Blurius

she/Her*23yo*yeaaaaa

[imani4reading]

Operation: Hangout In Peace | Peter Parker x Fem!Stark!Reader

SUMMARY: When you start dating the intern, Peter Parker, your dad enforces a list of rules for when he comes over. In order to ensure the rules are followed, you two must be babysat at all times, meaning the team circles in and out of who’s on monitoring duties. When you sneak out to hangout with your boyfriend without your father’s permission, the entire group of the world’s mightiest heroes are sent out on one major mission. Finding you…until they find out you’re building legos…? Tony begins to question his parenting. Perhaps a heart to heart conversation will help (it won't).

A/N: Consider this a part 2 to Dirty Little Secret :)

WARNINGS: Og tower fic so yes you have Wanda’s powers but purple, Clint is in the vents, Thor has poptarts, Steve is so incredibly corny (he uses ‘Gen Z lingo’), reader and Peter want to kiss in peace, sassy Peter

WC: 5.9K

Main Masterlist!

Being the daughter of Tony Stark had its perks, but it also had its drawbacks.

For one, you weren’t allowed to have a boyfriend. But when you went out anyway and started dating the new intern, who turned out to be Spider-Man, your dad realized there was no stopping you.

So, he set ground rules. Such a curfew, monitored hangouts, and so much more to the point it felt like your boyfriend wasn’t even your boyfriend.

The only alone time you ever got was at school, and even then you weren’t alone with the thousands of students and hundreds of staff.

When you did hangout one on one, it had to be monitored, either by F.R.I.D.A.Y. or another member of the team.

You preferred F.R.I.D.A.Y. because it was far less embarrassing and you could be alone in your room, but the door had to be open. She’d warn you guys to keep space between you when you’d lay in your bed, watching a movie. As soon as Peter’s arm even dared to wrap around you, she’d beep and tell him to remove his arm or else lethal action would be taken.

Peter would pull his lips into a tight line and cross his arms over his chest with a huff, no longer even interested in the movie on the laptop.

Out of all the babysitters who’d been tasked to watch the two of you, you and Peter learned who you liked best and who you despised the most.

You both mostly liked it when Natasha was in charge of watching you.

She’d let you both go into your room with the door shut because truth be told, she didn’t care.

On one occasion, however, she was banned from ever watching you two again.

The door to your bedroom was shut, the first rule already broken. Music played softly from behind the door and Natasha was sitting in the living room, legs kicked up on the coffee table, book in hand.

She checked her watch, noting that there was about another hour before Tony got back.

Unfortunately for her, you, and Peter, he was coming back earlier.

In your room, Peter sat at your desk, fixing his web shooters as you sat on your bed finishing up some homework.

Peter called you over to get your opinion on the altered design. You shot out of the bed and walked over, leaning against the desk beside him as he explained it.

You smiled. “Web grenades,” you said in awe. “That’s super cool, Peter.”

Peter’s face warmed up. “You think so?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

The room went quiet, the only sound being the music.

Peter slowly leaned in as did you. Your eyes fluttered shut, nose brushing against the tip of his when-

“Parker! Out! Now!”

Peter jumped back, the desk chair falling from beneath him. He hit the floor with a loud thud, panic racing through his body.

Your eyes widened, seeing your dad in the doorway who looked like he was about five seconds away from shooting him with his repulsor.

“Mr. Stark! I-”

“Save it,” Tony lectured. “Get up and get out of here.”

Peter almost tripped trying to stand up. He grabbed his stuff and tugged his shoes on, the laces untied. He was about to leave, but stopped.

He raced over to you. “Bye! See you tomorrow!” He pecked your cheek, earning him a near death sentence.

“Oh, you little shit!” Tony yelled. “I swear, I’m gonna-!”

Peter yelped, racing out the door where you found Natasha giving you an apologetic look.

After Natasha got fired from babysitting duties, she was replaced mostly by Bruce who still gave you and Peter space, but ensured there were still boundaries that Tony wanted.

You were no longer allowed to have the boy in your room, but Bruce allowed it, so long as the door was open.

He’d swing by and check in on you both every once in a while, asking if either of you were hungry or needed anything.

The first time he babysat you both, he came by to check in on you and found you both sitting on the floor going through Peter’s comics.

Peter was flipping through one, yapping your ear off about it as you rested your head on his shoulder.

Bruce stood in the doorway for a moment, a small smile on his lips. He cleared his throat and immediately you both jumped back, pretending that you weren’t so close.

“Don’t worry,” Bruce said. “You don’t have to worry about me telling Stark,” he laughed. “I was just going to order a pizza. What kind do you kids want?”

And that was the moment you two started to prefer it when Bruce was on patrol.

Then, there was the worst of the worst.

Sam and Bucky.

The first time you realized they were the ones on watch for the day, you told Peter to just not come over.

He insisted on coming over because he wanted to ‘spend time with his girlfriend’, which he unfortunately ended up regretting.

For starters, they heavily enforced the rules. You and Peter weren’t allowed in your room under any circumstances.

You had to sit on the couch, at least two cushions apart while Sam and Bucky monitored from the chairs directly across from you.

It was so incredibly awkward for two teenagers, but they seemed entertained by it.

At first, neither you nor Peter spoke, you just glared at Bucky while Peter stared at the floor, too nervous to meet the gaze of either men.

And it stayed like that for about twenty minutes until Sam spoke up.

“I don’t get it,” he said. “Why do you two want to hangout so bad if all you do is sit in silence? Aren’t you gonna do something?”

“What are we allowed to do?” you asked. “I feel like I’m in prison on a monitored visit.”

Bucky shrugged, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. “Talk, watch something, play with those stupid legos you guys like,” he suggested. “I don’t know. Just stop staring at me, it’s getting weird now.”

You rolled your eyes, shaking your head. “This is ridiculous,” you grumbled.

Peter turned towards you, trying to make the best of the situation. “I was talking to Ned about Homecoming and we were thinking that-”

“No,” Bucky interrupted. “Absolutely not.”

Peter pressed his brows together, slowly turning to face Bucky with narrowed eyes. “What?”

“No,” Sam chimed in, shaking his head. “Nope.”

You blinked. “No, what?”

“No!” Bucky and Sam shouted at the same time as if it were obvious.

Peter sank back into the couch, face flushed pink.

You pulled your lips into a tight line, shifting awkwardly.

If you could blow up the entire tower as revenge, you would. You couldn’t understand why your dad had these stupid rules in the first place and you certainly couldn’t understand why Sam and Bucky felt the need to even enforce them.

You supposed they just enjoyed watching you and Peter suffer.

It was dead silent again until you made a suggestion.

“Wanna watch a movie?”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Yeah, sure!”

You got up and grabbed the remote, turning the T.V. on. You and Peter both settled on Star Wars and before you could even hit play, Bucky snatched the remote from your hand.

“Hey!” you exclaimed. “Give that back!”

“We’re not watching that,” he said, exiting out of the screen. He stood beside the couch, right where you were standing, one hand on his hip as if he were watching an intense match of Sunday night football. “We’re watching something else.”

You groaned and threw your head back. “You know, you don’t have to watch it if you leave.”

“And leave you two alone?” Sam chuckled. “No way.”

Bucky clicked a few buttons and suddenly a new movie was playing.

“What the hell is this?” you asked as both men moved their chairs to either side of the couch.

“A real movie,” Bucky said plainly, and suddenly you recognized the movie he had played on numerous occasions.

Some old war movie from what you thought to be a hundred years ago. It probably predated the dinosaurs which was when you thought Steve and Bucky were born.

“I don’t wanna watch this,” you whined. “Put it back on Star Wars.”

“No,” Bucky said. “Now be quiet and watch. This is important historical stuff.”

Your jaw tightened as you side eyed him from beside you. You turned your gaze to the screens and immediately started to grow bored.

You were about thirty minutes in and Peter was starting to grow antsy too.

He glanced over at you and you smiled softly at him.

His fingers slowly slid across the cushions, yours doing the same until you met halfway.

Your fingers intertwined with his as you both looked back to the screen.

It stayed that way for about two minutes because Sam glanced over to check on you. He leaned forward in his chair and did a double take before he shot up from his seat.

“Oh, hell no!”

Sam and Bucky forced you both apart and ended up kicking Peter out, telling an over exaggerated story to your father about what happened.

And that was when you decided you hated them as babysitters.

Wanda and Loki came along and because of their powers, they always knew what was going on, no matter how sneaky you thought you were, which started to grow annoying.

Wanda didn’t necessarily care what you were doing, but she did start to care when all she could hear was the sounds of you two kissing behind closed doors. That was when she said you weren’t allowed to kiss anymore.

Loki told the entire tower a long while ago that he ‘despised the Stark witch with purple powers’, so naturally when he came along, it felt like you were under house arrest. Sometimes Peter could try to sneak a kiss from you and end up blasted twenty feet away from you. Other times, Loki wouldn’t even let you look or speak to Peter.

Then there was Thor who would quite literally sit between you two on the couch, telling stories about his life as a young boy on Asgard while smacking on an entire box of Poptarts with his mouth wide open.

And then there was Vision who took his job incredibly seriously, making the tower feel like a prison.

Steve came around every once in a while and ran the place like the damn navy, enforcing rules left and right like his life depended on it.

Then there was Clint…

One time he pretended not to care what you and Peter did, which resulted in you both in your room with the door shut. You were in the middle of a pretty intense game of Mario Kart when Clint came plummeting through the vent, straight into your room.

He was spying on you both through the goddamn vents!

Soon enough, you and Peter came to the realization that the only way to actually be able to spend time with one another would be to sneak you out of the tower.

So, you used your genius little Stark brain to disable F.R.I.D.A.Y. and disengage all defense systems at your bedroom window.

It was half past midnight and no one ever came by your room that late.

Now was the perfect time to head out.

A soft thud hit your window and you smiled, seeing a masked hero waving at you on the other side, the little spider lenses conveying excitement.

You opened up and your window and your boyfriend landed inside your room with quiet, practiced ease.

“Hi,” he whispered, cheesing from under his mask.

You smirked. “Hi.” You walked over to him, and his hands found your waist. Your fingers came up and lifted his mask just above his nose, pecking his lips quickly before pulling his mask back down.

Peter’s face flushed pink. “Are you ready?”

You nodded. “Yeah, just need my jacket,” you whispered, heading for your closet.

“Tiny Stark?”

You froze, a small gasp escaping you.

Peter glanced at you, fear in his eyes.

“Yeah…?”

“You okay?” the voice you recognized as Thor yawned.

“Yeah.”

…

…

…

“Is someone in there? I thought I heard you talking.”

“I’m…I’m on the phone. With- with uh- MJ.”

…

…

…

“Makes sense. Night.”

“Goodnight.”

You stood there for a second, listening to Thor’s footsteps head back to his room. You let out a sigh of relief.

“Let’s get the hell out of here.”

You grabbed your coat and slipped it on. Peter held his arms out to you, and you wrapped your legs around him, arms wrapping around his neck.

He climbed out of the window and shut it quietly.

“Ready?” he asked.

You swallowed hard, shutting your eyes. “No,” you replied honestly. “Just go.”

Peter jumped off of the side of the tower, flicking his wrist, a line of web catching onto the neighboring building.

“Holy shit!” you exclaimed, freaking out. You gripped onto him tighter, squeezing your eyes shut as your stomach dropped with each and every swing.

“It’s okay!” Peter chuckled. “I’ve got you!”

“What the hell!” you exclaimed, nails digging into the back of his suit. “How do you do this?!”

Thankfully the swing to Peter’s apartment wasn’t too far. He landed on the window and opened it, helping you inside.

You climbed in and gasped, clutching your stomach as he climbed inside, shutting the window.

“You okay?” he asked, yanking his mask off and tossing it aside.

You let out a shaky breath. “Yeah…I don’t know how you do that without throwing up,” you grimaced.

Peter chuckled. “Wanna build legos without getting yelled at?” he asked, already making his way over to his stash.

“Yeah!” you beamed.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Little did you know before sneaking out, Tony couldn’t sleep. He was up late at night down in the lab, tinkering as he always did when his mind wasn’t at ease.

He’d been hearing all about how you and Peter were breaking rules left and right and how the babysitting situation with Loki had gotten so out of hand that Peter refused to come over anymore, much to your dismay.

Nat had gotten into Tony’s ear about letting you be a teenager and have your boyfriend over without overbearing you two. There was no issue with ground rules, the issues stemmed from how ridiculous they were.

With a loud clank, Tony stropped his screw driver and pinched the bridge of his nose, realizing that he should probably talk to you about it. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., check to see if the little Stark is sleeping.”

“Checking in on Stark Jr.”

Tony started mumbling to himself about how stupid the whole situation was. He couldn’t understand why you had to choose Peter of all people and he couldn’t understand why you even wanted a boyfriend.

Not too long ago you were ranting about how stupid boys were but as soon as Peter came into your life, you only ever wanted to be around one person, which was him.

“I am unable to contact her through her bedroom. It would appear that all communication systems have been disabled in her room and that all defense systems outside her room have been disengaged.”

Tony blinked, nodding his head as he was both impressed and shocked that you’d do such a thing.

Then again, you were his daughter.

“Huh…” he muttered to himself. “Give me playback on Parker’s suit,” he said, pushing his rolling chair across the floor to his monitor. Immediately, he put two and two together. You and Peter were up to something.

“All recording systems inside of the suit have also been disabled.”

Tony stared at his reflection in the monitor, his finger hovering over the power button. “Those little shitheads…”

Tony leaped up from his desk. “Gather the team, would you? We’re going to find them.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Peter had changed out of his suit into pajama pants and some nerdy t-shirt Ned gave him for Christmas. You were sitting on the floor across from each other assembling legos, the Imperial Star Destroyer to be exact.

Peter was babbling on and on about the small missions he had been taking to save the city, ranging from saving a cat from a tree and helping an old woman cross the road.

You couldn’t help but to smile at how excited he was to save people. It was absolutely adorable.

You snapped a couple of lego pierces together and giggled as he mimicked bank alarms going off, and flicking his wrist as if to show you how he swung in to save the day.

Little did the two of you know, outside, the entire team of heroes were on high alert searching for you.

“I’ve got eyes on the target,” Clint said through the radio.

He was perched on a building across the way from Peter’s apartment, an arrow aimed right at the window.

“Where?” Tony asked almost immediately.

“His place.”

“Well, what are they doing?”

Clint chuckled. “Building…legos.”

Loki’s laugh echoed through the comms. “You mean to tell me this idiot mortal flying around in a bucket of bolts dragged us all out here to look for his offspring who’s building legos?”

“She seriously snuck out to build goddamn legos?” Bucky scoffed over the comms. “Real fine parenting, Stark.”

Nat hummed. “Weren’t you the one who told Tony her and Peter were breaking all the rules while you were on babysitting duty?”

“Because they were,” Sam interjected. “They were holding hands.”

“What’s so bad about hand holding?” Bruce asked with an awkward laugh.

“You know,” Thor’s voice boomed, making Clint wince and take his ear piece out, still able to make out everything Thor was saying. “Back on Asgard, there was this myth that said if you held hands with your lover for an extended period of time, nothing in the cosmos could tear you apart.”

“Well, I’m about to tear them apart,” Tony announced. “I’m going in.”

“Why?” Wanda asked. “They’re not doing anything harmful.”

“Stark loves control,” Steve retorted.

“Uh…” Nat trailed off. “They both told me that you pulled out a tape measure to make sure they were three feet apart. Sounds like you’re equally controlling.”

“Structure isn’t control.”

Tony landed on the building beside Clint who was putting his ear piece back in. “How long have they been building legos for?”

Clint shrugged. “Since I got here.”

Tony watched through the window as Peter carefully took the pieces you assembled and clicked it to the ones he assembled.

Peter smiled and put his hand up, high fiving you.

“They’re kinda cute,” Nat said, suddenly appearing beside Tony.

Tony flinched, catching his breath. “Can you stop doing your spy shit on us? You’re gonna give me a damn heart attack.”

Clint only chuckled, completely used to Nat sneaking up on people.

“You’re going to give yourself one if you keep losing your mind over every little thing she does,” she said.

“Can we go home now, or what?” Loki asked over the comms. “I’m losing my eight hours of sleep.”

Before Tony could say something snarky, Nat spoke up. “Yes, you can all go back. Stark thanks you all for your help.”

“No he doesn’t,” Bucky grimaced.

Clint grabbed his arrows. “I’m out. Don’t kill her, she’s kind of funny, slightly less annoying than you,” he said, placing a firm hand on Tony’s shoulder.

Tony flipped him off and he climbed down from the building.

The team headed home, leaving Nat and Tony on the roof.

Tony let out an exasperated sigh as he watched you start to put together the next pieces of the lego set, glancing up at Peter every now and then with such a loving look in your eyes.

“I hate having to watch her grow up,” he mumbled.

Nat turned to him with a small smile. “I can imagine how difficult it is, but the more you try to stop her, the more she’ll fight you on it. Like right now,” she said, motioning to the window. “She literally just snuck out to build legos. That’s insane, Tony.”

Tony groaned. “Why does she even want a boyfriend? Life was so easy when that freaking kid wasn’t here. Maybe I’ll kill him.”

“You won’t,” Nat laughed. “You like him and honestly, you should be glad she chose him. He likes her a lot.”

Tony hummed. “I guess he’s a half decent kid…”

Back inside the bedroom, Peter’s brows pressed together as he glanced out of the window.

“What’s wrong?” you asked.

Peter’s spider senses were going off, alerting him of something he couldn't quite put his finger on. “I don’t know…” he trailed off. “I feel like someone’s watching us or something.”

You glanced out the window, not seeing anything. “I don’t see anything, Peter.”

Peter got up and drew the curtains back, returning back to the floor, but instead of sitting across from you, he sat beside you.

“You don’t think your dad knows…” he whispered, as if he were lurking somewhere. “Do you?”

You shrugged. “Honestly, if he knew, he would’ve probably blasted you with a bomb by now.”

Peter’s brows rose. “How reassuring.”

You giggled and pecked him on the lips. “You’ll be fine.”

You went to put the lego pieces back together, but Peter’s hand grabbed your waist. You turned your gaze back to him. “What?”

“You can’t just kiss me on the lips like that and turn away from me,” he said sheepishly, his cheeks and nose burning pink.

Your lips curved upward as you leaned in, kissing him slowly as he melted into it.

His hand came up and cupped your face softly, lips moving against yours gently, causing you to sigh in content.

Finally, you could kiss your boyfriend in piece.

No babysitters.

No threats.

No interruptions-

“Open the curtains or I’ll send a repulsor through it.”

You and Peter pulled away, shock on your faces at hearing your father’s voice through Peter’s phone.

“What the?!” Peter exclaimed. “How did you-”

“Five, four, three, two-”

“Okay! Okay!” Peter said, scrambling to his feet and yanking the curtains open only to find Tony hovering there in his suit.

“Sneaking out to build legos, huh?” he asked, looking right at you.

You rolled your eyes. “And make out, but-”

“Don’t say that!” Peter hissed, fearing for his life.

“Open this window,” Tony demanded.

Peter gave you a petrified look before opening the window with shaking hands.

The head of your father’s suit turned to you, then back to Peter. “Take her back home. Right now,” he said.

“Yes, Mr. Stark!” Peter replied.

“And you,” Tony said, turning to face you. “You’re grounded for…I don’t know how long but you’re grounded.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

You were in fact not grounded.

Natasha had gotten into Tony’s ear again about letting you be a teenager and explained to him that he could set boundaries without being overbearing.

So, that’s how Peter ended up allowed back at the tower in your bedroom, but the door had to stay cracked open a minimum of three inches and you had to stay at least two feet apart from one another instead of three.

No kissing, hand holding, or hugging was allowed.

It was so stupid, but you went along with it.

Until you didn’t.

You’d leave the door cracked open and kiss Peter all you wanted, listening for footsteps. Whenever you two heard them, you’d separate and act like you weren’t doing anything.

You got away with it for a long time until Tony caught you both one day and realized that you had been breaking rules all along.

He was walking up to your room to see if you wanted some of the dinner Wanda had whipped up.

The soft hum of music played from your room and he could faintly make out one additional sound.

The unmistakable sound of two people kissing.

He slowly peaked through the crack in your door and low and behold, you and Peter were making out on your bed.

“Hey!” he shouted.

You gasped, pulling away from Peter. Eyes wide, you stuck your hand out, purple mist covering the door handle and slamming the wood shut.

Tony yanked at the door, banging on it with his fist. “You open this goddamn door, right now!”

A few seconds later, your hold on the door loosened and Tony came crashing inside, a vein or two popping out of his forehead.

You were sitting on one end of the bed, Peter on the other with a comic in his hands, acting as if he had been reading it the whole time and not making out with you.

Tony glanced between the two of you, blinking rapidly as if it would magically put you back into the position you had been caught in just seconds ago.

For a second he thought he was losing his mind until you spoke up. Then it hit him that you were messing with him.

You smirked at your dad’s face. “What?” you asked.

Tony was at a loss for words after that.

He didn’t want you to sneak around him anymore and he thought he was making the rules less strict, so he couldn’t understand why you continued to go against his word.

After a week of you and Peter pulling the same stunt, he had grown tired of it.

He went to Natasha, the only person he thought could help.

“And they just won’t stop,” he went on, pacing his lab. “I mean, it’s absolutely ridiculous.”

Nat sat at one of the spinning chairs and shrugged. “I mean…they’re just kissing, right?”

“But it’s constant!” Tony exclaimed, throwing his arms up. “And she’s only doing it to piss me off.”

“Well it’s working,” Nat laughed.

Tony sighed and leaned against the metal of the desk. “I’m going to have an aneurysm.”

Nat sighed and kicked her feet up onto the desk. “Just…talk to them,” she said plainly. “Get on their level and have a conversation. Tell them that he’s allowed over but they have to keep the door open.”

“I did!”

“No,” Nat said with a head shake. “You said they have to keep the door open and they can’t even hold hands,” she corrected. “You can’t set ridiculous ground rules and expect them to follow the illogical ones.”

Tony groaned, crossing his arms over his chest. “Can’t you just talk to them for me? You’re good at the whole…heart to heart thing.”

Growing up, your father’s father wasn’t really the greatest parent, and Tony didn’t want to follow in those steps. However, because he had a shitty father, he wasn’t so sure how to get on your level and have a conversation like the one Nat was proposing without snapping.

Nat snorted. “She’s not my kid.”

“Yeah, but she acts like you’re her mom so…”

“No Tony, you can do it.”

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

Tony sat on the stairs just a few feet away from your bedroom, reading over the crumpled piece of paper in his hands.

Steve walked by and eyed him. “What’s that?”

Tony rubbed his eyes. “A heart to heart.”

“You have a heart?” Steve asked, earning a glare from Tony. “My fault,” he said, pulling his lips into a tight line.

Tony raised a brow, tilting his head slightly. “My fault?” he repeated. “How old are you?”

Steve smiled, pulling a small notebook out of his back pocket. “Parker and your daughter have been teaching me all the ‘hip’ lingo.”

Tony cringed. “For the love of God, don’t say ‘hip’.”

Steve flipped through his pages. “Oh! Right here…” he said, narrowing his eyes in an attempt to see better.

“Please don’t,” Tony sighed. “I really don’t have the patience for this.”

“Captain America mogs Iron Man,” Steve said proudly with a smile, shutting his book. “It basically means-”

“I know what it means,” Tony deadpanned. He swatted his hand at Steve. “Now, get out of here please. And I hope you realize no one says that in real life.”

Steve opened his mouth to say something but stopped.

Just a few feet away, Steve and Tony could hear you and Peter kissing from outside of your door and the sound of both of your soft giggles in between them.

Steve smirked at Tony’s jaw clenching. “Duty calls,” he said, nodding at Tony before taking a step past him down the stairs. He stopped about two steps below the one Tony was sitting at. “Sounds like Parker’s got rizz.”

“Literally no one says that,” Tony said, completely exasperated. “They’re setting you up to get bullied, by the way.”

Steve shrugged, waltzing down the stairs.

Tony groaned. “I hate this tower,” he mumbled to himself before standing up and making his way over to your bedroom door. 

He could still faintly hear you and Peter kissing over the music, followed by your giggle.

“Peter, stop!”

“You don’t like it?”

“No!” you laughed.

Peter hummed and again, the sound of kissing ensued.

Tony shut his eyes in annoyance and knocked. “Hey…” he trailed off. “I…I just wanna talk.”

The door slowly creaked open, purple mist on the handle.

You sat on one end of the bed, Peter on the other, who gave Tony an annoyed look, which was the first time he had done so, but at this point, he was completely unaware of his expressions. He just wanted to go back to kissing you and hearing your soft laughter at his antics.

Tony shut the door and walked into your room, grabbing your desk chair and pulling it up beside your bed. “We need to talk,” he said, a slight nervousness in his tone that was a few seconds away from being taken advantage of.

“Okay…?” you said, completely unaware as to where this was going, because never in your life had you seen your father so awkward.

You and Peter shifted, moving to sit beside one another, legs criss crossed. The music still played, adding to the awkwardness.

“I wanted…” he trailed off, shutting his eyes. “I- what I- goddamn it!” he exclaimed, losing his train of thought over the music. “F.R.I.D.A.Y., kill the music, would you?”

“Stopping the music.”

Tony let out a sigh and clicked his tongue. “I was trying to say that…we uh…oh shit, uhm…” He blinked, looking up at the ceiling trying to remember the not so passive aggressive words Natasha told him to use.

Peter slowly leaned over to you, whispering something into your ear that Tony couldn’t make out.

You immediately giggled, nodding your head in agreement.

You both looked back at your father, and you tried your best to conceal the laugh coming out, but failed miserably.

Tony watched, lips parted. He glanced at you, then looked to your boyfriend who he now wanted to kill. “Alright, you know what. It’s your Aunt May,” he said suddenly, staring daggers at Peter.

Peter blinked, his heart already beating a million miles a minute. “What?! Aunt May?!”

“Yeah,” Tony nodded. “Something happened. Something bad.”

“Is she gonna be okay?!”

Tony shrugged. “I don’t know, but we should leave and get you back home.”

Peter followed Tony out of the Tower and into his car, but not before giving you a quick kiss.

In the car, he was freaking out, insisting that he should just swing to his apartment to get there faster.

“But, Mr. Stark, if I swing I can-”

“You don’t need to-”

“My aunt! What if she-”

“Relax.”

“Oh, my gosh what if-”

“Would you just put a cork in it-”

“Aunt May-!”

Tony slammed on the breaks in the middle of the road, making a hundred cars honk at him. “Look! Nothing is wrong with your Aunt May!”

“…Huh…?”

Tony lightly let off the gas, driving down the street, eyes fixated on the road. “There’s nothing wrong with your aunt,” he said, tone more leveled.

“I don’t understand,” Peter said. “You said that-”

“I know what I said and I said that because there’s something very wrong with what’s going on between you and my daughter.”

Peter’s heart sank. He didn’t want to be banned from the tower again and he sure as hell didn’t want you to not be allowed to date him.

“Oh, Mr. Stark,” he said. “I’m sorry I…I don’t know what I’m sorry for because apparently even breathing in her presence is a crime but-”

“Look, pal,” Tony said, holding a finger up in Peter’s face. “Watch that mouth on you.”

Peter sunk in his seat. “Sorry…”

“I don’t understand why you two constantly need to be kissing or touching each other,” he grimaced. “If you would behave like normal human beings, then maybe we wouldn’t need such intense ground rules.”

Peter blinked. “What’s the point in having a girlfriend if you can’t kiss her? You’re basically just friends at that point.”

“Then just be friends.”

“But I wanna kiss her!”

Tony yanked the wheel, making Peter hit his head against the glass. He parked the car on the side of the road and turned to face Peter properly.

“Do you want to be banned from the tower again?”

“No…” Peter grumbled, rubbing the side of his head.

“Okay. Then you can…date…” Tony grimaced, as if the words pained him to say. “…my daughter, so long as you don’t kiss and leave six feet between you two.”

“I thought it was two!”

“Well, it’s six now!”

Peter sat up straight, a pleading look in his eye. “With all due respect, Mr. Stark, your daughter is the best thing that has happened to me,” he said sincerely.

Tony shrugged. “Yeah, she kinda has that effect on people. She gets it from me.”

“Sure,” Peter deadpanned, rolling his eyes with a sass Tony hadn’t seen. “Anyway, my point is, I can’t just be her friend. I…I love her.”

Tony’s eyes widened as his brows rose. “You? Love my daughter?”

Peter’s face flushed pink, realizing that he had just admitted it out loud. He loved Tony Stark’s daughter. “Yes.”

Tony stared at Peter for a long while, so long that Peter was beginning to think that he was plotting ways to kill him.

“Incoming call from Romanoff,” F.R.I.D.A.Y. announced.

“Answer it,” Tony said.

“Tony,” Natasha’s voice came in sternly.

“Natasha.”

“Where are you? Where is Peter?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“Oh, I’m not,” Natasha said. “But you should be.”

Tony’s brows pressed together. “Why?”

“Because your daughter and Loki are using their voodoo magic stuff to try and curse you.”

“What?! I thought he didn’t like her!”

“Turns out he does, so I would highly suggest bringing Peter back.”

If there was one thing Tony was afraid of, it was you and the God of Mischief himself teaming up to plot his demise.

“So…does this mean I can still date your daughter?” Peter asked optimistically, leaning over the center console.

“No.”

Over the line, the two could make out the voices of you and Loki.

“Lethal or non lethal?” Loki asked.

You hummed. “Which do you recommend?”

“Lethal,” he responded without hesitation.

“Lethal it is.”

Tony’s jaw dropped, eyes going wide.

“I don’t think you have much of a choice, Mr. Stark.” Peter smirked.

⋆✴︎˚｡⋆

A/N: Feel free to send in tower fic requests! I’ve been so obsessed with them again, 12 year old me would be proud

Taglist (lmk if you want to be added!)

@sarilarisstuff @qardasngan @taylrsdaughter @lisbondollxo @emmaturtle48 @johnnyfuckingsexystorm @zenxvii @girlmeetsolivia

[sluvaffair]

🕷 What the Heart Remembers 🕷

     ↳ Warnings/Themes: CONTAINS BRAND NEW DAY PLOT POINTS! PG. Fluff. Barely!Angst.      ↳ Pairing: Peter Parker x F!Reader      ↳ Words: 4012      ↳ Summary: 4 years after Dr.Strange's spell, Peter finds himself face-to-face with you again.

☁️: i LOVED these requests!! very challenging but fun to get out of my smut comfort zone. there are plot points from the movie, but they're not used in a linear way and are not exact scene matches.‬

Requested: here. General Masterlist here. Peter Masterlist here.

The headache started before you were even fully awake. A dull pressure that built somewhere in your skull until it settled just behind your eyebrow. It was a familiar enough situation that you weren't at all surprised.

At first, they had been easy to ignore, a fleeting headache every couple of weeks that could easily be attributed to life at MIT. But two years ago, something shifted. The headaches became more insistent of being recognised and acknowledged.

They began to be accompanied by fragments of images that you couldn't place flashing through your mind; a laugh that wrapped around you; a hand that fit perfectly in yours; the feeling of rising and falling through the air without fear; and the worst, places you didn't recognise but somehow missed.

Every scan had come back normal. "There isn't anything medically wrong with you," the doctor had gently insisted. She had smiled in a way that you knew was an attempt to be encouraging but it had missed its mark. At least if there was something medically wrong, you would have some sort of an explanation.

You pinched your eyebrow tightly and stayed where you were for another minute, staring at the ceiling whilst you waited for it to pass. Most of the times, that was enough. This morning, however, it wasn't.

Letting out a slow breath, you pushed yourself upright. Outside was a normal day, car horns echoed somewhere below your apartment, followed by the sounds of arguments. The familiar rumble of the subway beneath the street sounded through the air.

Today was a normal day, and so yours would be too.

By the time you were dressed and made it to the kitchen, the headache had dulled into something more manageable.

MJ was perched on the kitchen counter, sipping a hot drink while watching Ned wrestle with a string of fairy lights that had somehow tied itself into an impossible knot.

With a genuine attempt at a smile and a grumbled good morning, you moved through the kitchen almost on auto-pilot. Pulling out breakfast ingredients without a thought as to what you actually wanted to eat.

“I hate decorations,” Ned muttered sometime later.

The snort that came from you was louder than intended and two pairs of eyes turned to look at you. MJ had a shit-eating grin on her face, while Ned's eyes narrowed.

“My sympathy is very low,” you shrugged. “You're the one that brought them.”

“I know.”

“You also suggested the party,” MJ added helpfully.

“I know.”

“Plus, invited half of the population of our graduate class,” you added, mouth full of toast. “So, our home has to look presentable.”

“I know.”

MJ took another sip from her mug to hide her smile. “So... whose fault is this?”

Ned sighed dramatically, his head dropping. “...Mine.”

“Bingo.”

Turning his attention back into the project before him, Ned continued untangling the fairy lights. It only took five minutes of silence before he was sighing again.

“You're hanging those back-to-front,” MJ called out.

Ned's eyes widened as he looked between you both. “Fairy lights have a front?”

“They do,” you smiled, Ned made it too easy sometimes.

Ned's eyes continued to move between you both, waiting for one of you to break. It was always you. The laugh slipped past your lips before you could contain it.

“I swear,” Ned muttered, shaking his head, “we need another person to balance this...” Ned gestured between you both “...out.”

For a few seconds, everything went quiet, like someone had turned the volume down on the world.

An image flashed in your mind, you, MJ, Ned, and a fourth figure that was there, but not really. You could see where they were supposed to be, where they'd fit if they were actually there. It was like someone had taken a pair of scissors to the picture, leaving behind nothing but the outline of a person.

Before you could focus on it, it was gone.

The headache arrived a heartbeat later, sharp enough that you instinctively reached for the edge of the counter to stabilise yourself.

“You okay?” MJ's voice cut through the haze.

The apartment rushed back into focus as you blinked, willing the image away. Ned was already looking at you. It was irrational, and you knew it, but the look of concern only made you feel the sudden urge to shrink until completely invisible.

“Yeah,” you said. You straightened to quickly and your words came out too snappy to be the truth. “Fine.”

Ned ignored it. “Headaches getting worse again?”

“Not worse. Just...” You searched for the words, finding it harder when two pairs of eyes looked at you with a pity that rested uncomfortably on your skin. “...I don’t know. It’s stupid.”

“Try us,” Ned said, untangling the fairy lights from his arm to move next to you. He rested his hand on your forearm.

When you offered no more words, MJ set her mug down and turned to you. “You know, Governments like us to think what’s going on in our heads is stupid, keeps us compliant.”

You would have laughed if you thought MJ was joking.

Fingers drumming against the counter, you swallowed the lump in your throat and began trying to pull non-coherent emotions into something logical. Your eyes remained fixed on the counter as you stumbled through your words.  

“It’s like... not worse because it’s more painful. It the feelings that come with it. And... like...the images. It’s a lot.”

There was so much more that could be said, “My headaches make me feel like there’s something I left behind.” “They leave me searching for something I can’t name.” But they barely made sense to you and, despite their reassurances, you knew it was something you’d have to try to explain, so you trailed off.  

“You’re seeing things?”

There were probably nicer ways that Ned could have asked that question. He clearly noticed it too, because he immediately winced.

“Harsh, dude,” MJ said.

“It’s okay,” you said quickly, stopping Ned’s response before it could even form. “It’ll pass, I think it’s just stress or whatever.”

MJ watched you with that same unreadable expression she always wore when she was thinking something she wasn’t sure she should say aloud.

The resulting silence stretched over the three of you in a way that made you shift on your stool. You glanced around the apartment, grounding yourself with what you saw. The unpacked boxes that still lined one wall despite having moved in nearly a month ago, the ragged sofa that you’d watched Ned and MJ argue over, and the clock, that flashed a time that told you you were boarding on lateness.  

“I’m with Dr. Banner today... I should go.” The words came out quieter than you intended. You cleared your throat, forcing a warmth back into your voice. “I hope those decorations will be ready for later.”

Ned dramatically stood, straightening his spine and raising his arm in a salute. “I will make it my sworn mission.”

Dr. Banner’s lectures always followed the same pattern.

He’d make a genuine attempt to impart years’ worth of knowledge, while at least half of the lecture hall made equally genuine attempts to steer the conversation towards his time as an Avenger. Every so often, the guy that always turned up in green body paint would shout, “Hulk smash.” And, every time, the lecture hall would descend into a fit of giggles and cheers.

By the time the lecture came to an end, you were fairly certain that everyone knew more about what an Avenger had for breakfast than they did about the actual topic.

You smiled to yourself as you zipped your bag shut and made your way down the steps.

Dr. Banner was already talking to a student by the time you reached the front.

He had his back to you, but even with his back turned, there was something strangely familiar about him. You didn't mean to listen in to the conversation, but it happened so naturally as if something declared your attention was needed.

“My name's... Ned.”

The hesitation caught your attention before the name did.

“Ned?” Dr. Banner sounded unconvinced.

‘Ned’ shifted awkwardly, his hand finding the back of his neck. “...Yeah.”

“Well, Ned,” Dr. Banner said, folding his arms, “what you’re talking about is dangerous. If you were going to target specific strands, how would you decide which ones are the ‘bad’ ones?”

You hadn't heard enough of the conversation to know what they were talking about, but you’d never heard Dr. Banner sound as serious as he did now.

“Just... theoretically,” ‘Ned’ responded.

Dr. Banner held his gaze for a moment, looking deep in thought as if he was considering whether or not to answer the question.

“Theoretically,” he repeated, more to himself than anyone else.

“Please, sir.”

Whatever he found in ‘Ned’s’ expression seemed to reassure him. “Yes. In theory... it’s possible.”

“Thank you.”

Before you could try to piece together the conversation, Dr. Banner glanced over ‘Ned’s’ shoulder.

“Ah, there you are,” he smiled, all traces of seriousness gone from his features. “Would you mind meeting me in my office in about ten minutes?”

Banner barely waited for your response before making his way out of the lecture hall.

“Of course,” you replied anyway.

At the sound of your voice, ‘Ned’s’ shoulders stiffened. He turned around slowly, eyes finding yours immediately. No words came out when his mouth opened, and then closed, and then opened again. He just stood there, brown eyes wide and slightly glassy.  

Without thinking, you smiled at him. It wasn’t the polite smile usually offered to a stranger who happened to make eye contact, but something warmer and more familiar. Like seeing someone you'd forgotten you were looking for.

Something shifted in his expression, a flicker across his face that you might have missed had you not been looking at him. It was replaced by a small, tentative smile of his own.

Neither of you looked away, even after the socially acceptable length of time for staring had long passed. His gaze wandered over your face, lingering on your eyes before dropping to the smile you'd barely realised you were still wearing.

His hair fell in soft brown curls in a way that made him look like the kind of person who had their life together, but there were faint shadows beneath his eyes, the kind that only came from too many late nights.

Under your gaze, he swallowed hard, his fingers gripping the straps of his backpack. When he finally spoke, his voice was somehow softer than it had been before.

“Hi,” he murmured, the word tentative, as if testing whether he was allowed to say it at all.

“Hey,” you replied. “Do I... know you from somewhere? You look really familiar.”

“No,” he said softly. “No, I don’t think you do.”

That should have been the end of the conversation. You could laugh it off, wish each other a nice day, and walk away. But the desire to know more about the boy with the familiar soft brown eyes and a curious mind who felt the need to lie about his name consumed you.

You tilted your head slightly, studying him. “What’s your name?”

He pointed to himself, eyebrows lifting. “M-my name?”

The corner of your mouth twitched, a smile threatening to break through. “Yes, your name.”

He looked caught off guard by the question, lips parting, and then closing again. It was like you could see the lie forming on the tip of his tongue.

“And don’t say Ned,” you added, unable to hide your smile now. “I’m pretty confident that’s not it.”

A breath that sounded suspiciously like a laugh escaped him. “You caught that, huh?”

“You weren't exactly convincing.”

“I've never been very good at lying.”

“I’ll keep that in mind.”

The words slipped out of you so naturally that neither of you questioned them.

He rubbed his thumb along the frayed edge of his backpack strap as he drew in a deep breath. For a moment, he looked like he was working up the courage to say something far more difficult than his name.

“It’s Peter.”

“Peter,” you repeated.

The name vibrated against the walls of your mind like it was a word that you had thought of a thousand times.

“Yeah,” he said quietly.

You tilted your head slightly. “It’s nice to meet you, Peter.”

“You too.”

Silence settled over you both again and you found yourself trying to think up ways to start the conversation again. Your eyes drifted past him, towards the hallway where Dr. Banner had disappeared. The question came to you almost immediately. “Are you a fan of the Avengers?”

Peter blinked, his hands shifting nervously on his backpack straps. “Uh... what? Why do you ask?”

You smiled slightly. “Why else would you be pretending to be one of Dr. Banner’s students?”

“I just wanted to pick his brain about something,” Peter admitted. “He’s... kind of brilliant.”

“I mean I agree, but why do you think so?”

The way Peter’s face changed when the topic of science came up was almost unfair.

He spoke with an enthusiasm that was impossible not to get caught up in, his hands moving just as much as his words while his thoughts raced just ahead. More than once, he caught himself drifting off-topic, only to circle back again a heartbeat later.

You found yourself smiling, a warmth spreading across your chest.

“...Sorry,” he said, rubbing the back of his neck. “I kind of talked your ear off there.”

“I enjoyed listening to you,” you said easily. “Now I understand why you risked committing identity theft in front of a literal Avenger.”

Peter groaned, his head tipping back for a moment. “When you put it like that...”

“It sounds unhinged?”

“Very.”

“Good. Just so you’re aware.”

He laughed again, this one a little louder. “What about you? Are you a student of his?”

“No, I’m doing project work with him for my PhD.”

Peter’s face lit up, his eyes crinkling deeply around the corners with a pride that felt entirely too big for someone you'd only met less than ten minutes ago. “I’m happy for you. You’ve always wanted to do that.”

 “Yeah, I have actually.” You tilted your head, eyes narrowing on him. “How did you know?”

“Would you believe me if I said that was supposed to be a question?”

His question earnt a small laugh from the both of you, his cheeks turning a pretty shade of pink. Peter had a dangerous ability to disarm you, you realised. Even more dangerously, you weren’t sure you were bothered by it.  

Students drifted past in the hallway, heading towards their next lectures as you and Peter settled into another round of silence and stares.

“So...” Peter said eventually, shifting his weight to break the heavy silence. “I should probably let you get to your meeting.”

“You probably should.”

Peter rocked back on his heels, but made no attempt to move. It was such a small thing, but the fact he seemed just as reluctant to leave as you were sent a pleasant tingle through your body.

Sighing, you opened your mouth to say goodbye, but instead, you heard yourself ask, “are you doing anything tonight?”

A woosh of air left Peter’s mouth, as if he’d been holding his breath. “...Tonight?”

“Yeah.”

“Um... I don't... think so.”

“My roommates and I are throwing a party. You should come.” The silence from Peter was long enough that you wondered if you’d completely misread the situation. “If you've got other plans-.”

“I don't,” Peter interrupted. He let out a quiet breath through his nose. “I'd... I'd like to come.”

A grin spread across your face before you could stop it. “Really?”

He mirrored it, smaller than yours, but no less genuine. “Really.”

“Great.”

“Good.”

You reached into your bag for your phone, then paused. “Actually...” Holding out your hand, you nodded towards the phone sticking out of his hoodie pocket. “Give me your phone.”

Peter raised an eyebrow, even as his hand slowly moved towards his phone.

“I mean, unless you're planning on memorising my address.”

“Oh.”

He fumbled the phone out of his pocket so quickly it nearly slipped through his fingers. Once unlocked, he held it out to you.

Your thumbs flew across the screen, typing in your number and name before shooting yourself a quick text.

“There,” you said, sliding the device back into his hand. “Now you have my name too, since you forgot to ask.”

Peter looked down at the contact for a long moment. When he looked back up, there was something in his expression you couldn't quite place.

“Thanks.”

You smiled. “I’ll see you later?”

“You will,” he promised.

You’d changed outfits five times before finally deciding that the first one had been fine. The apartment was already loud by the time the first wave of guests arrived and you found yourself glancing towards the front door more often than you cared to admit.

By the time the party was in full swing, you’d convinced yourself you weren’t waiting for anyone even though your eyes kept scanning over the crowd.

The disappointment that settled in your chest was irritatingly disproportionate for someone you’d only known for a few hours and had one conversation with.

You were halfway through a conversation you weren’t really listening to when the front door opened. Without thinking, you looked over. The relief that washed through you was immediate.

Peter stood just inside the doorway, a red cup in his hand, looking around the apartment like he was still deciding whether he belonged there.

You excused yourself before you could think better of it and crossed the room.

“You came.”

Peter smiled softly when he saw you. “I promised.”

“Good to know you keep promises.”

It took less than thirty seconds for Ned to spot the unfamiliar face. He appeared seemingly out of nowhere, all smiles and unnecessary enthusiasm, a half-eaten slice of pizza in one hand.

“Hey! I don't think we've met.”

A look flashed across Peter’s face; one you’ve become all too familiar with in the short time you’ve known him.

“I'm Peter.”

“Ned.”

As they shook hands, Ned turned to you, his eyes twinkling. “You invited him?”

“Evidently, Ned.”

“Wow. Good for you.” He nodded slowly as he disappeared back into the crowd.

“Sorry about him,” you said, turning back to Peter. “He gets overexcited.”

“I know,” Peter laughed softly, the words a little too confident.

You spent the next few minutes introducing Peter to people and trying to coax more information about himself out. But as the party grew, so did the tension in his shoulders.  

“Do you want to go up to the roof?” you asked. “It’s less crowded there.”

Peter looked back at you. “Yes, please.”

You set your drink down on the counter. “Come on.”

A rush of cold New York air met you the second the door to the roof opened. You stepped out first, pulling your sleeves over your hands as the breeze caught against your skin. You rested your arms against the low brick wall and looked out over the city. The noise of the party faded behind the door, replaced by the distant hum of New York.  

“I forgot how nice it is up here.”

Peter moved beside you. “The view is always nicer from above.”

Glancing over, you caught him staring at you. The second you caught him, his eyes shifted away.

You smiled slightly. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Sure, Peter.”

You let out a soft huff of laughter, turning your attention back to the city in front of you. Out of the corner of your eye, you watched him shift his weight, his shoulder brushing against yours before he pulled back.

The contact was brief, but the warmth of it lingered through the fabric of your top, leaving a strange, electric tingle in its wake. You kept your eyes fixed on the traffic below, suddenly hyper-aware of the distance between his arm and yours, waiting to see if he’d move closer again.

Instead, the wind picked up, sharp enough to cut through the quiet and make your shoulders shiver. Peter looked at you, his jacket was already coming off before you could stop him.

You immediately shook your head, waving your hands. “No.”

“It's fine.”

“You'll freeze.”

“I'll survive.”

“Peter...”

“I promise,” he said, holding the jacket out to you.

You hesitated, looking from the fabric to his earnest face. Then, quietly, “thank you.”

It was still warm from him as you put it on. You pulled it a little tighter around your chest, eyes closing as you buried your face slightly into the collar, and breathed in absentmindedly.

“Mhm, your aftershave smells good.”

The smell of the jacket brought a dull pressure behind your temples, like something was gently gnawing at the back of your head.

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Your eyes opened as you turned to face him. He was much closer than you’d realised. Close enough that the rest of the city lights seemed to blur out of focus. Peter's hand came to cover yours, his thumb brushing over your knuckles. You weren’t sure if he even noticed he was doing it. But maybe he had. Maybe that's why he looked as though he was trying very hard not to breathe.

Your eyes drifted, just for a second, to his lips. When you looked back up, he was already looking at yours.

Peter couldn’t seem to stop himself from taking a small step forward, crowding into your space. Your fingers curled instinctively into the fabric of his jacket.

His hand lifted slowly, hesitating for the briefest moment before reaching you, as though he was giving you one last chance to pull away. You didn’t. His fingertips brushed against your chin, his skin warm against the chill of the night.

“Can I?”

When you nodded, Peter tilted your face up slightly. His breath warmed your lips, the tip of his nose brushing against yours as he titled his head.

He was so close now, less than half an inch away when the heavy rooftop door swung open. Your entire body flinched, and you practically fell into Peter’s arms.

“There you are.”

Ned's voice carried across the roof before you’d even had time to register what had happened.

Peter let go immediately, dropping his hands to his sides and taking a step back. The cold air rushed back into the space between you where his warmth had just been.

You cleared your throat. “Hi, Ned.”

“MJ sent me,” he explained, narrowing his eyes slightly at Peter. “She’s deeply mistrusting of people and we don’t know you.”

“She is,” you admitted, looking up at Peter. “We're alright,” you called back to Ned, surprised by how steady your voice sounded.

Ned looked between the two of you, his eyes lingering on the jacket. “MJ said to tell you there's cake.”

You managed a small smile. “I suppose we can't ignore that.”

“No,” Peter murmured, his voice quieter than before. “I suppose we can’t.”

Before anyone could move, Peter’s phone buzzed. The smile disappeared from his face as he looked down at the screen.

“I have to go.”

You tried to hide the sudden drop of disappointment in your voice, but it leaked through anyway. “But you just got here.”

“I know.” Peter looked at you and for a moment, he looked almost as disappointed as you felt. “I’m really sorry. I have to.”

“Okay.” You immediately started to slip your arms out of the sleeves to hand his jacket back. “Thanks.”

He hesitated, his hands resting on top of yours to stop you from taking it off. “Why don’t you keep hold of it?”

“Won’t you need it?”

“I’ll come back for it.”

You bit your cheek to stop the smile from showing too brightly.  “Is that your way of saying that I’ll see you again?” “Yeah,” he whispered, words heavier than you knew. “It is.”

I genuinely only seem to be capable of writing smut, so I'M SORRY THIS WAS SO BUNS AND THE PACING IS BAD. I TRIED OKAY!! xx

[auriuswolve]

I hate to say this and I might delete the post once I get my answer but

Have anyone knew about the 3d nsfw animation of Caleb xia and mc😔.

I accidentally deleted all my history now I'm in hysteria cause I forgot to follow and like. I can't find them and if anyone knew, pls share the link through my message. Thank you 🍎

[softlylorelei]

Stress Relief

Summary- Dick Grayson has had a lot of weird girlfriends in the past. One was a literal alien others were eccentric to say the least, however, watching you stress bake might actually take the cake.

(do you get the pun, take the CAKE, bake....okay goodbye)

Warnings- Suggestive (making out SEMI mentioned), lots of kissing, FLUFF FLUFF FLUFF, cussing, dirty floors.

Pairing- Dick Grayson x Fem!reader

Song- Sugar Town- Nancy Sinatra

Hall of fame- @suupersonic

Join my taglist! TAGLIST

ALSO, let's play catch the reference. I wrote a scene similar to a show, if you know it comment it and you can get one of Euphemia's cookies.

Dick Grayson was a man of many talents. He was a master at his own body, conforming to flexible outcomes, he was able to charm any lady out of her panties, and he somehow found the crazy in anyone.

He could turn a completely normal guy into a sobbing mess with one look. He was ashamed to say he had become many people's reasons on why they became a villain.

And because of this, he never really felt normal. Coming from a home with circus acrobats and getting adopted into one where the tradition of fighting within the night in spandex didn't really help his case either.

Spending his life away chewing at the thoughts which lingered, could he be normal? And the is answer is no.

He did not own a big white four bedroom, two floor, three bath, big yard house with a wife (or husband, his charm does not discriminate.) and two or three kids. He wasn't able to list off suburban neighborhoods and if a gun was pointed at his head and was asked where his daily planner was, he would obviously kick them into oblivion. However, he would not know what to say, because he did not know what a planner even looked like.

So, while moping and thinking about the thoughts concluded, he met you.

More like ran into you.

"Holy shit! I am so sorry." Dick panics, quickly bending down and picking up your fallen things. He didn't bother to look, instead glanced. He barely saw the big text on your book titled, "Animal Psychology."

"It's fine, things happen." You reply sweetly, scarf falling down your neck.

It was the middle of Gotham's winter, and you had to admit, you were freezing your metaphoric balls off.

While Dick felt the need to feel normal, you wanted to feel different.

Coming from a family who made you feel like whatever you did, it was already done before so why celebrate?

Getting an A on your test was just another reminder someone else has done it before you and it's nothing to truly be happy for. Meeting Dick was a new experience and made you feel alive.

He celebrated every little thing because those things were not normal to him and they felt like anything to you, in a way, loving each other was bound to happen.

"No, I wasn't paying attention and I want to apologize." Shivering, he picks up your books, and stands up slowly, matching your same pace.

His eyes start to trace over your body, your long coat and magenta scarf, he was surprised he could even see you despite the list of clothing you were apparently wearing.

When the locals say you can tell when someone hasn't lived here for long, this is what they mean.

Clearing out his throat, his eyes meet yours, you're fixing the textbooks underneath your armpit, sighing softly against the cloth.

"First winter here?" Dick can't help but ask, his curiosity got to the better of him.

"Yeah." You smile, now looking up to actually look at him. Tilting your head, right hip propped out, you hum. "I lived in this small city in California for a while, it's pretty obvious huh?" Laughing softly and shaking your head.

"I mean I've never seen someone wear this much clothes since my little brother was convinced we all had malaria." Thinking about the memory, Dick can't help but smile, it was the weirdest disease Damian was paranoid of that year, he's pretty sure he'll come up with a different one next.

"Malaria?" You laugh further, head thrown back now, your teeth shining in the little sun Gotham had decided to share that midday.

Dick now sees a glimpse of your actual face as the scarf slides down. Notices the marks and faint scars from acne or accidents, he can't help but blush slightly. He has eyes, you are one of the most beautiful women he's encountered yet. Biting his lip, he shakes out his nerves and watches you as you recline back facing him again.

"D'ya think you would be up to y'know..." Rocking back and forth on his heels, he rubs the back of his neck with his left hand. "Maybe want to go get some coffee with me? If you're free 'course." He murmurs, practically silently if you weren't so near.

Furrowing your eyebrows as you decipher his words, glancing at your over the top snow boots, pondering on the offer. You shrug and nod. "Why not?" A grin is placed on your face as let Dick lead the way.

Nothing about you is odd and if there is, he's found it endearing.

Because months later, you find yourself moving into his much bigger apartment faster than you expected, and because of this he's found out about your big little secret.

-

Sometime in the relationship, where you and Dick had gone skin to skin in bed, trying to get as close as humanly possible you had opened up.

"My mom wanted me to get into medical school y'know? Which is why I know so much about patching you up." You mumbled on one quiet night, Dick knew better than to interrupt you, afraid you'll stop talking. Kissing the top of your hand, giving you a silent push to continue.

"It felt so organic and..." Scratching at your leg, you sigh once more. "Done so much. I felt like there was so much for me to do. And I had this cat, his name was Ham." Chuckling under your breath at the memory, you lick your chapped lips and continue on/

"During my second year of college, doing public health, I decided to change my major and do Animal psychology." Twirling your hands around his chest, your head finds the crook of his neck where you find him nodding along.

"That was when I found out about being a cat behavioral consultant. Though the stress kinda gets to me." Finishing off, counting the soft faint scars on his body, Dick leans down and gives you a proper kiss on your head.

"You're my favorite cat behavioral consultant I know baby." Mumbling into your hair.

"I'm going to be the only one you know doofus." Laughing loudly you slap his skin playfully which turns into of course a bigger playful fight. When does it not?

-

The morning of March, where the weather is slowly but surely starting to warm up, you had finally graduated and is quickly on the road to starting your interview on your dream job.

With your doubts of course, you start to feel the stress and anxiety work together in your body, creating a sense of trouble within you.

Panicking, you grab the next thing on your mind, a whisk and a bowl.

-

Dick was so excited to walk into his home, having a hectic day and constantly yelling at his team to work together, all he wanted to do was lay down on his future wife's chest and kiss until god himself came down and begged him to stop.

He could see it now, his beautiful fiancee watching her comfort show and wearing one of those eye masks he pretends to hate but loves the cooling sensation after.

Taking a deep breath, he slowly unlocks the door, not being able to contain his excitement to see his partner.

Instead of receiving kisses and proclaims of, "I missed you!" He sees something abnormal and far worse.

The kitchen is covered head to toe in flour, from the looks of it there are three trays of cupcakes or muffins- he can't tell, a cake, loaves, a pie or two.

His mouth agape, and eyes widen. He simply cannot believe the sight in front of him.

Slowly taking off his jacket, he hangs up on the coat rack near the door. His feet also afraid to step into the mess of his lover's baking world.

"Baby." He blurts, running a hand through his hair.

Not stopping your whisking, the glaze needs to be done by the time the rest comes out, you are on a time crunch.

A second time. "Baby!" Now stepping to doorway of the kitchen watching as you almost slip on a large sprinkle of flour.

Still completely unaware of his presence, you continue, adding more vanilla extract than you probably should.

Having enough of being ignored, Dick's boots echo as he stands in front of you now gently holding your shoulders. "Baby!" He breathes, blinking in your direction.

Flinching at the sudden movement, your own eyes widen at the unexpectedness of him being home, he said he would be here by 5pm, it is 4pm.

"What in the world are you doing?" Laughing softly to confirm he wasn't actually mad at you, just confused.

"I have an interview." You whisper quietly, a deep frown on your face as you look down. "I know." He mouths, left hand coming off your shoulder momentarily and lifts your chin up to meet his gaze.

"And I'm nervous."

"Y'must be baby, it's a lot." Affirming you, he closes his eyes and brings you into his arms, making sure you aren't suffocating he pulls away slightly.

"Why the baking?" Leaning down, he puts his ear near your mouth and beckons you to continue.

"It lets my hands do something, takes me away from all the thinking. Instead of letting myself overthink of how I could fuck up, why not think about how I can fuck up a glaze?" You shrug, and it is honestly as simple as that. "I made your favorite." You point to the three tier chocolate cake near the oven.

Dick stands there in disbelief, you had spent two years in his life and had this secret superpower.

"Anything else?" He gulps, eyes darting at the mess, salt thrown everywhere, a tiny puddle of vanilla extract somewhere. You had always claimed you needed so many ingredients when grocery shopping because of some baking club you decided to take, you didn't want to talk about it.

Dick's eyebrows furrow and his expression is filled with anger. "There was no baking club?" He runs a hand down his mouth, eyes watering... for some reason.

"No, Dick, there was no baking club." Blinking at him, lip curled up in confusion. "You're mad about me lying about baking club and not at the mess?"

Mouth still open, he sits on the armrest of the couch, shaking his head. "There was no fucking club." He whispers dramatically, sighing loudly, he stands back up, and you swear you see a hint of betrayal.

Throwing your hands in your air, you grab a piece of powdered donut and shove it in his mouth. "Here, stop being dramatic. You deadpan, crossing your arms and staring at him with a blank expression.

With his mouth filled with powdery goodness, he stares at you, a grin starting to form. "I h've had lovers whoo... beat the SHIZ out of alienz." Gulping down the last piece he was working on, his grin comes out in daylight. "And this has to be the weirdest stress relief I have ever seen."

Now it's your turn to look at him angrily, nose scrunched, stance defensive. "Well, if MY stress relief is SO weird, you can go back to your lovers." You grumble sarcastically, narrowing your eyes at him you turn to walk away expecting to hear quick apologies coming out his mouth.

Instead, he grabs you by the wrist and spins you around. "Richard Gray-" You try to spew, however he's quicker, attaching his sugar coated lips against yours. You let out a yelp of surprise but reciprocate the kiss. Hands coming up to his hair to tug and play with, his own finding your waist and neck.

Losing yourself in the act of love, you whimper against his mouth, left hand finding the hem of his shirt. Before you can even test his waters, he flips out and falls onto the floor, a gasp leaving your lips as you recover from the shock of his body leaving yours.

Dick is lying in a pile of flour, his tooth eating grin, his hand beckons you over.

"I am not going to lay down on the mess of ingredients." Deadpanning as you shake your head, wiggling your index finger, a big smile though makes it way to your face unconsciously.

As you turn your head at him, he takes that to his advantage and pulls you down while unnoticed, your body landing on top of his.

"You!-" You groan at your loss for words, opting for a smack on his shoulder. He doesn't take that lightly and throws a handful of flour onto your face.

"That was NOT nice." You enunciate, rolling your eyes, a fake pout on your lips. Your boyfriend simply smiles at your dismay and brings you down back to his level and decides then, he's going to kiss you silly.

Dick reaches for your face, beginning to kiss you softly. A few minutes pass and your lips are synchronized. His hands reach down to your butt and lays you down on the floor, his lips moving down to your neck.

And before he can even make it past the neckline of your shirt, you smile mischievously and swipe your hand against the wooden flooring, and smacking his head with a handful of flour lightly.

Halting his movements, barely even processing what happened, he looks up at you and sluggishly grabs a bowl with his too long arms, and smears frosting all along your perfect v-neck shirt.

"Oh no you did not." Is the last thing he hears before another food, he cannot name because of how fast you threw it at his face.

"No! Please! Wait! I'll make you whatever you want!" Is the last thing you scream before you are thrown in a fit of giggles as he grabs the can of whipped cream, squirting it on your head.

-

BONUS

It was late at night, almost 2AM. The lights were all off, mostly all. Your husband and yourself found each other's warmth in the middle of the night, his bare chest on your tank top clad back.

Sleeping soundly, he sighs against you, another perfect night with his normal family for the books.

Dick found out how to control your stress and how to calm down on buying baking ingredients, though during the adoption process, his family had never seen more cakes in their lives. Jason, ever the sweet tooth, visited constantly and brought her ideas to bake. In Dick's honest opinion, his little brother took his wife's stress into his advantage and he still makes him pay for it.

However, that was the only time Dick can recall the most recent mass murder of the kitchen, and he's grateful he doesn't have to shove five slices of pie, two slices of banana bread, and one giant cookie filled with jam. (Don't tell the wife.) Since then, their daughter has turned thirteen, marking it twelve years following the last baking fiasco.

So, when he hears the clanking of a whisk hitting a bowl and the oven going off, he racks through his mind thinking of everything his lover could be worried about. Nothing comes up, she's learned to open up about what is troubling her.

Rubbing his eyes, he sees you curled at the edge of the bed, he always seems to push you there. His mind now immediately jumping to a break-in.

Grabbing his gun from the night-stand, he gradually walks out of his room, closing it silently.

Walking towards the kitchen with his vigilante feet, the sight in front of him is no robber, oh no.

"What the fuck, Euphie." Dick cries, putting the gun down on the counter, it being coated in powdered sugar now. "Do you know what time it is baby?" Groaning he shuffles near his daughter, Euphemia.

Euphemia stands there, guilty look plastered on her face. "I have a big test tomorrow." She utters underneath her breath.

Lemon bars, a cookie cake, strawberry filled cupcakes, coffee cake cookies, and even a three tier chocolate cake- wait.

"Is that your mom's recipe?" Pointing to the mountain of chocolate near the oven.

Euphemia nods her head, watching her father suspiciously. The duo both take one look at each other, forming a truce silently.

"I won't tell mom if you cut me a slice." Raising his eyebrows, he narrows his eyes at the pre-teen before him.

She ponders for a bit, looking around the room and blows a piece of hair out of her face. "I'll give you the whole cake if you help me clean." Matching her father's stance, defensive and guarded.

Dick groans, he likes how much their daughter has taken after her guardians, but at the same time, he doesn't appreciate her negotiating skills and baking one too.

"Deal." He deadpans marching his way right to the cake so he can slice himself one while Euphie continues to bake her brookies.

When you wake up, it's because the bed seems to have gotten colder and Dick hasn't gotten up from his side of the bed. He has a planner for everything now, you're a bit concerned.

Climbing down the stairs in your robe, you find the two little accomplices, eating away at the baking chaos.

"What are you two doing?" You demand, head tilted, eyes widen as you take in the crime scene while tightening your robe.

A minute of silence goes by and nobody says anything, afraid to even look away from your cold gaze.

At the same time, your husband and daughter blurt, "not my fault."

And before you can reprimand your family, a call blasts through the room.

"Somebody take that." You take a deep breath and rub the bridge of your nose in annoyance.

Jason's voice booms from your daughter's speaker, you can only assume she was using for her music while baking.

"I AM ON MY MOTORCYCLE." Jason screams on the phone, still not understanding the newest technology downloaded by his niece.

'I AM ON MY WAY, KEEP THE TIRAMISU AWAY FROM MY ASS, ILL DEEPTHROAT IT IF I MUST, KEEP DOOR UNLOCKED, DON'T WANT YOUR MOTHER GETTING ANGRY." Is all Jason says before hanging up.

That is when your daughter comes clean, telling the story of how Jason taught her how to bake so when she had gotten stressed, she could relieve it with food.

This whole ordeal had gone on since she was nine.

Safe to say, Jason was lectured next to Euphemia while they shared a Tupperware of tiramisu.

I watched Gone Girl mid fanfic, and the hardest thing I have ever done was make something nice about a man afterwards. Ben asslick did this to me I'm sorry.

Thank you SO SO SO much for reading, I honestly hate this, however it is not AI so I'll live.

PLEASE do not forget your daily click if you want to help Palestine. HELP PALESTINE WITH A CLICK

-

[lisbondollxox]

“the city can wait”

🕸 peter parker x fem!reader 🕸

hi !! i’ve been getting obsessed with spider-man again lately, so here’s another peter one shot <3 english isn’t my first language, so sorry if there are any mistakes or weird sentences !! also, i’m still figuring out how i want to write peter, so please be nice 😭 requests are open btw !!

summary: peter is so busy protecting everyone else that he forgets to be there for the one person who still knows and loves him.

word count: 7K

warnings: angst, relationship problems, peter being emotionally unavailable, missed plans, mentions of may’s death and the no way home spell, hospital setting, non-graphic accident/injury, crying, guilt, hurt/comfort, fluff at the end, no use of y/n

The first time Peter Parker missed dinner, you weren’t angry. You weren’t particularly surprised, either. By then, you had been dating him long enough to understand that making plans with Peter required a certain flexibility that making plans with normal people didn’t.

Seven-thirty could mean seven-thirty. It could mean eight-fifteen with an apology and his hair still flattened strangely from his mask. Occasionally, it could mean eleven, when he’d climb through your window carrying cold takeout because the restaurant had closed before he’d gotten there and he’d somehow convinced himself that bringing you the food anyway made the situation better.

You had known what he was before you’d known most things about him. Not immediately. Initially, Peter had just been the slightly strange guy you kept seeing around New York at hours when slightly strange guys generally weren’t supposed to be wandering around alone.

He was quiet without being shy, funny when he forgot to stop himself from being funny, and strangely observant.

He noticed when your shoelace was untied before you did.

He automatically moved to the outside of the sidewalk. His head sometimes snapped toward noises you hadn’t even heard. Then there had been Spider-Man.

Then there had been an extremely unfortunate sequence of events involving your fire escape, an open window, and Peter Parker halfway through pulling a red mask off his head. After that, things had become considerably more complicated. But you’d chosen complicated.

You’d chosen him.

So the first missed dinner hadn’t mattered.

Neither had the second.

The seventh was harder to laugh about.

“I know.”

Peter had his phone trapped between his shoulder and his ear as he tugged his sweatshirt over his head, nearly losing his balance in the process. His apartment looked like a storm had moved through it. One sneaker was beside the mattress, the other inexplicably near the kitchenette, and the police scanner on his desk was muttering quietly beneath the sound of your voice. He was rushing around in a panic, trying to piece together his life while the city kept pulling him in a million different directions.

“You keep saying that.”

“I know.”

“Peter.”

“I know. Sorry. That’s—” He stopped, squeezing his eyes shut. “That’s literally the thing you just told me to stop saying.”

Despite yourself, you almost smiled. Almost. Peter found the other sneaker and sighed in relief.

“I’ll make it up to you.”

“You said that Tuesday.”

“I know.”

“And Friday.”

“I—yeah.”

“And last weekend.”

Peter sat on the edge of the mattress. That finally stopped him. For several seconds, the apartment became quiet except for the scanner. You weren’t yelling. Somehow, that made it worse. Peter could handle yelling. He could handle angry people and terrified people and criminals considerably larger than him. He knew what to do when something was actively going wrong. Your disappointment was quieter. There was nothing for him to punch.

“I really did mean to come tonight,” he said.

“I know you did.”

Peter looked toward the little paper bag sitting on his counter. He’d bought you something that afternoon. Nothing important, just a pastry you’d pointed out through the window of a bakery two weeks earlier. He’d remembered it. He had been absurdly proud of remembering it. He had also forgotten to meet you. Again.

“There was this thing in Queens and then I was coming back, but there was an accident on the bridge, and after that—”

“I’m not asking you to explain.”

Peter stopped. Because you knew. That was the problem. You always knew. There was always somebody. A robbery. A fire. A crash. Somebody screaming. Somebody trapped somewhere. Somebody whose worst night had happened to intersect with Peter Parker’s route home.

How were you supposed to tell Spider-Man that he should’ve ignored them because his girlfriend had been sitting alone at a restaurant? You couldn’t. Peter knew you couldn’t.

And, although he would never have admitted it to himself, some part of him had started relying on that.

“I’ll come over now,” he offered. “I’m already changed. Give me ten minutes.”

“It’s almost midnight.”

“I can do eight.”

“Peter.”

“Six if I don’t use the subway.”

That normally would’ve made you laugh. Tonight, it didn’t.

“I have class tomorrow.”

“Oh.”

There it was again. That tiny word. Peter looked down at his hands, feeling the weight of his own constant failures settling heavily on his shoulders.

“Right.”

“I’ll talk to you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, okay.”

A pause settled between you. Peter hated pauses now. There had been a time when silence meant sitting beside somebody who already knew everything about him. Ned sprawled beside him with a Lego piece stuck to his arm. MJ reading while Peter pretended not to watch her. May moving around the apartment while Peter did homework at the table. Now silence usually meant there was something he didn’t know how to say.

“Love you,” he said.

You hesitated just long enough for him to notice.

“Love you too.”

The call ended. Peter remained sitting there, completely frozen in the empty room. The pastry sat untouched on the counter. For approximately thirty seconds, Peter Parker understood that something was truly wrong. Then the scanner crackled. His head lifted. And Spider-Man went back to work.

It hadn’t always been like this. That was what made it so difficult to identify exactly when things had changed.

When you’d first started dating, Peter had guarded your time together almost obsessively.

He’d show up early.

He’d remember things.

He’d take pictures of ridiculous things throughout the day because he wanted to show you later.

A pigeon stealing half a sandwich.

A dog wearing rain boots.

A handwritten sign in a laundromat with such terrible spelling that he’d spent ten minutes trying to decipher it.

There had been nights when the two of you had stayed awake until two in the morning on his mattress because Peter couldn’t sleep and you didn’t want to go home yet. Those nights were how you’d learned him. Not Spider-Man. Peter.

You learned that he liked having something playing quietly in the background when he worked because completely silent apartments bothered him.

You learned that he kept things far longer than necessary because throwing things away made him uncomfortable.

You learned that sometimes he’d stop talking in the middle of a story as though he’d accidentally reached a part of his life he wasn’t allowed to explain. There were enormous sections of Peter Parker that seemed to exist behind locked doors.

You didn’t force them open.

Eventually, he gave you keys.

May.

Mr. Stark.

Happy.

Ned.

MJ.

The spell.

Peter had told you about that last part one night without looking at you. You’d been sitting cross-legged on his mattress, listening while he explained something so impossible that, had anyone else told you, you would’ve assumed they were joking. Everyone had forgotten Peter Parker. Not Spider-Man. Peter. His friends. his teachers. People who had watched him grow up. Everyone.

“And you never told them?” you’d asked softly.

Peter shook his head.

“I was going to.”

“What happened?”

His mouth had twisted into a tiny smile that hadn’t looked like one.

“They looked happy.”

That answer stayed with you. So did the fact that Peter still checked. He’d never call it checking. Sometimes MJ appeared on his phone because of something she’d posted publicly. Sometimes Ned did. Peter knew things he probably shouldn’t have known about people who would pass him on the street without recognizing his face.

You had once found him watching an interview Ned had done for some project. Peter had immediately shut his laptop. You hadn’t said anything. You understood. Or you’d tried to. What you hadn’t understood was how easily protecting people could become Peter’s excuse for never allowing himself to belong to them. And slowly, without either of you noticing, that had started happening to you too.

“You’re doing it again.”

Peter blinked, snapping out of his distant thoughts.

“What?”

You were sitting across from him in the little diner you’d finally managed to drag him into on a Thursday afternoon. His coffee had gone cold while he stared blankly at the sugar packets.

“You weren’t listening.”

“I was.”

“What did I say?”

Peter opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He tried desperately to piece together the last few minutes, but his mind had been a million miles away, tangled up in web-shooters and patrol routes. You leaned back against the booth, letting out a quiet, defeated sigh. He glanced guiltily toward the window. A police car had gone by approximately twenty seconds earlier. You’d seen him follow it with his eyes.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t.”

Peter’s eyebrows pulled together in confusion.

“Don’t what?”

“Say sorry automatically.”

“I’m not saying it automatically.”

“You are.”

“No, I’m—”

“Peter, I just told you something important.”

His expression changed instantly, panic flashing in his eyes.

“What?”

The genuine alarm on his face made your chest hurt.

“You don’t even know.”

“No, I do. You were talking about—”

He searched his memory frantically. School. Your friend. Something happening Saturday. No. That had been earlier. You watched him trying, his brain working overtime to catch up. It would’ve almost been funny if it hadn’t happened so many times before.

“I have something on Monday,” you said finally. “Something I’ve been worried about for two weeks. I’ve mentioned it three times.”

Peter stared at you, searching his mind for any trace of the conversation. Then recognition finally arrived, far too late. Your presentation.

“Monday. Right. I remember.”

“After I reminded you.”

“No, I remembered before that.”

“You didn’t.”

Peter lowered his voice, desperate to salvage the moment. “Okay.”

You looked out the window, completely shutting down. He hated that more than if you’d gotten angry, because silence meant you were drifting away from him.

“I can come.”

Your eyes returned to him, suspicious and tired.

“What?”

“Monday. I’ll come with you.”

“Peter—”

“No, seriously. What time?”

“Eleven.”

“I’ll be there at ten-thirty.”

“You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

The answer came immediately, filled with raw honesty. And Peter meant it. That was the cruelest part. Peter Parker almost never lied to you; every promise was completely sincere when he made it. You studied him for a second, weighing his words against the history of broken plans.

“Don’t promise if you don’t know.”

“I know.”

“You don’t.”

“I’ll be there.”

“Peter.”

“I’ll be there,” he repeated, desperate to prove himself. “Okay? Eleven on Monday. I’ll put it in my phone.”

He pulled it out immediately, his thumbs flying across the screen to lock the commitment into his daily routine. MONDAY. 10:30. BE THERE. Three alarms. Peter turned the screen toward you with a triumphant, boyish grin.

“See?”

For the first time that afternoon, you smiled, softened by his earnest effort.

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Effective.”

“You set three alarms.”

“I’ve been hit in the head a lot.”

You laughed, a genuine sound that cleared the heavy air between you. Peter smiled back, feeling a wave of relief wash over him. And for a few minutes, sitting across from you in a diner with terrible coffee and sunlight hitting the side of your face, he felt almost normal.

Then your gaze moved toward the television mounted above the counter. Peter followed it, and the warmth drained out of him. Spider-Man was on the screen. Not live footage. Something from earlier that week. Beside the clip was a familiar face. Ned. Peter’s smile disappeared before he could stop it. You noticed. Of course you did. Ned was talking about the Spider-Man tracker.

Peter stared at the screen, paralyzed by the surreal irony of the situation. There was something uniquely painful about watching your former best friend enthusiastically explain a way of tracking your alter ego while having absolutely no idea he’d once been the guy in the chair.

Your hand moved across the table, breaking through his spiraling thoughts. You touched Peter’s fingers gently. He looked down, swallowing hard against the lump in his throat.

“You okay?”

Peter swallowed again.

“Yeah.”

“You don’t have to be.”

His eyes returned to the television. Ned was smiling, completely unaware of the invisible ghost sitting just tables away. Peter felt something old and awful move through his chest, a heavy mix of guilt, grief, and lingering loneliness.

“I just like knowing they’re okay.”

“I know.”

“They don’t know me, but…”

“I know.”

Peter looked at you, really looked at you. And you did. You always did. That should have made him hold on tighter, anchoring him to the present moment. Instead, somehow, it made him dangerously comfortable, whispering the lie that you’d always be there no matter how many times he faltered.

Monday morning, Peter woke up before his alarm, feeling a strange surge of optimism. For once, everything went right. He showered. He changed. He remembered. At 9:48, he texted you to let you know he was on track.

Leaving soon.

Your response came almost immediately, dripping with playful disbelief.

three alarms actually worked???

Peter smiled brightly at his phone.

Have some faith in me.

never

Wow. Okay.

I’m staying home.

Three dots appeared, keeping him in suspense.

PETER

He grinned, pacing across his cramped apartment.

Kidding. 10:30. Promise.

He put his phone into his pocket, feeling entirely secure in his plan.

At 10:03, Peter Parker left his apartment with a light step.

At 10:07, Spider-Man heard screaming echoing down a nearby alleyway. It wasn’t supposed to take long.

That was the thought that would torture him afterward. Not I forgot. Not I didn’t care. Just: This won’t take long.

Five minutes.

Maybe ten.

Peter checked the time at 10:19 while swinging between concrete canyons. Still fine.

At 10:34, he was not fine. His phone buzzed aggressively against his thigh.

you close?

Peter landed hard on a rooftop, the impact rattling his bones.

He pulled his phone out with trembling fingers. His breathing was heavy, adrenaline pumping through his veins from the chaotic scuffle he’d just barely wrapped up.

Yeah. Sorry.

Something happened. Coming now.

That wasn’t technically a lie; he genuinely was going to come. Then something exploded three blocks away, shaking the glass in the surrounding windows.

Peter’s head snapped toward it, caught in the eternal crossfire of the city. For one second, he didn’t move. His phone was still glowing in his hand.

Your name was still staring back at him from the screen. 10:36. Peter could go. Someone else would respond. Police were already coming. He had promised you.

Another sound ripped through the street, terrifying and sharp. People screamed in panic. Peter closed his eyes, torn in two.

“Five minutes.”

He shoved the phone away, abandoning his promise to chase the smoke. Five minutes.

At 11:17, you stopped looking at the door, the cold realization settling into your bones.

At 11:42, you sent a quiet surrender into the void:

don’t come.

Peter didn’t see it, buried beneath the chaos of the emergency.

At 12:26, you deleted the message you’d started writing underneath it, letting go of the anger and replacing it with numbness.

At 1:03, Peter finally checked his phone as he caught his breath on a quiet fire escape. His stomach dropped so fast he felt nauseous. Twenty-seven notifications. Several were news alerts about the morning's chaos. Two were from Ned’s tracker pinging unusual activity. One involved MJ.

Peter’s thumb immediately pressed it, panic overriding his logic. He read quickly. She was fine. A disturbance had happened near where she was. Spider-Man had already checked the area himself almost forty minutes earlier without ever allowing her to see him, ensuring her safety from the shadows. She was fine. Ned was fine. Everybody was fine.

Then Peter saw your name at the bottom of the stack, and the blood rushed from his face.

you close?

don’t come.

Nothing else.

“Oh, God.”

Peter looked at the time, horror gripping his chest. He called your number immediately. No answer. Only the hollow ringing tone echoing in his ear. Again. Nothing. He started moving before the third call finished ringing, swinging desperately toward your apartment with a mounting sense of dread.

You didn’t answer that night. Or the next morning. Peter sent six messages and deleted four more before sending them, paralyzed by the fear of saying the wrong thing.

He went to your apartment once, standing outside your locked door in the dead of night like a ghost. You weren’t there.

For the first time, Peter began to understand that this wasn’t another missed dinner. He couldn’t fix it with takeout. He couldn’t climb through your window at one in the morning and look pathetic until you forgave him with a tired smile. Wednesday afternoon, you finally texted back, your words measured and distant.

I need a couple days, Peter.

Please.

He stared at the screen for almost a minute, his heart aching. Then he typed out a response:

Okay.

Another minute ticked by in agonizing silence.

I’m sorry.

He almost deleted it, terrified of sounding like a broken record. He sent it anyway. The next few days were unbearable, stretching out like an endless wasteland. Not because you were punishing him with dramatic fights; you weren’t.

You simply stopped arranging your life around him, pulling all your warmth back into yourself. And suddenly Peter noticed how much you had been doing it all along to keep him afloat.

You had always kept your phone on at night, waiting for a call that proved he was alive.

You had always left the window unlocked when you knew he was patrolling, just in case he needed a safe harbor.

You had always changed dinner reservations without complaint. Waited twenty minutes. Thirty. An hour.

You’d learned how to clean cuts without asking questions, gently wiping away dried blood with practiced care.

You’d learned when he needed to talk about his heavy burdens and when he just needed to sit quietly in the dark.

You’d learned which nights he was thinking about May even when he didn’t say her name aloud.

Peter had interpreted your endless patience as permanent architecture, assuming you would always be there as his unshakeable foundation. He hated himself a little for taking that for granted.

Still, he kept patrolling through the tear-stained haze of his own guilt.

Because Spider-Man didn’t get relationship problems.

Spider-Man didn’t get days off because his girlfriend wasn’t speaking to him and his personal life was in absolute ruins.

People still needed him, bleeding in alleys and crying out in the dark. So Peter kept moving, swinging through the rain, hiding his misery behind a red mask.

Until Friday night.

His phone vibrated frantically against his hip while he was swinging through Midtown, cutting through the rush of the wind.

Peter ignored it at first, assuming it was another automated alert. Then it vibrated again. And again, with an urgency that demanded attention.

He landed against the side of a building, stuck there sideways against the brick, and pulled it out with a racing heart. Not you. An unfamiliar number flashed on the screen. He nearly put it away, disappointed.

Then he saw your name buried in the message preview, signaling an emergency that made his blood run cold. Peter answered immediately, his voice tight and breathless.

“Hello?”

A stranger spoke on the other end, professional and calm, delivering words that shattered his world. Peter stopped breathing entirely, the city around him fading into absolute nothingness.

Hospitals had a smell Peter Parker wished he could forget with every fiber of his being. He never did. The second he entered those sliding glass doors, he was seventeen again, trapped in a nightmare he couldn't wake from.

He was looking for May in crowded corridors. He was hearing the rhythmic, mechanical beep of life support machines. He was learning that sometimes being able to lift a multi-ton car didn’t mean you had the power to save the person you loved most. Peter hated hospitals with a burning passion. Tonight, he hated this one more than anything in the universe.

The accident hadn’t been spectacular or cinematic. That almost made it worse, stripping away any grand enemy to fight.

No supervillain.

No alien invasion.

No impossible, world-ending threat.

Just a completely ordinary, devastating accident on a completely ordinary New York street where fate had been cruel.

You were conscious. You were going to be okay. Those were the first things somebody told him when he burst through the doors, and Peter had needed to hear them twice before the words actually registered in his panicked brain.

He found you sitting in a quiet hospital room with a white bandage near your temple and your arm supported carefully against your chest in a sling.

You looked exhausted, pale, and heartbreakingly small against the stiff hospital pillows. Peter stopped dead in the doorway, the breath caught in his throat as the reality of what almost happened crashed down on him. You looked up slowly at the sound of his arrival.

For several seconds, neither of you spoke, the heavy history of the past week hanging in the sterile air. Then your face changed subtly, softening around the edges. Not anger, which he half-expected and desperately feared. Something worse. Relief.

“Peter.”

He crossed the room so quickly the plastic chair beside your bed nearly tipped over when he caught it with a desperate grip.

“What happened?” he breathed out, his eyes wide and panicked.

“I’m okay.”

“What happened?”

“Peter—,” you started, trying to calm him down.

“Who did this? Was somebody—was it a guy in a mask, was it—”

“It was just an ordinary accident.”

He stared at you, his mind struggling to accept something so mundane yet so dangerous. His eyes moved frantically over you again and again, as though searching for some hidden, catastrophic injury everybody else had somehow missed in the rush.

“I’m okay,” you repeated softly, trying to anchor him.

Peter’s hands were shaking uncontrollably, his fingers gripping the edges of the mattress like a lifeline. You noticed the tremor in his hands, recognizing the deep-seated trauma behind his panic.

“Hey,” you whispered.

“I didn’t know.”

“Peter.”

“I didn’t know it was you.”

“I know.”

“I should’ve known.”

You went quiet, letting his words hang heavily in the quiet room. And there it was, the exact sentence that summed up everything broken between them. Something about it hit both of you differently, stripping away all the defenses you’d built up over the last few days. Peter looked down at you, his eyes welling with unshed tears. You looked back at him with a quiet, understanding sorrow.

“You can’t know everything happening in this massive city,” you said gently.

“I should know when it’s you.”

The room went completely still, the hum of the heart monitor the only sound breaking the silence. Peter sat down slowly in the chair, his shoulders slumping under the crushing weight of his realization. For once, there was nowhere else for him to go. No siren blaring in the distance to call him away. No police scanner crackling on a desk. No red and blue mask hiding his tear-streaked face. Just Peter, stripped down to his barest, most vulnerable self.

“I saw your message Monday,” he confessed, his voice cracking slightly.

You looked away toward the window, avoiding his eyes.

“I know.”

“I saw it before I went after that explosion.”

Your eyes returned to him, wide with surprise. Peter swallowed hard, forcing the painful truth past the tightness in his throat.

“Before I missed it.”

That was entirely new information, rewriting the timeline of his failure.

“I was actually coming to you.”

“Peter—”

“No. I need to tell you the whole truth.”

His voice cracked slightly more, and he hated how weak he sounded, but he didn't care anymore.

“I saw it pop up on my screen. I knew what time it was. I knew I’d promised you, and something else blew up, and I just thought—I thought I could do it in five minutes.”

You stared at him, letting the admission sink into your chest without interrupting. Peter rubbed both trembling hands over his face, trying to wipe away the overwhelming guilt.

“There’s always something in this cursed city.”

“That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you for months.”

“I know.”

“No, Peter. You keep saying you know, but then you turn right around and do it again.”

“I know.”

“Stop saying that!”

Your voice rose for the first time, sharp and filled with weeks of accumulated exhaustion and heartbreak. Peter went completely silent, flinching as if you’d struck him physically. Tears had finally appeared in your eyes, partly from the physical pain of exhaustion and partly from the emotional agony of trying not to have this exact conversation over and over again.

“I can’t compete with New York City, Peter. I never could.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

“But I do!”

“No.”

“I do!” You stared at him, your voice trembling with raw emotion. “Because every single time there’s a choice to be made, Peter, you choose somebody else over me.”

He flinched violently, the words cutting straight to his core because deep down, he knew they were true.

“I understand when someone is in extreme danger. Obviously I understand that, I’m not a monster. I’m not asking you to leave someone trapped in a burning building because we happen to have dinner reservations. But it’s everything else. It’s every single siren in the distance. Every police car rushing down the avenue. Every random person on the street. You act like if something bad happens anywhere in this city and you weren’t there to fix it, it’s entirely your fault.”

Peter’s jaw tightened painfully, a muscle ticking in his cheek. Because somewhere deep inside his chest was still that terrified seventeen-year-old boy standing in the ruins of everything he’d once had, thinking exactly that—that every tragedy was his personal failure to prevent.

“If I can help stop it—”

“You do help, Peter.”

Peter stopped dead, listening intently.

“You always help. You help everybody.”

Your voice became much quieter, carrying a devastatingly vulnerable weight.

“Except sometimes, when the dust settles and the city is quiet, I just need Peter Parker.”

That hurt worse than any punch a supervillain had ever thrown at him. It was supposed to, and he needed to feel it.

“I don’t need Spider-Man watching over my street like a guard dog. I don’t need you secretly checking every crime report around my apartment just to give yourself peace of mind. I need my boyfriend to actually remember when I tell him I’m scared or stressed about something important. I need you to listen when I’m talking to you instead of zoning out. I need you to just show up for me sometimes.”

Peter stared relentlessly at the speckled hospital floor, unable to meet your gaze.

“I needed you on Monday.”

His eyes squeezed shut tightly, the memory of his absence burning him from the inside out.

“And you weren’t there.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

“No.”

Peter looked up at you, his eyes shining with profound sorrow.

“No, I don’t think you really do understand how broken my priorities have been.”

He stood up suddenly from the chair, not because he wanted to physically leave the room, but because there was too much chaotic energy trapped inside him to remain still any longer.

“I’ve been…”

He stopped mid-sentence, his voice faltering. His hand went up into his messy hair, gripping the strands tightly.

“I honestly don’t even know what I’ve been doing with my life.”

You didn’t interrupt or rush him, letting him finally untangle the mess in his head. Peter paced once toward the window and back, his boots squeaking softly against the linoleum.

“I keep thinking that if I just watch everything and everyone closely enough, nobody will ever—” His voice completely disappeared, choked off by the ghost of the past.

Nobody dies.

He couldn’t bring himself to say the words aloud. He didn’t need to, because you already knew the heavy burden he carried.

“I still secretly check on them, you know.”

You knew immediately who he meant, the familiar ache of his old life rising to the surface.

“Ned and MJ.”

Peter nodded miserably.

“I know.”

“I know where they are based on public posts. I know when something happens near their workplaces. Ned literally built a high-tech project that tracks Spider-Man’s movements, and he doesn’t even have a clue that he’s accidentally tracking me.”

A broken, humorless laugh escaped Peter’s throat before his face crumpled back into despair.

“I’ve saved his life twice in the last year without him having any idea that it was me.”

You watched him steadily, absorbing the profound loneliness of his secret existence.

“I checked on MJ on Monday, too, right before I lost track of time.”

Your expression shifted with a flicker of realization. Peter looked physically sick admitting it out loud to the person he had wronged.

“There was a minor disturbance near her coffee shop. She wasn’t in any real danger, not fundamentally. But I went anyway, just to be sure.”

Monday. While you sat waiting at presentation time.

“I don’t even know what I’m doing anymore with any of this,” Peter’s voice had become very quiet, stripped of all bravado. “They don’t even know me.”

He stared down at his calloused hands, the hands that built web-shooters and saved strangers.

“Ned doesn’t know me. MJ doesn’t know me. I walk past people I used to love more than life itself, and I’m a total nobody to them now. And I’ve spent the last four years obsessively making sure they’re okay from afar because I foolishly thought…”

He stopped again, swallowing hard.

You waited patiently for him to find the thread of his thoughts.

“I thought that was what loving people truly meant.”

Peter finally looked straight into your eyes, his gaze stripped of all pride.

“I thought it meant making sure nothing bad ever happens to them.”

Your anger weakened around the edges, softening into a deep, abiding empathy. It didn’t completely disappear, but it fundamentally changed shape.

“And then there’s you.”

Peter’s eyes were completely wet now, a single tear finally spilling over his eyelashes.

“The one person in this entire world who actually knows the real me.”

Your throat tightened painfully at his words.

“You know where I live. You know what ridiculous food I secretly hate. You know I can’t sleep at all when the apartment’s too quiet. You know when I’m lying about being hurt on patrol. You know I’m Spider-Man. You know all about May. You know everything there is to know about me.”

He took a shaky, uneven breath.

“And I treated you like you’d just take a backseat to everything else…”

His voice broke completely on the last word.

“Wait here.”

Neither of you said anything for a long moment. Peter looked past you toward the busy hospital hallway outside the open door. People passed by in a blur of motion. Doctors consulting charts. Nurses carrying supplies. Families whispering worriedly. An entire city full of millions of people that Peter would instinctively run toward if a single one of them screamed in the night. Then he looked back at you, his eyes locking onto yours with absolute clarity.

“I’ve been taking care of everybody else in this city,” his voice was barely above a ragged whisper. “People I’ve never even met. Ned. MJ. Strangers who don’t even remember my name or look twice at me on the street.”

Peter stepped closer to the edge of the bed, abandoning the distance between you.

“And I completely stopped taking care of you.”

Your eyes filled with fresh tears again, blurring your vision.

“I don’t want you to constantly feel like you have to take care of me, Peter.”

Peter frowned slightly in confusion.

“I want you to simply be with me.”

That simple distinction seemed to hit him harder than anything else anyone had ever said to him. Because Peter understood the mechanics of saving people inside and out. Saving had rigid, straightforward rules:

Find the immediate danger.

Stop the threat.

Make sure everyone survives the night.

Being in a real relationship with someone was infinitely harder, messier, and required a completely different kind of bravery.

It meant staying put when nothing was actively on fire. It meant listening to long, boring stories about your day and actually remembering that Monday at eleven mattered more than a distant siren.

It meant allowing somebody else’s life to matter profoundly even when they weren't facing an immediate crisis. Peter slowly sat down on the edge of the mattress beside you again, his movements heavy and deliberate.

“I honestly don’t know how to do this right.”

It was perhaps the most brutally truthful thing he’d said all night, stripping away all his usual deflection.

You looked at him with quiet determination.

“Then learn how to do it with me.”

Peter nodded immediately, eager to please.

“No.”

You gave him a tired, knowing look.

“What?”

“I mean—yes, obviously. But not like that, not just a blind, knee-jerk agreement.”

He wiped quickly beneath one eye with the heel of his hand.

“I always do that exact thing. You tell me something important, I immediately say yes, I promise I’ll magically fix everything right away, and then I falsely think just saying the words counts as doing the work.”

You didn’t answer, letting him realize it on his own.

“So I’m not going to sit here and promise you I’m never going to be late again.”

That genuinely surprised you, catching you off guard.

“I probably will be late again. I'm me.”

“Great start to a heartfelt apology.”

A tiny, self-deprecating laugh escaped him. It sounded awful and watery, but it was real.

“I’m not going to promise I’ll never miss something important in the future, either, because I physically can’t guarantee that. I don’t know what kind of chaos is going to happen out there.”

“Okay.”

“But I can promise you this: I can stop making you the very first thing I sacrifice whenever the city starts screaming.”

Absolute silence filled the room. Peter reached instinctively toward your hand, then stopped his fingers midway, pulling back before touching you without permission. You noticed that conscious hesitation too.

For once in his life, he wasn’t blindly assuming or taking your comfort for granted. You gently turned your palm upward and rested it on the sheet. Peter took your hand carefully, as if holding something incredibly fragile and precious.

“I love being Spider-Man,” he admitted quietly, staring down at your joined hands. “I really do. But I think a part of me needed to become him completely because being just plain old Peter Parker hurt too much to bear after everything.”

Your fingers tightened around his in silent solidarity.

“If Peter Parker didn’t have anybody left to lose, then Peter Parker couldn’t ever lose anybody else the way I lost May and everyone else.”

You looked at him with deep compassion. Peter gave you a tiny, miserable, crooked smile.

“Turns out that was a really bad, deeply flawed plan.”

“A little bit, yeah.”

“Yeah.”

He looked back down at your hands resting together.

“But then I somehow met you.”

Your chest tightened with an ache of pure affection.

“And instead of actually realizing that wonderful miracle meant I finally got to have a real life again, I just…”

“Added me to Spider-Man’s busy schedule like an appointment?”

Peter winced, wincing at the harsh accuracy.

“When you phrase it like that, I sound like an absolute disaster of a boyfriend.”

“You kind of were.”

“Fair point.”

You almost smiled at that, the tension finally beginning to break. Almost. Peter became serious again, his thumb gently stroking your knuckles.

“I’m really sorry.”

This time, it didn’t sound automatic or rehearsed. There was no hidden expectation behind it, no silent plea for you to instantly wave your hand and say it was totally okay. So you didn’t give him that easy out.

“I know you are.”

“And I know saying sorry doesn’t magically fix everything broken right now.”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“I know.”

You raised a skeptical eyebrow at him. Peter caught himself instantly and let out a breath.

“Right. Sorry.”

A pause hung in the air.

“Okay, that one actually was automatic.”

Despite everything, you couldn't help it—you laughed. It hurt your bruised head slightly, and you immediately winced, your face tightening in discomfort. Peter shot halfway out of the chair like a rocket, his protective instincts flaring back to life instantly.

“What? What happened? Does it hurt? Should I run and go get a doctor right now?”

“Peter, stop.”

“Does your head hurt? They said—they explicitly said—”

“Peter, sit down.”

He froze halfway up. You stared at him with a deadpan look. Slowly, cautiously, Peter lowered himself back down into the chair.

“Right. Sorry. Deep breaths.”

You squeezed his hand firmly.

“I’m working on it.”

“We’re both working on it,” he agreed softly.

Outside the hospital room, somewhere far down below the tall windows, a distant siren started wailing into the night. Peter heard the sharp rise and fall of the sound before you even registered it.

Of course he did; his heightened senses were hardwired to it. His head turned instinctively toward the noise for a split second, a reflex born of years of muscle memory. You felt his hand tense up inside yours at the familiar trigger.

For one fleeting second, you fully expected him to stand up and bolt toward the call of duty. Peter sat completely still, listening to the wail. The siren continued its urgent path down the avenue, fading into the distance. Another followed it in quick succession. His eyes remained fixed toward the window for a heartbeat longer.

Then he forced his gaze away from the glass and looked right back at you, anchoring himself to the room. And he stayed firmly seated in his chair. You studied him closely, reading the internal war he had just won.

“Someone might genuinely need you out there tonight.”

“Someone probably does.”

“Peter, go if you—”

“No. There are police officers. Firefighters. Paramedics. Hundreds of other capable people in this massive city who know how to help.”

That sounded almost foreign coming from him, a radical shift in his worldview. He looked back down at your hand resting safely in his.

“And right now, the only place I need to be is right here with you.”

You didn’t tell him that he had to stay or trap him with guilt. That mattered more than anything else. Peter pulled the plastic chair slightly closer to the bed instead, closing the final physical distance between you.

Later, when a nurse finally came into the room to check your vitals, he politely moved out of the way and only asked approximately seventeen detailed medical questions until you playfully told him to hush up. When you were finally discharged the next afternoon, he didn’t try to scoop you up and swing you across town through the rooftops like a dramatic superhero.

Instead, he patiently called a yellow cab from the curb. He sat right beside you in the cramped backseat with your hand securely in his and his head resting wearily against the sticky vinyl seat, the profound exhaustion of the week finally beginning to catch up with his super-metabolism. His phone buzzed twice in his pocket with urgent alerts. Peter didn't even bother to check the screen.

When you arrived at your building, he walked up the stairs right beside you at a normal, human pace. No red mask. No heavy web-shooters strapped to his wrists.

Just Peter Parker carrying your small overnight bag like a normal guy. At your apartment door, you turned around to face him in the dim hallway light, lingering for a moment.

“Just so we’re clear, this one night doesn’t mean everything in our lives is magically fixed forever.”

“I know.”

You narrowed your eyes at him suspiciously, testing him. Peter sighed softly, a genuine smile touching his lips.

“I genuinely knew that one, I swear.”

“Okay, good.”

“I can give you some space tonight if you want it to process everything.”

You looked at him for a long, quiet moment, measuring the sincerity in his eyes. Then you turned your key in the lock and pushed the heavy wooden door open wide.

“You can come inside.”

Peter’s shoulders dropped slightly, a wave of profound emotion washing over him. Not out of relief that he’d been instantly forgiven or let off the hook, but relief that you were giving him the precious opportunity to actually try and do better. He followed you inside the familiar, comforting warmth of your apartment.

And for the very first time in years, when Peter Parker’s phone started buzzing persistently somewhere inside his jacket pocket, he didn’t immediately reach for it or let his attention drift away. There would always be another siren wailing in the dark.

Another person crying out for help. Another stormy night when New York City desperately needed Spider-Man to save the day. But sitting beside you on the couch now, carefully pulling a warm fleece blanket up over your legs while you playfully complained that he was hovering too much, Peter finally began to understand something fundamental he should have learned a long, long time ago.

Saving everybody else in the world wasn’t ever the same thing as truly being there for someone you loved.

And Peter Parker had spent years convincing himself that he didn’t need a real life outside of the red mask.

Maybe a brand new day didn’t mean completely forgetting the heroic person he’d been forged into.

Maybe it just meant finally letting Peter Parker exist, breathe, and love again.

This time, when you leaned your head over to rest comfortably against his shoulder, he didn't tense up or look toward the door; he just stayed right where he was, exactly where he belonged.

thank you so much for reading !! i hope you liked it <3 i know this isn’t the part two some of you asked to be tagged in, but i’m tagging you anyway just in case you want to keep being tagged in my peter fics !! if you only wanted to be tagged for part two or don’t want to be tagged in other peter stuff, just let me know in the comments. and as always, feel free to send me requests !!

taglist: @cloudnuggettt @tooearlyforthis @melxdiq-luv

also if anyone wants to be added to my tag list you can send me a message, ask, or just comment and i’ll add you !! ☆

[simpurnatural]

hiiiii i was wondering if you could write an angst fic (or angst with happy ending whichever u want) where the reader has gotten really close with peter (maybe even romantically) and has been there for him emotionally and ends up catching feelings. unfortunately for her, similar to the movie peter isn’t over MJ and still loves her to which the reader finds out and is heartbroken and feels like a rebound. yikess.

thank you and you’re such a good writer!

The Other Woman | P. Parker

Spider-Man: Brand New Day Spoilers Following the prompt which I LOVED working with! - Thank you for sending in a request! I hope you enjoy this fic!

Request a fic-athon Check my dedicated post about it for more details! Happy requesting everyone!

Spider-man stole your heart, just like he stole everyone else's in New York. The day you met Peter was not exactly how you expected to meet the love of your life.

As Spider-man, Peter swung in and whisked you away from harm during his street fight with Ramrod. A cyborg with super human strength who flung a car in your direction. All because you were going to risk it for the biscuit and get a photo of Spider-man mid fight.

The crowd cheered at Spider-man's heroicness, the car blowing past at high speed right where you stood just a second early. You gasped, wind blowing in your hair, as he brought you a safe distance from the fight.

"You alright miss?" Spider-Man asked, gently placing you back on your feet.

"Yes!" you swooned, eyes filled with admiration for your knight in shining armor. "You just saved my life!" you exclaimed as you swung your arms around him in gratitude.

"Just doing my job," Spider-man nodded, peeling you off of him before jumping right back into the fight.

The interaction would be enough to make the front page. But "Spider-Man Saves Journalist. Exclusive interview after defeating Ramrod the Cyborg!" had a nice ring to it. And you just had to have it.

You followed after the hero and snapped countless photos of the action unfolding in front of you. Jotting down notes on your phone of Spider-Man's successful take down of Ramrod.

But he didn't leave the scene unscathed. You watched as Spider-Man limped away and into an alleyway. The cops and other news outlets swarming the scene while you trailed after him.

You found him ducking behind a garbage can, clutching his side in pain. He whimpered and was already sure that he broke a rib or two. Peter flinched as he heard you approach him, his hands flying to cover his face.

The right side of his mask had been ripped off at some point during the fight. his eye and cheek bone visible.

"Hey, don't worry," you whispered, shoving your camera into your bag. "Let me help you," you insisted as you looked over your shoulder to ensure that nobody was watching.

"It hurts really bad," he groaned, feeling your hand glide against his chest, wincing as you softly brushed your hand across his lower rib cage.

"We need to get you to the hospital," you said.

"N-no hospital!" he asserted, grabbing hold of your wrist.

You rolled your eyes at his words, a plan already in mind to help Spider-man. After rummaging through the dumpster bins, you found some raggedy clothes that reeked of cat piss. Tossing them to him.

"Put them on," you instructed, as a look of disgust flashed in his eyes. "It's the only way we'll get a doctor to see you without finding out who you are. And even if they did, it would be a violation of HIPPAA if they ratted you out." you explained, easing the brunette into complying.

"Fine." Peter huffed, pulling off his mask and then wriggling out of his suit.

Your guarded him as he changed, hiding his suit in your bag. Peter's busted up face looked at you with a thankful smile. But the front row seats to the gun show were a great exchange for your act of kindness.

In a shirt three sizes larger and sweat pants that pooled around his feet, you acted as his crutch. After waving down a taxi, you helped him into the backseat before sliding into the front seat.

"NYC Health hospital please," you told the driver, securing your seat-belt across your torso.

From that day on, Peter cherished you for your unwavering kindness. He helped you move up the food chain, from newbie journalist to award winning investigative journalist for the New York Bulletin.

You always got the big scoop from Spider-man himself to include in your articles. A department dedicated to hero news was established because of how frequent your stories got published.

In turn, you helped sway the citizens of New York from seeing Spider-man as an anonymous bad guy. But instead, an amazing hero with the ability to always look out for the little guy.

Even after all these years, never once did you reveal Spider-man's identity. But as the years progressed, so did you feelings for Peter Parker. The boundaries between friendship and romance became a blur.

Peter showed up at your door one night. It was almost routine at this point, which you had grown accustomed to. You'd order pizza while you patched him up, listening to him ramble on about the bad guy he just locked up.

He carefully studied how you stitched his wounds shut. Various tools and medical supplies scattered across the coffee table. You took care of him all this time. Just like every other time he needed someone, he knew he could count on you.

Your eyes shifted up to his after you secured and trimmed the last suture. His face was a dangerously short distance from yours. With his hot breath hitting your face.

Peter got swept up in the heat of the moment and pressed a kiss to your lips. Yet he pulled away immediately, searching your face for a reaction. You blinked hard as your mind processed what had just happened.

"I'm sorry-I shouldn't have done that." Peter said quickly, scooting himself away from you while still sitting on the couch.

The silence that filled the room was deadly. You watched as Peter's eyes squeezed shut, his lips forming a thin line while his mind began to spiral.

You placed a hand on his thigh, causing him to look back at you before you spoke, "I'm not sorry."

"You don't want this," Peter scoffed, "It's gonna get messy," he sighed as he shook his head in disapproval.

"I can handle messy," you replied, a smile growing evident on your lips.

Shit very much hit the fan after that. The sex was rough and heavy. Peter always left you afterwards, letting you wake up to a half empty bed. He wasn't sure about what kept him coming back for more.

Maybe it was because you were Peter's one and only deep connection. But as much as he didn't love you, he just couldn't afford to lose you. It was a cruel deck of cards that he once again dealt for himself.

So Peter didn't clear it up. Never slapped a title on it. This unclear distinction in your relationship ate you alive. All while your heart ached for him, in a way he would never reciprocate.

It was another day in the office, drafting up a story in regards to Spider-man's part in locking up the notorious Scorpion once again. Going into detail about the several Damage Control break-ins. You stared at your computer, swiveling back and forth in your chair. Just then, your assistant came rushing over with a look of urgency on her face.

"Spider-man sighting, ma'am." she squeaked as she handed you her phone.

Pushing your glasses up the bridge of your nose, you zoomed in on the location. It was an apartment building, the same exact one that Peter told you he visited a couple nights prior. For a party, allegedly.

"The spidey-tracker never lies," you sigh, checking the images posted by other users. Photos revealed Spider-man swinging through the city with a mystery woman. "I'll check it out myself."

You monitored Peter's location and followed after it, wondering who this woman was and why she's so important. The tracker led you to a the rooftop of a random building. Neon light signs adorning the roof in big letters.

Upon making your hastened ascent to the roof, you pushed open the access door just a tad. Through the small opening, you saw Peter. He stood across from the woman with long, tousled dark hair.

You couldn't make out what she was saying him. But in this moment, their actions spoke louder than words. You watched as she peeled his mask back and pressed her lips against his.

Peter didn't push her away, instead he melted into the kiss. Stifling a gasp into the crook of your elbow, tears began streaming down your cheek. As they pulled away from each other, you caught a glimpse of the look on Peter's face. Love was written all over it in permanent ink.

Countless questions raced through your mind. Your eyes burned as they pulled each other into a tight embrace. The softness and yearning Peter had for this woman was something you've never experienced in all your time of knowing him. It felt like a punch to the gut.

Then you left the scene as quickly as you arrived. Never looking back once.

A week almost passed, with no update on Peter's condition after he stormed the Damage Control facility on Roosevelt Island. Bill Metzger, the head of the department, was conducting inhumane testing on gifted individuals.

And you, for once was not documenting every minute of the scandal. Instead you were actively sulking in your home. You were heart broken and conflicted by recent events.

You flipped through the news channels, anxiously awaiting news about Spider-man. Luckily, channel two was broadcasting live from the crowd gathered outside Bellevue General hospital. Everyone began chanting "Spider-man!" as New York's victorious hero rose from death's door.

Spider-man stood in the window, facing the crowd. His fists pumping in the air in triumph. Your heart skipped a beat at the sight. The news anchor confirming Peter's positive recovery allowed relief to wash over the entire city, including yourself.

The buzz about Spider-man and all his great works continued to play on TV as you shuffled into the kitchen. Just as you started loading the dishwasher, a knock was heard at the door.

You made your way to the door and swung it open, revealing a pretty banged up Peter in a Bellevue General hospital quarter zip.

"Hey," Peter smiled.

"Is that all you've got to say?" you questioned, your sadness returning. "Hey," you mocked. "Please don't tell me you came all the way over here just for me," you scoffed, waving your hand at him dismissively.

"I figured you'd want first dibs on how Spider-man stopped Jean Grey and exposed Bill Metzger." Peter replied, taken aback by your coldness.

"Why don't you help me write this major headline then," you spat before you held up your palms. "Peter Parker kisses mystery woman on roof top," you announced, hands waving about theatrically.

"You know about MJ?" he asks, his brows pushing together in confusion.

"I know you kissed her." You corrected, "Followed that stupid spidey-tracker and found you in the midst of your romantic escapade." you elaborated and watched as the light bulb behind Peter's eyes flickered on.

"MJ was being mind controlled," Peter argued back. "She didn't mean to do that!" as he stepped forward - backing you into your own apartment.

"But she means something to you, right?" you countered, watching Peter thwip the front door shut. "Who is she?" you demanded, voice shaking.

"It's none of your fucking business," Peter shot back.

"Oh so you just go around kissing everyone you save?" you accused.

"What's it to you even if I did?" he retorted defensively. "You're not my girlfriend so stop acting like it," he commanded, his arms jutted out in your direction.

"Damn right, I'm not." you chuckled darkly. "But you're a fucking ass hat for not telling me that in the first place!" you shouted, eyes stinging as the tears collected in them.

Peter stopped arguing, knowing damn well that he strung you along all this time. His heart ached because he felt guilty, not because he loved you. He just didn't realize that you fell in love with him and hit the ground hard in doing so.

"I told you that it would get messy," he finally spoke, recalling your conversation from that night.

"Does the front page headline Spider-man; Hero and Heart-Breaker sound messy enough for you?" you proposed.

[kandyscorner]

Can you make a fluff fic about Dick and mom reader? Something like this pin on pinterest: https://pin.it/1NqhD43S3

This is so cute! I enjoyed writing it. Thank you for requesting it. For anyone that wants to see, here's the link.

------------------------

“Baby, we talked about this,” you sigh as you stroke your daughter's cheek, “It's only the second night. You promised to be a big girl and stay in your room.”

Co-sleeping with your baby girl from infancy into the early toddler years had worked really well for you. With Dick out most nights, something was comforting about having her so close. Except now, to keep up with developmental stages, it was biting you in the ass. This was the third time in the last thirty minutes that she’s found herself standing beside the bed as you lean over the edge to coo at her.

“I am a big girl, mommy. I just want to sleep with you,” Izzy pouts at you, leaning into your palm as her hand curls around the edge of the bed. A test to see if you’d really make her go back to her own bed.

Something in you just wants to squeeze her cheeks and kiss her all over her face. You settle on combing her wild hair, no doubt from tossing and turning, back out of her face, “I know you do, Iz, but part of being a big girl is sleeping in your own bed.”

Her foot stomps, the start of a not enough sleep tantrum, “But Daddy sleeps in your bed!”

The unreliable fiend in question just laughs muffled against your shoulder. You roll your eyes. The fact of the matter was the only reason you had yet to get out of bed and carry Izzy back to hers was because of the insistent weight of a vigilante lying across your back as you talked to your girl. 

“He doesn’t always, babe; sometimes he sleeps on the couch,” you reply as you wiggle under the weight of Dick. He doesn’t shift.

Izzy’s eyes water, bottom lip pressing out. Before you even know what happened, she’s crying. That finally gets Dick moving, climbing off of you to scoop Izzy up and pile into bed together. You slink close, admitting defeat for the night as Dick coos at her and settles Izzy between you both.

Dick murmurs to Izzy in soft, dulcet Romanian that you don’t quite understand, his hand rubbing her stomach to soothe. She babbles incoherently in return, and Dick softly reminds her, “We can’t help you if we can’t understand you.”

She takes a heavy breath, “Mommy’s mad at me.”

“Oh no,” you sink closer, curling your arm around her and nosing against her temple as you meet Dick’s gaze with a pinch of worry, “I’m not mad, sweet girl. Why would you think that?”

“You said- you said-” she stutters through her breaths.

“Breathe, Iz.” you remind, “Everything’s okay.”

She pauses talking, and Dick breathes performatively against her ear until her panic settles, breath matching his. He mumbles, “That’s better. Tell us why you think Mommy’s upset.”

She takes another steady breath and sniffles, “Mommy said I was like when you sleep on the couch. Daddy only sleeps on the couch when you're mad.”

Her frown deepens as you realise the connection she’s made. You're quick to rectify her confusion, “Oh my sweet girl. That's not what’s happening. I love you so much, and I wish you could sleep in my bed forever and ever, but that’s not how things work. I don’t sleep in my mommy’s bed, do I?”

She sniffles again, rubbing her eyes, “No.”

“See,” you hum as your hand meets Dicks where it rests on her belly. 

He grins at you as he adds, “And daddy doesn’t only sleep on the couch when mommy’s upset. Sometimes I do it when I get in so so late. I don’t want to wake her up.”

“I… know,” Izzy frowns, but she melts between you. 

You and Dick have a silent conversation over her head before you speak again, “You can sleep here tonight, but tomorrow it's back to your big girl bed, okay?”

She blinks at you then looks at Dick. he smiles at and kisses her nose before agreeing, “Mom’s right. You gotta sleep in your own bed.”

“Okay,” she mumbles before she’s curling up between you, eyes droopy, sleep already dragging over her. Her eyes flutter shut. You and Dick look at each other again.

“You so easy,” you tease softly, “one elephant tear and you folded.”

“You’re terrible,” he mumbles, “you were just gonna let her cry?”

You scoff, squeezing his fingers. “No. But she does need to get used to sleeping in her bed.”

“I know that,” he replies, “just want my baby to stay a baby.”

“I'm sure you'll say that when she kicks you in the nuts,” you snort as you settle back against the bed, eager to fall back asleep.

Dick shakes his head, mimicking you, “She's never kicked before.”

“Times change, baby,” you hum before you follow Izzy to sleep. 

The next time you wake its to pained groans muffled by a pillow.

“Told ya,” you mumble, not moving to help other than to shift Izzy straight on the bed.

“Tomorrow night,” Dick muffled, voice cracking in a way that makes you want to laugh far too loud for the late hour.

-----------------------

Masterlist

Make a request!

[mcrdvcks]

— it's brutal out here

chapter summary: Peter's class is going on a field trip to Stark Industries. The catch? No one believes he's an intern at SI and no one knows he's dating Tony Stark's daughter—other than Ned and MJ. Surely nothing will go wrong, right? word count: 14.7k+ pairing: Peter Parker (MCU) x fem!stark!reader notes: i've said it before, peter parker goes on field trip to SI is one of my favorite tropes ever. but what else is? reader being tony stark's daughter and dating peter. so i thought i'd combine both for the ultimate self-service. it's my first time writing for peter, so feedback is appreciated. enjoy! <3 warnings/tags: avengers are a happy family because i say so (includes bucky!), fluff, peter parker goes on a field trip to stark industries, tony is your biological dad, pranks, slight bullying, reader is a genius (she's a stark after all)

“Alright, before the bell rings I have something important to say!” Mr. Harrington announced, stopping most of the students from packing up.

“I swear, if it’s another—” Peter mumbled before Ned cut in.

“Dude, what if it’s a parental consent form for a movie? Or an experiment? Or—”

"—Or it's just Harrington being overdramatic. Again," MJ added in dryly, not looking away from her book.

Peter snorted softly, shaking his head. "Yeah, you're probably right."

Mr. Harrington cleared his throat dramatically again, pushing his glasses back up his nose as he lifted a stack of papers from his desk. "We will be taking a field trip next week, and it's not just any field trip."

"Oh no," MJ deadpanned, flipping another page of her book, "his voice cracked. That means it's big."

Peter chuckled quietly, looking at Ned with an amused smirk. "Ten bucks it's another 'groundbreaking' planetarium exhibit."

Ned shook his head quickly, grinning. "I'm holding out for something good this time, man."

Mr. Harrington began passing out the papers excitedly. "Next Friday, this class will be touring none other than Stark Industries!"

The room erupted in surprised chatter, excited whispers filling every corner.

Peter froze, eyes wide. "Wait—what?"

Ned's mouth fell open, equally shocked. "No freaking way!"

MJ lifted her gaze from the page for the first time, eyebrows raised as she leaned slightly toward Peter. "I take it back. This actually is big."

"Not again," Peter muttered anxiously, voice strained. "The tower? Seriously?"

"What's the problem, Pete?" Flash's voice rang out smugly from across the room. "Afraid they'll realize you're not actually an intern?"

Peter frowned, shooting Flash a glare. "I am an intern. I've been telling you guys this for literally two years."

Flash scoffed loudly. "Yeah, sure, Parker. And I'm Thor's favorite chess partner."

"Dude," Ned whispered urgently, "this means the whole class is gonna see you with—"

Peter nodded nervously, his voice hushed. "—Y/N. They're going to see me with Y/N."

MJ leaned in slightly, giving Peter a knowing look. "You're worried they'll find out you're dating Tony Stark's daughter?"

Peter's cheeks flushed pink. "I'm not worried, I just... it's gonna be weird."

"You've literally fought aliens, and you're worried about your classmates finding out you have a girlfriend?" MJ remarked flatly.

"It's not just any girlfriend!" Ned argued, waving his hands excitedly, "It's Y/N freaking Stark, MJ! The Y/N Stark!"

MJ rolled her eyes slightly, suppressing a smile as she glanced back at Peter. "So what, you two just gonna pretend you don't know each other?"

Peter hesitated, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. "I... haven't exactly figured that out yet."

Across the room, Flash continued loudly boasting, "Maybe I'll even get to talk with Tony Stark himself. I've got some great ideas I wanna pitch him."

"Oh, yeah, great," Peter mumbled under his breath sarcastically, "that'll go well."

Mr. Harrington clapped his hands to regain everyone's attention. "Make sure you have these permission slips signed and returned by tomorrow. This is a rare and exciting opportunity, people!"

Peter slumped slightly in his seat, sighing heavily as Ned gave him a reassuring pat on the back.

"Relax, man," Ned said confidently. "It's gonna be fine."

MJ shrugged, eyes back on her book. "Or it'll be an entertaining disaster. Either way, I'm looking forward to it."

"Gee, thanks," Peter muttered, giving MJ a pointed look.

She simply smirked without looking up. "Anytime."

Peter stared down at the permission slip in front of him, anxiety swirling through his chest. Next Friday was going to be interesting, to say the least.

---

“—but, there was always… Y/N? Hey. Hey!” Steve snapped his fingers as you slowly looked up.

"Huh? Sorry, I fell asleep to your boring recollection of the battle of… whatever," you said, leaning back in your chair dramatically with a loud yawn.

Steve crossed his arms, raising an eyebrow as he stared at you. "Y/N, we've literally been covering World War II for months. It's the battle of Normandy."

"Oh, right." You sat up again, blinking sleepily at him. "You know, Steve, when Dad said you'd be teaching me history, I figured we'd cover a little more than just your glory days."

Bucky snorted from his spot on the couch, not even bothering to hide his grin. "See, Steve? Told you even your own niece would get tired of hearing your stories eventually."

Steve shot Bucky an annoyed look. "Not helping, Buck."

You laughed lightly, swiveling your chair toward Bucky. "Honestly, Barnes, your lessons are more interesting. At least when you teach, I get to hear the real stories, not the G-rated, Captain America-approved versions."

Bucky smirked proudly, leaning back comfortably. "That's because I tell you all the gritty details your dad specifically said you shouldn’t hear."

Steve sighed heavily, shaking his head. "You're both impossible."

"And yet," you shrugged innocently, reaching for your phone on the desk, "you still insist on teaching me."

"Because," Steve began firmly, taking a step forward and pointing toward your textbook, "you still need to actually learn this stuff."

Bucky chuckled softly. "Yeah, kiddo, just pretend to pay attention for a couple hours so Steve doesn’t cry himself to sleep tonight."

You bit back a smile, dramatically nodding at Steve. "Alright, alright. Battle of Normandy, June 1944. Got it. Continue, Uncle Steve."

Steve narrowed his eyes suspiciously at you, slowly returning to his spot by the whiteboard. "Right. So as I was saying—"

Your phone buzzed suddenly, and your attention immediately snapped down to it. Peter’s name lit up your screen, making your heart flutter as you quickly picked it up.

"Hold that thought, Steve," you said distractedly, swiping open the message.

Steve paused, arms crossed again with an exasperated sigh. "You're texting Peter again, aren’t you?"

You gave him a guilty smile, fingers flying rapidly over your screen. "Sorry, but it's important."

Bucky raised an eyebrow curiously, leaning toward you. "What's got Parker worked up this time?"

You bit your lip, chuckling softly as you finished your reply. "Apparently, his class is taking a field trip to Stark Industries next week."

Bucky laughed, leaning further forward. "Oh boy, Pete must be freaking out."

"He absolutely is," you confirmed, still texting quickly. "He's worried everyone will figure out we're dating. And, you know, that he's actually an intern there."

Steve looked thoughtful. "Peter's classmates still don't believe him?"

"Nope," you shook your head, grinning slightly. "They all think he's making it up."

Bucky chuckled again. "Poor kid."

Steve tilted his head curiously. "What’s the plan, then? Are you two just going to ignore each other?"

You sighed, setting your phone back down on the desk as you looked at Steve seriously. "Honestly? I have no idea. Peter’s a little nervous."

Bucky gave you a playful smirk. "Well, it's about time the kid stepped up. I mean, he's Spider-Man, he can handle a few high school kids."

Steve nodded in agreement. "Buck's right. Peter’s faced much worse. A field trip can't be that scary."

You smiled slightly, glancing back down at your phone as Peter's next text popped up. "You'd be surprised."

Bucky leaned back again, smirking knowingly. "You’re both being way too dramatic. I say just act normal. Who cares if people find out? You've been dating for a year."

"That's what MJ said," you replied thoughtfully. "Maybe I should just show up and embarrass him."

Steve chuckled softly, shaking his head. "That's your father's influence talking."

You flashed a grin, leaning forward eagerly. "Speaking of Dad—"

"Nope," Steve interrupted quickly, pointing at the textbook. "Lesson first, gossip later."

You groaned dramatically, slumping back again. "Fine."

Steve turned back toward the whiteboard again, writing quickly as he resumed. "Alright, moving on. Now, the invasion began in the early hours—"

"Wait!" you suddenly interrupted, lifting your hand in the air.

Steve turned back again, eyes narrowed. "What now?"

You smiled sweetly, fluttering your lashes playfully. "Can I bring Peter lunch when his class comes next Friday? Like, surprise him?"

Bucky nodded approvingly, clearly entertained by the idea. "I think that's an excellent plan."

Steve gave you both a stern look, though you could see amusement hiding behind his eyes. "That's something you should ask your mom or dad."

You pouted dramatically. "But you're my favorite uncle, Steve."

"Hey!" Bucky protested loudly, placing a hand over his heart with mock hurt. "I thought I was your favorite uncle!"

Steve chuckled, crossing his arms. "Nice try, Y/N, but I'm still not falling for it."

You grinned cheekily, shrugging your shoulders lightly. "Worth a shot."

Bucky smirked, giving you an amused nod. "I'll talk to your dad for you. I'm always up for helping embarrass the kid."

You beamed at him. "I knew you were my favorite."

Steve groaned quietly, shaking his head again. "Alright, enough distractions. Back to Normandy."

You sighed dramatically again, leaning your chin on your palm with a small smile. "Alright, Uncle Steve. Back to Normandy."

Bucky chuckled, giving Steve a playful smirk. "Better make this interesting, pal, or else she's definitely texting Parker again."

Steve rolled his eyes, finally giving up and laughing softly. "You two are going to be the death of me."

You smiled innocently, eyes sparkling with amusement. "We know. But you still love us anyway."

Steve smiled softly, his voice warm as he nodded slowly. "Yeah, I suppose I do."

---

"Uncle Bruce? Have I ever told you that you're my favorite teacher?" you asked sweetly, giving him your most convincing smile as you leaned eagerly across the lab table.

Bruce raised an eyebrow, his glasses sliding down his nose as he peered skeptically over them. "Ah, yes, Y/N. I believe you mentioned that just last week when you wanted help avoiding Steve's history lesson."

You laughed softly, shrugging innocently. "Well, this time I really, really mean it."

Bruce chuckled, shaking his head lightly as he placed down the tablet he'd been holding. "Alright, what's going on?"

You sighed dramatically, propping your chin in your palm. "Peter's class is coming here next Friday for a field trip."

Bruce looked thoughtful, nodding slowly. "Ah, that's right. Tony mentioned something about that."

You perked up immediately, sitting straighter. "Dad talked about it?"

"Well, mostly just to warn everyone," Bruce said with an amused smile, taking a seat across from you. "Something about trying not to embarrass Peter too much."

You groaned, dropping your head onto your folded arms. "Ugh, I know! He keeps saying we should just act normal, but—"

Bruce tilted his head curiously, smiling warmly. "But you're worried about embarrassing him?"

"Or maybe myself," you admitted sheepishly, peeking up at Bruce through your fingers. "I don't know. The whole class will be here, and they don't even believe Peter actually interns here. Let alone that we're dating."

Bruce chuckled softly, leaning back in his chair comfortably. "Teenagers can be brutal, huh?"

“Exactly!” You agreed. “Uh, wait, actually I don’t know. The only experience I have is Peter telling me about classes and Mean Girls. Do girls really make Burn Books?”

Bruce chuckled, shaking his head lightly. "I think that's more Hollywood drama than reality, Y/N. At least, I hope so."

You sat up a little straighter, eyes wide with genuine curiosity. "See, that's exactly why I'm worried! I'm totally clueless about how high school works outside of movie clichés and Peter's crazy stories."

Bruce gave you a reassuring smile. "You’re smart, Y/N. I'm sure you'll navigate it just fine. Plus, you've got Peter. He's probably more nervous than you are."

You sighed dramatically, sinking down slightly in your seat. "Yeah, he's pretty worried. I keep telling him it'll be fine, but deep down, I'm just as nervous."

Bruce tilted his head thoughtfully. "Why don't you just be yourself? Your relationship with Peter isn't a secret among the Avengers. You've got nothing to hide."

"But it's different," you argued, fiddling nervously with a pen on the table. "I mean, it's one thing for the team to know. But an entire class of high schoolers? That’s scary."

Bruce chuckled softly, adjusting his glasses again. "Trust me, most of them will probably be too busy being star-struck by Stark Industries to notice much else."

You gave a half-smile, eyes flicking up to meet Bruce’s. "You really think so?"

He nodded reassuringly. "Absolutely. Teenagers aren’t all that complicated—most of them are too wrapped up in their own worlds to pay close attention."

You exhaled softly, leaning back with a little more ease. "I guess you're right."

Bruce smiled warmly. "Of course I am."

You smiled sheepishly, biting your lip in thought before glancing up again. "Do you think it’d be weird if I just... showed up? You know, say hi, maybe give Peter lunch, see how he’s doing?"

Bruce grinned knowingly, leaning forward slightly with amusement in his eyes. "I think that sounds very sweet. Peter would appreciate it, even if he’s embarrassed at first."

You laughed lightly, your face brightening with relief. "Yeah, well, a little embarrassment never killed anyone, right?"

Bruce chuckled again, shaking his head. "Definitely not. And, frankly, you might actually enjoy it."

You smirked mischievously. "Maybe just a little."

He leaned back again, crossing his arms over his chest comfortably. "Just be prepared for some teasing from Tony afterward."

You groaned playfully, rolling your eyes dramatically. "Ugh, Dad's already been dropping hints. Like, ‘don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.’ Which isn't comforting at all, considering it's Dad."

Bruce laughed, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, I think Tony’s probably the worst person to go to for dating advice."

"Tell me about it," you muttered dryly, smiling fondly. "Mom tried to give him a crash course on subtlety the other day. It went about as well as you'd expect."

Bruce grinned warmly. "Your mom is a saint for even trying."

You chuckled, nodding enthusiastically. "I know, right?"

Bruce paused thoughtfully, giving you a gentle look. "Seriously, Y/N, don't overthink it. Peter cares about you. His classmates might be surprised at first, but they'll get used to it quickly. Trust your instincts."

Your smile softened, comforted by his sincerity. "Thanks, Uncle Bruce. I needed to hear that."

He smiled back softly. "Anytime. Now, do you still want to help me with these calculations or are you too busy plotting your field trip takeover?"

You laughed, rolling your eyes slightly. "I think I've done enough plotting for one day."

Bruce chuckled warmly, pushing the tablet toward you gently. "Alright then. Let's get back to work."

You nodded eagerly, reaching for the tablet with newfound confidence. "Right. Work first, world domination later."

Bruce grinned playfully, shaking his head. "You've definitely spent way too much time around your father."

You smirked mischievously, eyes sparkling. "Guilty as charged."

He sighed in mock despair, though his eyes shone with affection. "The world isn't ready for two Stark geniuses."

"Probably not," you replied with a dramatic sigh, then flashed a bright smile. "But that's their problem."

Bruce laughed heartily, pushing his glasses back up his nose again. "Yeah, it definitely is."

You smiled warmly, picking up your stylus and focusing back on the calculations. Bruce was right, after all—you had Peter, and you knew that was what really mattered.

---

During lunch, you sat in the common kitchen eating a sandwich. Your phone was propped up against your water bottle as you pretended to watch it while in reality, it was filming.

You had set up a prank in your head while Steve went on about whatever battle he was talking about, and while making lunch, you put your idea into action. Now, you just had to wait for Sam and Clint to get back from going over the training room schedules.

A few minutes later, you heard familiar footsteps and quickly sat up straighter, looking innocent as you pretended to watch your phone. Sam and Clint walked into the kitchen, mid-conversation.

"All I'm sayin' is, why do you get first dibs on Wednesdays?" Clint complained, grabbing a water bottle from the fridge. "Maybe I like to train mid-week too."

Sam raised an eyebrow at Clint as he opened the pantry. "Because, Barton, last time I gave you Wednesday, you used your slot to watch reruns of 'Golden Girls.'"

"Hey," Clint pointed defensively, "those ladies are legends, and you know it."

You bit your lip to suppress a giggle, silently pressing record on your phone. "Sounds intense, guys," you teased, making sure you sounded nonchalant.

Clint looked over at you, shaking his head with a grin. "You have no idea, kid."

Sam smiled at you warmly as he grabbed some chips. "How was your lesson with Steve?"

You sighed dramatically, rolling your eyes. "He spent two hours telling me about the Battle of Normandy. Again."

Clint groaned sympathetically. "Oof, you okay? Need medical assistance?"

You laughed lightly, waving your sandwich at him. "I survived, thanks. Barely."

Sam chuckled softly, shaking his head as he started to walk towards the cabinet to grab a bowl. You held your breath, waiting eagerly for what would happen next.

Right on cue, the cabinet doors flew open, and a burst of confetti exploded outward, showering Sam and Clint in bright, glittery colors.

Sam jumped back with a yelp, dropping the bag of chips. "What the hell—"

Clint let out a high-pitched, startled squeak, nearly tripping over his own feet as he stumbled away from the sparkling confetti shower. "Holy—"

You burst out laughing, unable to hold it back anymore, tears forming at the corners of your eyes as you captured their shocked, glitter-covered expressions on camera. "Oh my god, your faces!"

Sam turned slowly, still blinking confetti out of his eyes. He shook his head, pointing at you accusingly. "You are evil, Y/N Stark."

Clint brushed glitter from his hair, eyes wide in disbelief. "Seriously, kid? Glitter?"

You shrugged innocently, giggling uncontrollably. "Well, technically it's biodegradable confetti, but yeah."

"I don't even wanna know how you pulled that off," Sam muttered, shaking confetti off his shoulders with an annoyed expression. "Did Tony help you with this?"

You grinned mischievously. "Nope. All me. Consider it payback for your air horn prank last week."

Sam groaned dramatically, looking up at the ceiling. "Oh, c'mon, that wasn't even my best work!"

Clint was still laughing softly, brushing sparkles from his sleeve. "She got you good, Wilson."

Sam scoffed, pointing at Clint's glitter-covered shirt. "You don't exactly look untouched yourself, Barton."

You giggled again, ending your recording as you spun around happily in your seat. "This footage is gonna look amazing at the next family movie night."

Clint narrowed his eyes playfully at you. "You're lucky we love you, kid."

"Seriously," Sam agreed, finally breaking into a smile. "I oughta put glitter in your training gear."

You gasped dramatically, placing a hand over your heart. "Sam, you wouldn't."

Clint grinned evilly, leaning over and whispering conspiratorially, "Don't give him ideas, kid."

You smirked playfully, standing up and putting your plate in the sink. "I'll be ready. Bring it on."

Sam shook his head, chuckling softly as he grabbed another bowl, cautiously opening another cabinet. "At least let me have lunch without another attack."

You held your hands up innocently, giving him your sweetest smile. "I'm out of glitter bombs. For now."

"Why do I not believe you?" Clint asked skeptically, side-eyeing you as he finally sat at the table with his water bottle.

"Because you're smart," you teased, winking at him as you started walking toward the kitchen door. "Better watch your backs!"

---

“Can’t you teach me Latin instead? Latin is cool,” you said to Natasha, leaning your elbows on the kitchen island dramatically. “You promised you would when you pretended to be Dad’s assistant. Or… whatever happened.”

Natasha sighed, rolling her eyes affectionately as she set down her mug of tea. “Y/N, for the last time—I was undercover, not just pretending. And I distinctly remember saying maybe. Besides, you're already learning Russian.”

You waved your hand dismissively. “Da, da, ya znayu. Yes, yes, I know. Russian is fine, but I think Latin would be more fun.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow, folding her arms and giving you a skeptical look. “Fun? Y/N, Latin is literally a dead language.”

“Exactly!” You pointed at her excitedly. “Dead languages are cool, Natasha. Think of how impressive it’ll sound when I can insult Clint without him even knowing it.”

Clint turned his head quickly from his spot across the kitchen, eyes narrowed. “Excuse me, Stark Junior?”

You grinned sweetly, fluttering your eyelashes innocently. “Nothing, Uncle Clint. Love you!”

Clint narrowed his eyes suspiciously, slowly returning his attention to his sandwich. “Yeah, sure you do.”

Natasha chuckled softly, shaking her head as she returned her focus to you. “Look, Y/N, as entertaining as it sounds, Russian is actually useful. Latin—not so much.”

“Useful?” You scoffed playfully, leaning back slightly on your stool. “Nat, I already speak fluent Spanish and Chinese. I literally don’t need Russian. Did you know Chinese is gonna be the most spoken language by 2050? So, really, teaching me Latin would at least be interesting.”

Natasha tilted her head, looking mildly impressed despite herself. “You’ve really done your research on this, haven’t you?”

You nodded enthusiastically, smiling confidently. “See? Genius. I rest my case.”

Bruce chuckled softly from across the room, glancing up from his own notes. “She’s got you there, Natasha. You might want to reconsider.”

Natasha shot Bruce an amused glare before sighing softly, shoulders slumping slightly in resignation. “You really won’t let this go, will you?”

“Absolutely not,” you replied immediately, beaming brightly.

She shook her head again, giving you a reluctant smile. “Fine. How about this? You ace your Russian exam next week, and I’ll teach you some Latin. Deal?”

You perked up immediately, eyes sparkling. “Deal! Wait—exam? Since when do we have exams?”

Natasha smirked knowingly, sipping her tea calmly. “Since right now.”

You groaned loudly, slumping forward dramatically. “Ugh, betrayal.”

She laughed lightly, reaching over and ruffling your hair affectionately. “You’ll survive. Now, stop complaining and study. Latin’s waiting for you.”

You grumbled softly under your breath, sitting up straighter and nodding reluctantly. “Fine. But when I ace it, you better be prepared to teach me every Latin insult known to mankind.”

She rolled her eyes, lips quirking up slightly. “I’ll do my best.”

“Thank you,” you smiled brightly again, grabbing your notes dramatically off the counter. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have an exam to crush.”

As you hopped off your stool, Clint gave you a teasing grin. “Hey, when you learn all those insults, teach me a few so I can use them on Stark, yeah?”

You smirked mischievously at him, giving a playful wink. “Oh, definitely.”

Bruce chuckled softly again, shaking his head fondly. “I think you two underestimate Tony’s ability to insult in any language.”

Natasha smiled knowingly, eyes glinting with amusement as she watched you head toward the elevator. “He does have an impressive vocabulary.”

Clint sighed dramatically, finishing off his sandwich. “Great. Looks like I’ll have to learn Latin too, just to keep up.”

You grinned from the elevator, waving your notes cheerfully at him. “Don’t worry, Clint! I’ll give you a discount on lessons!”

The elevator doors closed on Clint’s amused laughter and Natasha’s fond shake of her head. You leaned back against the wall, flipping through your Russian notes with renewed determination. The promise of Latin—and a wealth of creative insults—awaited.

---

You were in your lab going over your Russian notes when Peter entered, backpack slung over one shoulder. You looked up from the tablet immediately, giving him a bright smile. "Hey, you made it!"

Peter chuckled softly as he dropped his backpack by the door, coming over to lean against your lab table. "Yeah, finally. Subway was packed, and some guy spilled coffee all over my shoes. So, great afternoon."

You bit your lip sympathetically, glancing down at his slightly stained sneakers. "Aw, Pete. I'll clean them up for you later."

He smiled gratefully, looking down at your notes curiously. "Is this Russian? I thought Natasha already said you're fluent."

"I am," you sighed dramatically, leaning your head back against the chair. "But apparently Nat thinks my Russian still needs work. Something about ‘too much slang’ and ‘not enough proper grammar.’"

Peter laughed lightly, shaking his head. "Well, she's probably right."

"Not helping," you muttered playfully, poking his side with your stylus. "I'm bribing Nat with my language prowess so she'll finally teach me Latin."

"Latin?" Peter asked with surprise, lifting his brows. "Why?"

You gave him a cheeky grin, eyes sparkling mischievously. "So I can insult Clint without him understanding me, obviously."

Peter laughed again, leaning a little closer. "I thought Clint was pretty used to insults by now."

"Yeah," you agreed with a grin, nudging his shoulder gently. "But I bet he doesn't know many in Latin."

Peter smiled warmly at you, his eyes softening as he watched you continue scribbling notes. After a moment, you noticed him staring and tilted your head curiously.

"Everything okay?" you asked softly, reaching out and gently touching his hand.

Peter nodded, a faint blush tinting his cheeks. "Yeah, it's just—I guess I'm still a little nervous about the field trip next Friday."

You softened immediately, putting your notes aside and squeezing his hand reassuringly. "Pete, it's gonna be fine. I promise."

He sighed anxiously, running a hand through his messy curls. "Yeah, I know. It's just weird, you know? Flash was giving me crap again today, and everyone else just thinks I'm lying about my internship."

You frowned slightly, reaching out and tugging Peter gently towards you until he moved around to sit on the stool beside yours. "Well, Flash is an idiot. And honestly? Who cares what everyone thinks? You're amazing, Peter. Let them doubt. Next week, you'll prove them all wrong."

Peter smiled softly, relaxing slightly as he met your reassuring gaze. "Thanks, Y/N. You're the best."

"Obviously," you teased lightly, nudging his arm again with a playful smile. "But, um, speaking of next week—I sort of had an idea."

He lifted a brow, his expression wary but amused. "Should I be scared?"

You laughed, shaking your head quickly. "No, I promise! Nothing embarrassing—well, maybe slightly embarrassing—but in a cute, sweet, romantic kind of way."

Peter chuckled quietly, rolling his eyes with affection. "That doesn't exactly make me feel better."

You grinned sheepishly, leaning closer to him excitedly. "What if I brought you lunch? Like, showed up during your tour, surprised you in front of your class?"

Peter stared at you, eyes wide with mild panic. "Wait, Y/N, I—I mean—"

You bit your lip softly, suddenly nervous. "Unless that's too much. We don't have to. I just thought it'd be nice—"

"No!" Peter quickly interrupted, placing a gentle hand on your arm, voice softening immediately. "No, Y/N. I like the idea. I really do."

You raised your eyebrows skeptically, watching him closely. "Are you sure? You kind of look like you just swallowed a spider."

He made a face at the analogy, chuckling nervously. "It's just—you know, people are gonna freak out. And Flash is definitely gonna say something stupid."

You smirked, eyes sparkling mischievously. "Oh, I hope he does. Then I can watch him shrivel under the power of my infamous Stark glare."

Peter laughed softly, visibly relaxing now as he shook his head with amusement. "You really have spent too much time around Tony."

You flashed a proud grin. "Can't help it. Stark genes."

He smiled warmly at you, eyes lingering fondly as he squeezed your hand gently. "But seriously, Y/N. I'd love for you to stop by. And screw whatever Flash thinks."

You grinned happily, excitement bubbling up in your chest as you leaned forward, pressing a quick, affectionate kiss to his lips. "It's a date, then."

Peter smiled shyly, cheeks turning bright pink as he squeezed your hand tighter. "Yeah, definitely."

Just then, footsteps echoed in the hallway, and you both turned toward the door as Tony strode in, a pizza box balanced in one hand, and the other covering his eyes.

“I’m giving you 15 seconds to get situated from whatever teenage shenanigans you two were up to. I better not see any clothing articles on the floor—”

"Dad!" you groaned loudly, cheeks immediately flushing. You quickly jumped away from Peter, nearly stumbling off your stool in embarrassment as you hurriedly fixed your hair. "We were literally just talking!"

Peter awkwardly cleared his throat, face equally flushed as he stared down at the floor, nervously scratching the back of his neck. "Uh, hi, Mr. Stark."

Tony finally lowered his hand from his eyes, giving both of you a deeply amused look as he walked further into the lab. "Relax, kiddos. Just making sure. Can't be too careful, what with teenagers being teenagers and all."

"Dad, seriously," you mumbled, trying to fight the burning embarrassment still flooding your cheeks. "I'm pretty sure the last thing on our minds is doing anything weird in my lab. With you literally two rooms down."

Tony smirked slightly, placing the pizza box on the counter beside you. "Hey, I don't judge. Hormones are unpredictable."

"Oh my God," you muttered, covering your face with your hands, hoping the ground might spontaneously open and swallow you whole. "Why are you like this?"

Peter laughed nervously, shifting uncomfortably as he glanced between you and Tony. "Um, sir, we—we were really just talking about the field trip next week."

Tony raised a skeptical eyebrow, glancing sideways at Peter. "Sure, Pete. You don't have to worry about me, though. I trust you. Mostly."

You let out an exaggerated groan, slumping dramatically against the lab table. "Please, Dad. For the love of Thor, stop talking."

Tony chuckled deeply, flipping the pizza box open casually. "Speaking of the field trip," he started, pulling out a slice, "I've been thinking about how we should handle this whole thing."

You sighed softly, finally looking up at him with a wary expression. "Handle it?"

Tony nodded slowly, taking a casual bite of his pizza. "You know, introductions, awkward teenage social dynamics, maybe a strategically embarrassing slideshow detailing Peter's intern duties—"

"Mr. Stark!" Peter interrupted quickly, looking mortified. "Please don't."

You shook your head vigorously, narrowing your eyes firmly at Tony. "Absolutely not. Dad, you promised you'd behave. No embarrassing Peter, remember?"

Tony pouted dramatically, sighing deeply as he looked between the two of you. "You're no fun at all. You know how much prep I've already put into this presentation?"

Peter paled visibly, shifting anxiously on his stool. "Presentation?"

Tony smirked mischievously, leaning forward slightly as he took another bite. "It's titled 'Peter Parker: Spider Intern or Spider Imposter?' Thought it had a nice ring to it."

You groaned again, burying your face in your arms on the lab table. "Peter, I'm so sorry."

Peter chuckled nervously, shaking his head as he glanced over at you. "It's fine. I mean, how bad could it really be?"

Tony grinned widely. "Oh, kid, famous last words."

"Dad," you finally lifted your head again, giving him a pleading look, "can we please just have a normal field trip? Without your involvement? At all?"

Tony raised an eyebrow, looking dramatically offended. "No involvement? I'm hurt, Y/N. This is literally Stark Industries. Emphasis on the Stark."

"Exactly," you pointed out firmly, crossing your arms. "Industries. Not Tony Stark's Personal Embarrassment Tour."

Peter nodded quickly, clearly hopeful you’d convinced him. "Please, Mr. Stark. I promise I'll make sure my classmates behave."

Tony tilted his head thoughtfully, still chewing his pizza. "Hmm. Alright, Parker. I'll consider scaling back my incredible plans. But only because you're looking at me like a kicked puppy."

Peter relaxed visibly, sighing in relief. "Thank you."

You let out your own relieved breath, reaching over to squeeze Peter's hand gently. "You okay?"

He nodded slightly, squeezing your hand back as he gave you a small smile. "Yeah, thanks. Just, you know, mild panic attack."

You chuckled softly, giving him an affectionate look. "I promise, it'll be okay. We can handle Dad."

Tony rolled his eyes dramatically, finishing off his pizza slice. "I'm literally right here."

You grinned cheekily at him, shrugging your shoulders. "We know."

Tony chuckled lightly, shaking his head fondly at you both. "Alright, alright, I get it. I'll behave." He turned his attention back to Peter, pointing a stern finger in his direction. "But you'd better make sure those high school gremlins don't touch anything. Or breathe on anything expensive. Especially Flash."

Peter nodded quickly, looking relieved but still a bit nervous. "Yes, sir."

Tony sighed dramatically again, reaching for another slice of pizza as he shot you both a teasing smirk. "Honestly, I'm pretty sure running an Avengers-level security detail was less stressful than hosting a bunch of teenagers."

You laughed softly, shaking your head at him. "Relax, Dad. It'll be fine."

"Easy for you to say," Tony grumbled playfully, giving you an affectionate smile. "You're not the one dealing with liability paperwork."

Peter smiled slightly, visibly calmer now as he relaxed next to you. "I promise, Mr. Stark, we'll be on our best behavior."

Tony smiled knowingly, pointing at him dramatically. "Good. Because if not, I'm blaming you directly, Parker. And then—"

"Tony," Pepper's amused voice suddenly cut in from the doorway. You all turned to see her leaning against the frame with a fond expression. "Don't threaten Peter. He's nervous enough."

Tony grinned sheepishly, shrugging at his wife with a playful pout. "Hey, someone’s gotta keep the kid on his toes."

Pepper rolled her eyes warmly, walking toward you and Peter with a reassuring smile. "Don't listen to him. You'll both do great next week."

You smiled gratefully at her, relaxing further. "Thanks, Mom."

Pepper gently squeezed your shoulder, giving Peter a comforting look. "It'll be fun, Peter. And don't worry, Tony will behave himself."

Tony scoffed loudly, crossing his arms indignantly. "I'm literally standing right here. You people act like I'm the teenager."

You smirked cheekily, tilting your head. "Well, Dad—"

He quickly held up his hand, shaking his head firmly. "Don’t. Finish. That. Thought."

Pepper laughed lightly, patting Tony's shoulder affectionately. "Come on, Tony. Let's leave the kids alone."

He sighed dramatically, moving to follow her but turned at the doorway to give you both a mock-stern glare. "Door stays open, kids."

"Dad!" you groaned again, flushing furiously as Tony chuckled and finally followed Pepper out, the door staying conspicuously wide open.

You sighed deeply, slumping slightly as you turned to look at Peter. "Sorry again. He's… a lot."

Peter laughed softly, relaxing completely now as he smiled warmly at you. "I’m used to it. Besides, I think your dad's threats of embarrassment kinda prepared me for this stuff."

You grinned gently, leaning toward him again. "So, still excited for Friday?"

He gave you a nervous but sincere smile, nodding slightly. "Yeah. As long as you're there, I'll be fine."

You felt your heart flutter warmly, squeezing his hand again as you leaned in, gently pressing your lips against his again. This time, without any interruption from Tony.

Peter smiled softly against your lips, pulling back slowly and meeting your gaze warmly. "Thanks, Y/N. For everything."

You smiled gently back at him, your eyes full of affection. "Anytime, Pete."

Peter chuckled softly, shaking his head slightly. "Honestly, compared to being Spider-Man, dealing with your dad isn't so bad."

You laughed, giving his hand another gentle squeeze. "I'll remind you that you said that next Friday."

He sighed dramatically, grinning playfully. "Great. Can't wait."

You smiled warmly, knowing that despite Tony’s teasing, next week really was going to be great—because you'd be together, and that was what mattered most.

---

“Did May sign the permission slip? It’s due today!” Ned asked Peter as they walked down the hallway to Mr. Harrington’s class.

“Yeah, barely,” Peter laughed nervously, tugging his backpack higher onto his shoulder. “She got home late from her shift at the hospital, but I practically shoved the pen in her hand this morning.”

Ned chuckled, shaking his head knowingly. “Man, I still can’t believe we’re going to Stark Industries. Like, the actual Stark Industries. You think they’ll show us the Iron Man suits?”

Peter smirked, glancing over at Ned with amusement. “Probably not the real ones. Knowing Mr. Stark, he’ll probably have holographic decoys or something.”

“Oh, totally,” Ned agreed excitedly. “Wait, do you think the Avengers are gonna be there? Y/N did say the team all lives there.”

Peter bit his lip nervously, glancing around to make sure no one overheard them as they walked. “Yeah, I know. And that’s kinda what I’m worried about. Can you imagine how Flash is gonna react if Thor casually strolls by during the tour?”

Ned laughed, clapping Peter’s shoulder reassuringly. “Hey, just let Thor pick Flash up one-handed—that’ll shut him up real quick.”

Peter chuckled despite himself, shaking his head. “Yeah, tempting as that sounds, I promised Y/N we’d all behave.”

“Aw, man,” Ned teased dramatically, pretending to pout. “You guys are no fun at all.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Peter rolled his eyes affectionately, nudging Ned’s shoulder gently. “Just help me make sure MJ doesn’t instigate something. She’s been weirdly excited about this.”

Ned snorted loudly, nodding vigorously. “Dude, MJ told me she’s bringing popcorn to watch the chaos unfold. I think she’s secretly hoping Flash embarrasses himself.”

“Great,” Peter sighed, running a hand anxiously through his curls. “Just what I needed.”

“You’ll be fine, Peter,” Ned reassured gently, lowering his voice slightly. “Besides, you’re literally Spider-Man and dating Tony Stark’s daughter. Honestly, if Flash knew the truth, he’d lose his mind.”

Peter laughed quietly, shaking his head slightly. “Yeah, well, let’s hope he doesn’t find out like that. Flash losing his mind is the last thing I want.”

Ned laughed again, giving Peter another reassuring pat on the back as they approached the classroom. “Relax, dude. It’ll be fine. Besides, Y/N’s coming, right? She’ll probably have your back.”

Peter smiled softly at that, nodding slowly as he walked into Mr. Harrington’s room. “Yeah, she will.”

They found their seats, and MJ looked up from her sketchbook as they joined her. “Morning, losers. Permission slips signed, or are you both gonna have to sit this one out?”

“Very funny,” Ned said dryly, showing her his slip proudly. “Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

MJ smirked, lifting an eyebrow as she glanced at Peter. “And you, Parker?”

Peter waved his permission slip dramatically, giving her a mock-serious look. “Relax, MJ, I’ve got it covered.”

“Good,” she replied casually, returning to her sketching. “Because if you missed this, I was gonna have to record Flash embarrassing himself and send it to you.”

Peter smiled faintly. “How thoughtful.”

“Always,” MJ replied without looking up.

The bell rang, and Mr. Harrington quickly stood, adjusting his glasses and collecting the slips eagerly. “Alright, everyone! Permission slips, hand them in now, please! Stark Industries awaits!”

Peter handed his slip to Mr. Harrington, heart thudding slightly in his chest as he felt reality sinking in again. As Mr. Harrington counted the slips, Flash loudly leaned toward Peter from his seat.

“Better be careful, Parker,” Flash whispered mockingly, a smug grin plastered across his face. “You wouldn’t wanna embarrass yourself in front of Tony Stark by pretending to be his intern, would you?”

Peter sighed deeply, not even bothering to look over. “Thanks, Flash. Really appreciate the advice.”

Flash scoffed arrogantly, crossing his arms as he leaned back. “Just looking out for you, Parker.”

MJ shot Peter an amused, knowing glance, mouthing silently, “Ten bucks says he cries.”

Peter stifled a laugh, relaxing slightly. Maybe Ned was right—Friday wouldn’t be so bad. Especially since he had you.

---

Meanwhile, at the tower, you were currently scribbling equations onto the large whiteboard in your lab, muttering softly to yourself as you worked through a particularly challenging formula.

“You know, most teenagers prefer sleeping in, Y/N,” Rhodey’s voice suddenly teased lightly from the doorway.

You spun around, smiling brightly as you spotted him leaning casually against the frame. “Yeah, but most teenagers aren’t Stark geniuses.”

He chuckled softly, stepping into the lab and glancing at your equations curiously. “Impressive as always. New project?”

“Sort of,” you admitted sheepishly, tapping your marker against your chin thoughtfully. “Peter and I were talking about his web-fluid yesterday, and I think I found a way to improve its tensile strength.”

Rhodey raised an eyebrow, impressed despite himself. “Tony’s gonna be thrilled. Speaking of Peter, how’s he feeling about Friday?”

You sighed softly, leaning your back against the table. “Honestly? He’s nervous. Like, really nervous.”

Rhodey smiled knowingly, tilting his head sympathetically. “Poor kid. High school drama, huh?”

“Exactly,” you replied with a small laugh, shaking your head slightly. “It’s just… it’s frustrating. He’s incredible, you know? But he still worries what people like Flash Thompson think.”

Rhodey nodded understandingly. “Well, Flash Thompson’s an idiot.”

“That’s what I said!” you exclaimed immediately, grinning widely.

Rhodey laughed warmly, squeezing your shoulder gently. “Look, just remind Peter that he’s got nothing to prove. He knows who he is. You know who he is. That’s all that matters.”

You smiled softly at that, feeling warmth spread through your chest. “Thanks, Uncle Rhodey. I’ll make sure to remind him.”

He smiled back warmly, eyes gentle. “You two are good for each other, Y/N. You’ve always balanced each other out.”

You blushed slightly, nodding shyly. “Yeah, we do.”

“Alright,” Rhodey stepped back with an affectionate grin, “I better get to that meeting. Just wanted to check on you.”

You smiled warmly, giving him a grateful look. “Thanks, Uncle Rhodey.”

“Anytime, kiddo,” he replied gently before disappearing back into the hallway.

You turned back toward your equations, mind drifting again toward Peter and Friday. Despite all your reassurances, you knew exactly why he was nervous. Peter had always preferred blending in quietly, and dating Tony Stark’s daughter certainly wasn’t the way to keep a low profile.

But you’d made a promise to yourself—you would be there for him. No matter how awkward, how nervous, or how many snarky comments Flash made. Peter was worth it. Besides, you thought with a soft smile, you could handle a bit of embarrassment. Especially if it meant making sure everyone else knew just how amazing Peter Parker really was.

Smiling gently to yourself, you turned your attention back to your calculations. Friday couldn’t come soon enough.

---

Soon, Friday arrived and the bus to Stark Tower was overwhelmed with chatter and excitement.

"Oh my god, we're literally almost there!" Ned practically bounced in his seat, gripping the seat in front of him excitedly. "I'm actually going to see the lab where Iron Man makes his suits."

MJ rolled her eyes slightly, flipping casually through a book she'd brought along. "Please don't faint when you meet Tony again, Ned."

Ned frowned, looking mildly offended. "I didn't faint last time, MJ. I just got a little… dizzy."

Peter chuckled nervously from beside them, fingers fidgeting anxiously in his lap as his leg bounced rapidly. "Guys, please try not to draw too much attention today? Please?"

MJ lifted her gaze to Peter, arching an eyebrow skeptically. "You're dating the daughter of a billionaire superhero, Parker. I'm pretty sure attention is inevitable."

Peter groaned quietly, sinking slightly lower in his seat. "I was afraid you'd say that."

Flash loudly cleared his throat from across the aisle, leaning over with a smug smirk plastered on his face. "Parker, remind me—do interns at Stark Industries actually get to meet anyone important, or do they just spend the whole time fetching coffee?"

Peter sighed, closing his eyes briefly. "Flash, I've told you a million times—I'm an intern. I work in an actual lab."

Flash snorted dismissively. "Yeah, sure you do. We'll see about that."

"Ignore him," MJ muttered calmly, returning her attention to her book. "He's just jealous because his dad couldn't buy him an internship there."

Ned snickered softly as Flash huffed indignantly, turning away again.

Peter's phone buzzed suddenly, and he quickly glanced down, seeing your name light up his screen. He smiled slightly, quickly opening your message.

You: Hey Pete! Just checking in—are you still alive? Ned didn't faint yet, right?

Peter grinned, quickly typing a reply.

Peter: Barely hanging on. And Ned’s still conscious. For now.

You: Good. Can't wait to see you.

Peter's heart fluttered at that, fingers hesitating over the screen before he sent back his message.

Peter: Me too. Miss you.

"Aw, Peter's blushing," MJ teased flatly, smirking without looking up from her page.

Peter flushed deeper, quickly pocketing his phone and stammering awkwardly. "I—uh—I'm not—"

"It's cute, man," Ned reassured, giving him a gentle nudge. "Besides, you're gonna be fine. Y/N will make sure Flash shuts up."

Peter sighed softly, leaning back against his seat. "Yeah. Hopefully without giving him permanent emotional damage."

MJ shrugged nonchalantly. "Either way, it's a win for me."

Peter chuckled softly, shaking his head as the bus finally pulled up in front of Stark Tower. The entire class erupted in excited chatter, students pressing against windows to get a better look at the imposing glass building.

Mr. Harrington stood from the front of the bus, trying to speak loudly over the chatter. "Alright, class! Remember, this is a rare and special opportunity. So please—please—try to behave yourselves."

Flash scoffed loudly from his seat. "Relax, Mr. Harrington. I'm sure Parker here can use his imaginary connections to keep us in line."

Peter bit his lip, clenching his fists tightly to prevent himself from saying something he'd regret. Thankfully, MJ was quick to respond.

"Hey, Flash," she called dryly. "Maybe Stark Industries will have an opening in the mailroom for you after graduation. Aim high."

The class laughed quietly as Flash’s face turned red with embarrassment. Peter gave MJ a grateful look, smiling slightly.

They filed off the bus and gathered at the entrance, Mr. Harrington attempting to count heads. Peter’s nerves spiked again as he glanced up at the glass doors. He swallowed anxiously, realizing in just moments, the quiet corner of his life he’d worked so hard to keep separate was about to collide spectacularly with his classmates.

"Relax, Peter," Ned murmured reassuringly, patting his shoulder. "You got this."

Peter smiled weakly, nodding slightly. "Thanks, Ned."

MJ looked up from her book again, giving him a tiny smirk. "If all else fails, just have Tony Stark kick Flash out of the building."

Peter laughed softly, feeling some of the tension leave his shoulders. "Good idea."

Before he could reply further, the front doors opened, and Peter's heart skipped when he saw Happy Hogan step through.

"Welcome, Midtown," Happy said loudly, in his usual deadpan voice. "My name is Happy Hogan. I'm head of security here at Stark Industries. I'll be taking you to the conference room, and we'll begin the tour shortly."

Flash's eyes widened, whispering excitedly to his friends, "That's Stark's security guy! You know he's gotta know Iron Man personally."

Peter smiled slightly at Happy, trying to catch his eye. Happy's gaze finally landed on Peter, giving him a small, knowing nod.

"Keep up, people," Happy said impatiently, already turning around and leading the class toward the elevators.

Peter felt the butterflies in his stomach grow heavier with every step they took. His breathing quickened slightly, heart pounding anxiously in his chest as he glanced at Ned, whispering nervously, "This is it. Oh god."

Ned squeezed his shoulder again reassuringly, giving Peter an encouraging smile. "You're gonna be fine, Pete. Just breathe."

MJ smirked faintly as she walked beside them, glancing sideways at Peter. "You look like you're about to faint, Parker."

Peter forced himself to chuckle, nodding weakly. "Yeah, no kidding."

Finally, they reached the massive conference room, and Happy gestured inside impatiently. "Sit down and don't touch anything. We will be passing out badges that you will need during the tour. There are different levels for different roles in the company, and badges are never reprinted unless lost. Because apparently I’m the only here who takes security seriou—”

“Ah, son of Hogan!” Thor boomed, standing in the conference room door. “You wouldn’t mind going out and getting more Pop-Tarts, would you?”

Happy closed his eyes and took a deep breath, visibly counting to ten before turning slowly to face Thor. "Thor, we've discussed this. I'm working."

Thor smiled broadly, completely unfazed. "Ah, yes, Son of Hogan, but this is an emergency. You see, I ate all the strawberry ones, and now Banner refuses to share his."

Happy sighed deeply again, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Thor, please—just wait until I'm done here."

Thor's eyes drifted curiously to the classroom full of wide-eyed teenagers, offering them an enthusiastic wave. "Greetings, young scholars! Welcome to Stark's domain!"

Flash’s mouth fell open in shock, eyes wide as he grabbed his friend's shoulder. "Dude, it's literally Thor!"

Peter shrank slightly in his seat, cheeks flushing as he fought the overwhelming urge to bury his head in his arms. Ned elbowed him excitedly, whispering, "This is already the best day ever!"

MJ's smirk deepened as she leaned closer, murmuring softly, "At least Flash finally shut up."

Peter chuckled weakly, glancing nervously back at Thor, who had taken it upon himself to stride confidently into the conference room. Happy followed quickly, irritation clear on his face.

"Thor, I swear, if you break something—" Happy muttered sharply.

"Nonsense," Thor boomed cheerfully, placing his hands confidently on his hips as he smiled warmly at the stunned class. "These fine young Midgardians deserve the full Avengers experience."

Happy groaned softly, rolling his eyes upward in defeat.

Flash finally found his voice, practically vibrating in his seat. "Mr. Thor, sir—do you think we could, uh, maybe see your hammer?"

Thor chuckled heartily, shaking his head good-naturedly. "I'm afraid Mjolnir is resting securely, but perhaps another time!"

Mr. Harrington cleared his throat nervously, stepping forward to address Thor with an awkward smile. "Well, thank you for the unexpected introduction, Mr. Thor. We, uh, appreciate the warm welcome."

Thor beamed brightly, clapping a heavy hand onto Mr. Harrington’s shoulder, nearly knocking the teacher off balance. "Of course! I bid you farewell, small ones. Enjoy Stark's sanctuary!"

With a final dramatic wave, Thor exited the conference room, leaving a stunned silence behind.

Happy exhaled deeply, glancing around the room again. "So that's Thor. Please, no more interruptions. As I was saying before our surprise guest—badges. You'll each receive one based on your level of clearance."

He began passing out badges, placing them carefully onto the table as he spoke. "Blue badges grant general access for today. Do not lose these, do not trade them, do not sell them online. Trust me, we'll know."

Flash eagerly grabbed his badge, practically cradling it in awe as he turned to whisper excitedly to his friends. "Guys, this is legit Stark tech!"

MJ rolled her eyes slightly, carefully clipping her badge onto her shirt. "It's literally a laminated card, Flash."

Flash scowled at her, but Ned cut in excitedly before he could reply. "Hey, Peter, your badge is different. Yours is red!"

Peter flushed, awkwardly reaching out to take his badge from Happy, who gave him another subtle, reassuring nod. "Yeah, uh—it's an intern badge. It gives me access to the labs."

Flash's eyes widened again, looking sharply at Peter. "Wait—Parker actually has a legit badge?"

Peter sighed tiredly, clipping the badge onto his hoodie. "Yeah, Flash, that's what I've been trying to tell you."

Flash narrowed his eyes suspiciously, clearly skeptical but momentarily at a loss for words. Ned grinned proudly, nudging Peter excitedly. "Told you they'd freak."

Peter smiled weakly, glancing anxiously toward the doorway as Happy finished handing out badges and returned to the front of the room.

"Alright, people," Happy continued in his deadpan voice, "we have a lot to cover. I'll be taking you through the lower-level labs, public spaces, and exhibits. You'll be staying together and not touching anything unless explicitly instructed."

Mr. Harrington quickly nodded, his eyes wide with mild panic as he gestured toward the class. "Yes, yes—everyone, please listen carefully to Mr. Hogan."

Peter took a slow, steadying breath, trying to quell the anxiety that bubbled within his chest. MJ leaned slightly toward him, murmuring dryly, "Relax, Parker. You've survived alien invasions. You can survive a high school field trip."

Peter let out a shaky laugh, nodding weakly. "Yeah, you're right."

Happy motioned impatiently, waving everyone toward the door again. "Alright, follow me closely. We're heading down to the exhibit hall first."

Peter stood slowly, falling into step beside Ned and MJ. Flash followed closely behind, loudly whispering to anyone who would listen, "I bet we'll get to meet Tony Stark himself."

Peter's pulse quickened nervously at the mention of Tony, stomach twisting anxiously at the thought of just how close his carefully separated worlds were becoming. MJ glanced at him knowingly, giving a subtle smirk.

"You know," she murmured casually, "if Flash annoys Stark enough, maybe he'll ban him from the building."

Peter chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Yeah, let's hope so."

They reached the elevators, and Happy quickly keyed in a security code, herding the group inside. "No pushing, please."

The elevator descended smoothly, opening into the exhibit hall. The entire class gasped, excited murmurs filling the air as they took in the massive display cases of Stark tech, holographic screens detailing various inventions, and impressive Avengers suits lining the walls.

Ned’s mouth fell open, eyes wide with awe. "Peter, this is insane!"

Peter smiled faintly, glancing around nervously. "Yeah, it's pretty cool."

Happy cleared his throat impatiently again, gesturing toward the displays. "Feel free to look around. No touching the glass. You break it, you buy it, and trust me—none of you can afford it."

Flash immediately moved toward the nearest Iron Man suit, practically pressing his nose to the glass as he marveled at it.

MJ leaned toward Peter again, speaking quietly. "You know Flash is gonna touch something eventually, right?"

Peter smiled slightly, nodding in resignation. "Yeah, probably."

“Spider-Man has his own display!?” Flash exclaimed, practically rushing toward the exhibit. He pressed his hands against the glass excitedly, ignoring Happy’s warning glare.

"Dude," Ned whispered to Peter, trying and failing to hide his grin, "That's you!"

"Shh!" Peter hissed nervously, glancing around quickly to ensure no one overheard. "Not here, man."

MJ chuckled quietly from beside them, arms crossed as she casually took in the spectacle. "So, this is what a secret identity crisis looks like."

Flash’s voice rang out loudly again, clearly trying to impress his small gathering of friends. "I mean, Spider-Man’s cool and all, but he's no Iron Man."

Peter felt his face flush slightly, resisting the urge to say something back. Ned, noticing his friend’s tense expression, quickly nudged Peter gently.

"Just breathe, dude," Ned whispered reassuringly, eyes sympathetic. "He doesn’t even know who he’s talking to."

Peter sighed softly, smiling weakly at Ned. "Yeah, you're right."

Flash continued his monologue to anyone who would listen, motioning dramatically to the display. "Spider-Man's alright, sure, but he's probably just some random guy who got lucky. Stark Industries just felt bad and threw him a bone."

"Wow," MJ deadpanned softly, eyebrows raised as she looked at Peter pointedly. "Are you gonna tell him how you single-handedly stopped a flying bird guy and an army of drones, or should I?"

Peter bit back a laugh, shaking his head nervously. "No, MJ. Please, no."

Meanwhile, Happy loudly cleared his throat again, clearly irritated. "Hey! Thompson, right? Keep your hands off the glass."

Flash pulled his hands back immediately, looking sheepish but quickly regaining his confidence. "Sorry, sir. Just admiring Spider-Man’s, uh, impressive suit."

Happy raised an unimpressed eyebrow. "I'm sure he'd be thrilled."

The class snickered softly at Flash’s embarrassment, and Ned leaned closer to Peter, whispering excitedly, "Oh man, I wish Y/N were here. She'd totally roast him right now."

Peter chuckled softly, nerves easing slightly at the mention of you. "Yeah, I know. She's definitely better at handling Flash than I am."

MJ smirked faintly, eyes sparkling with amusement. "You mean scarier."

"That too," Peter admitted with a slight laugh, shoulders relaxing a bit more.

Happy guided them further into the exhibit hall, pointing out various pieces of technology as the class followed excitedly behind. Ned eagerly snapped photos with his phone, whispering excited commentary to Peter, who smiled and nodded distractedly, mind clearly elsewhere.

They stopped again in front of a sleek glass display featuring the nanotech suit Tony wore during the battle against Thanos. The entire class gasped softly, and even MJ looked up from her book, clearly impressed.

"This," Happy announced seriously, motioning toward the display, "is Mr. Stark’s most advanced suit to date—fully integrated nanotechnology. It saved his life multiple times."

Flash stepped forward again, looking star-struck. "Is this the actual suit Iron Man wore?"

Happy sighed softly, nodding reluctantly. "Yes. And before you ask, no, you can't touch it."

Flash stepped back quickly, holding his hands up innocently. "Just checking."

"Wow," Ned breathed softly, glancing at Peter excitedly. "Dude, you've literally helped Mr. Stark build stuff like this. That's insane."

Flash overheard Ned's comment, quickly scoffing dismissively. "Oh, come on, Leeds. Stop believing Parker’s ridiculous fantasies. Like Tony Stark would ever let him near something important."

Peter felt his jaw tighten slightly in irritation but forced himself to remain silent, refusing to engage. MJ, however, tilted her head calmly, offering Flash a dry, unimpressed look.

"You're really embarrassing yourself right now," she stated bluntly, returning her attention casually to her book.

Flash opened his mouth to respond, clearly flustered, but Happy quickly interrupted before he could.

"Alright, moving on!" Happy called loudly, gesturing impatiently toward the next exhibit. "We still have a lot to see."

Peter felt a tiny bit of relief as Flash was forced to follow along silently, though his anxiety only grew as they continued deeper into Stark Tower. With every passing moment, they were closer to crossing paths with the Avengers—and, of course, with you.

The group turned the corner, approaching another expansive hall. Happy motioned toward the collection of Captain America’s shields mounted on the walls.

"And here," Happy said flatly, "you'll see the various prototypes and completed designs for Captain America's shield—vibranium alloy, nearly indestructible, and incredibly dangerous when wielded by literally anyone else."

The class laughed softly, admiring the impressive display. MJ glanced casually at Peter, raising an eyebrow with mock seriousness. "Cap's still your favorite Avenger, right?"

Peter chuckled nervously, shrugging slightly. "Uh, I dunno… they're all pretty cool."

Ned rolled his eyes dramatically, nudging Peter again. "Come on, dude. We all know your favorite Avenger."

MJ smirked knowingly. "Y/N doesn't count."

Peter flushed bright red immediately, stammering awkwardly. "I—I mean—she’s not technically an Avenger, so—"

"Uh-huh," MJ replied flatly, returning her focus calmly to the displays.

Flash scoffed softly from behind, overhearing their conversation. "Please. Like Parker even knows Y/N Stark. He probably doesn't even know what she looks like."

Peter's cheeks grew even redder, fists clenching nervously at his sides. Ned quickly placed a reassuring hand on Peter’s shoulder, shaking his head slightly.

"Just ignore him," Ned murmured softly, eyes sympathetic.

MJ rolled her eyes dramatically, glancing back at Peter calmly. "Seriously, Parker, you need better taste in friends."

Peter smiled weakly, trying not to let Flash’s words get under his skin. But as the tour continued, he felt increasingly anxious, dreading the inevitable moment you’d show up and his carefully guarded secret would be spectacularly shattered.

The class moved forward again, following Happy toward another part of the exhibit hall. Ned continued chattering excitedly, pointing out different displays to Peter, who smiled and nodded distractedly, heart racing anxiously in his chest.

As Happy stopped once more in front of a display case showcasing Hawkeye's various trick arrows, Flash loudly cleared his throat again, arms crossed smugly.

"Honestly," Flash announced loudly, addressing the entire class dramatically, "I'm surprised Stark even has this many Hawkeye arrows on display. I mean, he's basically useless compared to literally anyone else."

Peter frowned slightly, jaw tightening again in annoyance. He knew Clint well enough to appreciate just how skilled and important he truly was.

MJ, however, remained unimpressed, tilting her head calmly toward Flash. "You know Hawkeye could probably take you down with a single paperclip, right?"

Flash scoffed arrogantly, rolling his eyes. "Yeah, right. The guy shoots arrows for a living. Big deal."

From just behind Flash, a familiar voice suddenly spoke, casual but amused. "Actually, paperclips are a little boring. Give me some dental floss and a rubber band—now that's interesting."

Flash turned quickly, eyes wide with shock as he realized Clint Barton himself had silently walked up behind him, a mug of coffee in hand and a relaxed, amused smile on his face.

"Oh—um," Flash stammered awkwardly, cheeks flushing with embarrassment as the entire class watched eagerly. "I—I didn’t mean—"

Clint chuckled softly, taking a casual sip of his coffee. "Relax, kid. No offense taken."

MJ smirked faintly, clearly entertained by Flash’s embarrassment. "Nice save, Flash."

Clint turned his gaze casually toward Peter, eyes sparkling knowingly. "Hey, Pete. Good to see you."

Peter flushed immediately, suddenly aware of everyone's eyes on him. He quickly waved nervously, voice slightly strained. "Uh, hey, Clint."

Flash stared wide-eyed, completely speechless now, as Clint simply nodded, clearly entertained. "Enjoy the tour, kids. Try not to break anything."

With that, Clint casually continued down the hallway, leaving stunned silence behind him.

MJ looked pointedly at Flash, raising an amused eyebrow. "Still think he's useless?"

Flash remained silent, cheeks burning with embarrassment as he quickly averted his gaze.

Peter exhaled slowly, heart still pounding anxiously in his chest. He glanced nervously toward the door, knowing that with Clint’s appearance, it was only a matter of time before the others arrived—and before you showed up and inevitably turned his entire world upside down.

And that moment came sooner than expected. As Happy led the class to the end of the exhibit hall, Vision phased through the wall, looking politely inquisitive as he hovered just slightly above the ground. "Ah, Mr. Hogan. I need to know where there’s extra sugar. Y/N asked for tea, and I'm 0.05 grams short."

Happy took another deep, exhausted breath, closing his eyes briefly in annoyance. "Vision, you're literally a supercomputer. Can’t you calculate your way to the pantry?"

Vision tilted his head thoughtfully. "I did, indeed. However, the pantry appears to have been relocated to accommodate Thor’s snack preferences. This requires manual intervention."

From the back of the group, Flash practically squeaked, whispering excitedly to the person beside him, "Holy crap, that’s Vision! Actual Vision!"

MJ glanced sideways at Flash, deadpan as always. "You sure? Might just be some other floating, vibranium-infused android phasing through walls."

Flash glared at her, crossing his arms tightly. "Shut up."

Peter swallowed nervously, feeling Ned elbowing him excitedly in the side. "Dude, this is literally the coolest day of my entire life."

"Yeah," Peter mumbled, feeling anxiety bubble up again at the mention of your name. His heart pounded quicker, wondering if this was the start of your inevitable appearance.

The elevators at the end of the hall opened as Wanda walked out. “Vis, you didn’t need to come all the way down here for sugar. I had found a new bag underneath the sink right when you left.”

“Yes,” Happy said, “thank you, Wanda. And Vision, I doubt Y/N would notice a difference if you were 0.05 grams short.”

Vision tilted his head thoughtfully, completely unfazed by the class of teenagers staring at him. "I suppose. But as she tells me, I make it perfect every time. I'd rather not disappoint her."

Wanda smiled softly, gently placing a reassuring hand on his arm. "Trust me, Vis, Y/N will survive a slightly imperfect cup of tea."

From somewhere behind Peter, Flash whispered excitedly to his friend, voice shaking with awe. "Dude—Scarlet Witch too? This is literally the best day of my entire existence."

MJ glanced sideways, raising an unimpressed eyebrow. "I'm glad witnessing you reach the peak of your existence is just as disappointing as I imagined, Flash."

Ned elbowed Peter again, practically bouncing in place. "This is insane, Pete! Wanda, Vision—who's next? Black Panther? Captain Marvel?"

Peter chuckled nervously, shifting anxiously on his feet. "Let's hope not."

Happy sighed deeply, giving Vision and Wanda a pointed look. "Alright, could you two maybe move this conversation somewhere else? I'm trying to give an educational tour here."

Vision nodded politely, still hovering just slightly above the ground. "Of course, Mr. Hogan. My apologies. We shall return upstairs."

"Thanks," Happy muttered flatly, clearly counting down the seconds until his tour guide duty ended.

Wanda turned her attention curiously to the class, smiling warmly as she noticed Peter. "Oh, Peter! Hi. How's the tour going?"

Peter flushed again immediately, awkwardly waving at her while feeling every single pair of eyes in the room shift to stare at him. "Uh, hi, Wanda. It's going good, thanks."

Flash stared wide-eyed at Peter, visibly baffled. "Wait—Parker knows Wanda Maximoff? What?"

MJ didn't look up from her book, lips quirking slightly. "If you'd listened to literally anything Peter said in the last two years, Flash, this wouldn't be surprising."

Flash opened his mouth to argue, cheeks flushed, but Wanda simply smiled gently, clearly amused by the drama she'd accidentally caused. "Well, I'll let you get back to it. Have fun, everyone."

With a polite nod, Wanda and Vision left quietly, leaving another stunned silence in their wake.

Mr. Harrington took a shaky breath, clearly overwhelmed by the day's surprises. "Well, this is certainly more exciting than I anticipated. Mr. Hogan, should we continue?"

"Please," Happy agreed impatiently, already walking ahead. "Next up is our robotics lab. Follow closely."

As the class began moving again, Flash stepped quickly beside Peter, clearly desperate for answers. "Okay, Parker, what's going on? First Clint Barton, now Wanda Maximoff knows you? How?"

Peter shrugged awkwardly, avoiding eye contact as he nervously rubbed the back of his neck. "Uh, I mean—I told you, I work here. I'm an intern."

Flash shook his head skeptically, narrowing his eyes. "No way. There's gotta be something else."

MJ sighed dryly, clearly losing patience with Flash's stubborn disbelief. "Yeah, Flash, it's almost like Peter has an actual life outside of school. Wild concept, I know."

Flash huffed irritably, quickly walking ahead of them with a muttered, "Whatever."

Ned snickered softly, grinning at Peter triumphantly. "Finally! Flash has no idea what's coming next."

"Yeah," Peter chuckled weakly, heart racing anxiously again as he glanced around nervously, half-expecting you to pop out at any moment. "I'm terrified."

MJ smirked knowingly, nudging him gently. "Relax, Parker. This is honestly the best entertainment I've had in weeks."

They entered the robotics lab, a spacious room filled with advanced machinery, holographic interfaces, and several scientists and engineers quietly working at various stations.

Flash immediately rushed toward a particularly impressive robotic arm on display, eyes wide with awe. "Whoa, check this out! Do you think it's remote-controlled or something?"

Happy shot Flash an annoyed glare. "No. And again, Thompson—don't touch."

Flash quickly withdrew his hands, sheepishly stepping back again.

Peter lingered nervously near the doorway, fingers twitching anxiously at his sides. He glanced around the familiar lab, memories of working alongside you and Tony flooding his mind.

"Peter!" Bruce's cheerful voice suddenly called from across the room, causing Peter to jump slightly. Bruce walked over quickly, smiling warmly as he adjusted his glasses. "Good to see you, kid."

The class immediately quieted again, eyes once more shifting curiously toward Peter.

Peter flushed again, offering Bruce a shy, awkward wave. "Hi, Dr. Banner."

Bruce chuckled lightly, gently squeezing Peter's shoulder reassuringly. "You nervous?"

Peter forced a small laugh, scratching his neck nervously. "A little."

Flash stared open-mouthed, clearly unable to process yet another Avenger casually acknowledging Peter's existence. "This is not happening."

MJ smirked faintly, casually flipping another page in her book. "Honestly, Flash, your denial at this point is almost impressive."

Bruce glanced curiously at Flash, tilting his head slightly. "Is everything alright?"

Ned eagerly jumped in before Flash could respond, grinning broadly. "Flash just can't handle the fact that Peter actually interns here. He's been convinced Peter's lying for two years."

Bruce raised his eyebrows, clearly amused as he glanced back at Peter. "Really? Two whole years, huh? That's dedication."

Peter smiled weakly, shrugging again. "Yeah, it's been… interesting."

Bruce chuckled again, patting Peter reassuringly on the shoulder. "Well, don't let them get to you. You're brilliant, Peter."

"Thanks, Dr. Banner," Peter murmured shyly, cheeks pink again.

Flash stood completely silent, glaring at the floor in embarrassed frustration. Ned and MJ exchanged amused looks, clearly enjoying the drama unfolding.

Bruce smiled warmly again before giving Happy a quick nod. "Alright, I'll let you guys get back to the tour. Enjoy yourselves."

As Bruce returned to his workstation, Mr. Harrington cleared his throat nervously, trying to regain control. "Thank you, Dr. Banner. Class, shall we keep moving?"

Flash walked ahead quietly, clearly still stewing in confusion and embarrassment. MJ smirked triumphantly, looking pointedly at Peter. "See, Parker? Told you today would be entertaining."

Peter chuckled softly, still anxious but slightly less tense now. "Yeah, you're definitely right about that."

---

Lunch finally rolled around as the group was led to the mess hall, which was filled with at least a dozen small restaurants and cafes. The students murmured excitedly, marveling at the sprawling array of choices.

"No way," Ned breathed in awe, looking around eagerly. "They literally have everything. Pizza, sushi, burgers… is that a taco stand?"

Peter chuckled softly, his nerves easing slightly as he watched his friend practically vibrate with excitement. "Yeah, Mr. Stark doesn't really do subtle."

MJ raised an amused eyebrow, smirking faintly. "Gee, I couldn't tell. It's not like we've spent all morning touring through his personal Disneyland."

Flash scowled slightly from across the table, clearly still irritated by the earlier embarrassment. He crossed his arms defensively. "Big deal. My dad's company cafeteria has pretty much all the same stuff."

MJ tilted her head calmly, unimpressed. "Yeah, but I'm guessing your dad's cafeteria isn't visited by literal superheroes."

Ned snorted quietly, quickly covering his mouth as Flash's face reddened again with annoyance.

Peter shifted anxiously in his seat, scanning the room carefully. He could feel the familiar flutter of nerves again, anticipation building in his chest. He knew you'd be coming by—he just wasn't sure when.

"Dude," Ned whispered, leaning toward Peter eagerly, eyes darting around the bustling space. "Where's Y/N? She said she was bringing you lunch, right?"

"Yeah," Peter admitted quietly, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. "Maybe she's running late. Or forgot."

MJ rolled her eyes, clearly unbothered as she calmly continued sketching in her notebook. "Parker, you're literally dating the human equivalent of a supercomputer. She didn't forget."

Peter flushed faintly, smiling shyly. "Yeah, you're right."

From nearby, Flash turned sharply, overhearing the tail-end of the conversation. He leaned toward them, voice thick with disbelief and mockery. "Wait, hold up. Did you just imply Parker's dating Y/N Stark?"

Peter swallowed nervously, looking away quickly. "Uh—"

MJ calmly met Flash's skeptical glare. "Do you need a dictionary to understand basic English, Thompson? I thought it was clear."

Flash scoffed loudly, folding his arms with an arrogant smirk. "That's hilarious, even for Parker. There's no way Stark's daughter would look twice at him."

Peter clenched his fists tightly beneath the table, irritation flickering in his eyes. Before he could reply, a familiar voice rang out clearly across the crowded mess hall.

"Peter!" your voice called happily from near the doors. Peter's head snapped up quickly, and he felt his heart skip anxiously as you stepped through the busy cafeteria, smiling brightly and holding two bags in your hands. "Sorry I'm late! Dad wouldn't stop talking about something I was working on, and—"

Your voice trailed off when you noticed everyone staring at you, a hush of surprised whispers quickly spreading through the crowd. You hesitated slightly, your cheeks burning as you realized the entire Midtown High class was openly gaping at you—Flash included.

Peter swallowed nervously, heart hammering in his chest as he slowly stood up, forcing a shy, awkward smile as he walked toward you. "Hey, Y/N."

Your eyes softened immediately at the sight of him, relaxing visibly as your lips curved into a gentle smile. "Hey, Pete."

Flash stared open-mouthed, frozen in shock, his voice coming out as a stunned squeak. "No freaking way."

You glanced sideways at Flash, arching an unimpressed eyebrow at his disbelief before turning your attention fully back to Peter. You held out one of the lunch bags, offering a sheepish smile. "I brought your favorite sandwich from Deluca's. And some cookies Wanda and I made last night."

Peter relaxed slightly, unable to suppress his shy grin as he gently took the bag from you. "Thanks. You're the best."

You smiled warmly, reaching out to gently squeeze his hand. "Obviously."

Behind him, Ned coughed pointedly, grinning eagerly as he waved at you. "Hi, Y/N!"

You chuckled softly, stepping around Peter and walking over to greet Ned and MJ warmly. "Hey, Ned. MJ."

MJ nodded calmly, lips quirking faintly. "Nice entrance."

You laughed softly, glancing around the cafeteria again with mild embarrassment. "Yeah, that wasn't exactly intentional."

Flash finally found his voice again, sputtering incredulously. "Hold up. You're seriously dating Parker?"

You glanced over at Flash, raising your eyebrows calmly. "You say that like it's surprising. We've been dating for a year."

Flash gaped openly, completely baffled. "But—but he's Parker! How?"

MJ tilted her head casually, voice dry and deadpan. "Generally, Flash, people date because they like each other. I know, shocking concept."

Peter flushed faintly, gently nudging your side as he leaned in closer. "I'm so sorry."

You grinned mischievously, eyes sparkling playfully as you glanced back at Peter. "Why? This is kind of fun."

Ned chuckled softly, shaking his head fondly. "You're terrifying sometimes, Y/N."

MJ smirked knowingly, still sketching calmly in her notebook. "That's why I like her."

You laughed lightly again, quickly leaning in to press a gentle kiss against Peter's cheek, making his blush deepen even further. "Anyway, enjoy your lunch. I'll see you after the tour?"

Peter nodded shyly, smiling softly at you. "Yeah, definitely."

Flash opened his mouth again, clearly still confused, but Happy suddenly appeared near your shoulder, arms crossed impatiently. "Alright, kids. As amusing as this drama is, lunch break's almost over. Finish eating, and we'll continue the tour."

You smiled sheepishly, giving Peter one final, affectionate glance. "See you soon, Pete."

Peter smiled warmly, heart fluttering softly as he watched you walk away. "See you."

As you disappeared down the hallway, Flash shook his head, muttering softly, "This is literally the weirdest day of my entire life."

MJ didn't look up from her book, casually replying, "Glad I was here to see it."

Ned grinned broadly, happily returning to his sandwich. "Me too."

Peter sighed quietly, finally relaxing fully into his seat again. He carefully opened the lunch bag you'd brought, smiling fondly when he saw his favorite sandwich and cookies neatly packed inside.

"You good, Parker?" MJ asked calmly, glancing up from her book briefly.

Peter smiled softly, feeling warmth spread through his chest as he nodded gently. "Yeah, I'm great."

From across the table, Flash silently stared at Peter for several more moments, clearly processing everything he'd witnessed before finally clearing his throat awkwardly. "So, um—do you, like, know Tony Stark, then?"

MJ rolled her eyes slightly, shaking her head with a faint sigh. "Flash, seriously."

Peter chuckled softly, finally feeling a little more confident. He glanced calmly toward Flash, shrugging lightly. "Yeah, Flash. I work with him pretty regularly."

Flash sat back heavily in his chair, looking thoroughly humbled. "Wow. That's… that's really cool."

MJ smirked faintly, muttering quietly enough for only Peter and Ned to hear. "And it only took two years to get through to him."

Peter smiled shyly, shaking his head slightly. "Better late than never, right?"

Ned chuckled warmly, raising his sandwich slightly in a mock-toast. "To Peter Parker—Stark Industries intern, Spider-Man, and boyfriend of Y/N freaking Stark. Dude, your life is insane."

Peter laughed softly, feeling a content warmth spread through him as he took a bite of his sandwich. "Yeah. It definitely is."

---

The rest of lunch passed quickly, and soon Happy returned to gather the students again. He stood at the head of the table, hands on his hips, clearly eager to finish his unofficial tour guide duties.

"Alright," Happy announced gruffly, looking around impatiently at the group. "Lunch break's over. Everyone, up. We're heading up to the R&D floors next."

Ned quickly stuffed the last of his sandwich into his mouth, scrambling to his feet eagerly. "R&D floors? Oh, man, I can't wait to see that!"

MJ calmly put away her sketchbook, casting Peter an amused look. "Try not to pass out from excitement, Leeds."

Flash lingered quietly near the back of the group, clearly still subdued by the earlier revelations. He offered Peter a small, somewhat awkward nod of acknowledgement as he passed by, clearly at a loss for how to handle the newfound information.

Peter smiled faintly, feeling slightly bad for Flash despite everything. He offered a small, friendly nod back before following the group toward the elevators.

As they gathered around the elevator, Ned practically bounced in place. "Dude, the R&D floors must be where all the top-secret stuff happens, right? Like experimental suits and nanotech?"

Peter chuckled quietly, nodding slightly. "Yeah, Mr. Stark keeps most of his really cool inventions there."

Happy ushered them inside impatiently, quickly pressing the button for one of the upper floors. "Stay close, please. And for the love of everything, do not touch anything."

The elevator doors opened, and the class stepped out into a large, open area filled with workstations, holographic projections, and advanced machinery. Several engineers moved around busily, immersed in various tasks and experiments.

Ned stared wide-eyed, quickly glancing at Peter in excitement. "This is so freaking cool!"

MJ arched an eyebrow slightly, looking mildly impressed despite herself. "I'll admit, this actually is impressive."

Flash stayed quiet, eyes carefully scanning the room, clearly wary of embarrassing himself further.

Happy cleared his throat, motioning toward one of the larger workstations. "Here at Stark Industries, our engineers develop cutting-edge technology daily. Everything from advanced energy solutions to prototype armor upgrades are created in this very room."

From the far side of the room, Tony Stark himself suddenly appeared, clearly engrossed in conversation with a technician. The class collectively froze, whispering excitedly as they recognized him.

"Dude," Ned whispered loudly, grabbing Peter's arm excitedly. "That's literally Tony Stark. He's right there!"

Peter smiled slightly, feeling his face flush again. "Yeah, Ned. I've seen him before."

Flash watched nervously, clearly intimidated. "Wow, it's really him. Like, Iron Man himself."

MJ sighed softly, rolling her eyes. "Congratulations, Flash, you have functioning eyes."

Tony glanced up briefly, eyebrows raised slightly as he noticed the group of teenagers staring at him. His lips quirked faintly in amusement as he spotted Peter, stepping closer casually.

"Peter," Tony greeted calmly, eyes sparkling knowingly. "How's the tour going? Still alive?"

Peter smiled weakly, scratching his neck shyly. "Barely, Mr. Stark."

Flash stared wide-eyed, completely silent again, visibly stunned.

Tony turned slightly, addressing the group with an amused smirk. "Hello, Midtown students. Hope you’ve been treating Peter nicely. I’d hate to revoke your guest privileges."

Peter bit his lip nervously, quickly shaking his head. "They're fine, Mr. Stark. Really."

Tony nodded casually, glancing back at Flash knowingly. "Good. Because someone around here owes my daughter an apology."

Flash flushed brightly, quickly looking away in embarrassment.

MJ smirked faintly, clearly entertained. "Nice going, Thompson."

Tony chuckled lightly, patting Peter gently on the shoulder. "Anyway, I’ll leave you all to it. Try not to break anything expensive."

"Yes, sir," Peter murmured quietly, cheeks flushed but unable to hide a small smile.

Tony gave a casual wave, already moving back toward his workstation. "Enjoy the rest of the tour."

As Tony walked away, Flash looked toward Peter sheepishly, clearing his throat awkwardly. "Hey, um—sorry for… you know, everything."

Peter smiled faintly, shrugging lightly. "It's fine, Flash."

MJ arched a calm eyebrow, offering Peter an amused glance. "You're too nice, Parker."

Peter chuckled softly, shaking his head slightly. "Yeah, probably."

Happy cleared his throat impatiently, motioning toward another workstation. "Alright, moving along. Lots to see, people."

They soon made their way to the Avengers gym. Through the soundproof glass they could see Natasha practicing her shooting, Bucky cleaning his metal arm, Steve hitting a boxing bag, and Sam and Clint preparing their own weapons.

“—well, Tony supposedly improved my exploding arrows.”

“Yeah, well he also upgraded Redwing.” Sam countered.

Clint narrowed his eyes at the mention of Redwing. "Look, Wilson, we all know Tony loves his robots, but arrows take precision and skill."

Sam scoffed, checking over his wrist controls with a confident smirk. "Oh, please. You can’t even hit a target without your fancy exploding arrows."

Clint frowned, quickly grabbing an arrow and notching it firmly. "I bet I hit my mark faster than you can get that toy of yours airborne."

Sam grinned sharply, raising his wrist confidently. "Deal, Barton. Count of three?"

"You're on," Clint shot back, aiming carefully at the target. "One... two... three!"

He fired the arrow, watching proudly as it sailed perfectly into the bullseye. But nothing happened. The arrow simply embedded itself, utterly anticlimactic.

Sam laughed loudly, shaking his head. "Well done, Barton. That’s impressive."

Clint stared incredulously at his arrow. "What the—these were fine yesterday! Stark must’ve given me defective ones."

Bucky snorted softly from nearby, polishing his metal arm casually. "Pretty sure Tony doesn't make anything defective."

Clint shot him an annoyed glare. "Yeah, well, I guess today’s his first."

"Watch and learn," Sam said confidently, activating Redwing from his wrist pad. The drone immediately sprang to life, hovering briefly in the air—before suddenly sputtering out with a pitiful beep and dropping uselessly to the ground.

Bucky raised an amused eyebrow, smirking faintly. "Problem, Sam?"

Sam stared open-mouthed at Redwing, quickly fiddling with the controls in frustration. "Aw, come on, not you too! Redwing was perfectly fine this morning!"

Clint rolled his eyes, quickly grabbing another arrow from his quiver, carefully examining it with suspicion. "Maybe the lab just had a glitch or something."

Steve paused his boxing practice, turning to watch them curiously. "You sure you two aren’t doing something wrong?"

Clint scoffed, rolling his shoulders irritably. "I've literally been doing this for decades, Steve. I think I know how to shoot an arrow."

"Alright," Sam announced, tapping at his controls again with determination. "Let's try this again."

"Second time’s the charm," Clint agreed dryly, pulling back his bowstring confidently. "Ready, Wilson?"

"Do it," Sam replied sharply, flicking his wrist pad once more.

Clint released his arrow just as Sam activated Redwing again—and chaos immediately erupted.

The arrow exploded dramatically with a loud pop, showering Clint in a thick cloud of bright, glittery red powder. At precisely the same moment, Sam’s wrist pad burst open, coating him in an identical sparkling mess.

Clint yelped loudly, stumbling backward as glitter settled over his hair, clothes, and face. "What the—oh, no, no, no! What is this stuff?"

Sam sputtered furiously, shaking his wrist uselessly and only spreading glitter further across his shirt. "Oh, you gotta be kidding me—Stark!"

Bucky started laughing immediately, clutching his sides as he watched Clint frantically try to wipe the glitter off, only succeeding in smearing it deeper into his clothes. "I stand corrected. Maybe Tony does make defective gear—on purpose."

Steve chuckled softly, shaking his head in disbelief. "You two might wanna clean that up before—"

"Too late," Natasha chimed in smoothly from across the room, carefully reloading her weapon with an amused smirk. "I warned you both about letting Thor and Loki visit Y/N."

Clint stopped his frantic glitter-rubbing, eyes narrowing suspiciously at Natasha. "Wait. You knew about this?"

She shrugged innocently, lips twitching upward. "Maybe."

Sam groaned dramatically, dropping his head back in annoyance. "Great. Loki glitter."

Natasha nodded knowingly, offering a small, sympathetic smile. "Sorry, boys. But I did warn you—multiple times."

Clint threw his hands up in exasperation, sending a fresh cloud of glitter into the air. "Why do we keep trusting Y/N when Thor and Loki are involved? Have we learned nothing?"

Bucky smirked faintly, leaning back comfortably in his seat. "Apparently not."

---

Outside the soundproof glass of the gym, Peter’s entire class stared in wide-eyed disbelief, clearly stunned by the spectacle they'd just witnessed.

Ned turned slowly toward Peter, whispering in awe. "Dude, that was the single greatest thing I've ever seen."

Peter shook his head slightly, trying not to smile as he rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "Yeah. Definitely a Y/N special."

Flash blinked rapidly, clearly still processing everything. "Wait, hold on. Y/N did that?"

MJ raised an eyebrow calmly, clearly entertained. "If you'd ever actually met her, you'd know that's practically her signature."

Peter chuckled softly, finally relaxing slightly as he nodded. "Yeah, she’s, uh... really into glitter-based revenge."

Flash let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking his head again. "This day just keeps getting weirder."

MJ smirked slightly, lips quirking upward in amusement. "Best day ever."

---

Inside the gym, Clint desperately tried wiping glitter from his face again, glaring toward the window suspiciously. "I swear, if Y/N is out there filming this—"

Bucky laughed again, shaking his head fondly. "Oh, I'm sure she’s got at least three different angles recorded by now."

Sam groaned loudly again, slumping down in defeat. "This glitter’s never coming off, is it?"

Natasha shrugged lightly, clearly unbothered. "Loki’s magic glitter? Probably not for days."

Steve smiled faintly, turning back to his boxing bag with an amused shake of his head. "Maybe next time, you'll both think twice before messing with Y/N."

Clint sighed dramatically, glaring down at his glitter-coated clothes. "Lesson officially learned. Never again."

Bucky chuckled knowingly, leaning back comfortably. "We both know that's a lie, Barton."

---

Happy turned from the gym window with an exhausted sigh, rubbing his temples tiredly. "Alright, kids, show's over. Let's move along before they decide to drag us into this glitter war."

Peter smiled faintly, glancing back once more at the glitter-covered scene inside the gym before following Ned and MJ down the hallway.

Flash walked quietly beside him, clearly still processing everything he'd witnessed. After a long moment, he finally spoke, voice hesitant. "Hey, Parker? Uh, your life is really weird."

Peter laughed softly, nodding gently. "Yeah. You have no idea."

Ned grinned broadly, nudging Peter playfully. "Best day ever, man. Best. Day. Ever."

MJ sighed dramatically, casually flipping open her sketchbook again. "Let's hope glitter removal isn't contagious."

Peter smiled warmly, finally feeling fully relaxed for the first time all day. Despite the chaos and embarrassment, he had to admit—today was definitely turning out better than he'd expected.

---

Back in your lab, you sat back happily, giggling softly as you watched the live footage on your tablet—Sam and Clint still frantically rubbing at the endless glitter.

Tony walked casually into the room, raising an eyebrow knowingly when he noticed your mischievous expression. "Let me guess—glitter?"

You grinned innocently, turning your tablet around to show him proudly. "Magic glitter. Loki’s specialty."

Tony laughed warmly, shaking his head fondly. "Nice touch, kid."

You beamed proudly, giggling again as you glanced back at the glitter-filled chaos. "Best prank yet."

Tony chuckled softly, squeezing your shoulder gently. "Just promise you'll give them a break tomorrow?"

You tilted your head thoughtfully, smirking slightly. "We'll see."

Tony smiled fondly, rolling his eyes warmly. "Alright, evil genius. I’ll leave you to it."

You grinned mischievously again, settling back comfortably in your chair. "Thanks, Dad."

As Tony walked away, you returned your attention happily to the glittery chaos on your tablet, already mentally planning your next prank. Life in Stark Tower was certainly never boring—and you wouldn't have it any other way.

[amourjane]

i miss u y/n stark and ur purple wanda maximoff powers

[rattetytat]

WAh- Ah!

[empressoftea]

Leona kingscholar x reader | Whispers

Growing up in the palace as the son of the second born prince's child was actually hard you were still expected to know more than 2 languages study alchemy and old spills, and memories the names of stupid plants....a lot of stupid plants....

but it was all fine until mom got pregnant now dad is always busy making sure she is ok and doesn't want to play with you and you can't play with mom because she is fragile and now she has a baby so you can't even look at her funny... At least according to dad that is, mum really doesn't mind playing with you but dad still thinks you are a kid, like come on you're 8 now you are not a kid, you can be gentle, but of course no one has time for you now and you fear that no one would listen if you told them so you stop asking for dad or mom to play with you and start to play alone, that's when you hear something from one of the servants " I really don't understand the second prince at all why did he marry a human, it is a well known fact that they are weaker than us, he is weakening the geen pole with every child he will have" another one added " do you think she will survive this time too, the last laber was so bad she stayed in bed for a month" the first one answered " I hope she doesn't, call me a bitch if you must but she doesn't belong here ....nor her child...he is still half human even if he have beastmen features, I mean the kid can't even control his magic, what a shame he is very bright but sadly he is a child of a human no matter what ". But that's not true....you can control magic and you got your unique magic too ....but dad said not to tell anyone yet .....is this why no one takes to you because of your mum, is that why they think you are so weak. After a few days of this you start to avoid staying with your mum or playing with her, it's all her fault after all that you are weak and alone so why should you spend time with her, and when ever she asks you to do something you just pretend you didn't hear her, you know that dad is going to be very mad if he knew what you are doing but it's his fault for marrying a stupid human that can't even be there all the time and always has to be taken care of, and you have been avoiding your mum for a week now and the more you play alone the more you hear from the servants about how your baby sibling is coming soon and the more angry you feel about your mum, and still your dad didn't punish you for your bad behaviour with her, but it all reaches a boiling point when mum and dad were in a room and called you to spend some time with you, " come on sweet pea what's wrong? Did someone bother you?" Your mum asked, she was always nice to you even if you were mean to her so why? " Come here, love talk to me" you didn't move, and you can see the hurt in her eyes but she didn't say anything more, then why did she want to replace you? " Oi brat, come talk to your mother" dad said in a playful way like he used to do when you all used to play together " no..."

....

"What did you just say?" Leona said to his kid who look at his mother with disgust, " I said NO, I don't want to be near that human ever again!" Answered Theo " she is so weak and annoying and she doesn't love me anymore she is not my mum!" That actually hurts you more than anything else,not even your own son wants you in here, what a joke.... You really don't belong in this world no matter how much you tried, without realising it tears started running down you're cheeks, and suddenly you hear something you never heard before, growling...." HOW DARE YOU TALK TO YOUR MOTHER LIKE THAT!!" With blurry vision you see your husband standing in front of you and you child looking at him with shock you quickly stand up and walk to your baby hugging him " leo calm down let's talk about it" you half whisper, at that moment you feel Theodore shacking and he started to sobe like he never did before, it took an hour to calm both of your boys down, leona had to take a walk so he doesn't start yelling again while Theo kept hugging you and crying without saying a word, after they calmed down Theo refused to let go of you looking at the floor refusing to left his head as leona was glaring at him " now .... Can I know why did you call your mother all those things, when now you can't even let her go and talk to me man to man ?" Leona said in a quiet voice "...." Theo refused to answer but a new flud of tears came crashing down before he whispered " I didn't mean it ...., i just miss my mommy" and he started crying again " that's not an excuse she has been trying to talk to you for a week and you say you're busy studying when I know you are not .....what is this about boy?" , Theo takes a shaky breathe before starting to talk between hiccups "I thought that you and mummy are replacing me because I'm not good enough because they keep saying that I'm week because I'm half human i promise I will control magic more and ill study more but please love me again " he whispered hugging your side and burying his face in it, you pet his head gently and try to comfort him more as you can feel leona beside you vibrating with anger, you turn to him but before you can say anything he start talking to you " I told you they should be fired ....this is a clear disrespect for you and me and they have been doing this sense we got married I'm telling Falena about this first thing tomorrow " you gently reach for him and he doesn't pull away buy leans in closer until he ends up with his head on your shoulder " you're right.... I should have listened to you , I'm sorry " you whispered as you hugged them both closer, the next thing you know you wake up to the three of you in a cuddle pile ont the bed.

Goodnight y'all im done

[cherryysunshine]

Beneath the Stage Lights

Pairing: Dick Grayson/F!Reader

Word Count: 11.5k

Rating: Mature

Warnings: period-inspired cabaret and theater AU, financial coercion, possessiveness, unequal power dynamics, unwanted touching, threats, emotional manipulation, violence, attempted murder, fall from height, injury, fire, suggestive sexual content, angst with a happy ending

Summary: You came to Blüdhaven carrying an unfinished love story.

Dick Grayson had spent years selling audiences the illusion of one beneath the lights.

When a mistaken meeting places you in the dressing room of the city’s most famous man, you find yourself pulled into a world where nothing is quite what it seems—and where getting too close to him might cost more than either of you is ready to pay.

Author’s Note: inspired by this ask

i’ve never seen Moulin Rouge so everything in this fic is the result of me looking up the plot on the internet. forgive me for any mistakes. i know that it’s technically a tragedy but after attending the wedding of a good friend today, i didn’t really want to write the end of a relationship and bring bad vibes to her and her husband lol

and yes i did write a lot of this fic at the wedding what about it

Blüdhaven announced itself in rain. It struck the carriage roof hard enough to drown the driver’s swearing and turned the streets beyond the window into black rivers bordered by gas lamps. Buildings pressed together beneath a sky the color of coal smoke, every narrow alley seeming to lead toward either the harbor or an establishment respectable people pretended not to know.

You had been in the city for less than twenty minutes when you began to suspect the stories had been generous.

The Bluebird Theatre stood at the end of Finger Street, wedged between a pawnbroker and a hotel whose painted sign had lost several letters. Its stone façade had once been white. Years of soot had softened it to gray, though the electric bulbs surrounding the entrance still burned brilliantly through the rain.

THE BLUEBIRD, the sign proclaimed in blue glass.

Beneath it, painted across three enormous posters, was the same man.

In the first, Dick Grayson hung from a silver hoop high above a painted city, his body stretched into a graceful curve, and his costume fitted closely enough to explain why two women had stopped beneath the awning despite the weather. In the second, he stood at a microphone with his sleeves rolled to his elbows and his head tipped back in song. The third showed only his face, his mouth curved with the private promise of a secret he might share if the price was right.

NIGHTWING, the lettering beneath him read.

ONE MAN. A THOUSAND DREAMS.

You tightened your arms around the leather case holding your manuscript.

The play inside had survived three lodging houses, one leaking train compartment, and a publisher in Gotham who had informed you that audiences had no interest in romances written by women who had plainly never experienced one. It had survived your landlord increasing the rent and your mother’s letter asking when you intended to abandon this foolishness and return home.

It could survive Blüdhaven.

The driver dumped your trunk onto the pavement, accepted his money, and left before you could ask for help carrying it beneath the awning.

“You must be the writer.”

The woman standing in the theater doorway wore trousers beneath a long wool coat, a pencil tucked through the knot of red hair at the back of her head. She surveyed you, your trunk, and the rain with the resigned expression of someone accustomed to solving other people’s problems.

You lifted the manuscript case slightly. “I was told Mr. Haly would consider hearing my proposal.”

“He’ll consider anything that might prevent the bank from taking his building.”

You were unsure whether that qualified as encouragement.

She stepped into the rain, caught one handle of your trunk, and nodded toward the other. “Barbara Gordon. Stage manager, bookkeeper, occasional electrician, and the only person here who remembers where anything is.”

You grabbed the second handle. “That sounds like several jobs.”

“It is. Mr. Haly pays me for half of one.”

Together, you hauled the trunk through the doors.

The Bluebird’s lobby smelled of dust, damp wool, and spilled champagne. Crimson wallpaper peeled behind framed photographs of performers whose hairstyles grew progressively stranger the farther back they went. A chandelier shimmered overhead, though three of its branches remained dark.

Beyond the lobby, music thundered.

Barbara led you through a pair of velvet curtains and into the auditorium. The room opened before you in tiers of red and gold, far grander than the façade suggested. Round tables crowded the floor where seats might have stood in a conventional theater, their white cloths marked by years of wine rings and candle wax. Private boxes curved along either wall, veiled with curtains meant to conceal behavior wealthy patrons preferred not to explain.

Onstage, a woman in a dress covered with copper-colored feathers descended a staircase while six dancers revolved around her. An orchestra played in the pit, conducted by a dark-haired man who kept stopping them to correct the dancers’ timing.

“No,” he called. “You’re all reaching the staircase half a measure early. The music is not going to speed up simply because you’ve become impatient.”

One of the dancers threw a glove at him.

The man caught it without looking and placed it beside the score. 

Above them, a figure flew.

You stopped walking.

Dick Grayson wore black trousers, soft boots, and a sleeveless blue costume that caught every fragment of stage light. A pair of silk ropes twisted around his wrists as he rose toward the rafters. He seemed to pause there, suspended between one breath and the next, before releasing both hands.

Your heart rose into your throat.

He dropped. The dancers scattered beneath him as the conductor drove the orchestra into the final measure. At the last instant, Dick caught the lower silk with one hand and swung across the stage, his body passing so close to the floor that his fingers brushed the copper feathers on the woman’s skirt.

He landed without sound.

The theater erupted in applause despite containing less than twenty people.

Dick straightened, breathless and smiling. It was not the intimate smile from the posters. This one was wider, younger, and real enough that for one startling moment, the room seemed built entirely to contain it.

Then the lighting shifted. The warmth vanished from his expression with such subtlety you might have imagined it. His shoulders settled, his chin lifted, and Nightwing appeared in the space where Dick Grayson had been.

He caught the feathered woman’s hand, drew her against him, and sang the final line of the number directly toward the empty tables.

His voice was lower than you expected. It slid through the theater like smoke, rich enough to make the peeling wallpaper and patched curtains appear intentional. Even Barbara had stopped beside you, though she had likely heard him perform the song a hundred times.

The last note faded.

The conductor turned, noticed you, and raised an eyebrow. “We have an audience.”

Every face onstage followed his gaze.

Dick looked at you.

You forgot the speech you had practiced for the entire train journey. He remained completely still, one hand resting at the feathered woman’s waist. The stage paint around his eyes sharpened his gaze, making the blue seem brighter from a distance. You had the strange, unsettling impression that he had already recognized something about you that you had yet to understand yourself.

Barbara clapped once. “Break for twenty minutes. Tim, speak to the brass section before they mutiny. Kory, the hem on your second dress needs repairing. Dick—”

“I know,” he said.

“Knowing has never prevented you from being late.”

The woman in copper feathers—Kory, presumably—kissed Dick’s cheek before descending the stairs. In the orchestra pit, Tim closed the score with a sharp clap and began correcting the brass section before any of the musicians could escape.

Barbara took your elbow and guided you toward the aisle.

“Mr. Haly is meeting with the bank,” she said. “He’ll be back before this evening’s performance. You can wait in the upstairs salon.”

“I could return tomorrow.”

“If tonight goes badly, there might not be a theater tomorrow.”

That possibility appeared to trouble no one as much as it should have.

Barbara led you backstage, where any illusion of effortless glamour disappeared. Dancers squeezed through narrow passages carrying wigs and cups of tea. Costumes hung from pipes overhead.

A broad-shouldered man in rolled shirtsleeves came toward you carrying a painted moon beneath one arm and a metal toolbox in the other.

“That belongs in the second act,” someone shouted after him.

“I built it,” he called back. “I know where it belongs.”

“Jason Todd,” Barbara said as he passed. “Head carpenter, set builder, and the reason most of this building remains upright.”

Jason glanced at the manuscript case beneath your arm. “You’re the writer?”

“Yes.”

“Try not to put anything impossible in the stage directions.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“None of you ever can.”

He continued down the corridor with the moon.

“Mr. Haly is trying to secure an investor,” Barbara explained, stepping around two members of Jason’s crew arguing over a ladder. “Roland Desmond. Shipping, steel, half the warehouses along the eastern docks.”

“I’ve heard of him.”

Everyone in Gotham had heard of Roland Desmond. Newspapers described him as an industrialist, a philanthropist, and a man whose competitors suffered remarkable runs of misfortune.

“He’s sending someone tonight to inspect the theater before the performance,” Barbara continued. “Possibly an attorney. Possibly a secretary. Desmond enjoys making people guess.”

She opened a door and motioned you inside. The room was far too opulent to be called a salon. Blue velvet covered the walls. A low couch curved around a marble table, and electric lamps glowed behind panels of stained glass. Someone had left a silver bucket of champagne sweating beside two crystal glasses.

Barbara glanced at the clock. “Wait here. I’ll find you when Mr. Haly returns.”

“Should I rehearse my proposal?”

“It can’t hurt.”

Before you could ask why an unknown playwright was being placed in a room prepared for an important visitor, she disappeared into the corridor.

You set your manuscript on the table. Your proposal began sensibly enough. The Bluebird needed a new production to draw respectable audiences without alienating the patrons who preferred their entertainment disreputable. Your play contained spectacle, romance, aerial work, and songs that could be adjusted to suit the theater’s existing company.

The problem was explaining the story. It had begun as a tragedy, then became a satire, followed by a passionate defense of love that had seemed much more convincing at two in the morning. The current version concerned an astronomer who discovered a fallen star disguised as a man. He promised to reveal the secrets of the universe if she helped him return to the heavens; they fell in love, naturally, and then he returned to the sky anyway. Your publisher had called the ending depressing. You called it honest.

You had reached the portion of your proposal in which you intended to explain why honesty was financially profitable when the door opened.

Dick Grayson entered without knocking. He had changed since rehearsal. Black trousers fit closely over his legs, paired with a white shirt open at the throat and a blue silk robe embroidered with dark feathers. The paint remained around his eyes, though someone had softened his mouth with color.

He stopped when he saw you, and you rose quickly. “Mr. Grayson.”

His gaze moved over you before dropping to the manuscript on the table, and something knowing entered his expression. “You’re early.”

Barbara had warned you that Desmond’s representative might arrive. Apparently, she had neglected to warn Dick that you were not that person.

“I was told to wait here.”

“I’m sure you were.”

He closed the door behind him, and the click of the latch seemed unusually loud. Then he approached with the unhurried confidence of someone who had spent years learning exactly how long a room would wait for him, the robe shifting to reveal the line of his collarbone and a glimpse of the costume beneath it.

You attempted to remember your proposal.

“The performance was remarkable,” you said.

“Was it?”

“I’ve never seen anyone move like that.”

His smile arrived slowly. It resembled the one from the poster now, intimate and carefully measured.

“You must have seen many performers.”

“Not many.”

“No?”

“I haven’t had the opportunity.”

He stopped on the opposite side of the table. “Then I’m flattered to be among your first.”

The words were ordinary enough. His delivery was not.

You felt heat rise beneath your collar.

Dick reached for the champagne. “Should we celebrate?”

“I haven’t presented anything yet.”

“That has never stopped a man like Desmond from opening a bottle.”

You blinked. “Desmond?”

The smallest crease appeared between his brows before vanishing. “You don’t work for him?”

“I don’t know him.”

“That would make this arrangement unusually adventurous, even for him.”

He poured champagne into both glasses while you stared at the bubbles and tried to understand how your attempt to secure employment had become an adventure involving Roland Desmond. When he handed you a glass, his fingertips brushed yours. The contact was brief, but his attention sharpened as though he had felt it too. For one suspended moment, the practiced amusement slipped from his face, revealing exhaustion beneath the stage paint and something warier than either his youth or his smile should have permitted.

Then he raised his glass. “To mutually beneficial arrangements.”

You did not drink. “I’m here to speak with Mr. Haly about my play.”

His gaze dropped to the leather case on the table. “You’re the writer.”

“And you thought I was—”

“Desmond’s representative.”

You lowered the glass. “What sort of meeting did you believe this was?”

The question emerged sharper than you intended. Dick set his drink aside, his face composed even as the performance cracked enough to reveal how carefully he was holding himself beneath it.

“The kind that keeps the electricity on.”

You looked at the champagne, the couch, and the robe hanging open at his throat.

Understanding arrived all at once.

“Oh.”

His mouth twisted. “You see it now.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. You’re hardly the first person to look disappointed after discovering what happens backstage.”

“I’m not disappointed.”

“No?”

“I’m furious.”

That surprised him.

You closed the manuscript case with more force than necessary. “Barbara put me here without explaining anything, and someone sent you into this room believing you were expected to entertain a stranger to secure an investment.”

Dick folded his arms. “Barbara didn’t send me.”

“Who did?”

“I’ve been performing here since I was nine years old. No one has to send me anywhere. I know what needs to be done.”

“That doesn’t make it right.”

His gaze cooled. “You’ve been inside the building for half an hour.”

“Long enough to understand that you expected me to purchase something you didn’t want to sell.”

Silence stretched between you while the theater continued beyond the walls, music drifting faintly through one of them and laughter sounding in the corridor before the crash of something expensive. Dick picked up the champagne and drank.

“You’ve been here less than an hour,” he said. “You don’t know what I want.”

“No,” you admitted. “But I know what you expected when you walked into this room.”

His gaze sharpened. “My room.”

You looked around again. “This is your dressing room?”

“The blue walls weren’t subtle enough?”

Only then did you notice the photographs arranged beside the vanity. One showed a much younger Dick standing between two aerialists in circus costumes. Another showed the Bluebird company crowded beneath the theater marquee, Mr. Haly at the center with one arm around Dick’s shoulders.

The room had not been prepared for Desmond’s representative. Desmond’s representative had been invited into Dick’s private space.

“They expected you to meet a stranger in your own dressing room?”

“No one expected anything I didn’t already understand.”

“That isn’t the same as wanting it.”

Dick set down his glass. “You’re very determined to tell me how I feel.”

“I’m trying to understand.”

“No. You’ve already decided you do.”

The words landed too cleanly, like a curtain dropping at the wrong cue.

For a moment, you didn’t answer. The noise from the hallway swelled again—laughter, footsteps, the distant swell of the audience settling back into their seats—but it all felt separated from the small, contained space of the room.

You exhaled slowly. “I should leave.”

“That’s generally what people do after insulting the star.”

“I wasn’t insulting you.”

“You were insulting my judgment.”

“I don’t know you well enough to insult your judgment.”

“Yet.”

The hint of warmth returning to his voice stopped you more than the accusation had. It wasn’t forgiveness. It was interest—measured, deliberate, and slightly amused, as though he were watching you step further into a scene you hadn’t rehearsed.

Dick moved around the table and sat on its edge, the robe falling open over one knee.

“Tell me about the play.”

You stared at him. “Is this another misunderstanding?”

“Probably. Those seem to be the only interesting things happening tonight.”

“You don’t have to humor me.”

“I never do anything merely to be kind.”

That, at least, you believed.

You remained standing. “It’s called The Constellation.”

“Terrible title.”

“I haven’t reached the end of the first sentence.”

“I’m saving us time.”

You narrowed your eyes. “An astronomer discovers a fallen star disguised as a man.”

“Better.”

“The star offers to reveal the secrets of the universe in exchange for help returning to the sky.”

“Does the astronomer agree?”

“Yes.”

“Then the astronomer is an idiot.”

“She’s curious.”

“She?”

You hesitated. “The astronomer was originally a woman.”

“Why did you change it?”

“The publisher said no respectable theater would stage a romance in which the woman had more education than the man.”

Dick considered this. “Your publisher has never met our audience. Half of them would pay extra to be corrected by an educated woman.”

Despite yourself, you laughed. His expression softened—just slightly, as if the sound had adjusted something in the room.

“What happens after she agrees?” he asked.

“They travel to a mountain where the star can return home. Along the way, they fall in love.”

“Naturally.”

“But he still intends to leave.”

“Less naturally.”

“He belongs to the sky.”

“People rarely belong where they’re told.”

“You haven’t met the star.”

“I’ve met enough men who thought suffering made them celestial.”

You sat opposite him. “You’re very critical for someone who asked to hear the story.”

“You’re very defensive for someone seeking investors.”

“I’m seeking a theater.”

“Those are more expensive.”

You opened the case and removed the script. Dick watched your hands as you found the marked page.

“This is their first scene alone,” you said. “The astronomer has taken him into her observatory, but he believes she intends to keep him prisoner.”

“How romantic.”

“Would you let me finish?”

“I haven’t decided.”

You held out the pages. “Read the star.”

Dick accepted them. He glanced down, and the teasing ease disappeared from his face.

His eyes moved swiftly across the page. When he spoke the first line, his voice sounded nothing like Nightwing’s smoky stage murmur. It was quieter.

“Why do you keep looking at me as though you expect me to shine?”

You looked at your own page. “Because you fell from the heavens.”

“Many things fall. Stones. Rain. Men from great heights.”

“None of them arrive burning.”

Dick’s gaze lifted from the script, and the room seemed to contract around it.

You continued. “The fire frightened me.”

“And yet you followed.”

“I wanted to know what survived.”

He should have looked back at the page, but he didn’t. He spoke the star’s next line from memory. “Suppose nothing did.”

“Then I’ll mourn what was lost.”

“You never knew it.”

“I know you.”

The silence after the line belonged to neither the script nor the room.

Dick’s fingers tightened slightly around the pages.

Then the door opened. A broad man in a dark overcoat entered with two others behind him. Roland Desmond looked larger than he did in newspaper illustrations. His hair had begun to silver at the temples, and a pale scar cut through one eyebrow. He carried no umbrella, though there was not a drop of rain on his shoulders.

His gaze moved from you to Dick.

“I dislike being kept waiting,” he said.

Dick lowered the script.

Nightwing returned so smoothly that you might never have known he had left.

“Then Blüdhaven must be a constant disappointment.”

Desmond’s attention settled on you. “Who is she?”

“A playwright,” Dick said.

“I didn’t ask her profession.”

You stood. “My name is—”

“Unimportant,” Desmond interrupted. “Leave us.”

Dick’s smile remained in place. “She was here first.”

The men behind Desmond shifted.

You gathered your pages, though every instinct warned against abandoning Dick. His expression offered no indication that he wanted you to stay. Only his hand betrayed him, still holding the page containing the words “I know you.”

Barbara appeared behind Desmond.

“Mr. Haly has returned,” she said. “He’s ready to discuss the investment.”

Desmond did not look away from Dick. “Good.”

He reached forward and closed two fingers around the edge of Dick’s robe, drawing the blue silk more firmly across his chest.

The gesture was almost gentle. Dick became perfectly still.

Desmond released him. “Wear the black costume tonight.”

“I was planning to.”

“You look expensive in black.”

He turned and left. His men followed.

Barbara’s mouth tightened.

Dick handed you the script. “Welcome to the Bluebird.”

The performance that evening sold every table. You watched from the wings while Dick became whatever each portion of the audience required. He sang to a group of young women near the stage with playful warmth. He leaned close to the private boxes as though confiding secrets. During the aerial number, he climbed the black silks until the spotlight transformed him into a dark shape surrounded by electric blue.

Desmond watched from the central box. He did not applaud.

After the final number, Mr. Haly summoned everyone to the stage. He was a thin, white-haired man whose formal coat hung loosely from his shoulders. The company gathered around him in various states of costume, glitter, and exhaustion.

You stood near Barbara with the manuscript pressed to your chest.

“Mr. Desmond has agreed to fund a new production,” Haly announced.

The performers cheered. Kory threw both arms around Barbara, who endured the embrace with the expression of a woman already calculating expenses.

Dick remained beside Haly. He smiled because everyone was looking at him.

“The production will be written by our newest member,” Haly continued, motioning you forward. “Miss Gordon tells me it has aerial work, romance, and a mountain.”

“The mountain is negotiable,” you said.

Tim looked down at the unfinished score in his hands. “Six weeks.”

“That’s what he said,” Barbara replied.

“I was hoping repetition might make it less ridiculous.”

More laughter swept across the stage.

Desmond descended from his private box. The company’s excitement softened as he approached, though no one stopped smiling entirely. He walked through them as if the performers were furniture placed for his convenience.

“The play will open in six weeks,” he said.

You stared at Haly. “Six weeks?”

“Mr. Desmond has suggested an accelerated schedule.”

“I have only finished two acts.”

“Then you’ll write faster,” Desmond replied.

He stopped beside Dick.

“The Bluebird will be renovated after opening night. New wiring, new tables, imported silk for the curtains. Every debt will be paid.”

Haly’s eyes shone.

Desmond rested a hand against the back of Dick’s neck.

“Nightwing will appear exclusively at my private engagements for the duration of our agreement.”

No one moved. Dick’s smile remained fixed.

Haly looked between them. “Exclusively?”

“When he is not required here.”

Barbara stepped forward. “The rehearsal schedule—”

“Can be arranged.”

“I don’t perform at private residences,” Dick said.

Desmond’s thumb moved once against his neck.

“You do now.”

The dancers avoided looking at one another. Haly’s happiness had already curdled into shame, but he said nothing. Perhaps he could not. The bank held the theater’s deed. Desmond held the bank.

You looked at Dick. He met your gaze across the stage.

For one moment, you saw the man who had read your words in the dressing room. 

Then Desmond’s hand tightened, and Nightwing inclined his head.

“If that is the cost of keeping the Bluebird open,” Dick said, “I’m sure Mr. Desmond will find me accommodating.”

The company applauded because there was nothing else they were permitted to do.

Rehearsals began the following morning.

The Constellation was renamed A Sky Full of Secrets after Tim remarked that the original title sounded more like an astronomy lecture than a love story. Kory would play the astronomer, while Dick took the role of the fallen star. Tim built melodies around your lyrics, then returned the pages covered in increasingly irritated annotations whenever you changed the number of syllables.

Barbara transformed six weeks into a schedule no sane person could have followed.

Dick followed it anyway. He arrived before the dancers each morning and remained after the orchestra left. He learned every scene within three days, then began learning everyone else’s. When one of the younger dancers forgot her steps, he rehearsed with her during supper. 

Jason translated your stage directions into timber, canvas, trapdoors, and concealed ladders. When one of his crew injured his wrist, Dick spent an afternoon helping him raise the observatory platform, ignoring Jason’s repeated observation that actors were not qualified carpenters. Jason reduced the mountain to a skeletal arrangement of platforms and ladders that Barbara could complete with light and shadow, while Dick corrected his own rigging and rewrote transitions whenever the scenery interfered with the aerial work.

Dick treated you differently when others were present.

“Writer,” he would say whenever he caught you watching from the front row. “How many times do you intend to make me declare my devotion while hanging upside down?”

“Until you sound sincere.”

“I sound sincere when I’m asleep.”

“I doubt you’re quiet long enough for anyone to know.”

The company laughed.

You learned to answer without blushing.

Only occasionally did you notice the way Dick’s gaze lingered after the others turned away.

He left the theater twice during the first week in a carriage sent by Desmond. He returned after midnight on both occasions. No one asked what had happened.

The first time, he went directly to the rigging platform and spent an hour inspecting ropes that Barbara assured you had already been checked.

The second time, you found him alone in the auditorium.

A single lamp burned onstage. Dick sat at one of the front tables with his shirt sleeves rolled up and a glass of untouched whiskey near his hand. The theater seemed enormous without an audience, every empty chair directed toward him.

“You missed supper,” you said.

“I’ve been informed that artists thrive on starvation.”

“Tim moved the meal break twice and then forgot to announce the second change.”

“That sounds like Tim.”

You placed a wrapped parcel on the table. “Kory hid this before anyone else could claim it.”

Dick glanced at the bread and cheese. “You’re encouraging mutiny.”

“I’m new. I haven’t learned better.”

He leaned back in the chair. There was a faint bruise beneath his jaw.

You tried not to look at it.

Dick noticed anyway. “The concern is distracting.”

“I’m not concerned.”

“You’re staring.”

“I was wondering whether your stage paint had become less convincing.”

His fingers brushed the bruise. “Occupational hazard.”

“Which occupation?”

“All of them.”

You sat across from him. “You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.”

He unwrapped the bread but did not eat.

The quiet between you had changed since the dressing room. It was no longer uncomfortable, which made it seem that much more dangerous.

You opened the notebook you carried everywhere. Dick watched you write.

“Do you ever stop?” he asked.

“Do you?”

“I sleep occasionally.”

“So do I.”

“You fell asleep in the costume room yesterday with your face against a bolt of velvet.”

“It was soft.”

“The wardrobe mistress nearly cut around you.”

You smiled despite yourself. “I’m trying to repair the second act.”

“I didn’t realize it was damaged.”

“The star changes his mind too quickly.”

“About returning to the sky?”

“About the astronomer.”

Dick tore a piece from the bread. “Perhaps he loved her from the beginning.”

“He didn’t know her.”

“Knowing someone has never been a requirement for love.”

“It should be.”

“Why?”

“Otherwise, you love an invention.”

He looked toward the dark stage. “Most people prefer inventions.”

“You don’t.”

“I sell one every night.”

“That isn’t the same as loving it.”

“No?”

“Nightwing belongs to the audience. You don’t.”

His expression stilled.

You should have looked away. Instead, you added, “At least, you shouldn’t.”

Dick ate the bread slowly.

“You’ve known me for a week,” he said.

“I know.”

“You have a dangerous amount of confidence in your own judgment.”

“My judgment brought me to Blüdhaven. I wouldn’t describe it as reliable.”

That drew a quiet laugh from him.

You turned the notebook around. “Tell me when the star realizes he loves her.”

Dick read the page. The stage lamp caught the bruise on his throat.

“When she stops asking him to shine,” he said.

You wrote the line down.

Dick shook his head. “I wasn’t offering dialogue.”

“It’s mine now.”

“I should have negotiated royalties.”

“You said you never do anything merely to be kind.”

“I’ve reconsidered. Kindness appears more profitable.”

You continued writing. “Why does she stop asking?”

“Because she sees what it costs.”

Your pencil slowed.

Dick rose before you could answer. He took the untouched whiskey and poured it into the nearest potted plant.

“Come with me.”

“Where?”

“Unless writers in Gotham have learned to fly, you’ll need to understand the final scene.”

He led you through backstage corridors and up a narrow staircase that emerged above the flies. The theater stretched beneath you in darkness, the stage floor distant enough to make your stomach tighten.

Dick walked along the narrow platform without touching the rail.

“You’re afraid of heights,” he observed.

“I respect them.”

“From a considerable distance.”

He offered his hand. You stared at it.

“I’m not going to throw you,” he said.

“That is reassuring only because you thought it needed to be said.”

His mouth curved.

You placed your hand in his.

Dick’s grip closed securely around yours. He guided you along the platform toward the rigging point where the black silks hung. The warmth of his palm made it difficult to concentrate on anything else.

“Most people think flying is about trusting the rope,” he said. “It isn’t. Ropes break. Knots slip. People make mistakes.”

“This demonstration is becoming less comforting.”

“You trust yourself to know what to do when something fails.”

He stepped onto the narrow beam beyond the platform.

Your hand tightened around his.

Dick looked back, the stage light below outlining him in blue.

“Come here.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You made me climb a mountain in the second act.”

“It’s represented through lighting.”

“Coward.”

He tugged gently until you placed one foot on the beam.

Your heart began pounding.

Dick moved closer, his free hand settling at your waist. He waited until both your feet were balanced before releasing your fingers.

You caught his shoulders.

His smile softened. “I have you.”

“That assumes you won’t fall.”

Dick’s expression shifted, the warmth in it dimming. “I learned early what happens when someone does.”

The words carried more weight than the moment required.

You looked at him.

Dick’s parents smiled from the photograph in his dressing room, frozen forever in their circus costumes.

You understood without asking.

His thumb moved once against your waist.

“What happens when the star reaches the mountain?” he asked.

“He returns to the sky.”

“And the astronomer?”

“She watches him go.”

“That’s a terrible ending.”

“It’s honest.”

“You keep confusing those things.”

“He can’t remain with her.”

“Why?”

“He’s a star.”

“He’s a man.”

“He would lose everything he is.”

Dick’s gaze held yours. “Perhaps everything he is was chosen by people who needed him to burn.”

The beam seemed to vanish beneath you.

You became aware of the closeness of his body, the hand at your waist, and the stage waiting far below. Your fingers tightened against the fabric of his shirt.

“What would you have him choose?” you whispered.

Dick’s attention dropped to your mouth.

“The person who looked at him after the fire went out.”

The kiss happened so gently that you did not understand it had begun until Dick’s mouth moved against yours.

He kissed nothing like Nightwing performed.

There was no calculated seduction in it, no polished confidence intended for an audience. He hesitated after the first touch, as though offering you the chance to retreat, and the uncertainty undid you more thoroughly than practiced charm ever could.

You leaned closer.

His hand spread across your back, drawing you against him as the second kiss deepened. The beam, the height, and the unfinished play disappeared beneath the warmth of his mouth. He tasted faintly of bread and champagne.

Dick breathed your name against your lips.

A door slammed below, and you broke apart.

Tim’s voice echoed through the theater. “Dick? Barbara says if you’re teaching the writer aerial work, she wants a physician present. I told her that would only encourage you.”

Dick rested his forehead against yours.

“You told him?” you whispered.

“I didn’t have to. Tim considers every unexplained absence a personal attack on the rehearsal schedule.”

“Which does he think this is?”

“In Blüdhaven, there’s very little distinction.”

He guided you back to the platform.

Your legs felt less reliable than before.

At the staircase, Dick caught your wrist.

“What happened up here,” he said, “belongs to us.”

You nodded.

Something guarded returned to his face. “Desmond can’t know.”

The kiss still warmed your mouth, but the name drew cold through you.

“I understand.”

“You don’t.”

“Then explain.”

Dick released your wrist.

He looked down at the empty tables and the central private box where Desmond had sat. “I can’t afford for you to understand.”

He descended the stairs before you could stop him.

The romance between the astronomer and the fallen star improved considerably over the following weeks.

So did yours.

Dick found reasons to remain after rehearsal. You found reasons to revise scenes that required his assistance. The roof above the Bluebird became yours after midnight, when the city’s smoke concealed the stars and the harbor bells marked hours neither of you acknowledged.

He brought blankets stolen from the wardrobe department. You brought coffee strong enough to insult him.

“You’ve ruined water,” he said after the first sip.

“You drink whiskey from bottles without labels.”

“Whiskey has purpose.”

“So does coffee.”

“Punishment?”

You kissed the complaint from his mouth.

Dick taught you the difference between a secure knot and one designed to tighten when someone struggled. You read him pieces of the final act while he lay with his head in your lap. He claimed your dialogue remained overly earnest, then memorized every line.

The Bluebird knew before either of you admitted anything. Kory began leaving two cups beside your notebook, while Tim slipped the love theme beneath unrelated scenes whenever Dick drifted toward you, making the entire company notice until Barbara informed him that the orchestra was not permitted to comment on backstage affairs. Haly pretended not to notice, though he smiled whenever Dick laughed without an audience.

Desmond noticed too. He arrived without warning during the fourth week.

You were rehearsing the observatory scene. Kory had been called to a costume fitting, so you stood in for her while Dick worked through the dialogue.

The set remained unfinished. Wooden frames marked where windows would eventually reveal the painted night sky. Dick stood on the raised platform in a simple rehearsal shirt, one hand closed around yours.

“You’re not a prisoner,” you said, reading from the script.

“Every cage begins as a room someone insists is safe.”

“Then leave.”

“You locked the door.”

“To keep the world out.”

“And if I wanted to follow it?”

Your next line had changed six times.

Dick watched you wait for it.

You closed the script.

“Then I’d open the door,” you said.

“That isn’t the line.”

“It is now.”

Something tender moved through his expression.

“If I left,” he asked, no longer performing, “would you follow?”

“Yes.”

The answer belonged to you alone. His thumb brushed your knuckles.

Desmond applauded once from the aisle, the sound cutting through the theater. Dick released your hand as Desmond descended toward the stage with two men behind him, dressed in a charcoal suit and a blue tie several shades darker than the theater lights.

“How moving,” he said. “The writer has mistaken rehearsal for reality.”

No one else spoke. Barbara emerged from the wings. “We weren’t expecting you until this evening.”

“I own a significant portion of this production. I will visit when I please.”

“You own its expenses.”

Desmond glanced at her. “That distinction will disappear after opening night.”

He climbed the stage steps, and Dick moved subtly between you and him. Desmond noticed; the smile that followed contained no warmth.

“The carriage is waiting,” he said.

“We’re rehearsing.”

“You can rehearse tomorrow.”

“The performance opens in twelve days.”

“And your contract began four weeks ago.”

Dick’s shoulders settled as he disappeared behind Nightwing. “Of course. I’ll change.”

“No.”

Desmond reached for the open collar of Dick’s shirt and adjusted it with deliberate care, his knuckles brushing the skin beneath. “You’ll come as you are.”

You stepped forward.

Barbara caught your arm.

Dick did not look at you.

Desmond guided him from the stage with a hand at the small of his back.

The theater doors closed behind them.

You pulled free of Barbara. “Why does everyone allow that?”

“Because the alternative is losing the building.”

“He treats Dick like property.”

Barbara’s face hardened. “We know.”

“Then stop him.”

“With what?” she asked. “The bank owns the deed. Desmond purchased the debt. If Dick refuses him, the Bluebird closes before morning. Forty-three people lose their wages. Half of them lose the rooms they rent above the costume shop.”

“That cannot be Dick’s responsibility.”

“No,” Barbara said. “It became his responsibility anyway.”

You looked at the place where he had been standing.

“How long has this been happening?”

“Men have wanted to own Dick since he first learned an audience would pay to watch him fly.”

“That wasn’t my question.”

Barbara’s silence answered it.

You gathered your script. “Where does Desmond live?”

Her grip closed around your wrist. “Do not do anything reckless.”

“I’m going to speak with him.”

“That qualifies.”

“He agreed to finance my play. I have a right to discuss the terms.”

“You have no rights where Roland Desmond is concerned.”

“Neither does Dick, apparently.”

Barbara stepped closer. “Dick knows how to survive men like Desmond. He has been doing it his entire life.”

“Surviving should not be the highest thing we ask of him.”

“No,” she said quietly. “It shouldn’t.”

The carriage returned shortly before dawn.

You were waiting in Dick’s dressing room when he entered wearing the same rehearsal clothes, his hair damp from the rain and fatigue stripping every trace of performance from his face. He saw you, closed the door, and said, “You shouldn’t be here.”

“Neither should you.”

“I live upstairs.”

“You know what I mean.”

Dick removed his coat. “I’m tired.”

“So am I.”

“Then we agree on something.”

He moved toward the washbasin, but you caught his sleeve. Dick went still, and the fabric pulled back enough to reveal the red mark circling his wrist. Your anger sharpened into something that frightened you.

“What did he do?”

“Nothing I couldn’t manage.”

“That isn’t an answer.”

“It’s the only one you’re getting.”

You released him. “I want you to leave with me.”

Dick looked at you as if he had misheard.

“Leave the theater,” you continued. “Tonight. We can go to Gotham or anywhere else. I’ll find work. You could perform wherever you wanted, or never perform again.”

A small, wounded laugh escaped him.

“You think this is a story.”

“I think he’s hurting you.”

“You think love has made you brave enough to solve a problem you barely understand.”

The word love landed between you.

Neither of you had spoken it before.

You stepped closer. “Hasn’t it?”

Dick turned away.

“There are forty-three people depending on this theater.”

“They would rather lose the building than let Desmond keep doing this.”

“Would they?” He faced you again. “Kory sends half her wages to her family. Tim’s mother requires medicine he can’t afford without the Bluebird. Haly mortgaged everything after my parents died because he promised them he would give me a home. Barbara has spent ten years repairing a theater that should have collapsed around us.”

“None of that means you owe them your body.”

“I know.”

The quiet certainty hurt more than denial would have.

Dick sat at the vanity. In the mirror, he looked impossibly young.

“I know,” he repeated. “But Desmond doesn’t merely want me. He wants this place. If I disappear, he calls the debt. If the company finds another theater, he buys that one. If Haly declares bankruptcy, Desmond takes the costumes, the sets, and every instrument in the pit.”

“He can’t own the entire city.”

“He’s trying.”

You knelt in front of him, and Dick looked down at you.

“What happens after opening night?” you asked.

“He has promised to transfer the deed back to Haly.”

“You believe him?”

“No.”

“Then what are you sacrificing yourself for?”

“Time.” His hand rose, hesitated, and then touched your cheek. “Time for Barbara to find another investor. Time for the company to decide where they’ll go if the Bluebird closes. Time for Haly to accept that the building is only a building.”

“And time for you?”

Dick’s smile was unbearably gentle. “I’ve never been good at planning that far ahead.”

You covered his hand with yours. “Come with me after opening night.”

His fingers trembled once. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

“Your endings remain unrealistic.”

“You said honesty and tragedy aren’t the same thing.”

“I said you confuse them.”

“Then help me write something better.”

Dick bent and kissed you. Desperation transformed the tenderness between you into something hungrier. He pulled you to your feet, and you climbed into his lap before either of you could pretend caution remained possible. His mouth moved from yours to your throat. The vanity lights warmed your back while his hands tightened at your waist, holding you as though the room had begun to sway beneath him.

You opened the buttons of his shirt. Dick caught your hand before you reached the third.

“Tell me to stop,” you whispered.

He looked at you. The confidence he wore onstage was gone. So was Nightwing. There was only Dick, breathing hard beneath you with his hand closed carefully around your wrist.

“I don’t want you to stop.”

You touched him as though every inch required permission.

His shirt opened beneath your fingers, revealing old scars across his ribs and shoulders. Some were thin and pale. Others carried the unmistakable shape of falls, accidents, and hands less gentle than yours.

You pressed your mouth to one near his collarbone.

Dick shuddered.

“You don’t have to make this beautiful,” he said.

“I’m not.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Liar.”

“I’m trying to make it yours.”

His forehead dropped against your shoulder.

For a moment, he simply held you. Then he lifted you from his lap and carried you toward the narrow bed behind the dressing screen. The blue robe lay across it, abandoned after the first night you met.

Dick placed you among the silk and kissed you until the theater, Desmond, and opening night became distant things belonging to another life.

When you woke, sunlight touched the stained-glass lamps. Dick slept beside you with one arm across your waist, his face softer without the stage paint, though a faint line remained between his brows even in sleep.

You traced it carefully with one finger, and his eyes opened.

“You’re staring again,” he murmured.

“I’m gathering material.”

“For what?”

You settled closer. “The ending.”

Dick’s hand moved along your back. “Make it convincing.”

“I thought audiences preferred inventions.”

“They do.”

“And you?”

His gaze rested on your face. “I’m beginning to understand the appeal of honesty.”

The morning before the final dress rehearsal, Desmond requested your presence at his office. Barbara tried to stop you from going, and Dick was nowhere to be found. 

Desmond’s headquarters occupied the upper floors of a steel building overlooking the harbor. Ships moved beneath the windows like black toys. His secretary led you through a silent corridor into an office lined with maps, contracts, and photographs of factories carrying his name.

Desmond stood near the window.

Your manuscript lay open on his desk.

“You’ve made changes,” he said.

“You had someone steal my script?”

“I paid for its production.”

“You did not pay for the words.”

“Everything has a price.”

He turned. The scar through his eyebrow pulled slightly when he smiled.

“You’ve confused Grayson.”

“I doubt that.”

“He has begun to believe you offer something more substantial than fantasy.”

“I do.”

Desmond approached the desk. “Do you know what happens to women who attempt to rescue men like him?”

“Men like him?”

“Beautiful men. Applauded men. Men who have been desired so often that they mistake it for value.”

You closed the manuscript. “You don’t know him.”

“I know exactly what he is. I have purchased evenings with politicians, singers, princes, and thieves. They all become honest when they understand they can be replaced.”

“Dick isn’t replaceable.”

“No,” Desmond said. “That is what makes him expensive.”

He picked up the page Dick had read during your first meeting.

“I know you,” Desmond recited. “A charming sentiment.”

He tore the page in half.

You stared at him.

“Opening night will proceed as planned,” he continued. “After the final curtain, Grayson will accompany me to Paris. The Bluebird’s debts will be forgiven, and you will return to Gotham.”

“Dick hasn’t agreed to leave.”

“He will.”

“No.”

Desmond studied you. “You believe he loves you.”

“I know he does.”

“Then you have mistaken performance for truth.”

You stepped closer. “That is your mistake, not mine.”

His expression changed.

The office door opened behind you, and Dick entered wearing his black stage coat despite the hour, every button fastened. Two of Desmond’s men remained in the corridor.

Desmond’s smile returned. “Tell her.”

Dick looked at you, and something inside you tightened. “Tell me what?”

He did not answer immediately.

Desmond leaned against the desk. “Miss Gordon informed Dick that you intended to visit. He was very concerned.”

“Barbara wouldn’t—”

“I followed you,” Dick said, his voice empty.

You moved toward him. “Then let’s leave.”

He stepped back.

The distance was small. It felt like a fall.

“Dick?”

“This has gone far enough.”

Desmond watched him with quiet satisfaction as you looked between them. “What has?”

Dick’s gaze met yours.

Nightwing smiled. It was flawless.

“The play,” he said. “The rehearsals. Whatever you imagined was happening between us.”

Your body went cold. “You don’t mean that.”

“You wanted a romance. I needed the writer cooperative.”

“You told me—”

“I told you what made you stay.”

The room blurred at its edges.

Desmond circled the desk. “Artists are particularly susceptible to their own inventions.”

You ignored him.

Dick did not. He moved toward Desmond and stopped at his side.

Desmond adjusted the front of his coat.

Dick allowed it.

You remembered the dressing room, the rooftop, and the beam beneath your feet. You remembered waking in his bed and asking about the ending.

Make it convincing.

“You were performing,” you said.

Dick’s smile deepened. “I’m always performing.”

You wanted to strike him. You wanted to cross the room and tear the expression from his face until the man beneath it returned. Instead, you picked up the torn page and placed both pieces inside your manuscript.

“I hope Paris deserves you,” you said.

Something flickered in his eyes, then vanished. You left before either man could watch you break.

Dick remained still until the elevator doors closed. Desmond poured two drinks and offered him one. “That was convincing.”

Dick stared at the office door. “You threatened her.”

“I offered clarity.”

“You told your men to follow her home.”

“A precaution.” Desmond extended the glass. “She leaves Blüdhaven tonight, and if she does, she remains unharmed. You have my word.”

Dick accepted the drink because refusing would reveal too much. “I know what your word is worth.”

“And yet here you are.”

Dick looked toward the harbor as rain began against the windows, turning the city below into streaks of gray. When Desmond touched his shoulder, he endured it.

The final rehearsal began without you. Kory stood at center stage in the astronomer’s white costume, waiting for someone to explain why the last twelve pages had vanished. Tim sat at the piano with both hands motionless above the keys, while Barbara had already checked the lobby twice despite knowing you would not return.

Dick entered wearing the fallen star’s silver coat, and every conversation stopped.

Kory crossed the stage and slapped him. The sound cracked through the theater. 

Dick accepted the blow as Tim rose from the piano.

“I assume there was a reason for that,” Tim said, “and I’d like to hear it.”

“He sent her away,” Kory said.

Barbara closed her eyes. Haly looked at Dick. “Is that true?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

“Because Desmond threatened to kill her.”

Silence followed as Dick removed the silver coat and folded it over the back of a chair.

“Opening night proceeds as planned,” he said. “Afterward, I leave with Desmond, and he transfers the deed to Haly.”

“And if he doesn’t?” Barbara asked.

“He will.”

“You don’t believe that.”

“No.”

Tim crossed the stage. “Where did she go?”

“The station, if she has any sense.”

Kory’s anger softened. “She loves you.”

“I know.”

“You love her.”

Dick looked toward the observatory set, where the painted sky remained unfinished. “I know that too.”

Haly lowered himself into a chair. “This is my fault.”

“No,” Dick said.

“I allowed Desmond into this theater.”

“You were trying to save it.”

“I was trying to save wood and stone. You are my family.”

Dick’s composure cracked. Haly reached for him, and Dick knelt beside the old man, allowing him to hold his face between trembling hands.

“Your parents did not leave you to me so I could teach you to sacrifice yourself more gracefully,” Haly said.

“Desmond won’t stop.”

“Then we stop him.”

“With what?”

Barbara crossed to the edge of the stage. “With an audience.”

You reached the station before discovering that you had no intention of boarding the train. The platform filled with steam, porters, and passengers hurrying beneath umbrellas, while your ticket softened in your fist and the Gotham train waited with its doors open.

You had wanted Dick to choose you, but the selfishness of that desire became clearer with every passing minute. He had, just not in the way you had wanted.

In Desmond’s office, he had chosen your life over your love, looking you in the face and making you believe he had never cared because Desmond had promised your safety in exchange. 

Dick had not performed carelessness; he had performed freedom.

The train whistle sounded, and you tore the ticket in half.

The Bluebird’s stage door opened when you struck it with both fists.

Barbara pulled you inside.

“You came back.”

“He lied badly.”

“No,” she said. “He lied very well.”

“Where is he?”

“Desmond collected him an hour ago.”

Your stomach dropped. “For Paris?”

“For supper. He’ll return before the performance.”

Barbara led you through the costume corridor. The theater buzzed with opening-night preparation. Tim argued with the orchestra. Kory sat before a mirror while three women fastened stars into her hair. Stagehands moved with the frantic precision of soldiers preparing for battle.

No one appeared surprised to see you.

“What are we doing?” you asked.

Barbara handed you a stack of pages. “Writing a better ending.”

The Bluebird had never held so many people.

Carriages filled Finger Street from end to end. The wealthy arrived beneath umbrellas held by servants, while students and dockworkers crowded the upper galleries. Rumors of Desmond’s renovations had spread across the city, and everyone wanted to witness Nightwing’s final performance before the theater became respectable.

Desmond occupied the central box. You watched from behind the curtain as he entered with Dick walking beside him, the bruise beneath Dick’s jaw concealed beneath stage paint. He wore the silver coat with his dark hair swept carefully away from his face, and applause began before he reached the box, following him as he descended toward backstage.

He smiled for the audience, but the expression disappeared the moment he passed through the curtain and saw you. He stopped. “You should be on a train.”

“You should be a worse liar.”

Fear crossed his face before anger covered it. “Leave.”

“No.”

“Desmond has men at every entrance.”

“Jason has stagehands at every entrance.”

“This isn’t one of your stories.”

You held out the revised pages. “It is tonight.”

Dick did not take them. “What did you change?”

“The ending.”

“Change it back.”

“The star stays.”

His eyes closed briefly. “You don’t understand.”

“He doesn’t stay because the astronomer asks him to. He stays because he finally understands the sky never owned him.”

Desmond’s voice carried from the other side of the curtain as he greeted Haly.

Dick looked toward it. “If he realizes you’re here—”

“He already knows I’m here. He saw the playbill.”

Barbara had replaced the writer’s anonymous credit with your full name.

Dick stared at you. “You’re impossible.”

“You liked that about me.”

“I love that about you.”

The words arrived harshly, pulled from him by fear.

Your breath caught.

Dick stepped closer. “I love you enough to make you hate me. Don’t ask me to love you enough to watch him kill you.”

You placed the pages against his chest. “Then don’t leave me alone in the final scene.”

The overture began, and Tim’s orchestra shook the floor beneath you. Barbara called places. Kory appeared in the wings dressed in white, the stars in her hair glittering beneath the stage lights. She squeezed your hand before taking her position.

Dick looked at the revised script.

The curtain rose.

A Sky Full of Secrets unfolded more beautifully than anything you had imagined. The observatory rotated beneath a painted cosmos while Kory sang of studying the heavens so closely that she had forgotten the world below them. Tim’s music lifted through the theater, playful during the first act and aching beneath the second.

Then Dick descended from the darkness. Silver ropes carried him above the audience, and the spotlight struck his coat, transforming him into a streak of blue-white fire. He released the ropes and fell through a trapdoor in the observatory roof, landing at Kory’s feet as smoke rolled across the stage.

The audience gasped. Dick looked toward you in the wings, and for one heartbeat, neither of you remembered to perform. Then he delivered the first line: “Why do you keep looking at me as though you expect me to shine?”

The play continued beneath Desmond’s expressionless gaze. Dick and Kory climbed the mountain built from light as dancers transformed into storms beneath them, their costumes sweeping across the stage like clouds. The astronomer confessed her love, and the fallen star told her he belonged to the sky.

At the beginning of the final scene, Kory stepped away from the script. “If the heavens wanted you,” she said, “why did they let you fall?”

Dick froze.

The audience believed it was acting.

His gaze moved toward the wings. You held the revised pages in both hands.

Kory continued. “Perhaps the sky was never your home. Perhaps it was only the first place that taught you distance could resemble freedom.”

A murmur passed through the crowd.

Desmond leaned forward.

Dick looked at Kory. She smiled through the astronomer’s tears. His next line had not changed. “And if I remain, what becomes of the light?”

“You choose where it falls.”

The orchestra shifted as Tim abandoned the rehearsed melody and began the theme he had played every time Dick entered a room with you. Recognition moved across Dick’s face, and the company joined it one by one.

The dancers emerged from the storm and removed the silver ropes meant to carry the star away. The stagehands opened the painted sky, revealing the brick wall of the theater behind it, while Barbara stepped from the shadows and unfastened the harness at Dick’s back. The illusion disappeared in full view of the audience.

Desmond stood in his box. “What is this?”

Every face in the theater turned toward him, but the performance did not stop. Kory held out her hand to Dick.

“The door is open,” she said.

The words belonged to the observatory scene, but they also belonged to you. Dick looked at Desmond, then at you, and took Kory’s hand.

Applause erupted.

Desmond left the box. His men followed.

You moved toward Dick as the curtain fell for the final transition.

“We have four minutes,” Barbara said. “Possibly less.”

Dick crossed the stage and caught you around the waist. His kiss stole every prepared word from you.

The company cheered. Tim continued conducting with one hand while covering his eyes with the other.

Dick broke the kiss. “You rewrote my entire aerial finale.”

“You complained about it.”

“I complained that you made me declare my love upside down.”

“You sounded insincere.”

His forehead touched yours.

Desmond struck the backstage door hard enough to shake it.

“Places,” Barbara ordered.

Stagehands rolled the final set into position. The conclusion required Dick to climb from the mountain toward the observatory roof, where the star would traditionally return to the sky. In the new version, he would remove the harness and descend the staircase to the astronomer instead.

The door shook again.

“After the curtain,” Dick said, holding your face between his hands, “we leave.”

“Together.”

“Together.”

He ran toward the stage. The curtain rose. Dick began climbing.

You remained in the wings with Barbara, watching him ascend the narrow silver ladder concealed within the mountain set. The audience fell silent as the light followed him upward.

Desmond’s men broke through the backstage door. Jason, already waiting beside it with a length of iron pipe, met the first before he had taken two steps. Kory swung the astronomer’s brass telescope at the second.

The fight remained hidden from the audience by the music.

Desmond entered last. His gaze found you.

“You have destroyed everything,” he said.

“No,” you answered. “You simply stopped owning it.”

He crossed the backstage floor.

Dick reached the top of the mountain.

A sharp sound came from above.

Barbara looked up as the main support line jerked.

One of Desmond’s men stood on the rigging platform with a knife in his hand.

“Dick!” you shouted.

The rope snapped, and the upper section of the mountain tilted. Dick grabbed the ladder as the set shifted beneath him. The audience gasped, still uncertain whether the collapse belonged to the show.

Barbara seized the emergency line. “It’s jammed.”

The mountain continued tipping toward the orchestra pit.

Dick looked down. The broken rigging swung beyond his reach. The nearest silk hung several feet away.

You remembered the platform above the stage. Ropes break. Knots slip. People make mistakes. You trust yourself to know what to do when something fails.

Dick pushed away from the mountain and caught the silk with one hand.

The audience screamed.

Momentum carried him across the stage as the set crashed behind him. Wood splintered through the observatory floor. The gas lamps along the base shattered. Fire climbed the painted mountain.

Dick swung once, struggling to secure his grip. The cut silk began tearing.

You ran onto the stage. 

He saw you below. “Move!” he shouted.

The silk ripped.

Dick fell.

He struck the edge of the observatory platform before crashing through the painted roof. Wood broke beneath him. His body disappeared into the set.

The theater erupted into panic.

Audience members surged toward the exits. Smoke rolled across the tables as curtains caught fire above the stage. Tim ordered the orchestra out while Barbara lowered the fire curtain as far as the damaged mechanism allowed.

You climbed over the broken scenery. “Dick!”

Flames licked along the silver coat. You found him beneath a fallen beam, motionless except for the shallow rise of his chest. You tore the burning fabric from his shoulder.

His eyes opened.

“There you are,” he breathed.

“No.”

The laugh that escaped you became a sob. “You are not allowed to say something romantic after falling through a building.”

“I thought the timing was effective.”

He tried to move and went pale.

“Don’t.”

“The fire—”

“Jason!”

He appeared through the smoke. Together, you lifted the beam. Dick bit down on a cry as you pulled him free.

Desmond stood beyond the flames.

His men had fled. Blood darkened one side of his face where Kory’s telescope had struck him, but he remained upright.

“You belong to me,” he said.

Dick sagged against Jason.

You stepped between them.

“No,” Dick said.

His voice carried through the burning theater.

Desmond stared at him.

Dick lifted his head. The stage paint had streaked across his face. Blood marked his mouth, and one arm hung uselessly at his side, but the man who faced Desmond was neither the accommodating star nor the polished invention from the posters.

“You paid for a performance,” Dick said. “It’s over.”

A section of the burning curtain collapsed between them.

Barbara dragged you toward the stage door.

Jason carried most of Dick’s weight. Kory followed with Haly while Tim counted performers and musicians in the alley.

The Bluebird emptied into the rain.

Flames burst through the windows above the marquee. Blue glass cracked from the heat, sending the word BIRD crashing onto the pavement.

Dick collapsed against the wall.

You knelt beside him. “Stay awake.”

“I’m trying.”

“You’re doing poorly.”

“That seems unnecessarily critical.”

His eyes closed. You caught his face.

“Dick.”

Sirens wailed in the distance.

Rain struck his skin and washed the smoke from his hair.

“Tell me the ending,” he murmured.

“You survive.”

“Convincingly?”

“You survive,” you repeated, “and the star discovers he never needed the sky to be worth loving.”

His mouth moved in the shadow of a smile. “That’s better.”

The Bluebird burned until morning.

Dick remained unconscious for two days. You spent them at his bedside in the hospital ward while Barbara negotiated with police, fire inspectors, bankers, and three separate newspapers. The theater’s audience had witnessed Desmond’s men force their way backstage. Several patrons had seen the damaged rigging before the fire destroyed it, and one extremely observant society columnist had watched Desmond threaten Haly during intermission.

Roland Desmond was arrested before sunrise. His attorneys secured his release before noon. By evening, evidence of fraud connected to the Bluebird’s mortgage appeared in the hands of the district prosecutor. Barbara refused to explain how she had obtained it, though Jason spent the following week wearing a new coat and a satisfied expression. Desmond left Blüdhaven before Dick woke.

The newspapers called the fire a tragedy, a scandal, and the most thrilling theatrical event of the decade. Tim preserved every review.

Dick opened his eyes while you were revising the play beside his bed. “You’re staring,” he whispered.

Your pencil fell. He looked pale beneath the bandages, one shoulder secured against movement and bruises darkening the side of his face. The physician had promised his ribs would heal, though whether he would regain full strength in his arm remained uncertain.

You took his uninjured hand. “I’m gathering material.”

“For what?”

“The ending.”

Dick looked around the ward. “This one lacks glamour.”

“You set the theater on fire. What more do you want?”

“A private room.”

“We can’t afford one.”

“Champagne?”

“The physician forbade it.”

“Then I’m leaving.”

He attempted to sit up, but you pushed him back against the pillows. Dick winced.

“Excellent escape,” you said. “Very convincing.”

His fingers closed around yours. “Did everyone get out?”

“Yes.”

Dick closed his eyes. “I should have died.”

“Don’t say that.”

“I meant to avoid the song.”

You leaned forward and pressed your forehead to his hand. The laughter broke out of you before the tears did. Dick stroked your hair awkwardly with his thumb while you cried against the blankets.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“You fell.”

“I noticed.”

“You told me you knew what to do when something failed.”

“I did.”

“You fell anyway.”

Dick waited until you looked at him. “Knowing how to fall doesn’t mean you never reach the ground.”

You wiped your face. “That sounds like another line you intend to accuse me of stealing.”

“I’ll allow it.”

“Generous.”

“I’ve reconsidered kindness.”

You bent and kissed him carefully. His mouth was dry and bruised, but it curved beneath yours. 

When you drew back, he looked afraid. “The Bluebird is gone,” he said.

“I know.”

“My contract—”

“Invalid. The debt was fraudulent, and Desmond violated enough laws during opening night to keep his lawyers occupied for months.”

“The company?”

“Waiting.”

“For what?”

“For you.”

Dick turned his face toward the window. Morning sunlight touched the edge of his bandages. “I don’t know if I can fly again.” The words were barely audible.

You sat beside him on the narrow bed.

“Then don’t.”

His jaw tightened. “You think it’s that simple?”

“No. I think it will be terrible. I think you’ll hate every person who tells you to be grateful you survived. I think you’ll climb onto the first available roof before the physician permits you to walk without assistance.”

“That sounds likely.”

“And I think if you never touch another rope, you’ll still be Dick Grayson.”

His eyes shone.

You continued before your own courage failed. “Nightwing belonged to the audience. You told me that. They can remember him exactly as he was beneath the lights. You get to decide what happens next.”

Dick looked at you for a long time. “And if I want to fly?”

“Then I’ll learn to repair rigging.”

“That is the most frightening promise you’ve made.”

“You once invited me onto a beam above the stage.”

“I was distracted by your charm.”

“You called me a coward.”

“Affectionately.”

You settled against him, careful of his injuries.

Dick rested his head against yours. “What happens to the star?” he asked.

“He stays with the astronomer.”

“In her observatory?”

“For a while.”

“And after that?”

“They build something together.”

Six months later, the Starlight Theatre opened on the corner of Burnside Avenue and Third.

It was smaller than the Bluebird. The roof leaked above the costume room, the orchestra pit could hold only half of Tim’s preferred musicians, and Barbara spent the first week threatening an electrician who insisted the building could not support blue lights around the marquee.

Haly loved it immediately.

Jason redesigned the physical production of A Sky Full of Secrets for the narrow stage. The mountain became a spiral staircase, and the observatory windows were painted onto silk. Tim rescored several numbers for the smaller orchestra, while Kory adapted her performance to the reduced space without sacrificing any of its grandeur. Someone suggested incorporating a fire scene after the newspapers made the disaster famous, but the idea was abandoned when Jason proposed controlled smoke and Dick threatened to leave the building.

The newspapers called the revival impossible to miss.

Dick did not perform on opening night. He stood in the wings wearing a dark blue suit, his injured shoulder healed but not entirely restored. He had returned to the silks during rehearsal, climbing slowly at first and swearing whenever anyone watched too closely.

He had not yet decided whether Nightwing would return. For once, the decision belonged only to him.

You found him adjusting the curtain rope despite Barbara having forbidden him from touching anything mechanical.

“You’re interfering,” you said.

“I’m improving.”

“You tied that knot incorrectly.”

Dick looked offended. “I taught you that knot.”

“And I listened.”

He caught your waist and drew you behind the curtain, concealed from the crowded auditorium.

The blue lights from the marquee shone through the backstage window. They traced the scar near his temple and the familiar curve of his mouth.

“You’re staring,” he said.

“I’m considering revisions.”

“To the play?”

“To the star.”

“Dangerous.”

You straightened his tie. “The critics think he should return to the sky.”

“The critics have always lacked imagination.”

“They say remaining on the ground diminishes him.”

Dick glanced toward the stage, where Kory prepared to deliver the astronomer’s final speech.

“Do you agree?”

“No.”

“Why?”

You touched the scar at his temple. “Because falling was never the most interesting thing about him.”

The orchestra began the final theme.

Dick kissed you beneath the blue lights. There was still no audience for this version of him. No applause followed when he softened against you, and no curtain hid the emotion on his face when you whispered that you loved him.

The Starlight’s company waited on the other side of the curtain. A new theater waited around you. The city stretched beyond the walls, loud and imperfect and filled with people who would always try to mistake beauty for something they were entitled to possess.

Dick took your hand.

“Come on, writer,” he said. “We’ll miss the ending.”

Together, you stepped into the wings.

Onstage, the new fallen star descended the final staircase. The astronomer opened the observatory door, and the painted heavens disappeared behind him. He looked once toward the sky before turning toward the woman who had seen him without its light.

“What happens now?” she asked.

The star smiled. “Whatever we choose.”

The curtain fell.

credit to @uzmacchiato for the cherry divider and @toxisyddy for the Nightwing divider ❤️💛

[cherryysunshine]

Private Frequency

Pairing: Dick Grayson/F!Reader

Word Count: 13.1k

Rating: Explicit

Warnings: explicit sexual content, violence, blood/injury, mutual pining, established relationship, secret relationship, oral sex, vaginal sex, unprotected sex, overstimulation, praise kink, light possessiveness

Summary: Dick Grayson and Hal Jordan’s former protégée have been successfully hiding their relationship from the Justice League for six months.

Then a Lantern-hunting siphon locks down the Watchtower with an alien assassin inside, half the League trapped, and two men who would rather fight an intergalactic war than admit their children are seeing each other.

Author’s Note: Written for this request

DCAMU-inspired rather than strictly canon-compliant, featuring an older Nightwing who works regularly with the Justice League and a Lantern Reader who has long since earned her own sector.

The first indication that something had gone wrong was not the alarm.

The Watchtower sounded alarms often enough that most members of the Justice League had learned to distinguish between them without interrupting whatever they were doing. The two-note pulse that signaled an unidentified vessel near the station barely made Clark look up from the report floating above the conference table. The sharp descending tone for an unauthorized teleportation made Barry stop eating but did not convince him to put down the sandwich in his hand.

The first indication that something had gone wrong was the sudden absence of green light.

One moment, you were suspended several feet above the observation deck, using your ring to rotate a projection of the damaged Lantern outposts through the center of the room. The next, the construct vanished, the platform beneath your feet disappeared, and gravity remembered that the Watchtower had artificial floors.

You dropped.

Dick caught you before you hit the deck. His arm closed around your waist with practiced accuracy, and your hands landed against his shoulders as naturally as though the two of you had rehearsed the movement. There was no startled collision, no awkward attempt to recover your balance. Dick absorbed your weight, turned with the momentum, and lowered you onto your feet without loosening his hold until he was certain your knees would support you.

For one dangerous second, neither of you remembered the room was full. His eyes searched your face.

“You okay?”

The concern in his voice was too quiet and too immediate. You stepped out of his arms. “My ring went dead.”

Across the table, Hal Jordan had become very still. Bruce had not moved at all, which was worse.

Barry finally lowered his sandwich. “Dead as in temporarily unresponsive, or dead as in the most powerful weapon in the universe just became jewelry?”

You raised your hand. The ring sat dark against your finger. There was no answering current beneath your skin, no familiar pressure at the edge of your awareness. It felt heavier without the energy running through it, as though the metal had remembered it was only metal.

“Completely unresponsive.”

Hal crossed the room in three strides and caught your wrist. He turned your hand beneath the light, checking the ring as though external damage might explain the silence. His own ring shone steadily.

“That isn’t possible.”

“You’ve said that before,” you reminded him.

“Usually right before something explodes,” Barry said.

Hal ignored him. “When did you last charge?”

Dick answered before you could. “Four hours ago.”

Silence settled over the observation deck. You closed your eyes. Dick’s expression did not change, but you could feel the moment he realized what he had said.

Hal’s head turned slowly toward him. “How do you know that?”

Dick released a breath through his nose. “She mentioned it.”

“I did not,” you said.

There were times when lying to Hal was useful. There were other times when the lie was already dead and continuing to defend it only gave him something to dismantle.

Dick looked at you. You looked back. That silent exchange lasted perhaps half a second. It was still enough for Bruce’s attention to sharpen.

Hal released your wrist. “Why does Nightwing know your recharge schedule?”

“Because I pay attention,” Dick said.

“That did not answer the question.”

“It answered the question exactly.”

“Then I dislike the answer.”

The alarm began before Hal could ask anything else. This one was not subtle. Red light flooded the observation deck as the Watchtower’s emergency systems engaged, and a mechanical voice announced a stationwide lockdown. The viewing panels shuttered over the curved windows. The doors sealed simultaneously, cutting off the corridor beyond.

Clark abandoned the report. “Watchtower, identify the threat.”

There was no response. Bruce was already at the nearest terminal. His hands moved across the controls, but the display remained blank except for a single pulsing line of alien characters.

Victor stepped beside him and pressed one hand to the console. Silver circuitry spread from his fingertips across the dark screen. He jerked back immediately.

“Something’s in the system.”

“Malware?” Barry asked.

“Not exactly.”

Victor stared at his hand. The circuitry across his palm flickered an unhealthy violet before returning to blue.

“It reacted to me.”

Hal lifted his ring. A grid of green light swept across the room. “No biological signatures apart from ours.”

“The Watchtower has been compromised,” Bruce said. “The attacker may not be biological.”

A violent shudder moved through the station. The lights dimmed. Somewhere beyond the sealed door, metal screamed.

Your ring remained dark as Dick shifted closer to you, not enough for anyone unfamiliar with him to notice. You felt the heat of his shoulder near yours and resisted the instinct to lean into it. Six months of careful entrances, separate departures, and deleted messages, and Dick had given everything away because you fell three feet.

You should have been annoyed. Instead, a small, foolish part of you wanted to smile.

The Watchtower shook again. A seam of violet light appeared along the far wall. Bruce turned from the terminal. “Move.”

The wall ruptured.

Dick caught your arm and pulled you behind the conference table as shards of metal tore through the observation deck. Clark moved in front of the group, taking the worst of the debris against his body. Diana crossed her bracers, deflecting a concentrated beam that burned a black line through the ceiling.

Something stepped through the breach. It was humanoid only in the broadest sense. Long limbs folded from a narrow armored body, each joint bending in one direction too many. Its face was hidden behind a smooth silver plate. Violet circuitry moved beneath translucent sections of its armor like blood beneath skin.

Hal fired first. The construct struck the creature squarely in the chest and dispersed without leaving a mark.

The violet circuitry brightened. Hal’s ring flickered. “No,” he said.

The creature lifted one hand. Every screen in the room flashed with the same alien text.

Your ring burned suddenly against your finger, not with energy but with heat. You tore it off before it could sear the skin and caught it in your other hand.

Hal staggered as his construct collapsed. The creature was feeding on Lantern energy.

“Jordan, cut your ring output,” Bruce ordered.

“I noticed.”

The creature crossed the room with impossible speed.

Dick vaulted the table. One escrima stick left his hand, spinning end over end before it struck the side of the creature’s head. The impact did not injure it, but it altered its path long enough for Diana to meet it with her shield. The collision drove her backward.

Clark seized the creature from behind and carried it through the ruptured wall. Metal buckled as they vanished into the adjoining corridor.

Victor slammed his hand into the terminal again. “I can open the doors, but the system keeps rebuilding the lock.”

“How long?” Bruce asked.

“Longer if you keep talking to me.”

Barry vanished in a streak of red, circling the perimeter of the room. “No secondary exits. Shutters are reinforced. Air system is still running, which feels like good news.”

“It means the attacker wants us alive,” you said.

Dick landed beside you. “Any idea what it is?”

You watched the violet current still moving across the damaged wall. “Kharidian siphon technology.”

Hal’s attention snapped toward you. “That was destroyed.”

“The Corps destroyed the known prototypes.”

“That is not the same thing,” Bruce said.

Hal scowled. “Thank you, Batman.”

“You’re welcome.”

A burst of violet light filled the corridor. Clark flew backward through the wall and struck the floor hard enough to dent it. The creature followed, moving without hurry now that it understood the strength of everyone in the room.

Diana met it again. This time, when her sword cut across its shoulder, the armor opened. There was nothing beneath it but light.

The creature caught Diana by the throat and threw her across the observation deck.

Dick moved before she landed. He slid beneath a sweeping arm, drove one escrima stick into the open seam at the creature’s shoulder, and discharged the weapon.

Blue electricity crawled through violet circuitry. The creature convulsed.

“Again,” you shouted.

Dick struck the same point with his second stick. The damaged armor cracked further.

The creature turned toward Dick, and you had never hated the absence of your ring more as it reached for him. You caught a broken section of the conference table and swung it with both hands. The metal edge struck the opening Diana had made. Violet energy burst outward, throwing you and Dick in opposite directions.

Your shoulder hit the floor first. Pain tore down your arm. You rolled onto your back and saw the creature looming above you.

Then Hal was there. He formed a shield despite the way his ring flickered under the siphon’s pull. The creature’s hand crashed into the construct, driving Hal to one knee.

“Move!” he shouted.

You pushed yourself upright as the construct fractured. Dick appeared behind the creature and looped a cable around its throat. He planted both boots against its back and pulled, using his weight to drag its head away from Hal as the shield collapsed.

Bruce threw an explosive charge, and Dick released the cable and flipped clear a moment before it detonated inside the damaged shoulder joint. The blast tore one arm from the creature’s body. It made no sound. It only turned its silver face toward Bruce.

“Victor,” Bruce said.

“Working.”

“Work faster.”

“I’m going to install a mute function in your cowl.”

The Watchtower shuddered so violently that the artificial gravity failed. Everyone lifted from the floor.

The creature adapted instantly. Its remaining hand opened into hooked blades, which it drove into the ceiling. Dick had nothing to anchor himself with. He drifted toward the breach, momentum carrying him toward the corridor where exposed wiring spat violet sparks.

You kicked away from the table.

Without the ring, there was no controlled flight, only direction and force. You caught Dick around the middle as you passed him. He twisted in your grip, fired a grappling line toward the opposite wall, and caught both of you before you reached the breach.

The line went taut. Your injured shoulder screamed. Dick’s arm locked around you.

“Let go with that hand,” he said.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re bleeding.”

You looked down. Blood had soaked through the shoulder of your uniform where a piece of metal had cut across it. You had not noticed the warmth spreading down your arm.

Hal had. 

Even while bracing himself between the floor and ceiling with a green construct that looked increasingly unstable, he found enough breath to say, “Why is his hand under your shirt?”

Dick’s hand was not under your shirt. It was beneath the torn edge of your uniform, pressed over the wound to slow the bleeding.

“This is not the time,” you said.

“It is never going to be the time.”

Bruce caught the edge of the table with one hand. “Jordan.”

“What?”

“Priorities.”

“Your son’s hand is on my kid.”

You nearly lost your grip on Dick.

“I’m not your kid.”

“You were fifteen when I met you.”

“And I am not fifteen now.”

Dick adjusted his hold. “Also, not his son.”

Bruce looked at him, and Dick grimaced. “This is going great.” Above them, the creature pulled itself along the ceiling toward Hal.

Clark launched himself from the floor and drove both feet into its chest. With no gravity, the impact sent them spinning through the room. Diana caught the creature’s remaining arm in her lasso. Barry anchored the opposite end around a support beam.

“Victor,” Clark called.

The doors opened. Every unsecured object in the observation deck flew into the corridor as emergency decompression alarms joined the stationwide warning. The breach in the adjoining section had reached the outer hull.

Victor sealed the corridor again before the air could fully escape.

Gravity returned without warning. You and Dick dropped together. He turned beneath you, taking the impact against his back. The grappling line recoiled as soon as you hit the floor.

“Dick.”

“I’m good.”

“That sounded painful.”

“Occupational hazard.”

Hal stared at you both from the other side of the room. Dick’s arm was around your waist, your hand was spread across his chest, and his other hand remained pressed against your bleeding shoulder. There was no plausible version of professional concern left.

The creature slammed Clark into the floor.

Bruce threw another charge into its exposed chest cavity. “Containment bay three.”

Victor understood immediately. The doors behind the creature opened. Barry moved in a red blur, striking it from every direction too quickly for its sensors to follow. Diana used the lasso to pull its legs from beneath it. Clark seized the damaged torso and drove it backward through the open doorway.

Victor sealed the bay.

A violet hand struck the small observation panel from the other side. The reinforced glass cracked.

“That will not hold,” Diana said.

“It doesn’t have to,” Bruce replied. “The containment bay has an independent launch mechanism.”

Victor’s eye brightened. “You want to eject it.”

“It entered the station by accessing our systems. Remove it from the station.”

“I like this plan,” Barry said.

Victor merged with the terminal. The lights flickered across the observation deck, alternating between red and violet as the creature fought him for control.

Your ring pulsed once in your palm. The faintest green light appeared around its edge before violet static swallowed it again.

“It’s still drawing power,” you said.

Hal looked toward the containment bay. “From both rings.”

“The siphon is using the Watchtower as an amplifier. Launching the bay won’t stop it unless we separate the connection first.”

“How?”

You studied the circuit patterns moving across the sealed door. The technology was familiar in the way a scar was familiar. You had spent three months dismantling a Kharidian network after they tried to drain an inhabited planet’s electromagnetic field. Their systems did not distinguish well between energy sources once they had established a link. They consumed whatever they could reach and converted it into the same violet current.

“We overload it.”

Hal’s mouth tightened. “Absolutely not.”

Bruce looked between the rings. “Explain.”

“The siphon has adapted to Lantern energy. If Hal and I feed it everything at once, the system will exceed its conversion threshold.”

“And both rings shut down completely,” Hal said.

“Until we can reach Oa.”

“If the overload doesn’t kill you.”

Dick went still beneath your hand.

“It won’t.”

“You do not know that.”

“I know the technology.”

“You’ve seen a siphon after it consumed one ring, not two.”

You pushed yourself to your feet. Dick rose with you, his hand moving from your waist to your elbow when your injured arm trembled.

Hal noticed that too. His expression darkened.

“Stop touching her.”

Dick stared at him. “She’s hurt.”

“I can see that.”

“Then you should understand why I’m helping.”

“I understand more than you think.”

“Do you?”

“Dick,” you said.

“No, I’d actually love to hear this.”

The station shook again. Another crack spread across the containment bay window.

Bruce stepped between them without appearing to move. “You can discuss this after we survive.”

Hal pointed at Dick. “This conversation is not over.”

“I assumed that when you started it during an alien attack.”

The corner of Clark’s mouth twitched until Bruce noticed and Clark quickly looked away.

You slipped the ring back onto your finger. The metal was still hot, but the faint current had returned. Somewhere beyond the walls, the siphon was trying to force its way deeper into the station’s primary power systems.

Dick caught your hand. He did not care who saw this time.

“What are the odds?” he asked.

You looked at his fingers closed around yours.

The first time you met Dick Grayson, you had been nineteen, newly assigned to an Earth-based investigation and furious that the Justice League had sent someone without powers to supervise you.

He had smiled when you told him exactly what you thought of the arrangement.

Then he had disarmed three smugglers before your ring finished identifying the weapons in their hands.

You had spent four years pretending that the warmth low in your stomach whenever he stood too close was professional respect. Dick had spent most of those years finding reasons to stand closer.

Six months ago, he had kissed you on the roof of a Blüdhaven apartment building after a mission that should have killed both of you. Neither of you had mentioned Hal or Bruce until the following morning.

The secrecy had seemed sensible at first. Then it became fun.

Now Dick’s thumb moved over your knuckles, and there was no humor in his face.

“The odds,” he repeated.

“Good enough.”

“That isn’t a number.”

“You don’t like numbers when they’re honest.”

“I like them better than evasive Lantern bullshit.”

Hal inhaled sharply. “Watch your—”

“Hal.”

You did not raise your voice. You did not need to.

He stopped.

Dick lowered his forehead briefly toward yours, close enough that only you heard him.

“Come back to me.”

You squeezed his hand. “Always do.”

The containment glass broke, and Victor shouted a warning as the creature forced its remaining arm through the opening. Violet circuitry spread along the door and into the surrounding walls.

You and Hal raised your rings. Green light filled the observation deck.

For one breath, your ring felt alive again. Energy flooded your body, fierce and familiar, answering the shape of your will. Beside you, Hal built a construct around the containment bay: overlapping bands of green energy designed not to restrain the creature but to give it more power than it could process.

You joined him.

Your construct threaded through his, reinforcing every connection. The creature absorbed both streams immediately. Violet light swelled beneath its armor.

The pull struck you like a hook beneath the ribs, buckling your knees. Dick caught you from behind, one arm locked around your waist while the other braced your injured shoulder without touching the wound.

“Stay with me, baby.”

You forced more power through the ring. The creature expanded. Cracks spread across its armor as the violet circuitry brightened toward white.

Hal grunted beside you. His ring sparked.

“Now, Victor!”

The containment bay released. The outer wall separated from the station, carrying the creature into space. For a moment, the severed bay hung beyond the shuttered windows, visible only through the security feed that Victor had forced onto the damaged terminal.

The creature reached toward the Watchtower. The siphon link stretched between the station and the drifting bay, a twisting line of violet light.

You closed your fist.

Every remaining trace of power in your ring discharged at once. Hal did the same.

The feed turned white. Your ring went dark. So did everything else.

The Watchtower lost power completely.

In the sudden absence of artificial gravity, Dick’s arms tightened around you.

You heard Hal curse somewhere to your left.

Then the emergency systems restarted. Dim blue lighting replaced the red alarms, and the gravity returned at half strength. Everyone settled toward the floor as Victor restored essential functions one system at a time.

The security feed came back last, revealing that the containment bay was gone. Only a fading cloud of violet energy remained beyond the station.

Your legs gave out. Dick lowered you before you could fall. He knelt on the deck and pulled you back against his chest, his hand covering yours where the dead ring rested against your thigh. “Hey.”

You opened your eyes. His face was too pale.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“You like that about me.”

“I like other things more.”

Hal stood over the two of you. He looked exhausted, furious and frightened enough that the anger barely disguised it. His ring was as dark as yours. A thin burn circled the finger where the siphon had drawn power through the metal.

His gaze dropped to Dick’s arms around you. Dick met his stare, and nobody spoke until Bruce said, “Medical bay.”

The argument was postponed for eleven minutes.

That was how long it took to move from the observation deck to the nearest functional medical station, confirm that the creature had not left any secondary programs in the Watchtower’s systems, and convince Hal that having his ring examined did not constitute surrender.

You sat on the edge of an examination bed while a medical scanner passed over your shoulder. Your uniform had been cut away from the wound. The gash was long but shallow, requiring a sealant strip rather than stitches.

Dick stood between your knees, holding a compress against the injury while the automated unit prepared the sealant.

There were six other chairs in the room. He had not considered using one.

“You’re pressing too hard,” you said.

“You said that when I was barely touching it.”

“I was hoping you would become discouraged.”

“You know me better than that.”

You did, and that was becoming increasingly obvious to everyone else.

Hal occupied the opposite side of the room while Victor examined both rings beneath a suspended field. Bruce stood beside him, reviewing station diagnostics on a portable screen.

Neither of them was pretending not to listen.

Clark had left to inspect the exterior damage. Diana was coordinating repairs. Barry had announced that the tension in the medical bay was more dangerous than the assassin and escaped before anyone could assign him work.

The automated unit chimed, and Dick removed the compress, leaving his fingertips stained with your blood. Hal’s eyes fixed on them, making you nearly sigh. Dick noticed. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t a nothing face.”

“You know my recharge schedule and my nothing face. Very impressive.”

His mouth curved. “I also know you keep emergency chocolate in the upper-left cabinet of your apartment and that you pretend not to like reality television.”

“I do not watch reality television.”

“You complained for twenty minutes when they eliminated your favorite contestant.”

“The judging was inconsistent.”

“Of course.”

Hal stepped away from Victor. “You have the access code to her apartment?”

The medical unit applied the sealant strip. You barely felt it.

Dick looked toward Hal. “Yes.”

“Why?”

You answered before he could. “Because we’re dating.”

The room became silent enough to hear the hum of the scanner. Dick’s eyebrows rose slightly. He had expected more preamble.

You were tired, injured, temporarily stranded without a functioning ring, and no longer interested in behaving as though loving him required an apology.

Hal stared at you. Bruce looked at Dick. Victor became deeply interested in the suspended rings.

“For how long?” Hal asked.

“Six months.”

“Six months.”

“Yes.”

“You have been seeing Batman’s son for six months.”

Dick glanced at Bruce. “This feels like a bad time to revisit the terminology.”

Bruce ignored him. “When?”

Dick turned back. “When what?”

“When did this begin?”

“Six months ago,” Hal said. “She just told us.”

“I am asking for the circumstances.”

“You want the date?”

“The location.”

Dick’s expression changed, and you recognized the exact moment he decided that honesty would be funnier.

“Roof of my apartment building.”

Hal looked at you again. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

There was enough hurt beneath the question to drain the amusement from the room as you reached for the edge of the examination bed.

“Because you react like this when Dick holds pressure on a wound.”

“He had his hand under your uniform.”

“I was bleeding.”

“I know why his hand was there.”

“Do you?”

Hal folded his arms. The dark ring on his hand made him look strangely incomplete. You had known him without a uniform, without confidence, and once without memory, but you had rarely seen him without the constant green light accompanying his gestures.

“You think I object because he’s a Bat,” he said.

“I think you object because he’s Bruce’s.”

“I object because he is exactly charming enough to convince people he’s less dangerous than he is.”

Dick nodded thoughtfully. “That was almost flattering.”

“It wasn’t.”

“I heard charming.”

“You would.”

Bruce lowered the diagnostic screen. “Jordan is correct.”

Dick looked at him. “About me being dangerous or charming?”

“Yes.”

“Great.”

You held out your uninjured hand. Dick gave you his without hesitation. His fingers settled between yours, blood cleaned away but his skin still warm.

Hal watched the movement. “It wasn’t supposed to stay secret this long,” you said.

Dick leaned his hip against the examination bed. “We were going to tell you.”

“When?” Bruce asked.

Dick considered it. “Eventually.”

“That is not a date.”

“We hadn’t selected one.”

“Because every time we considered telling you,” you said, “you and Hal were already arguing about something.”

“We do not argue that often,” Bruce said.

Hal turned toward him. “Last week, you called my patrol strategy reckless.”

“It was reckless.”

“It saved the eastern seaboard.”

“It endangered the eastern seaboard first.”

“You see the problem,” Dick said.

Bruce’s attention returned to him. “You concealed an operational conflict.”

Your temper sharpened. “Our relationship has never interfered with a mission.”

“You caught her instead of assessing the attacker,” Hal said.

“She was falling.”

“Three feet.”

“She didn’t have her ring.”

“She can survive a three-foot drop.”

Dick’s hand tightened around yours. “I know.”

The words were quiet. Hal stopped. Dick’s expression had lost its amusement again. 

“I know what she can survive. That doesn’t mean I’m going to stand there and watch her hit the floor when I can catch her.”

You looked down at your joined hands.

For years, people had praised Lanterns for surviving. The Corps trained its recruits to function through vacuum exposure, radiation, torture, and isolation. Hal had taught you how to build a shield around a collapsing star before he taught you how to ask for help.

Dick had never been impressed by what you could endure. He cared about what you should not have to endure.

Hal saw something in your face, and his shoulders lowered by a fraction, although Bruce was less easily moved.

“You knew her ring was recently charged,” he said.

Dick nodded.

“You know where she stores personal items.”

“Yes.”

“You have access to her residence.”

“Yes.”

“Does she have access to yours?”

Dick glanced at you. “She has a key.”

“Two,” you corrected. “You gave me the spare to the loft.”

Bruce looked at Dick.

“The building key and apartment key are separate.”

“You also gave her access to the cave.”

“I did not.”

“You gave me your emergency code,” you said.

Dick closed his eyes. “Thanks.”

Hal’s head snapped toward Bruce. “She has access to the Batcave?”

Bruce’s stare turned glacial. “Apparently.”

“In fairness,” you said, “I haven’t used it.”

“That is not helping,” Dick murmured.

Victor detached himself from the rings and set them carefully onto the tray. “They’re intact.”

Everyone turned toward him as Victor continued, “The siphon burned out the active charge and damaged the internal conduits, but the rings should function once repaired and connected to a central battery.”

“How long?” Hal asked.

“Not something I can do here. You’ll need Oa.”

Hal exhaled. “Communications?”

“The station’s long-range systems are still offline.”

Bruce consulted the diagnostics. “The teleporters are damaged. Docking controls are inoperative.”

“So we’re stuck,” Dick said.

“For several hours,” Victor replied. “Possibly longer.”

Hal looked at your hand in Dick’s again.

“No.”

You stared at him. “No what?”

“No being alone together.”

Dick blinked.

You laughed before you could stop yourself. The sound pulled at your injured shoulder, but it was worth the pain for the offense on Hal’s face.

“You cannot be serious.”

“You concealed this for six months.”

“Because of exactly this reaction.”

“You have demonstrated that my reaction was necessary.”

Bruce returned his attention to the portable screen. “Their relationship has no bearing on the station repairs.”

Hal looked at him in disbelief. “You’re allowing this?”

“They are adults.”

Bruce considered that. “Reasonable.”

Hal stared at him. “Whose side are you on?”

“There are no sides.”

“You developed contingencies for me before you learned my middle name.”

“I still don’t know your middle name.”

“That is not the point.”

Dick leaned closer to you. “Would this be a bad time to mention I keep clothes at your apartment?”

Hal’s head turned sharply. “Grayson.”

Dick smiled at him. “Jordan.”

“You are not helping yourself.”

“I stopped trying ten minutes ago.”

Bruce turned back to the screen before anyone could determine whether the slight movement at the corner of his mouth was amusement.

The Watchtower required seven hours to restore basic docking systems.

The first two were spent repairing the breached observation deck and confirming the siphon had not transmitted its location to anyone else. The next three were occupied by an increasingly hostile attempt to rebuild the station’s communications network.

The final two involved Hal following you and Dick through every corridor with the determination of a man who had spent years patrolling entire sectors of space and had finally discovered a threat he could not punch.

You tried to be patient. For the first forty minutes.

“What does he call you?” Hal asked.

You looked over your shoulder. “What?”

“He used a nickname earlier.”

Dick became extremely interested in the relay.

“You are not getting a list of nicknames,” you said.

“That implies there is a list.”

Hal looked between you. “This has been happening for six months?”

“Longer,” Dick said.

You turned toward him as Hal froze. “Longer?”

“The dating has been six months.” Dick picked up the relay again. “The rest of this has been happening for years.”

You felt heat climb your throat. There were some aspects of your relationship that had never been spoken aloud in front of anyone else. The years of wanting each other were one of them, largely because Dick refused to call it pining and preferred to describe the four years before your first kiss as an extended tactical assessment.

Hal’s expression shifted. “You had feelings for her before you started dating.”

Dick looked at you, the amusement fading from his face and leaving something warmer. “Yeah.”

“For how long?”

“Hal,” you warned.

Dick answered anyway.

“Since she threatened to throw me off the Watchtower.”

“I did not threaten you.”

“You said the next time I touched your controls, I’d be taking the fast route to Earth.”

“You rerouted my patrol assignment.”

“You were overworking.”

“You did not know me well enough to decide that.”

“I knew you hadn’t slept in thirty hours.”

Hal looked at you. “You hadn’t?”

“That is not the relevant part.”

“It is to me.”

Dick’s voice softened. “She slept.”

You remembered waking in one of the Watchtower’s private quarters, your boots off, a blanket pulled over you, and Dick asleep in the chair beside the door. He had claimed he remained because the security system was malfunctioning.

You had believed him for almost ten minutes.

Hal studied Dick with new attention. It did not resemble approval. It was, however, less openly murderous.

“How long?” he asked again.

Dick returned to the damaged relay. “Four years.”

The answer settled inside you. You had known. Of course you had known. You knew the shape of Dick’s desire as intimately as you knew his body now. You knew the way his gaze lingered before he learned you wanted it to, the way every joke became gentler when he aimed it at you, the way he found reasons to contact your sector even when your assigned route was nowhere near Earth.

Knowing was different from hearing him admit it.

“You waited four years?” Hal asked.

“She’s intimidating.”

You threw a piece of insulation at him. He caught it without looking.

Hal’s eyes narrowed. “You’re Nightwing.”

“Very observant.”

“You fight assassins.”

“Yes.”

“You have gone into combat against Darkseid.”

“Didn’t enjoy it.”

“But asking her on a date was too dangerous.”

Dick finally looked at you. “You weren’t ready.”

The room quieted because you had not been. The Corps had given you responsibility before it taught you how to stop trying to earn your place. You had spent years measuring your worth through completed missions and sectors kept safe, convincing yourself that intimacy was merely another vulnerability hostile forces could exploit.

Dick had understood without forcing you to explain. He had waited until your hand lingered in his after a rescue. He had waited until you began visiting Blüdhaven without inventing a League-related excuse. He had waited until you kissed him first.

Hal knew enough of your history to understand what Dick meant. He looked away.

The stationwide communication system activated with a violent burst of static.

Victor’s voice followed. “Docking bay controls are online. Also, I can hear all of you, and Batman wants you on the command deck.”

Dick touched his comm. “How long have you been able to hear us?”

A pause.

“Long enough.”

“Delete the recording,” you said.

“What recording?”

“Victor.”

“I’m offended.”

“Delete it.”

“Already sent it to Flash.”

Hal strode toward the door. “I am going to dismantle him.”

Dick offered you his hand. You took it. Hal looked back. Neither of you released the other.

The command deck had survived with less damage than the observation level, although several consoles still displayed lines of alien text beneath Victor’s replacement interface. Bruce stood at the central terminal beside Clark and Diana. Barry occupied a chair several stations away, staring determinedly at a blank screen while failing to conceal his grin.

You pointed at him. “Delete it.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

“So I’ve been told.”

Dick glanced at you. “That’s my line.”

“You don’t own it.”

“I use it the most.”

Bruce interrupted before Barry could contribute. “A Lantern vessel responded to the emergency beacon. It will arrive within twenty minutes.”

Hal’s relief was visible despite his attempt to suppress it. “Good.”

“They will transport both of you to Oa.”

You nodded. “Once the rings are repaired, I’ll return to my sector.”

Dick’s hand shifted around yours. The movement was small, but both you and Hal noticed it.

Bruce tapped the central display. A map of the damaged Lantern outposts appeared.

“The assassin’s navigation system retained three coordinates before it was destroyed. One corresponds to the outpost attacks. The others are outside mapped Corps territory.”

You stepped closer. “Kharidian space.”

“The Kharidian network is supposed to be gone,” Diana said.

“It was fragmented, not eliminated.” You studied the coordinates. “Someone rebuilt the siphon program using surviving technology.”

“And sent it to the Watchtower because you were here,” Dick said.

Hal’s expression hardened. “It tracked her.”

“The projection she was displaying included data from the attacked outposts,” Bruce said. “The program may have transmitted through the files.”

You felt a cold pressure settle beneath your ribs. “I brought it aboard.”

“You didn’t know,” Dick said.

“That doesn’t change what happened.”

“It changes the part where you blame yourself.”

Hal and Bruce looked at him simultaneously.

Dick sighed. “Could both of you stop doing that?”

“Doing what?” Hal asked.

“Looking at me like I’m trespassing every time I know something about her.”

Bruce’s gaze shifted toward you. “Does he often correct you?”

“He tries.”

“Does she listen?” Hal asked.

Dick laughed. You elbowed him. He caught your wrist before you could pull away and pressed a kiss to your knuckles.

The entire command deck witnessed it: Barry made a strangled noise, Clark briefly closed his eyes, and Diana smiled.

Hal pointed at Dick. “No.”

Bruce said nothing, and the silence carried more weight than Hal’s objection. Dick looked toward him. “You have something to add?”

Bruce’s attention rested on your joined hands before moving to Dick’s face. “No.”

The Lantern vessel arrived eighteen minutes later.

Two members of the Honor Guard boarded the damaged station, inspected your ring, and confirmed Victor’s assessment. The conduits required a direct connection to the central battery. Hal’s ring was in slightly better condition, which he found personally offensive.

Dick walked with you to the docking bay. Hal walked three paces behind.

The corridor lighting had returned to normal, but portions of the walls remained open where damaged panels had been removed. Repair drones passed overhead. Somewhere beneath the deck, heavy machinery worked to restore the primary life-support systems.

You slowed near the docking hatch. Dick stopped with you.

The Honor Guard continued toward the waiting vessel, giving you more privacy than Hal intended to.

“I’ll be back tomorrow,” you said.

“That’s optimistic.”

“You dislike optimism now?”

“I dislike Oa’s sense of urgency.”

“You’ve never been to Oa.”

“I’ve dealt with enough bureaucracies to understand the universal principles.”

You smiled. “I’ll contact you once the ring is functional.”

“On our usual channel?”

“Unless you’d prefer Hal to listen.”

Behind you, Hal said, “I can still hear you.”

Dick did not look away from you. “Our usual channel.”

Your uninjured hand moved to his chest. The blue insignia beneath your palm was scratched from the fight. A tear in the material exposed a bruise forming along his ribs.

“You should have that looked at.”

“It’s fine.”

“You hit the floor hard enough to dent it.”

“The floor was already damaged.”

“Dick.”

His hand covered yours.

“I’ll get checked.”

“You promise?”

“Yes.”

You searched his face. He was lying.

“Bruce,” you called.

Dick’s expression changed. “Don’t.”

Bruce emerged from the adjoining corridor with Clark beside him.

You kept your eyes on Dick. “He has bruised ribs and took the full impact when we fell.”

“I’m standing right here.”

“That is not a medical clearance.”

Bruce approached. “Medical bay.”

Dick exhaled. “I already went.”

“For her injury.”

“I was examined by proximity.”

“That is not how medicine works,” Clark said.

Dick looked at him. “I liked you better when you were quiet.”

You rose onto your toes and kissed Dick before he could continue arguing. His hand slid around the back of your neck, deepening the kiss for one brief, hungry moment before the docking bay reminded both of you that there were witnesses.

When you drew back, his eyes had darkened.

“Tomorrow,” you murmured.

“Tomorrow.”

Hal made an impatient sound.

You kissed Dick once more because of it.

Then you followed the Honor Guard onto the vessel.

The last thing you saw before the hatch closed was Bruce directing Dick toward the medical bay while Hal attempted to decide which of them required closer supervision.

Oa restored your ring in six hours.

The work itself required twenty minutes. The remaining time was spent submitting reports to the Guardians, answering questions from the Corps’ science division, and refusing three separate requests that you surrender the ring for extended study.

You had been awake for forty-three hours by the time you returned to Earth.

The ring carried you through the atmosphere toward Blüdhaven, its energy once again settled beneath your skin. The familiar connection should have eased the restlessness that had followed you from the Watchtower.

Instead, the closer you came to Dick’s apartment, the more difficult it became to ignore how badly you wanted to see him. 

You could have contacted him, but you didn’t.

You landed silently on the roof of his building.

The city spread around you in wet neon and reflected headlights. Rain had passed recently, leaving the rooftop slick and the air cold enough to bite through the thin places in your uniform.

The door to the stairwell opened. Dick stepped onto the roof wearing black sweatpants and nothing else.

Your ring translated the startled rhythm of his heartbeat before you dismissed the scan.

His torso was marked with bruises. Dark purple spread across his ribs and shoulder, with a smaller line near his hip where the harness had caught him during the gravity failure. You stared at the damage.

Dick followed your gaze. “It looks worse than it is.”

“You were supposed to get checked.”

“I did.”

“And?”

“Bruised ribs. Nothing broken.”

“That is not nothing.”

“I learned from Batman.”

You crossed the distance between you and caught his face between your hands. He smiled just before you kissed him. Dick’s arms closed around your waist and lifted you against him. Your ring flared instinctively, creating a thin green shield beneath his feet when he slipped on the wet rooftop. He laughed against your mouth, and the sound broke something open inside you.

You kissed him harder. His hand slid into your hair, angling your head while his mouth moved over yours with six months of familiarity and one night of restrained fear. You felt his relief in the way he held you, too tight around your waist despite the bruises along his ribs.

You drew back enough to breathe.

“You’re hurting yourself.”

“Worth it.”

“Put me down.”

“No.”

“Dick.”

“You were gone too long.”

“I told you Oa was slow.”

“You said you’d be back tomorrow.”

“It is tomorrow.”

“It’s nearly midnight.”

“Still tomorrow.”

His mouth found the side of your neck. You tilted your head before you could pretend otherwise. He kissed the sensitive place beneath your ear, then dragged his mouth lower until his teeth grazed your pulse.

Your fingers tightened against his shoulders.

His grin softened as his gaze moved over your face, the humor fading. “You’re really okay?”

You understood what he was asking. The medical scan had been clean. The ring had been repaired. Your shoulder no longer hurt beneath the healed fabric of your uniform. None of that answered the question.

You rested your palm against his cheek. “I’m okay.”

Dick closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them, the fear was still there, but quieter.

“I hated watching your ring go dark.”

“I hated watching that thing reach for you.”

“I had it handled.”

“You were drifting toward an exposed hull.”

“Strategic repositioning.”

“You are impossible.”

“You like that about me.”

You kissed him again. He carried you toward the stairwell without setting you down. The door swung open before he reached it, held by a green construct you created over his shoulder.

“Show-off.”

“You climbed the stairs with bruised ribs.”

“The elevator is slow.”

“You could have waited inside.”

“I knew you were coming.”

“You did not.”

“I hoped.”

The honesty quieted you.

Dick carried you down one flight and through the door into his loft. The apartment was dim except for the city light entering through the windows. An abandoned mug sat on the coffee table beside two tablets, one of them displaying a League incident report. Your spare uniform was folded over the back of the couch where you had left it three weeks earlier.

Your boots touched the floor, but Dick did not release you. His forehead rested against yours.

“You could stay here while your sector has temporary coverage.”

“You mean tonight?”

“I mean longer.”

Your breath caught as Dick’s thumb moved along your cheek. “You already have a key. Half your things are here. You complain about my kitchen and reorganize my medical supplies whenever you visit.”

His hand dropped to your waist. “I’m saying you don’t have to keep pretending this is temporary.”

You stared at him. The relationship had never felt temporary. It existed between missions and beyond them, woven through his patrol schedule and your sector rotations. You knew which nights he woke from dreams he would not describe. He knew when silence meant you needed company and when it meant you needed space. You had built something serious while refusing to name its shape.

Perhaps hiding from Hal and Bruce had given you an excuse not to.

“You want me to move in?”

“I want you here.” Dick’s mouth curved faintly. “The logistics can be negotiated.”

“My sector is several thousand light-years away.”

“You commute fast.”

“I can’t store a power battery in your closet.”

“We’ll move the shoes.”

“You have more shoes than I do.”

“That is not relevant.”

“It becomes relevant when they occupy an entire wall.”

“We’ll build another wall.”

You laughed, and Dick’s expression softened with relief. “Yes.”

He went still. “Yes?”

“Yes. I want this too.”

His kiss nearly drove you backward into the door. You caught his waist, careful of his ribs, while he cupped the back of your head and kissed you until every remaining thought of Oa and damaged rings dissolved beneath the pressure of his mouth.

The green light around your uniform flickered. Dick pulled back. “I like where this is going.”

“You like anything involving that uniform disappearing.”

“I like the uniform.”

“You complain about it constantly.”

“It has no convenient zippers.”

“It is created by the ring.”

“My point exactly.”

You dismissed the uniform. Green light swept over your body, replacing the armored fabric with the clothing you had worn beneath it: a thin black tank top and underwear designed to remain comfortable during long patrols.

Dick looked down, his hands tightening on your waist. “I love alien technology.”

“You said that about the shower last month.”

“I contain multitudes.”

You slid your hands over his bare chest, carefully tracing the spaces between the bruises. His stomach tightened beneath your fingertips.

“You should be resting.”

“I was.”

“You were reading reports.”

“I was in bed.”

“With a tablet.”

“Technically resting.”

You pressed your mouth to the bruise near his collarbone. His breath caught. The mark darkened the skin above his heart. You kissed its edge, then moved lower, following the spread of purple across his ribs without pressing enough to hurt.

Dick’s fingers entered your hair.

“You’re trying to distract me from making you rest.”

“Is it working?”

“No.”

You kissed the center of his chest.

“Liar.”

“Terrible one.”

His hand tightened gently at the back of your neck.

You lowered yourself to your knees. Dick stared down at you. The humor left his face with startling speed. “Baby.”

The nickname made warmth gather low in your stomach. Hal had heard it once in the chaos aboard the Watchtower, but here, inside the apartment that was becoming yours as well, it belonged only to the two of you.

You hooked your fingers into the waistband of his sweatpants.

“You caught me when my ring failed.”

“I’d catch you anyway.”

“I know.”

You pulled the fabric down. His cock was already hard, springing free against his stomach. Dick inhaled when your hand wrapped around him, his head tipping back as you stroked slowly from base to tip. He was warm and heavy in your palm. A bead of precum gathered at the head, and you spread it with your thumb before leaning forward.

The first touch of your tongue made his hips jerk. You smiled against him.

“Careful,” you murmured. “You’re supposed to be resting.”

“You’re cruel.”

“You like that about me.”

“Starting to reconsider.”

You took him into your mouth. Dick’s hand flexed in your hair, not forcing, only holding as you drew him deeper. His breath broke above you. You hollowed your cheeks and worked your tongue along the underside of his cock, listening to every quiet sound he failed to suppress.

He had been restrained since the rooftop, careful with your shoulder and his ribs, speaking around the fear that still lingered after the Watchtower.

You wanted that control gone. You took him deeper until the head pressed against the back of your throat.

“Fuck.”

His hips moved instinctively. You swallowed around him.

Dick’s free hand caught the edge of the table beside him. His knuckles whitened as you pulled back, letting your lips drag slowly along the length of his cock.

He looked down at you. His eyes were dark and unfocused, the blue nearly swallowed by black.

“You have any idea what you do to me?”

You licked the tip. “Four years, apparently.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“You waited.”

“You were worth waiting for.”

The tenderness in his voice struck harder than desire.

You took him into your mouth again before he could see too much in your face.

Dick groaned. His hand guided your rhythm now, fingers tangled in your hair while you worked him with your mouth and hand together. Saliva gathered at the base of his cock. You felt his thighs tense beneath your palms, his breathing becoming rougher with every stroke of your tongue.

Then his hand pulled you away. You frowned up at him. “Why?”

“Because I’m not finishing like this.”

“You seemed close.”

“I was.”

“That was generally the intention.”

Dick caught your chin and drew you to your feet. He kissed you with no concern for the taste of himself on your mouth. His tongue swept between your lips, one hand sliding down your back to cup your ass through your underwear.

“You came home after nearly dying,” he murmured against you, “agreed to move in with me, and immediately got on your knees.”

“You are welcome.”

“I haven’t thanked you yet.”

Before you could ask what he meant, his arm moved beneath your thighs.

You caught his shoulders before he could lift you. “Your ribs.”

“Ring,” Dick said.

You stared at him until he glanced pointedly toward your hand.

“You want me to carry myself.”

“I was thinking of it as assistance.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

Dick smiled. “You love me.”

The words came so easily that neither of you reacted at first. Then Dick’s expression changed as he realized what he had said. He had told you he loved you through his actions so often that the admission should not have felt new, but he had never said it directly.

His arms remained around you.

“I do,” he continued, quieter now. There was no joke waiting behind the admission and no charm to soften its vulnerability. “I love you.”

You touched his face. “I love you too.”

His answering smile was small and almost disbelieving.

Then your ring lifted both of you from the floor. Dick laughed as the construct carried you through the loft and toward the bedroom. He kept his arms around you despite no longer supporting your weight, kissing every part of your face he could reach until you dismissed the construct above the mattress.

You landed together. Dick rolled carefully, avoiding his injured side as he settled over you. The city light painted his shoulders in pale lines. You traced one of them before pulling his mouth back to yours.

His hand slid beneath your tank top. He cupped your breast, thumb moving over your nipple until it tightened beneath his touch. You arched into him. Dick pulled the shirt over your head and lowered his mouth to the newly exposed skin.

His lips closed around one nipple. The first slow pull sent heat down your stomach.

You tangled your fingers in his hair while he moved between your breasts, licking and sucking until your breathing became uneven. His hand traced the line of your ribs, gentler where bruises would have formed if the uniform had not absorbed the worst of the impacts.

“You sure you’re not hurt anywhere else?” he asked.

“You intend to inspect everything?”

“Thoroughly.”

“That sounds inefficient.”

“I have time.”

His mouth moved down your stomach. You lifted your hips as he hooked his fingers into your underwear. Dick dragged the fabric down your legs and tossed it toward the chair without looking.

He settled between your thighs. The sight of him there made your stomach tighten. His hair was already disordered from your hands. The bruises along his side remained visible, incongruous with the hunger in his expression.

Dick pressed a kiss to the inside of your knee and then another higher, taking his time as his mouth traveled along your inner thigh while his hands held your legs open, thumbs stroking your skin whenever your muscles tensed beneath them.

“Dick.”

“Patience.”

“I crossed several thousand light-years.”

“Then a few minutes won’t hurt.”

“You objected when Oa said that.”

“Oa wasn’t about to put its mouth on you.”

You laughed, and Dick used the distraction to lick through your folds.

The sound broke into a gasp. His tongue moved slowly from your entrance to your clit. He circled it once, watching your reaction, then repeated the movement with more pressure.

Your thighs tightened around his shoulders when Dick hummed against you, the vibration lifting your hips from the mattress.

He pressed one hand across your lower stomach and held you down while his mouth worked over you. His tongue alternated between slow, deliberate strokes and tighter circles that left you unable to settle into any rhythm.

You had missed this.

Not merely sex, although the ache building inside you had become difficult to separate from everything else. You had missed the privacy of his bedroom, the familiar scrape of his sheets against your skin, the way Dick touched you as though pleasure deserved his full concentration.

His fingers traced your entrance. You spread your legs wider.

“Please.”

Dick lifted his head, his mouth shining. “What do you need, baby?”

“You know.”

“I want to hear you.”

You glared at him. His fingers pressed lightly against you without entering.

“Dick.”

“Use your words.”

“I need your fingers.”

His smile was devastating. “That’s what I wanted to hear.”

He pushed one finger inside you. Your head fell back against the pillow.

Dick watched your face as he began to move, curling his finger until he found the place that made your stomach tense. He added a second finger and lowered his mouth to your clit again.

The combination stole the breath from your lungs. You caught the sheets in one hand. The other reached for Dick, fingers closing around his hair while he pumped his fingers into you with a steady rhythm.

“More.”

He sucked your clit into his mouth. You cried out.

Green light flared across the ceiling, and Dick glanced upward without stopping. “Show-off.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“I know.”

His fingers moved faster. The pressure built too quickly. You tried to hold it back, wanting more time beneath his mouth, but Dick knew every sign of your approaching orgasm. He pressed his fingertips harder against the sensitive place inside you and flattened his tongue over your clit.

Your body tightened. The ring projected a burst of green light through the room as you came.

Dick worked you through it, his mouth gentling only when your thighs began to tremble around him. He withdrew his fingers slowly and kissed the inside of your leg while you struggled to breathe.

“You nearly made a construct,” he said.

You covered your face with one hand. “I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.”

“No, I don’t.”

Dick moved up the bed. You reached for him before he could settle beside you, pulling him over you until his weight pressed you into the mattress. He braced himself on his forearms to protect his ribs.

His cock slid against your wet entrance. Both of you stilled. 

You hooked one leg around his waist. “Dick.”

He kissed you as the head of his cock pressed inside. Your body stretched around him slowly. Dick’s forehead dropped to yours, breath uneven as he pushed deeper one careful inch at a time.

You held his shoulders. He filled you completely and stopped. The stretch bordered on overwhelming after weeks apart, but the discomfort softened quickly beneath the pleasure of having him inside you again. You moved your hips experimentally.

Dick made a strained sound. “Don’t.”

“You stopped.”

“I’m trying not to hurt you.”

“You won’t.”

“You say that every time.”

“You ask every time.”

“I’m going to keep asking.”

You touched his cheek. “I know.”

Dick withdrew nearly to the tip and thrust back inside. Your mouth opened against his. 

He began slowly, each movement controlled despite the tension across his shoulders. His cock dragged against every sensitive place his fingers had already awakened. You tightened your legs around him, pulling him deeper.

“Fuck,” he whispered.

“Harder.”

His eyes searched yours. You lifted your hips to meet him. “I’m not injured.”

“Your shoulder.”

“Is healed.”

“My ribs.”

“Are your problem.”

He laughed breathlessly. “Compassionate.”

“You love me.”

“Unfortunately.”

You pinched his side. Dick caught your wrist and pinned it beside your head.

His next thrust drove you into the mattress. The change in pace tore a cry from you.

“There,” you gasped.

“I know.”

He did. Dick adjusted the angle and fucked you harder, his hips striking yours with enough force to shake the bed. The restraint disappeared from his movements. His hand remained around your wrist while the other gripped your thigh and drew it higher against his side.

You felt every inch of him.

The room filled with the wet sound of his cock moving inside you, the uneven rhythm of your breathing and the occasional creak of the mattress beneath you.

Dick lowered his mouth to your throat. “You scared me,” he said against your skin, the confession emerging between rough, breathless thrusts.

“I know.”

“Couldn’t get to you.”

“You did.”

“Your ring went dark.”

“I’m here.”

His teeth caught gently against your pulse.

You turned your face toward him. “Dick.”

He lifted his head.

“I came back.”

Something fierce and vulnerable moved through his expression. Then he kissed you as though he could press the truth into both of you.

His thrusts became faster. The head of his cock struck the place inside you that made your legs shake. You tightened around him, already too sensitive from his mouth.

Dick felt it. “Close?” 

You nodded.

His hand released your wrist and slid between your bodies. His fingers found your clit. The first firm circle made you cry out his name.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Let me feel you.”

Your ring brightened. Green light flowed over the bedframe, forming thoughtless shapes that vanished before becoming complete. Dick watched the constructs flicker across the walls.

“You’re losing control.”

“You’re distracting.”

“Good.”

He fucked you through the rising pressure, fingers moving in time with every thrust. Your body tightened around him. The pleasure sharpened until it became almost unbearable.

“Dick.”

“I’ve got you.”

You came around his cock, your back arching beneath him. The ring filled the room with green, and for one vivid second a flock of glowing birds swept across the ceiling before dissolving into sparks.

Dick groaned as your walls clenched around him. His rhythm broke.

“Where?” he asked.

“Inside.”

“You sure?”

“Yes.”

He thrust twice more, deep and uneven, then pressed fully into you as he came. You felt the warmth of him spill inside, his body trembling above yours while he buried his face against your neck.

For several moments, neither of you moved. Dick’s breathing gradually slowed. Your hand drifted through his hair. The green light faded until only the ring itself glowed against the sheets.

Dick lifted his head.

“Birds?”

You closed your eyes. “Do not.”

“You made birds.”

“I was distracted.”

“They looked like robins.”

“I will throw you out the window.”

“Robin-shaped constructs. You’re obsessed with me.”

“You waited four years.”

“Worth it.”

He kissed you softly. When he shifted, you felt his cock move inside you and tightened instinctively around him.

Dick stopped. His eyes darkened again. “You did that on purpose.”

“I did not.”

“You’re a terrible liar.”

You smiled.

He remained inside you as he rolled carefully onto his uninjured side, taking you with him. You settled against his chest with one leg draped over his hip.

“We should clean up,” he said.

“In a minute.”

“You hate sleeping like this.”

“I didn’t say I was sleeping.”

Dick’s hand moved slowly down your back. “Stay like this for a minute?”

“You should be resting.”

“I am resting.”

“You have bruised ribs.”

“And you’re being very careful with them.”

You kissed the bruise beneath his collarbone. His fingers traced slow circles over your hip. 

“Hal and Bruce are coming tomorrow,” you said.

Dick groaned. “Of course they are.”

You settled back against him.

Your ring gave a soft pulse. A message appeared inside your thoughts.

Jordan: STATUS.

You sighed.

Dick felt it. “What?”

“Hal.”

“Already?”

“He wants a status update.”

Dick’s mouth curved.

“Tell him you’re in bed.”

“He will come here tonight.”

“Tell him you’re asleep.”

“He’ll know I’m lying.”

Dick considered the problem. Then he reached for your ring hand and brought it between you.

“Can he receive images?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Dick.”

“Nothing explicit.”

“That qualification is not reassuring.”

He settled more fully against the pillows and closed his eyes.

“Send him proof I’m resting.”

“You are not resting.”

“I’m horizontal.”

“You are still inside me.”

“He doesn’t need that part.”

Your face heated. Dick laughed quietly. The movement made his cock shift, and both of you inhaled.

You sent Hal a deliberately narrow image of Dick lying against the pillow with his eyes closed, one bruised shoulder visible at the edge of the frame.

Three seconds passed.

Jordan: WHY ARE YOU IN HIS BED?!?!

You turned the message so Dick could see it through the ring. He smiled.

“Tell him logistics.”

“I hate both of you.”

“You love one of us.”

You sent the reply.

You: Batman identified a logistical requirement.

The ring remained silent for almost a full minute. Then another message appeared.

Jordan: I AM GOING TO KILL HIM.

Dick kissed your forehead.

“See? He’s not even mad at me anymore.”

Bruce and Hal arrived at ten the following morning.

Dick was awake before the knock. You knew because his arm tightened around your waist beneath the blankets, though he kept his eyes closed as though denying consciousness might make them disappear.

“Grayson,” Hal called.

“No,” Dick answered without opening his eyes.

Bruce’s voice came from the living room. “Your secondary window lock is inadequate.”

Dick’s eyes opened.

The bedroom door followed a moment later, and your shield formed across the doorway before Hal could enter.

“You’re naked.”

Dick pulled the blanket higher over both of you. “What gave it away?”

Bruce stood behind Hal, already dressed for the day and entirely unsurprised by the construct blocking the entrance. His gaze moved from your face to Dick’s, then to the unfamiliar clothing scattered across the floor.

“Your uniform is functional,” he said.

You glanced toward the chair where it had landed.

“Yes.”

“The ring?”

“Fully repaired.”

Hal pushed against the shield. It did not move.

“You stayed here all night.”

You stared at him. “I am an adult.”

“That is becoming a very repetitive defense.”

“It remains accurate.”

Bruce stepped closer to examine the construct blocking the doorway. His attention shifted briefly toward your discarded uniform and the ring glowing on your hand.

“If this is going to become her primary residence on Earth, you will require a secure battery chamber,” he said.

Hal stopped pushing against the shield.  The room went quiet. You looked at Dick. Dick looked back. Neither of you had told them.

Hal slowly turned toward Bruce. “Why would she need a battery chamber here?”

Bruce regarded him in silence.

Hal’s gaze snapped back to you. “You agreed to move in with him?”

Dick pulled you closer beneath the blanket. “We’re still discussing the logistics.”

“You cannot move in here.”

“I maintain a residence on Oa and quarters in my sector,” you said.

“Then you have enough homes.”

“That is not how homes work.”

“The existing structure cannot safely contain a power battery discharge,” Bruce continued.

Dick’s mouth curved. “Are you offering to renovate?”

“I am identifying a vulnerability.”

“Which you intend to correct,” you said.

Bruce’s silence was answer enough.

Hal stared at him. “Stop encouraging this.”

“A Lantern battery stored in Blüdhaven requires adequate security.”

“It does not require storage in Blüdhaven.”

“I think it does,” Dick said.

Hal looked at him. Dick looked back, unbothered. Then Hal’s gaze dropped briefly toward the shape of your bodies beneath the covers. His expression changed. “Is he—”

“Do not finish that question,” you said.

Bruce turned away. Dick buried his face against your shoulder, laughing silently.

Hal pointed at the bed. “This is exactly why I said no to being alone together.”

“You do understand that your opinion did not become legally binding,” you said.

Hal turned on Bruce. “He is provoking me.”

“He does that.”

“You’re his father.”

“Not according to him.”

Dick looked over the edge of the blanket. “You really held onto that.”

Bruce ignored him.

Hal released his construct. “I want to speak with her alone.”

“No,” Dick said.

The answer came too quickly. The humor left the room.

Hal’s expression hardened. “I was not asking you.”

“I know.”

You placed a hand against Dick’s chest, and he looked at you. “I’ll be fine.”

His jaw tightened. You understood the fear beneath it. Yesterday, he had watched your power disappear. He had watched Hal challenge your choices as though your relationship were something requiring defense.

You kissed his shoulder. “Give me a minute. I’ll talk to him.”

Dick searched your face before nodding. He pulled on the sweatpants beside the bed, then stepped through the shield to join Bruce. Hal retreated into the living area while the two of them stopped at the kitchen counter across the loft.

You dismissed the barrier only after pulling on Dick’s discarded shirt and a pair of shorts.

Hal looked at the shirt when you emerged from the bedroom.

You walked past him toward the windows. He followed you to the far end of the loft, where the windows overlooked the narrow streets below. Bruce and Dick remained in the kitchen, examining the wall where a battery chamber could theoretically be installed.

Hal folded his arms. You waited.

He looked older without the bravado he had worn on the Watchtower. The repaired ring glowed steadily on his hand, but exhaustion remained in the lines around his eyes.

Hal asked about the things that mattered: whether Dick respected your work, understood that the Corps could call you away without warning, and accepted that duty sometimes had to come first. The answers seemed to ease something in him, although the final question took him longer to ask.

“Are you happy?”

You looked toward Dick again. He had finished arguing with Bruce and now stood with one hip against the counter, pretending not to watch you and Hal from across the loft.

“Yes,” you said. “I am.”

Hal exhaled. “All right.”

You blinked. “All right?”

“I didn’t say I approve.”

“You said all right.”

“I said I understand.”

“That sounds dangerously close to approval.”

“Don’t tell him.”

Dick called from the kitchen, “I heard that.”

Hal raised his voice. “No, you didn’t.”

Dick smiled.

Bruce closed the medical cabinet. “The wall behind the storage unit can support a reinforced chamber.”

Hal stared at him. “You’ve been planning renovations while I was having an emotional conversation?”

“I assessed the structure.”

“You encourage him.”

“He does not require encouragement.”

“That may be the first intelligent thing you’ve said.”

Dick started across the loft toward you, but Hal stepped into his path before he could reach you. Dick stopped, and you gave Hal a pointed look.

He remained there for one stubborn second before moving aside.

Dick came to stand beside you. His hand found the small of your back beneath the hem of his shirt.

Hal watched it happen. His eye twitched, but he didn’t object.

Bruce opened the apartment door.

“I’ll send the specifications.”

“For the battery chamber?” Dick asked.

“For the window locks.”

“You broke through them.”

“They were inadequate.”

“You are the threat model.”

Bruce looked at you. “The cave access code will be updated.”

Dick frowned. “Why?”

“She should have a personal code rather than yours.”

You stared at Bruce as Hal made an outraged sound and Bruce left without another word. Dick slowly looked toward you.

“That was definitely a blessing.”

Hal followed Bruce into the hallway. “It was not a blessing.”

“You didn’t threaten me once,” Dick called.

Hal turned back. A green fist appeared beside his shoulder.

Dick shut the door. The construct struck the other side hard enough to rattle the frame.

You looked at him, and Dick grinned. “You’re going to make this difficult.”

“He was starting to like me. I panicked.”

“You provoked a Green Lantern while half-dressed and injured.”

“Bruised,” he corrected.

You caught his face between your hands. The grin softened.

“What?” he asked.

“You told me you loved me.”

His arms slid around your waist. “I did.”

“You asked me to move in.”

“You said yes.”

“Bruce is building a battery chamber in your apartment.”

“Our apartment.”

Warmth spread through you.

“Our apartment,” you repeated.

Dick laughed softly and kissed you.

There was no alarm, no failing gravity and no one watching from the other side of a conference table. Only his mouth against yours, his hands beneath the shirt you had stolen and the steady green light of your repaired ring.

Your ring gave a soft pulse.

Jordan: I CAN STILL HEAR GRAYSON LAUGHING FROM THE HALLWAY.

You smiled against Dick’s mouth.

“What?” he murmured.

“Nothing.”

“That wasn’t a nothing face.”

You dismissed the message and pulled him closer.

This time, when he caught you, there was no one left to ask why.

[srenique]

⌑ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⌑ ⌇ @ 𝑠𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑞𝑢𝑒 | ‌ | ‌ | 𝑤𝑤𝑤.𝑝𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑎𝑐𝑘.𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒

𝑮𝑰𝑹𝑳, 𝑻𝑨𝑲𝑬 𝑯𝑰𝑴 ???

WHERE :: your best friend hooked up with your boyfriend. so you hooked up with her ex.

SERVES : tatiana ( mdni! ), bsf goes low, reader takes it to hell, dick’s a willing and aware participant, he wants to get revenge too, riding, pussy eating, he’s a tits man, a you man, exhibition kink ( sorta ), heavy making out, humping, petty reader and we love to see it !! bsf cheated on dick with reader’s bf in this case, lipstick marking, hair tugging, fingering, making out hardcore, face riding, slightly buzzed but they’re lucid enough to give consent.

You thought your world would crash when your boyfriend sent a drunk picture of some girl in a denim skirt straddling his bare hips. Especially when you saw the butterfly tattoo on the girl's thigh that looked exactly like the one Vanessa got when you were both sixteen. You'd paid for the bitch's tattoo.

But nothing crashed.

You felt nothing. Killing two birds with one stone, your grandmother would call it. Was that what it was supposed to feel like? Maybe you should cry a little.

You tried. Didn't work. Hell, why should it? He cheated on you, that wasn't your problem, he couldn't keep it in his pants. It was more of a sign that he was a manwhore with no care for hygiene.

Usually in the movies, there'd be a crying ex girlfriend with the shining knight coming to wipe the tears and fuck the girl until she forgot about her dirtbag ex. You had no knight by you, so maybe that wasn’t your narrative.

You hadn’t rung up the girls from work for a vent session, hadn’t broken open the wine or the Ben and Jerry’s. Just carried on with the Friday tradition of unwinding with a couple of snacks while watching cheesy rom-coms about giggling, blushing girls and charismatic men with raging red flags.

“Run, girl,” You muttered when the male lead said some bullshit about ‘you don’t have to worry about her’.

About twenty missed calls from Carter sat on your phone. Fifty texts from Vanessa. You'd declined every single one, swiped on every text message. You were just watching Kill Bill now and munching on a bag of chips when your phone buzzed again. Your groan was muffled by the potato, fumbling for your phone. "Bitch, I'm not gonna— huh." You tilted your head to get a better look at the message.

Hey, it's Dick. Can we meet up to talk?

How the fuck did Vanessa cheat on this man?

You’d known Dick ever since he and Vanessa were in the early stages of dating around two years ago, and you hated to admit it, but he was one objectively sexy man. Who was sat there with a cappuccino in a local Blüdhaven coffee shop, looking the most tortured you’d ever seen him, over a girl who cheated, nonetheless.

You sipped your latte. “You look like shit, Dick.” Your voice was softer than intended. Maybe a portion of you felt bad. “What’re you thinking?”

He scrubbed his face. “I’m sorry, I— I didn’t mean to drag you out here to sit in silence, I’m just… confused. How could she— did I do something?”

You sat forward in your seat, raising an eyebrow, sighing. “Really?” You clicked your tongue noncommittally. “You’re gonna blame yourself for this? Dick, you got her expensive jewellery to ask her to be your girlfriend, you were pretty fucking perfect.” He’d done the research. Seen what colour jewellery she wore, if she preferred gold or silver, her birthstone, what cut, how long, and got it custom made. If he did anything wrong, you’d be surprised. “It’s her fault.”

He looked sceptical. He even let out a disbelieving scoff, like you were talking bullshit. “You don’t seem heartbroken. Like, at all.”

You shrugged, stirring your latte with a wooden stick. “If she can take him, she can have him. Carter couldn’t do anything without his mother’s approval anyway.”

His nose wrinkled. “Yikes. That sounds rough.”

"Why'd you offer to buy me coffee anyway?" His text had come out of nowhere, but he probably had his reasons. One or two at least.

His sigh was of defeat as he rubbed a sugar packet between his fingers, rubbing the back of his neck with another hand. “I just— you got caught up in my ex-girlfriend’s shit, and it felt unfair.”

You gestured to him. “You got caught up in my ex best friend and my ex-boyfriend’s shit, so arguably, I should be paying for this.”

“But I already paid.”

“So let’s go out for a drink sometime.” You shrugged. “I wanted to get wasted and forget about this anyway, might as well take you with me.”

His grin was blinding, the kind of thing Vanessa used to giggle about when she first met him. “A little too soon to go out for drinks, huh?”

“It’s a proposition.” You laughed, shrugging. “Drinks on me. Let’s go tomorrow.”

Dick had been used to fancy hotel bars, at least whenever Bruce had thrown parties with bars included. The ones where the bartenders wore suits and ties with top shelf liqueurs.

He felt a sort of thrill when you dragged him into a bar on the corner of 6th, one with dim, flickering warm lights that clashed with blue and purple ones. The bartender wore plaid, spoke in a thick Boston accent, had an unkempt five-o’clock shadow. The bar top was wooden and chipped, and on the makeshift dance floor were plenty of drunk people grinding on each other.

“Oh, this is amazing,” He couldn’t help but smile widely, turning to you. “There are places like this in Gotham?”

“Yes, Mr Trust Fund— Scott!” You flagged down the bartender. “Can we get a round of shot roulette?”

“Sure, sweetheart.” Scott flashed you a smile, wiping down a glass before heading to set up the shot roulette.

Dick turned to you, leaning on the bar slightly, tracing the wood grain with his finger. “So, you come here often?”

You perched yourself on a barstool, prompting him to do the same. Something that sounded like 50 Cent was playing on the speakers in the corners, bass thrumming in the back of your mind. “Oh, all the time. Best place in Gotham.” The shots were slid in front of you, and you both grabbed the glass and chucked it back, both of you humming. “Huh.”

“Kind of… fruity.” He mused, staring at the shot glass, putting it down. He glanced at you through his stupidly long and pretty lashes, clearing his throat. “How did you find out that… never mind.”

You chased the alcohol down with water. “I got a photo of a girl fucking Carter.” You scoffed lightly. “I saw a tattoo on her upper thigh that I’d paid for when we were in college.”

He ran a hand through his hair, huffing. “Fuck, shit, I’m so sorry— she just came clean to me. Maybe after you found out.”

“It’s not your fault.” You said lightly, waving your hand. “It’s theirs. They couldn’t keep it in their pants, Vanessa had a great, hot guy and she lost him, so…”

He couldn’t help his soft smile. “You’re gorgeous too, you know. Carter doesn’t know what he lost.” His eyes flicked down, to your lips, then to a barely working lightbulb like a moth would. But you caught it.

Your teeth snagged your bottom lip.

Vanessa made a huge mistake.

Dick’s hand was firmly on your jaw, leaned over the centre console of his Bentley so his lips could slot easily against yours. Your hand was carding into the floppy strands of his hair, swallowing each other’s heavy breaths. His cologne was deliciously clouding your senses, the hand not on your jaw reaching behind you to grab at your ass, squeezing, teasing your bottom lip with his warm tongue. His mouth separated from yours to burn down your neck, laving your pulse, pressure on your jaw gone in favour of tugging your shirt down over one shoulder to palm your tits over your bra.

“Your apartment is,” You paused to moan quietly, tugging his hair as a keep going, “literally right there. We can — fuck — get comfy.”

He nodded into your neck, brushing your skin with his lips one more time before looking you in the eye. “Good idea.”

You couldn’t remember how you actually got into his apartment, but you did remember stripping him of his clothes and pushing him down onto his bed, unclasping your bra. He hummed, biting his lip. “I have an idea.”

“I’m all ears.” You breathed, your breathing stuttering as you ground your panties-covered pussy over his boxers-covered cock.

His hand slid over the back of your neck, encouraging you closer. “Let’s send them a photo,” He murmured, pecking your lips, his nose rubbing against yours. “You know. Revenge.”

Your hand was already scrambling for your phone, switching to selfie mode just as he smashed his lips to yours, your thumb hitting the circular button and taking the photo. “Good?”

“Yeah, fuck, that’s hot,” He nodded, tugging you so he could kiss you, middle finger reaching down to rub at your entrance over your panties. “You’re soaked, shit, sweetheart,” He reached up and tugged, sliding down the lace covering your pussy with his pointer until they slipped off, lazily chucking your panties into the corner of his room. “C’mere.” He grabbed your hips and pulled you till your pussy was right above his mouth.

Wait what— fuck.

His mouth wrapped around your clit as two fingers pushed into your cunt, practically sucking his fingers in, dear God. Your head fell back, mouth dropping open as a surprised moan left you, hand shooting to grip his hair. He groaned, deep in his throat, other hand pressing on the small of your back to encourage you to grind your clit on his tongue that was circling and pressing on your clit.

“O—Oh, Dick—”

“Yeah, that’s right, give it to me, baby.” He moaned, yanking his fingers out, and just before you could protest at the loss of anything filling your aching pussy, he thrusted his tongue into you, flicking at your clit with his thumb, his nose bumping occasionally against you. The taste of you on his tongue made him want to sing your praises, but it came out muffled, the vibrations making your hips twitch and eyes roll back.

Repeated cries of “yes” punctuated by your broken moans fuelled his ego and his already painfully hard dick. With your walls fluttering around his tongue fucking into you, he’d say you were fairly close.

A lot of things were going through your head. Like how this was a stellar pussy eating. How Carter refused to let any part of his face touch your vagina. How Dick was so willing and drinking your arousal up like it was the gods’ nectar.

You were coming on his tongue soon enough, pulling at his hair to make him moan and lap at your cunt faster, slicking his lips and chin.

A minute later, he was still kitten licking you clean, and as much as the stimulation made you stroke his hair and whisper praise, you needed to get a move on. So you pulled yourself away from his mouth, pulling down his boxers while he whined and pawed at your hips to try and bring you back.

“M’ not done— fuuuuck,” His head dropped back into the pillows, giving way for the weight, as you sank down onto his waiting cock. Your warm walls wrapping around him, making his head spin before he snapped into reality. His hands took hold of your hips again, helping you move on him, thumbs kneading your skin as you dragged up and down his dick.

He hadn’t felt like this before. Your lips were on his neck, leaving kiss prints on his skin, from his chest to his jaw and around his lips. Raising your phone and clicking a photo of his fucked-out grin as you rode him, thumb hovering over send to Vanessa.

“You ok with this?” Your voice was uncharacteristically soft, circumstantially breathy, your nails raking down his abs and making him shiver.

He grabbed the phone, pressed send himself, propping himself up so he could take one of your tits into his mouth, sucking to stifle his shamelessly loud moans. Wasn’t working. “Mhm— ride my fucking dick, gorgeous,” He gasped between switching to your other tit, laving over your skin with his tongue. “Just like that, so perfect, honey.”

His mouth running away with him told you he was close, his thumb reaching to rub circles on your clit propelled you that much further, but you refused to come twice before he had even once, so you pulled his head away from your tits, bit his earlobe and sucked a mark behind his ear.

He shuddered and groaned your name, hot come spilling into you — morning after pill, here we come — and the twitch of his cock sent you straight after him, his mouth slamming sloppy into yours, gripping the back of his neck while his tongue slid over your lower lip and his lips following straight after.

You milked him for all he had, until you were both panting and he was staring up at you through his lashes like he wanted to fuck you on all fours. “Wanna go again?”

“We’ve got time.”

carter -> you carter : c'mon, baby, let's talk about it you know i love you she didn't mean anything i swear i can't live without you sweets you : she's busy. carter : doing what???? who is this ??? you : fucking me. it's dick, btw ;) carter : vanessa's ex? you piece of shit give the phone back to her [ blocked ]

vanessa -> dick vanessa : you're really gonna throw years away for that bitch ?you're mine i want you back let's talk about this i miss you so bad we can go to couples counselling, work on our problems together you weren't really fulfilling my needs, i had to look out for myself dick : for a guy who wasn't 'fulfilling your needs' nessie he sure was fulfilling mine vanessa : youre such a bitch to think you were my best friend fucking my EX ??? could you go any lower ?? dick : *you're vanessa : UGH

© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : SRENIQUE. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.

[hermesays]

Portrait of Us

Jing Yuan x f!reader

Summary: Jing Yuan, otherwise known as the dozing general, wouldn't have imagined meeting you — someone pretending to be infatuated with him, on his casual stroll. What started out as a friendship dressed in comfort soon evolved further until the news of his marriage shook the Xianzhou fleet. Essentially, married and domestic Jing Yuan. Vibes: Found family (+ Yanqing!), hurt/comfort, fluff Wordcount: 5.5k

⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆ Falling like the stars - James Arthur / Sienna - The Marias

Xianzhou Luofu’s Arbiter General was a man of many names. He was called the optimistic general due to his serene and bright demeanor. At other times, he had been referred to as the divine foresight, due to his exceptional talent in utilization and analysis of military strategies. The cloud knights who had worked closely with him would occasionally address him as the dozing general — arguably the white hair man’s most prominent unofficial title, besides being the most eligible bachelor in Xianzhou Luofu. 

Thus, Jing Yuan’s marriage was news that shook the whole Xianzhou’s fleet citizens awake. A majority of the unwed ladies were heartbroken that they hadn’t been the one to recite the eternal oath of marriage with the general. Whereas Jing Yuan’s direct subordinates were all ecstatic. They had seen the back of their general remain strong and steadfast centuries after centuries, it was appropriate for the general to also have somebody he could call home. 

His love was rooted back to his first meeting with you — perhaps back then he hadn’t been aware that such a sliver of amusement could grow into such a vehement emotion and adornance for you. The day he met you for the very first time was a mundane day like any other. Jing Yuan had been by his desk all morning, verifying and devising preventative measures for the tranquility of Xianzhou. For every dawn that signified the start of yet a brand new day, the documents on the general’s desk always seemed to pile up taller than the day before. Halfway through the paperwork, Jing Yuan rested the quill he had signed the documents with, and rested the lid of his eyes momentarily. The knights and administrator staffs all shifted at the general’s antic — it was the start of something they had dreaded yet was prepared for everyday. 

For Jing Yuan, the seat of divine foresight that was located in the exalting sanctum was a massive hall. It was massive yet there was a heaviness that made the space feel all too small. And what would be better than to enjoy a moment to stroll around nature in order to recuperate his weariness? Call it a change of view.

As he stood up, the entire room's focus shifted onto the renowned man. “General, we still have quite a few documents to review.” One of the advisors had boldly announced. It was a futile attempt to stall for Jing Yuan’s leave, after all who in Xianzhou had not heard of the infamous dozing general. 

“I’ll leave that for you to review in accordance with the current protocol. As of now, there is an urgent assessment of nature I need to conduct.” The general’s subordinates simply exhaled in resignation. Despite the eloquence of his words, the sentence held a different meaning. It was Jing Yuan’s way of stating that he was off to bask in nature and feed the wild life he had grown to adore, or that it was time for a tea and a nap — both needs could be applicable simultaneously. 

Jing Yuan exited the grand gate of the seat of divine foresight. A few guards stationed to guard the gate bowed at the sight of the general, Jing Yuan merely gave them a pat on their shoulder and a tiny smile. The sky was bright and particularly clear on that day, not many clouds were in sight yet the wind still managed to breeze enough comfort for the skin. It was a waste to sit and be occupied by documents all day long when the weather was such a treat. He knew just where to go — a recent favorite of his, the newly opened teahouse on Aurum Alley. 

The staff of the tea house halted their movements when their gaze landed on the infamous general. In a haste, the staff led the general down to a private room which was connected to the teahouse’s very own outdoor garden. While he was on his way to the room, the sound of bickering caught his attention. Jing Yuan shortened his stride, the momentum at which his feet touched the ground was drawn out. His steps now had a linger. 

He found himself fixating on the direction to which the sound came from. The intricate pattern of the traditional partition door was only partially slided, Jing Yuan took the opportunity to wander his gaze towards the source of his curiosity. 

“Regardless of what my parents had said, I’ve told you from the start that I’m not interested in starting and getting into a relationship with you.” You took a few sips from the steaming cup of tea, eyelashes fluttered at the aromatic flavor and warmth that glided down your throat. The tea was delightful unlike the company you shared.

In his frequent strolls, Jing Yuan had never encountered you before. However, he recognized the man sitting across from you — the guy was a son of a reputable merchant, with a little prestige embedded in his name. 

“If you could just tell me your preference, I’d try my best to accommodate myself.” 

You softly exhaled, brows furrowed at the resilience of the man before you. You had told your family to stop meddling in your affair and they in return had promised that this would be the last time. Who would have predicted that they’d find a persistent guy who had ignored every rejection you had thrown at him. 

Out of all the methods tested and tried, you truly didn’t want to yield to this last resort which Tingyun had advised you on. Sliding your hand over your left sleeve, you pulled out a photograph — one you had bought simply because Tingyun insisted that it was as good as an evidence to help you flee from your current admirer. She had also discounted the photograph heavily for the sake of your friendship. 

“I prefer a man like the general.” You laid the image of the divine foresight out on the table filled with traditional small bites. “The general has all of the characteristics I ever desire in a man.” Call it a stereotype, nevertheless, it was true that the general infiltrated the daydreams of ladies and gentlemen alike across the Luofu fleet. According to Tingyun, everyone had a Jing-Yuan-phase before. You didn’t know what the hell that was about, but if it could bring you away from this unprecedented situation, you’d happily jump into the craze. 

The man in front of you frowned, his face crestfallen for the first time. “But that’s unfair.” He wanted to say more, his mouth agape, trying to find one way in which he best the general. To no avail, the general was the epitome of picture perfect. 

“Well, you did ask.” 

Jing Yuan was conscious of the circulation of his pictures in the market. He was aware that a certain foxian trailed behind him on some days, a camera in her hand. In all the centuries he had lived, he however, had never been bestowed such a sight.  A lady rejecting a prominent man simply because she preferred him? It was full of lies. Yet, the general’s golden hues gleamed in mirth. 

You carefully stood up from the cushion, a hand on your traditional drawstring bag. When the man figured that you were about to leave, he stood up abruptly, knocking the cups of tea that sat stationarily. Water spilled across the table and you narrowed your eyes at the man. 

“May this meeting be our last.” If you had stood up a second later, you would have noticed the shadow cast upon Jing Yuan’s figure which was reflected on the partition door. Meanwhile, Jing Yuan, sharp as ever, foresaw the man’s movement. The man was about to sink his claws onto your wrist the moment you took your glances off him and towards the exit. 

CLACK! Jing Yuan slammed the partition door open, a courteous smile etched in his feature. As if shocked in time, the man and you were frozen altogether. The man weakly withdrew his arm to himself at the sight of the general. 

“If you do not mind, may I steal the lady’s presence? I am in a terrible need for a company.” Jing Yuan held his hand out towards you. You stared at it, wondering how much the man had heard. 

“Of course, g-general!” The man profusely bowed repetitively at a sharp ninety degree angle. He didn’t dare go against the general’s words. In the first place, he had never seen you or the general interact at all! He wouldn’t have known of your relationship with such a powerful individual. 

You accepted Jing Yuan’s hand and you noted that it was warm. Slightly larger, yes, but also rough to the touch. Fortunately for you, Jing Yuan’s presence alone was enough to quell the man away. He stole a look at the portrait of him to which you had left on the table. “Are you not taking the picture with you?” 

You chewed on the bottom of your lip, embarrassment raked up your body towards the flush of your cheek. Tingyun hadn’t mentioned that buying a picture of the general would warrant his presence. 

“It is a misunderstanding, general.” Clearing your throat, you clenched at his hand tighter — a silent plea to drop the topic. Jing Yuan chuckled, the soft timbre of his voice echoed onto your ears in a ripple, as if carried by the wind themselves. 

You hadn’t known him at all, and there was no way he would recognize every common citizen of no importance in the fleet. Within a while, you had assembled the pieces together. The general barged in to offer you a way out of the uncomfortable situation you were under. 

“Thank you for the help, general. Although, I do have it under control.” You didn’t know whether it was the contrast between the armor he wore or the gentle nature to his silhouette, but for a while, it seemed you understood why so many maidens had fallen to a phase of infatuation with the man next to you. 

“I trust you did. However, even a man like me would remain ensnared to hear such a bold confession.” Unconsciously, you squeezed his hand tighter — having realized your action a tad bit too late after you had committed the disrespect. Jing Yuan returned the deed with a light squeeze of his own, quietly leading you towards the private room reserved under his name. 

The snacks he had often inquired about settled in the center of the table. He noticed the softness of your skin — in his eyes, you likely was a young lady with a sheltered upbringing, raised to be soft but lethal, compliant yet steadfast to your own standard. 

“General, you’re mistaken.” He noted the redness of your cheek, the redness had diffused all the way to your ears. Something was not quite right, a tiny detail needed appropriate fixing. 

“Jing Yuan.” He pronounced his name slowly, his sharp gaze locked on your lips, awaiting for his name to be tainted upon your tongue. Jing Yuan didn’t like how you had referred to him by his title all this time. Even as you vouch your admiration for him to the guy before, you had refused to call him by his name. 

“Pardon?” You set your eyes on the expectant general. You had to tilt your face upwards in order to truly lock into his orbs. 

You had let go of his hold, choosing to quietly settle on one of the cushions by the table. Jing Yuan hid the frown intruding his face with yet another unrecognizable smile. “I much prefer to be addressed by my name.” He settled on the opposite end of where you were sitting. Out of the sheer ridiculousness of the situation, you squinted at the general’s all too optimistic visage. 

“It’s not what it seems like, Jing Yuan.” His eyelids dropped at the sprinkle of familiarity, the muscles of his face loosened. Jing Yuan leaned one arm into the table, shifting the weight of his shoulder onto said arm. He could hear you call his name all day long. There was this ease you carried yourself in, and it was contagious. It had infected him straight away, and he wasn’t sure if he’d want a cure. 

“Shall we chat over tea?” 

That was the day the man everyone had revered as the mighty general first became Jing Yuan to you. And it was the first of the endless tea sessions for the two of you. Sometimes, a few knights would knock on the general’s private room in the tea house, cutting the rendezvous short. Other times, the sky would lose its tinge. The vibrant orange hues melted into the color of twilight. 

“Same time, next week?” 

Ever so naturally, at the end of the tea party, Jing Yuan would never fail to deliver the promise of a near future. And you’d reaffirmed his promise with one of yours.

 “Same time, next week.”

The Cloud knights who were often tasked to bring the general back to his office saw the way their general lips would linger on the back of your hand a second longer than what was the norm. It was no secret that the general had gotten closer to you — a sweet stranger who had coveted the general’s time and occupied his mind entirely. 

Prior to knowing you, Jing Yuan had a multitude of reasons to flee from the divine foresight seat. It would either be something along the lines of performing a much needed assessment of the fleet surrounding, or to breathe in fresh air on such a fine day. Having met you, the general had grown rather brazen and complacent. To deliberately accentuate your presence in his every word, he’d always inform the nearby cloud knight of his meeting with you.

“I am off to enjoy tea with my dearest companion.” Who else would he refer to with such endearment if it weren’t you? Sure, the cloud knights may falter in terms of strength when compared with the general’s mighty force. But they weren’t blind. They could see how all encompassing the general’s thoughts of you was. 

“Please return by 4, sir.” Behind the general’s back, his subordinates were already placing bets on just how long until the two finally got together.  

True to their expectations, the tea o’clock that had started out spontaneously, eventually evolved into so much more. The progression started small but of significance. Initially, Jing Yuan and you would sit across one another, separated by the tiny table that felt too vast for its size. In the following weeks, Jing Yuan slowly transitioned where he sat, he’d pull the cushion over to sit adjacent to where you were, occupying half of the right angle on the table. And now, he’d always be right next to you, shoulders brushing upon one another, close enough that the sound of each other’s breath could fool for the pulse of each other’s heart. 

What came after was the slip of endearments out of his tongue. Jing Yuan was deep in his nap, the fluff of his hair rested on your lap. With how often the meeting between the two of you had been, you started bringing over business proposals you were in charge of to the space you shared. You hadn’t meant to grumble that loudly, however the issues with shipment were impacting your family’s business greatly.

Jing Yuan rustled in his sleep, cuddling further into your lap before he fluttered open an eyelid. “What’s the matter, love?” You malfunctioned for the entire day. It wasn’t so much about the word itself, it was the gravity in which Jing Yuan expressed the word. His voice hoarse after the nap, an octave lower than the usual volume he spoke in — even so, the tenderness velveted in that single word was undeniable. As if he truly believed that the word love was encapsulated in the form of you. 

You thought it’d be a one-time thing. That it was a fumble in his speech. Albeit, the endearment hadn’t ceased. In fact, it proliferated — so much that one day, you had accidentally used one on Jing Yuan as well. 

“Yuan? I’m sorry for being terribly late, the roads around my house was blocked, and hear me out, love. Every road I went into was blocked, I had to reroute dozens of times to get here!” You exclaimed, plopping down the traditional drawstring bag to which Jing Yuan had gotten you on the wooden floor. 

“My dear, would you repeat it for me to hear once more? The wind seemed to have stolen the melodies of your voice.” You looked at the man in front of you, despite spending an hour by himself, he had appeared radiant with joy. The curves of his lips were testament to the spirits of glee that had taken over his feature. The man wasn’t simply smiling with his lips, his eyes were that of a half crescent moon, the crease on the edge apparent with the rise of his cheeks. 

Oh… the realization struck while you retraced back on your own words. For the remainder of the day, Jing Yuan tried his best to bait you into saying the words of endearment again. He successfully extracted another two from you that day. 

Ever so naturally, the degree of your relationship with the infamous general escalated by the day. The thought of dating hadn’t even crossed Jing Yuan’s mind, he knew what the both of you had, was one for eternity. Without your knowledge, he had gotten your family’s approval and had a custom ring made of the finest jewels for you. The proposal itself wasn’t loud, it was the kind of proposal that involved more sincerity and intimacy — exactly how Jing Yuan was like. 

Jing Yuan knelt down, not in the conventional way in which proposals were done. Both of his knees kissed the cold lamination of the woods, he delivered soft kisses before holding your right hand to his forehead. Jing Yuan glanced upwards, the confusion palpable in your irises. 

“For all the years graced upon me, I had seen seasons pass. I had witnessed the end and birth of eras. I’ve come to know the joy of having companions in the battlefield — companions you would call family. And I have come to learn the despair of having lost it all. The passage of time may be cruel to us. However, regardless of what the future entails. I could not imagine a future where you were not there. Therefore, please do me the honor of being yours eternally.” Jing Yuan pulled out the ring he had hidden and you would have thought that today was a feverdream, until you pinched yourself on your side and the pain bit back harder than expected. 

Vehemently, you nodded. Words couldn’t seem to formulate in your mind, instead you cried — tears of happiness, as others had often coined it for. Jing Yuan slipped the ring onto your finger, his strong arms already on the side of your waist, picking you up in ease and spinning you around. 

Once the aftermath had briefly settled, you were now deep in his embrace. The two of you settled comfortably, with Jing Yuan resting his back on the wall of the room. 

“I kind of want to be yours, like right now.” You said, it was a blurt of the moment, the rush that had run and exploded in your veins. 

“The wedding will be in a few months my love, can’t you bear any longer?”

“No can do.” Jing Yuan chuckled, that impatience of yours was another quality of you that he had adored. 

“Shall we register our marriage then?”

The two of you eloped that day. Your family in disbelief with how impatient you were, and also at how lenient Jing Yuan was with your demand. Despite being formally married, there were still traditional ceremonies to follow through. Both of you abided by the rest of the processes dutifully. Jing Yuan’s elopement was kept a secret with the news of the fairy tale like wedding only being officiated on the day of the wedding reception itself. 

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Having lasted for fifty years now, the general’s marriage was the envy of many men. Jing Yuan had heard of his subordinates' household stories, how they were scolded by their wives numerous times and how often they had fought due to menial issues. When questioned whether the general faced these ordinary issues as well, Jing Yuan simply tilted his head sideways — as if he found it hard to believe.

According to Jing Yuan, his everyday life as a married man was sweet and decadent. He had never had fights which escalated to an outrageous confrontation. Most of the time, it would be his wife expressing worry about the mission he was sent to — and that would be the extent of their crisis. Although lately, Jing Yuan had noticed something amiss from you. 

While Jing Yuan had been more than content with the peace of your daily life together, there was a single factor you had dwelled upon more as of late. You wanted to expand your little family. The two of you had gotten approval to have a child from the ruling commission. Although you hadn’t been successful.

The arrival of the doctor’s letters was the final nail to the coffin. You slumped down next to the couch, hands gripped on the piece of paper, crumpling it so tight you wished the words would dissipate into falsehood. As soon as he stepped into the house he shared with the love of his life, Jing Yuan knew something was ajar. He called your name but the only sound that responded was the echo of his own. 

Jing Yuan dropped the newest tea leaves he had picked up especially for you. Frantic thoughts ran into his mind as he flicked the button of lights on, his eyes searched for your figure. There you were, all slumped up, your back against the armrest of the couch, your hair covered the entirety of your face, and Jing Yuan could see the way you had both palms covering your face. 

He dropped down onto his knees, hesitantly wrapping his hands on your wrist, pulling one arm at a time to unveil the state of your face. Jing Yuan softly collected your hair, tucking each strand to the side. Tears were rimmed on the edges of your eyes, the skin on your face had gotten sticky from the incessant tears, and your lips had gotten puffy, He hadn’t question why you were in such a distress, instead Jing Yuan rubbed away the tears threatening to fall yet again with his thumb, delicately tracing over your skin. He noted that your nose was red and filled with snot. 

Jing Yuan turned away, intending to bring the box of tissue situated by the table to your side. You clung into the tassel he had always worn by his side. “I c-can’t give you a child, Yuan.” Jing Yuan looked at you, your lips trembled and you gasped for air, all while the tears flowed down your neck. 

“All this time, it was me.” Your body heaved for air, breathing had become a struggle when snots formed on your nose and your body refused to accept the news that was now your reality. The sound of your wail for a child that would never come to be was the mighty general’s breaking point. 

“Don’t say that.” You hadn’t heard him, the sound of your cries had drowned every sound that came after. But you could feel him, the way his fingers had steadfastly captured the rivulets that had streamed down your face. 

“Don’t make it sound like you are the problem.” 

“I am, Yuan. This is all me.” Jing Yuan cradled you into his hold, your arms — as a form of habit, wrapped against his neck and your face cuddled into the snug of his comfort. 

“I married you for nothing else but love. Everything I had always wished for was for your health and happiness. With or without a child, I love you all the same.” He didn’t need anything else as long as you were by his side, and if it hadn’t been clear enough to you, Jing Yuan deemed it as his fault. He should have loved you loud and clear. 

“You won’t ever be a father.”

“Being your husband has been the greatest grace in my life.” Gently, he sent soothing strokes down your hair. After such a ferocious cry, he expected you’d find such a touch pleasant for the pounding on your mind. 

“I wanted a child who resembled you.” A child who would be a mix of you and him, you had dreamed of it before.

“I know.” 

“We’d brave through this together.” Jing Yuan kissed the corner of your corner of your eyes that was burnt from the tears, the soreness of the ache made you drowsy. 

He cradled you in his arm, noticing that your movement had gone slack and a steady rhythm now moved your chest. You had fallen asleep, surely you must have been tired from all the tears and grief you had gone to spill. Was that why you had been odd lately? You must have some degree of suspicion in regard to your fertility issue and the doctor’s letter was the storm the apex which resulted your distress. 

Jing Yuan carried your body into the master bedroom you both shared. After he had laid and tucked you underneath the blanket, he pressed a kiss down your forehead. 

“You have me, for eternity.”

Time continued to flow. Sometimes, it felt as if it were going too fast. And on some days, time felt especially slow. Yet time has always been a constant force of nature. Your desire for a little family hadn’t gone with time, there were still days where you’d cry in Jing Yuan’s arms. But there were better days, days where everything was okay as long as he was there with you. The same applied to Jing Yuan. A part of you was apologetic for letting him shoulder your burden alongside with Luofu, however Jing Yuan had smiled it off. “There will never be me, or you. Only us.”

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

On a day where Jing Yuan was dispatched to yet another battle, the sky was crying. Jing Yuan flinched, the sight after a battle had never been pleasant, not even when you had lived as long as he had. A cry broke the dread that was impending on him, Jing Yuan’s vision snapped to the source of the sound. Hidden under the deceased body of a soldier was a baby boy. He didn’t know what had gotten over him then, but Jing Yuan decided to bring the boy back to his home. War and battles had always been filled with the loss of another comrade in expense of victory, this was the only time he ever truly returned with a life gained.

The sight of your beloved, with streaks of blood on his armor and his hands wrapped upon the tiny bundle in a blanket, was unexpected. 

“I found him on the battlefield, and it’s just- could I-” Jing Yuan hadn’t brought the little boy to play family with you, he had developed a unique bond with the sole survivor of the battlefield. In a way, the little baby reminded him of himself — of how he had been the only survivor from the the high-cloud quintet. 

“Together. We’ll raise him together.” You embraced the two jewels of your life, ensuring that you were cautious enough with the baby who would later be called Yanqing. That night, you had drafted your husband a warm bath while he ran to the nearest store to pick up items a baby would require. 

You rocked the little body to sleep while feeding the boy formulated milk through a sippy cup Jing Yuan had bought. Motherhood was a distant dream of yours in the past, but now that you were faced with a child, you were anxious at every detail. Had the ratio of formulated milk powder to water been right? Was the water too warm? The thoughts diminished as Jing Yuan stepped into your shared bedroom, fatigue laced the silhouette of his features. 

Jing Yuan melted into your touch almost immediately. His face was buried on the crook of your neck, and you patted his back, noticing that his hair was still slightly damp from the shower. To be the general was to be a flawless figure, revered for strength. You allowed him to be weak. 

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

With Yanqing’s appearance, time passed by swiftly like the breeze of one season onto another. You took on Tingyun’s hobby, snapping pictures of your little family every time you could. The walls of your home that had been bare once, were filled with portraits you had hung up. You remembered Yanqing’s first step, how his little body had wobbled left and right before falling into a cushion Jing Yuan had set up. The little boy had picked up a toy sword as soon as he could run around, he’d always be chasing after Jing Yuan with his toy sword. 

“Ma, am I allowed to get an actual sword now?” You froze. In the years you had raised the little boy, you had always ensured that he called you by your name — after all, you didn’t want to lie to him. 

“What do Yuan have to say about it?” Surely, you must have heard wrong. That it was a slip of his tongue. 

“That I should ask you, ma.” Yanqing replied, he was aware of what he had called you. For a while now, he had been wanting to call you his mother. He learnt from a book that a mother was someone who would raise children with love — would that not be you?

Emotions choked on your throat and you could simply nod vehemently at the boy’s request. But that hadn’t been the end of it. During one fine day, you had stayed at Aurum Alley later than you’d like due to the expansion of the family business you inherited. As you swung the door of your house open, Yanqing and Jing Yuan stood there with a huge smile on their faces and a giant bouquet on their hands.

“Happy Mother's day!” Yanqing exclaimed, the smile on his face quickly fell the moment he saw droplets of liquid trickled down your face. You’d remember that day for the rest of your life — Yanqing had panicked so hard that he ran around the house looking for a cloth to wipe your tears with, and Jing Yuan had led you into the house, fingers entangled with one another. 

Once every other day, you’d sit on the patio while Jing Yuan trained Yanqing. Jing Yuan would saunter over to steal a place in your lap. 

“Yanqing’s developing your habits, my dear. The boy is impatient and highly ambitious.” Jing Yuan said with a sigh, although the hint of adoration was palpable. 

You ruffled your husband’s hair, fingers tenderly massaging his scalp — just how he liked it. “I’d say, he’s more like you, the two of you smile the same.” 

“He’s ours, isn’t he?”

“Our miracle baby.” You confirmed. Once dusk had begun to engulf the golden sky, Jing Yuan would carry an exhausted Yanqing home — the boy had fallen asleep after the intense training, and you’d walk right next to them, Jing Yuan’s fingers always entangled in yours. 

── ⋆⋅𖤓⋅⋆ ──

Even after years had passed, your family remained the same. Ever so loving, ever so precious. Jing Yuan was still known as the dozing general. Today, in particular, was such a blissful day, clouds had mostly halted the scorching ray. While on one of his casual escapes, he saw you sleeping against the trunk of a tree — guards were stationed a distance away to not perturb your sleep. 

As the dozing general, he couldn’t miss such a perfect opportunity to laze. He sat himself next to you, beckoning your head to rest on his shoulder, and his would rest on top of your head. Sleep came to him in an instant, you were his home after all. 

Yanqing caught sight of his parents not long after, both serene in their sleep, both tired from carrying the world on their shoulders. He was on his way to train, but just today, a short rest would do him good. Yanqing positioned himself to your left, leaning into your shoulder. Sleep came to him as easy as it did with Jing Yuan. 

CLICK! CLICK! Hiding amidst the bushes was Tingyun and her camera. She had captured the family’s intimate moment — the citizens of Luofu would surely feast to see such a domestic sight! As she was about to flee, Jing Yuan cleared his throat, his eyes were still shut tight. 

“How much would it be to own the exclusive rights to my family’s portrait?” 

Tingyun smirked, she could imagined the sound of credits cashing into her bank. “Well, if it isn’t the generous general. How much would you be willing to offer?” 

A/n: It ended up being longer than I thought. Hope you guys enjoyed it! Reblogs, comments, and likes are always appreciated ᥫ᭡

© Hermesays .☘︎ ݁˖ masterlist ۶۟ৎ Please do not replicate, plagiarize, or feed to AI.

[preet-y]

a new batch in the oven...

love (?)

a Dick Grayson x fem!reader story

contents: Dick Grayson is the CFO of Wayne Enterprises, reader is his personal assistant. slight black cat x golden retriever dynamic. small coastal town. fake relationship.

Reader lives a comfortable life in Gotham. A good job, a good boss, a good apartment... there isn't much else she could wish for. And she wouldn't trade that comfort for anything. Not for the spark that lit up under her skin every time her boss would brush past her, nor for the promise of a heart-throbbing romance that under toned their every interaction. Who needed romance anyway? When summer arrives, with it comes the promise of sunny beaches in the coastal town she grew up in, the impending wedding of her sister, and reminders of a bad break up.... and oddly enough, a certain Dick Grayson right beside her too. Can a tattered heart learn to love again?

THIS DESSERT TRAY CONTAINS 𓆝 prologue 𓆟 I 𓆞 II 𓆝 III 𓆟 IV 𓆞 V 𓆟 V.I 𓆝 VI

© 2026 preet-y. all rights reserved. DO NOT plagiarise, steal, translate

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Quiet Claim

My two puppies 😝😝😝😝

Roommate Valko/ Boyfriend Caleb

#FreeValko

The scent of the apartment hit him before he even reached the door.

That was always how it worked. Valko would clear the front door, shift his bag on his shoulder, and without thinking—without even meaning to—his chest would expand, pulling in everything. The sharp bite of the laundry detergent you both used, the faint trace of the citrus dish soap from the morning’s coffee mugs. The ghost of whatever you'd cooked that morning. And underneath all of it, quiet and constant and unbearably familiar, the warm specific sweetness of you.

Two years of this. Two years and it still stopped him on his tracks every single time.

To anyone who shared a class with him, Valko was the guy with half rimmed glasses, soft sweaters, neckband headphones around his collar like he'd forgotten they were there, a battered copy of whatever textbook he was working through dog eared on his desk. He took meticulous notes in handwriting that was almost too neat.

He called his mother every Sunday without fail, usually from the kitchen while something was already on the stove. He brought back containers of homemade food after weekend visits home and left them in the fridge with little labeled lids because he knew you'd forget to eat otherwise.

He was, by every reasonable measure, a gentle giant with a soft spot for his family and an embarrassing weakness for old equipment manuals.

The wolf underneath all of that was another matter entirely.

He'd stopped trying to logic his way out of it somewhere around month six of your lease. The obsession had settled into him quietly, the way water finds the shape of whatever holds it—gradual, total, and by the time he noticed, already everywhere. He loved the way you laughed when he miscalculated a doorframe carrying furniture. He loved that you used his arm like a headrest when you were tired without seeming to notice you were doing it. He loved that you trusted him with the small, unglamorous parts of your life—the bad days, the grocery runs at midnight, the moments when you needed someone solid nearby without having to explain why.

He told himself it was just closeness. That it was natural, living with someone this long. That plenty of people felt this way about their roommates.

He was lying to himself and he knew it.

You never noticed the small things. That was the part that made it simultaneously easier and worse.

You didn't notice the way his jaw tightened every time you mentioned Caleb's name in passing. You didn't notice that when he draped his coat over your shoulders on cold nights, he always took a moment longer than necessary to settle it there, his hands resting briefly on your shoulders, his nose dipping almost imperceptibly toward your hair. You didn't notice the way his whole body oriented toward you when you moved through a room, like a plant turns toward a window without deciding to.

Two years of this and you'd noticed none of it.

Caleb, though. Caleb was a different kind of problem.

The name sat wrong in Valko's mouth every time he heard it. Your boyfriend. The pilot stationed out in Skyhaven, the one who'd existed in Valko's life as nothing more than a name and a reason you packed a bag every other weekend. You always went to him. A wave from the doorway, a small oveñnight bag, the shuttle to Skyhaven. Back by Sunday night, sometimes Monday morning if the transit ran slow.

Two years, and Valko had never once seen him. Fine. He could work with that.

What he couldn't work with was the scent. Or rather, the complete absence of it.

It defied every instinct he had. A man who kept a woman—who spent weekends with her, who held her hand and her body—should leave something behind. It was a biological fact, not a sentiment. Every time you came home from Skyhaven, Valko would brace for it. Would stand in the hallway with his teeth ground together preparing to smell another man all over you.

Every single time, there was nothing.

Just you. Clean and warm, like you'd spent the weekend alone in a hotel and not with someone who was supposed to love you. No territorial overlap. No claim. Nothing.

It didn't reassure him. It made him furious. A man who loved you would mark you without even trying—it would just happen, the natural consequence of closeness and time. The fact that it hadn't happened said something.

He doesn't know what he has.

Since Caleb clearly wasn't going to handle it, Valko had decided— without discussing it with anyone, including himself—to handle it instead.

It had started small. Sitting on your side of the couch when you were out because "the lamp was better over there". Leaning in your doorframe a beat longer than necessary. Gradually, the apartment had become his in ways that only his own nose could confirm. Your throw blanket carried him now. The pillow on the left side of your bed—your side—carried him. He'd lie across your mattress on the afternoons you were in seminar, shoulders rolling slow against the sheets, transferring the scent from the back of his neck and the inside of his wrists onto everything you'd touch when you slept.

He wanted to be the reason the room felt safe to you, even if you'd never know why.

The laundry had come later. He'd started folding yours without being asked because it was a practical thing to do, a completely normal roommate thing—and if his hands slowed over certain items, if he stood in the laundry room for longer than strictly necessary with warm shirts pressed to his face, that was between him and the four walls.

He wasn't proud of the drawer.

Your scent there was undiluted, something the rest of the apartment couldn't match—private, concentrated, intimate. The first time he'd opened it he'd been looking for your spare key. He'd stood there for a long time, glasses pushed up into his hair, one hand braced on your dresser, taking slow careful breaths and trying to remember what reasonable behavior felt like.

He'd gone back to his room. He'd thought about you.

He'd told himself it would clear his head.

It had not cleared his head.

Two days ago he stood in front of your closet with his heart going faster than he wanted to admit.

You'd been out getting groceries. His hand moved through your dirty clothes on autopilot, past the jeans, past the sweaters, until his fingers closed around silk.

Soft. Warm from being buried against other fabric. Almost nothing against the width of his palm.

He lifted them to his face before he'd fully decided to.

There was your scent, the core of it. He stood there breathing it in with his eyes closed and his chest heaving, and then, he searched. Every thread. Looking for any trace of another man underneath yours.

Nothing. Just you. Entirely unmarked you.

The growl that came out of him was low enough that only he could hear it.

Something about that absence sent a rush of heat down his spine that he wasn't prepared for. His back had found the closet wall.

He couldn't stop himself.

One hand kept the silk pressed to his face. The other worked fast around his cock, his jaw tight, breathing controlled through sheer habit. He'd imagined you beneath him, his weight pinning you into the mattress, his teeth finding the curve of your shoulder, his scent finally, permanently replacing the nothing that Caleb had left behind. When he came it was blinding and quiet, his head dropping back, his whole body shaking with the force of it.

He'd cleaned up carefully. Returned everything. Walked to the kitchen and put the kettle on like a normal person.

He was a patient man. He was methodical. He had excellent grades and he called his mother on Sundays and he was going to wait for the right moment. But the conclusion had already been reached, somewhere in the back of his skull where logic and instinct lived side by side.

He was going to take you. It was a matter of time. He was just waiting for the right moment to show you that a real man didn't leave his woman smelling like an empty room.

--------------------------

The July heat was suffocating. Valko had been inside an exam room for two hours and his brain felt wrung out like a dish cloth. His glasses had fogged twice on the walk from campus, he was looking forward to the AC. He was looking forward to you.

It was a Friday so he'd stopped at the bakery on the corner. Two cinnamon rolls, extra cream cheese frosting. He had them in a plastic bag hooked over two fingers.

He reached the door and stopped. His nose twitched.

The scent of the hallway was wrong. Not dangerous, just wrong.

Valko's brow creased. He put his glasses back on.

He unlocked the door slowly, the click of the mechanism very loud in the quiet hallway, and pushed it open.

The air inside hit him all at once.

He stopped moving. His hand stayed on the doorknob, grip tightening by degrees until the metal pressed hard into his palm, and he stood in the entryway and looked at his living room like a man trying to solve a problem he hadn't been told existed.

There was someone on the couch.

Long legs stretched toward the coffee table. Dark tactical jacket, sleeves pushed up, the kind of build that came from actual use rather than a gym.

And tucked against his side, head on his chest, hand flat against his collarbone—

You. Laughing at something he'd just said.

Caleb.

Valko's mind was still trying to catch up. His instincts weren't waiting.

The heat that moved through him was immediate, flooding from his chest out, his vision sharpening at the edges the way it did when something in him decided a situation required full attention. His breathing stayed controlled—barely, through discipline and nothing else—while every animal thing in him was screaming to move forward. To put himself between you and the man currently comfortable in a space he had no right to be comfortable in.

My couch. The thought was irrational and he knew it and it didn't help. My apartment. My—

As if feeling the shift in the room, Caleb's head turned.

His eyes found Valko's across the space with a directness that said he'd known someone was there before the door finished opening. Dark eyes, calm, taking in Valko's full height and the white knuckled grip on the doorframe.

He didn't look away.

Neither did Valko.

You sat up, something lighting in your face when you saw him. "You're home early." You smiled, easy and warm, completely unaware of the temperature of the room. "Valko, this is my boyfriend Caleb. Caleb, this is my roommate, Valko."

Caleb stood up and extended his hand. He was tall—nearly matching Valko’s height—but where Valko was built like an immovable wall of muscle, Caleb possessed the lethal, agile grace of a feline.

Valko crossed the room and took it.

"Good to meet you," Caleb said. Flat. Even.

And the bottom dropped out of everything he thought he understood.

The scent hit him the second their palms connected, not foreign, not the aggressive territorial brand of another man he'd been grinding his teeth against for two years. It was you—your exact scent, the one Valko had spent two years cataloguing down to its smallest note—but run through something else entirely. Deeper. Heavier. Amplified through the biology of a dominant male until it had become its own thing, something that pressed into Valko's lungs like a hand against his sternum and didn't let up.

Caleb smelled like you the way a home smelled like the people who lived in it.

Two people did not share the same biological signature. That was not how any of this worked. Unless—

His brain didn't finish the thought. His body had already moved on without him.

The heat he felt all over his body was not aggression. That was the part that made no sense, the part that his wolf had no framework for because this wasn't a territorial response. This wasn't the hot, focused anger he'd been bracing for every time he imagined finally meeting the man who had you. This was something strange and considerably more humiliating, a frequency he hadn't known he could receive, vibrating straight through the bones of his hand where Caleb's grip still held.

His cock hardened so fast his vision went momentarily white at the edges.

He couldn't stop it. Couldn't reason with it. Two years of wanting you, of your scent living in the back of his throat like something he'd swallowed and never fully digested—and now here was this man, wearing you like a second skin, your sweetness wound so completely through his scent that Valko couldn't separate the two. Couldn't find where you ended and Caleb began.

It was the most overwhelming thing he had ever experienced. His knees felt weak.

Caleb's grip tightened.

His eyes hadn't moved from Valko's face. Valko watched the shift happen—the smile staying but changing underneath, becoming something quieter and darker. He'd clocked the pupil dilation. He'd clocked all of it.

"Something wrong?" Caleb asked

Valko could not breathe. The apartment was saturated with your/his scent and his body was making decisions he hadn't authorized, and he was going to do something catastrophic if he stayed in this room for another ten seconds. He didn't know what but he didn't want to find out.

He pulled his hand back.

"I forgot—" His voice came out completely unrecognizable. He didn't look at you. Couldn't. "The lab. I left something. I have to—"

He was already at the door. He had no memory of crossing the room.

The hallway air hit him cold and he kept walking, down the stairs, out into the July heat that suddenly felt like nothing compared to what he'd just left behind.

Behind him, the apartment door clicked shut.

Inside Caleb was still smiling.

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Also, thank you everyone. I love every single one of you.