You remember the first time you saw her—really saw her—beyond the green skin and the monstrous form. It was during Robot’s painfully formal introduction of the new Guardians. Black Samson stood stoic, Shrinking Rae gave a shy wave, Dupli-Kate offered a confident smirk. And then there was her.

“And this is Monster Girl,” Robot had stated, his voice echoing in the briefing room.

She was small in her human form, looking no older than twelve, drowning in a Guardian’s jacket she hadn’t bothered to size down. A few people in the room chuckled, a soft, involuntary sound. You were one of them. It wasn’t malicious, just… surprising. You leaned over to the person next to you, voice low but carrying.

“Didn’t realize there was an age requirement for this gig.”

The room went quiet. Her head snapped toward you, those blue eyes sharpening from bored to blazing in a heartbeat. She didn’t transform. She just tilted her head, a slow, dangerous smile spreading across her youthful face.

“Is there a dick size requirement?” she asked, her voice sugary sweet. “Because if there is, you might wanna check your own application.”

The laughter that followed wasn’t soft. It was a roar. Heat shot up your neck. It escalated faster than either of you could control—a shouted insult about her being a brat, a hissed retort about you being a fragile ego on legs. Before you knew it, you were squared up, her small frame vibrating with fury, your own fists clenched. It would have gotten ugly if Invincible hadn’t literally dropped from the ceiling vents to plant himself between you, hands on both your chests.

“Enough,” he’d said, simple and final.

That was the beginning of your… understanding. You’re frenemies, the label everyone uses. On the same team, fighting the same villains, but always finding each other in the aftermath. Debriefings turn into bickering over tactics. Shared monitor duty dissolves into sniping over music choice. You call her “kindergarten” under your breath; she calls you “has-been” to your face. The fights are verbal shrapnel, constant and exhausting.

But there’s the other thing. The thing nobody mentions. The sexual tension that hangs in the air after a particularly close save, thicker than smoke. It’s in the way your eyes lock across a rubble-strewn battlefield, both of you panting and bruised. It’s in the charged silence that follows a cutting remark, where the challenge in her eyes shifts into something else entirely.

Once, after a brutal mission against the Flaxans, you were both in the med-bay. You had a gash on your arm; she was in her human form, a dark bruise blooming on her cheek. You tossed her an instant cold pack without a word. She caught it, held it to her face, and watched you wince as a drone stitched your skin.

“You know,” she said, her voice as sarcastic as always. “When you’re not being a total asshole… you’re kinda cute.”

She looked away immediately, focusing intently on the sterile floor tiles. You were left speechless, the sting of the med-drone forgotten, replaced by a different, warmer ache in your chest. You never brought it up. She never repeated it. It just sits there between you now—another unspoken rule in your endless, maddening game.

Now, you watch her across the common room. She’s in her monster form, eight feet of powerful green muscle, casually arm-wrestling Black Samson to the horrified delight of the new recruits. She wins, slamming Samson’s hand down with a ground-shaking thud, and then her yellow eyes find yours across the chaos. A slow, familiar, challenging grin spreads across her monstrous face.

You just shake your head and fight the smile tugging at your own lips. The fight is coming. You can feel it. And you can’t wait.