuinely interested in you answer, and it's unnerving.

"Yeah, you could say that," you answer curtly, crossing your legs at your ankles under the table and leaning back into the cheap chair to feign nonchalance, even though you're currently anything but, "I find it relaxing."

"That's...strange," Simon retorts, quirking an eyebrow behind the safety of his balaclava, because he does that, too, and he never thought you'd blatantly admit that. Is people watching a thing among civvies? Then you shoot him an offended look and he can't help but cringe internally.

"Didn't mean it like that, lass." He assures you in a mumble, eyes flickering down to his steaming cup of Earl Grey tea.

Your first instinct is to mock him for his silly mask, ask him if he's a thug or cosplaying as one or some hooligan, but you bite your tongue, because you know better, and you feel like he could make you regret your sass. Especially if one of those assumptions proofs true.

"And what do you always do around here, hm? Never see you read a book or newspaper, let alone play with your phone," you ask instead, not even hiding the accusatory undertone as you turn your upper body towards the window. You're involuntarily dismissive, because it's been a while since you talked to a stranger like that, let alone a man.

"Same as ye, lass," he grumbles, "Thinkin', observin'...enjoyin' the peace." As if internal peace could ever be achieved in his case.

There's another moment of awkward silence and your mind is racing, riddled with anxiety, though unbeknownst to you, so is his. Simon is so out of his element and yet he forces himself to stay, unless you blatantly tell him to fuck off – which, deep down, he hopes you will.

"You're not some creep are you? 'Cause I swear, I'll clock you if you try anything or follow me home after this," you tell him with an edge to your voice, like you mean it. You're not opposed or afraid of violence. You grew up with older brothers and cousins.

Simon snorts at your threat, genuinely. He's taken off guard by your fierceness and he's absolutely sure you're serious about this, and he hates to know that he's capable of taking you down if he wanted to, even if you'd fight tooth and nail. It makes him feel guilty, makes his gut twist and churn because of those dark thoughts coming up in his brain like some black pest, even though he'd never ever do anything to hurt you.

"'m not," he assures you, eyes flickering over to study your face, your expression. You look tense and standoffish, and he can't help but admire that; to know that you're not afraid, that you can take care of yourself if push comes to shove.

"Name's Simon." He offers it like an oblation, a small yet important piece of himself, putting his given name and some trust into the hands of a stranger, and asking nothing in return.

You're once again dumbfounded and yet your mistrust and suspicious nature get triggered; squinting your eyes as him, your heart and brain are in utter turmoil.

"Didn't ask," you eventually retort coolly, like a proper arsehole, even though, deep down, it hurts yourself, hurts you to be rude like that, especially as you see something flicker in his dark eyes. Surprise? Hurt? Anger? You can't tell, but he leans back in his seat, gives a curt nod, accepting your snappish response just like that, and you think he'll leave, but he stays seated.

"I'm...sorry," you utter suddenly, fidgeting with the hem of your grey oversized hoodie, "That was...unnecessarily rude." You admit with a deep sigh. But was it, though? He's a stranger, some bloke with a mask, who just randomly decided to sit with you and introduce himself–

"It's fine, lass," he says, pulling you from your spiralling thoughts with his deep gravelly voice, "A reasonable reaction, really."

It is, Simon thinks. He might have questioned you about your thoughts on self-preservation and your survival instinct, if you wouldn't have reacted the way you just did.

He contemplates lifting his mask to finally take as sip of his tea, but like always, it costs him every ounce of courage to do so while you're looking at him so shamelessly with your alert eyes and that slight frown on your face, and Simon rubs his gloved palms over his thighs below the table to soothe himself as you keep scrutinizing him.

But then you utter your name in return, albeit hesitantly, and his eyes flicker up to meet your gaze, noticing the hint of curiosity in your eyes.

You don't see him, Simon, for several weeks after that and after some contemplation, you decide that he must've found a new café to hang out at or perhaps he got arrested eventually. You don't care either way.

But then, why do your eyes keep flickering around the shop whenever you drink your matcha latte? Why do you stare at the empty chair at his 'favourite table'? Why do you keep wondering what happened to him?

You don't want to accept it, don't want to acknowledge it, but deep down, you actually enjoyed having a proper chat with him the last time you saw him. When he so randomly decide to sit with you and introduce himself. You swiftly fix the slight purse of your lips as your mind keeps pondering about this stranger and you force yourself to enjoy your hot beverage until you can get back home and feel accomplished for actually having spent time outside your comfort zones, namely your flat and workspace.

But it's lonely. Always lonely.

In those few moments you'd shared with Simon, despite the awkwardness and that uncomfortable feeling of being perceived by someone, you'd realized that something has been missing in your life. Perhaps you should give your parents and siblings a call back; perhaps you should answer all those ignored messages in your phone; messages that have become less and less, because the people closest to you will eventually stop reaching out. You know that spiel already, yet you're having so much trouble actually pulling yourself out of this hole of self-isolation, a hole that's become suffocating, draining the colour from your life while you keep telling yourself that you're fine, that you want it this way.

"Lass?"

His voice cuts through your overthinking mind like a hot knife through butter and your eyes immediately find his gaze, that unwavering, piercing stare of his.

"Simon," you say in return, more like a greeting if it wouldn't be for the shocked pitch lacing your voice. You can faintly see his tired eyes crinkle slightly as he rests one gloved hand on the backrest of the empty chair across from you and you wonder if he's smiling behind his mask.

"Remember me name, aye?" He asks gruffly, almost playfully, the tiniest smirk tugging at the corner of his chapped lips beneath his mask as he pulls out the chair, waiting for your permission.

"Tsk. Obviously," you answer with a scoff and an eye roll before giving him a short nod. "No tea?" You remark as he sits down without it, raising an eyebrow as you sip on your own drink.

"Err, no. Not stayin' for one," he answers, shaking his head, "Was jus' in the area," he lies, "Figured I could drop by and say 'ello." He adds with a shrug, feeling utterly stupid now, because Simon definitely was not in the area.

He came home from a deployment last night and wanted to check on you for some reason, see if you're still coming here, see if you’re doing alright – but of course, you are.

"Mhm," you hum affirmingly, though more suspicious than ever as you survey him. You want to spit out Why?,  the question burning on the tip of your tongue, but you’re somehow too distracted by his overall appearance.

The paint around his eyes has faded, as if rubbed and smudged too many times. He smells an awful lot of tobacco and something else you can't quite pinpoint. Even in his usual attire of some type of black jacket or hoodie, jeans, boots and his balaclava, he looks terribly dishevelled and messy.

"Where have you been?" You find yourself asking before you can stop your mouth from moving. "If you don't mind me asking." You add casually, for good measure.

“Deployed.” Simon answers offhandedly, sounding colder than he intended to, and you do pick up on the shift in attitude; he doesn’t want to elaborate.

“Okay,” you retort with a nod, though your curiosity is sparked, and you click your tongue, pondering, before you confuse him as you let out a little snort.

Of course, he's a fucking soldier, you muse to yourself, should've figured that out myself.

You can practically see him raise his eyebrows in confusion, noticing how the fabric of his bloody mask shifts slightly.

“Ye laughin’ at me for servin’ me country?” He asks and desperately hopes that you pick up on the teasing tone in his voice, though it’s still hoarse from barking orders at his men for days on end.

“No,” you answer uncharacteristically soft, flashing him a rare genuine and sheepish smile, “I always wanted to join the military myself.”

Simon doesn’t know if it’s the smile you shoot him, catching him off guard, because he’s never seen that expression on your face before, let alone that sudden twinkle in your eyes as you admit that you’ve thought about enlisting in your past, but he suddenly feels even more intrigued by you; this secluded, lovely civilian in front of him, and he finds himself asking then,

“Why didn’t ye enlist?”

Perhaps he should get that tea after all.

Part 2 ?

[celaenaeiln]

in like a one person gets one, who would dicks soulmate (platonic or not idk) be? i’ve asked this to several ppl and the answers are usually wally, donna, or jason though i’ve seen some ppl say slade, roy, and bruce.

Anon your ask has literally been haunting me at night. I thought I knew the answer but then you hit me with a Donna!! But between Bruce and Donna, I can't decide so I'll just present a case for both.

Bruce

Bruce and Dick are soulmates on a cosmological scale. The DC universe ordained them to always find each other because they're quite literally a fated pair.

Batman: Legends of the Dark Knight Issue #23

Bruce: The only regret is that I'm out there alone. It felt good having someone at my back, being part of a team...but no sense wasting time wishing for something I'll never have.

Dick: He's cool, dad...d'you think we'll ever see him when we play Gotham?

The universe literally brings them together no matter the circumstances.

Convergence Issue #4

"The bond between you and Bruce Wayne echoes in every reality."

I don't think there's any stronger evidence for Dick and Bruce being soulmates than this.

But if that's still not enough I have more-

The Multiversity: Guidebook

In Bruce's world he lost Dick and in Dick's world he lost Bruce, but still in the end they somehow find each other. In every universe that has Batman, if someone is his partner it's always Dick.

In the medieval ages world-

Batman: Dark Knight of the Round Table Issue #1

The world of "A Christmas Carol" with Ebenezer Scrooge -

Batman: Noël

In a world where Bruce is a doctor at Arkham -

The Batman of Arkham

Dick is always there as his second.

Here's another interesting but depressing fact: In worlds where Dick Grayson has died as Robin, Bruce Wayne has never taken in another Robin.

This is because on top of the fact that Dick and Bruce as fated to meet, Dick means the entire world for Bruce. Like sometimes Bruce will come across a case with a child involved and the first thing he'll think about is Dick.

Batman: City of Madness Issue #2

Bruce's mind and life is literally consumed by Dick Grayson on a cosmologically spiritual level.

Donna

Donna is Dick's soulmate on a twin-sister spiritual level. Dick and Bruce are two halves of a whole, yin and yang. Dick and Donna though are one person. Their relationship is like taking paint and mixing it together to get something new. Like in those comics where two people look at each other and there's a "zing!" and suddenly it's an instant connection. That's them.

Titans (2016) Special 1

additionally:

Titans (2016) Special 1

New Titans (1988) Issue #89

Dick and Donna have no secrets. They're like a jigsaw puzzle, their pieces fall right into place.

He's always there for her-

The New Teen Titans (1980) Issue #38

They're so special and integral to each other that when an evil witch erases Donna from everyone's memories, there is only one focal point for her. One focal person for her throughout the years. Even though he doesn't remember her, Dick literally goes back in time with his future daughter Mar'i to help Donna, his soul-sister-

The Titans (1999) Issue #25

In every. single. moment of Donna's past Dick appears again and again to comfort her and be her pillar from Robin to civies to Nightwing. In the "Who is Donna Troy" Arc, as the story goes from the origins of Donna to the present, it becomes very clear that Dick is her centerpoint.

They're the definition of soulmates.

She knows him better than anyone else and he knows her. She even had him walk her Donna the aisle for her wedding. He was given that honor because of who they are to each other.

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #42

I...

just-

Tales of the Teen Titans Issue #50

to love like that...

They're made for each other.