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satorusugurugurl · 7 months ago

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Here's some funny ideas I've got while at work today; a leisure streamer gojo who'd just simply streamed himself playing games naked except for his sunglasses and briefs. Rumors had it that each time his all-time top donor was replaced, the new one would get to see him ~fully naked~.

The Leisure Streamer is a Hottie!

Summary: Rumor had it the top donor of the-strongest-streamers chats get to see him naked! Now that you're the top donor will you get to see the goods or was it just a rumor. Time will tell.

Pairing: Streamer!Gojo x FAB!Reader

Warnings: language, nudity, masturbation, mutual-masturbation, skype sex??

A/N: I fell in love with this request! ugjskdkekd I love them so much! Thank you bonnie for such a great idea!! 💚💚💚

Part Two Part Three Part Four

On Friday nights, you always ran home from your last college class, avoiding people on bikes and walking by. You often got dirty looks thrown at you or the occasional ‘watch where you're going.’ But nothing would stop your stride. Friday nights were some of your favorite nights of the week. All because the-strongest-streamer live streamed on Fridays.

And the man, god fuck, he was the hottest!

Gojo Satoru, aka the-strongest-streamer, was a leisure streamer. He played games like Animal Crossing, Dream Daddy, and fluffy feel-good games in only his boxers and sunglasses. He was among the most popular streamers, not only for his looks but also for his happy-go-lucky attitude. But because of a particular rumor that started going around.

It was said in the forms online, in his comments, and even on Twitter that every time his all-time top donor was replaced, the new one would get to join a private stream with him and see him fully naked. That was just a rumor. He had denied the allegations and made it clear that the private stream was to have a meet and greet with his top donor.

The meet and greet was why you’ve been saving money for six months. You wanted to meet the man who had brought you so much joy in the last year. You stumbled across his profile when looking through videos online. You were looking for a cute cat compilation to ease the ache in your heart after your boyfriend dumped you. Instead, you found this goofball that had you smiling like an idiot on your phone.

You had been in a dark time when you first found his videos. You wanted to express your gratitude to him. Seeing him naked was not your goal in any way, shape, or form.

The second you got home, you slid over to your laptop and pulled up Gojo’s stream. He was sprawled out in his black and blue gaming chair; blue LED lights illuminated the room. Black sunglasses reflected his computer screen as he adjusted his headset.

“Tom Nook is a scammer.” He announced as hundreds of comments flooded in. “The little shit asks me to do all this for him! After all, I have to spend my hard-earned bells on upgrading the pavers. Kiss my nicely toned ass, you bastard.” You smiled, giggling as you dreamily watched him. “Ya’ know what? Next week, we'll play Sims or something; I’d rather build a house than have Tom Nook steal all my money.”

He adjusted his sunglasses as he slipped on some frappe, the logo conveniently covered so no one knew where he was. Several comments flooded in asking what he was drinking, and most people sent in small donations. All of these were things Satoru tried to answer and thank. He may miss a couple here and there, but he tried hard to get to everyone. God, he was so down to earth.

It was all of those reasons that had you clicking the donate button, sending a total of eight hundred dollars to him. Your cute little icon of a mochi popped up on his screens, flashing while music blared. The whole scene reflected off his dark sunglasses.

“Eh?!” The white tufts of his hair flowed as he moved in, focus glued to the screen. “Whoa! Whoa! Mochi-gurl-89, thank you so much for that donation!” With a chipper chime, you took the spot as his top donor. “And it looks like you're my new top donor! Just before the stream ended! I'll have one of my admins contact you so we can do our private stream. And with this, I adore you all, until next time this is the-strongest-streamer signing off!”

The second he ended his stream, your inbox chimed with a new message. As Satoru said, it was a message from one of his admins. The message was clear; you got a thirty-minute stream, maybe more if Satoru agreed. There could be no recording of your conversation or photos, which was perfectly fine. All you wanted to do was talk. After agreeing to all those terms and signing a nondisclosure form, you were sent a link to your private stream.

You had your camera off, your cute chibi mochi avatar taking up your screen as Satoru’s room was fully displayed. With a deep breath, you shook your hands, trying to ease your nerves as a door opened on Satoru’s screen. A second later, he plopped down in his gaming chair. God, he was so handsome. Fluffy white hair and chiseled abs like he was carved from marble; he was just your type.

“Hello?” he asked, “you there, mochi-gurl-89?”

“O-Oh! Uhm, yes, hi!” He stared at the screen, frowning just a bit as he saw your avatar instead of your face.

“Here, I thought I’d be talking to a fan. Instead, it's a cute mochi ball.”

You nervously giggle before clicking a few times and turning your camera on. You felt so plain compared to him. He was incredibly sexy, and you were just an average college girl. In your opinion, there wasn’t much to see.

“Oh.” Satoru breathed out, drawing your attention back to the screen. You swear to God, you choked on your breath. Because he had taken his sunglasses off, revealing cerulean eyes behind white lashes. “Wow, you're fuckin’ hot.”

“Oh! Uhm—”

“Fuck! Sorry, did I say that out loud?” he sulked back in his chair. “I'm so sorry. I'm not one of those creeps who stalk their followers. I, I was expecting—”

“A giant ball of mochi?” The sweetness of your voice seems to have him relaxing as he realizes you didn't mind his compliment.

“Exactly.”

You cup some of your hair behind your ear, biting your lip. “Sorry to disappoint, but thank you for the compliment.”

“And thank you for the generous donation! That means a lot to me.”

“Thank you for being such a beacon of light in my life.” Did popular streamers think comments like that were cringe? “I hope that doesn’t come off creepy or weird.”

“I've had fans send me their underwear. Being a beacon of light to you is the least weirdest thing anyone has ever said to me.”

You can't help the wide, warm smile that spreads across your face. “You have no clue how happy that makes me. I went through a nasty break and the night that it happened. I found one of your—” his fingers played with the hem of his boxers. “Your stream—and you—” fingers gently lift the hem, and you focus on his face. “Uhm Gojo?” The man on your screen hums.

“Yes, mochi-gurl?”

“I—I heard about you getting naked for the private streams.” Using your hands, you shield your vision. “B-But you don't have to do that! I just wanted to talk.”

“Eh?!” peeking through your fingers, you watch the white-haired man turn red. “Naked! No! No shit fuck, I'm sorry! I'm not a perv, I swear to god.” He shields his face in his hands, grumbling some incoherent words that you can't make out.

Gojo didn't seem like the type to be a pervert, and from his reaction, it wasn't like you’d caught him fully undressing in front of you. If anything, he seemed more embarrassed than you. After gathering your thoughts, you leaned a bit closer to your screen.

“Gojo?”

His white hair flies as his head jerks up. “I-I know about the rumors! How I get nude for my private streams for my top donors, but that is nothing more than a rumor, I swear!” Your eyes widen as he stares directly at you, into your soul. “I promise you I wasn't about to do anything remotely weird.” His face is almost entirely red, and his bottom lip is between his teeth as he scans your features.

“Okay,” you tentatively begin, “then what were you doing?”

“That's the thing; it's going to sound ten times worse when I tell you what I was doing.” you motion with your hands for him to continue. “Okay, just promise you won't put me on blast or try to cancel me?” When you nod, the leisure streamer grumbles before tilting his head back. “I-I’m sorry, but you're really hot. Like super mega hot.” Thank god your room is so dark, or he could see how flushed you were. “So hot, my stupid dick decided to spot a hard-on.” He rolls his chair back just an inch, revealing the extremely hard bulge in his boxers. “I was trying to discreetly lift the waistband so you wouldn't see how hard I was.”

A string of ‘I’m sorry’ echoes on the other end of the screen. Gojo’s blue eyes focused on you, waiting to see how you reacted to the news. His shy demeanor and the bulge in his boxers have you shifting in your seat. Heat pools between your thighs. God, were you getting wet? Rubbing your thighs together, you confirmed that you were as you felt your arousal. You bite down on your inner cheek to prevent a moan from sounding.

“Hey, mochi-gurl? You're too quiet, and you look super pissed. I'm sorry.” Gojo’s voice seems to enhance your growing arousal. He sits back, cocking a brow as you peer at him with dark needy eyes through your lashes. “H-Hey you go-goo—oh fuck.” He watches as you stick your hand between your legs.

“You think I’m hot?” Your voice is so smooth, with desire.

“Y-Yeah, super hot.” Gojo follows suit, his hand reaching back down, fingertips slipping under the band of his boxers. “The hottest fuckin’ girl I've ever seen.”

Pressing your fingers against your shorts, you rub your clit in slow circles. “Gojo, you’re girlfriend won't find us doing this?” The man on the screen before you scoff, his hand sliding fully into his boxers.

“Girlfr-ahh—” his hand moved up and down, “fuuuck—what girlfriend? I-I go to the gym, hang out with my friends, and live stream.” Watching him stroke himself has you feeling feral. “Plus streaming half naked, well, let's just say girls don't like that.”

You rubbed your clit faster, “As a girl, I like it.” White brows knitted on your screen. “I like it a lot; it's so hot.” Gojo watched, head resting back against his chair as you slid your hand up your shirt, cupping your breasts, massaging yourself.

“Y-Yeah? Does your boyfriend like it?”

“I don't have one~”

Gojo growled, biting down on his lip. “Really?” He leaned back, spreading his legs apart. “Lucky me.” Pursing your lips together, you tilted your head back. “Fuck, you're so fucking hot, sweetheart.” something overcame you. A boldness you hadn’t experienced before. Taking the bottom of your T-shirt, you put it between your teeth and lifted it, revealing your bare chest to your favorite streamer. “Oooh fuck, you have the prettiest tits.” Gojo watched as your fingers moved elegantly over your skin, kneading your breast until your nipples were hard. “How rude of me, you’re showing me yours might as well show you mine.”

A choke sounds in your throat as you nearly release your T-shirt from between your teeth. Gojo had pulled his boxers down just enough to hook them underneath his balls, freeing his gorgeous cock. His cock throbbed and twitched underneath his hand as he gently began stroking it up and down. Watching him stroking himself, twisting his wrist, squeezing it just around the tip, causing his head to tilt back, and seeing that made you do something you had never done.

Gojo could hear you shuffling in the background before your screen suddenly turned, and he faced a couch. You plopped down, your shorts discarded. With his jaw dropped open, Gojo watched as you spread your legs as wide as you could in front of the camera and rubbed your fingers over your wet pussy. You had never done something like this before. Sexting, yes, but full-on masturbating in front of a stranger, this was something you never thought you would do.

“Holy, you're so wet.” his hand sped up around his cock. “God, look at you. You’re so fucking pretty.” his thumb brushed over the slit rubbing pre-cum over the tip. “God, I wanna taste you. I bet you smell fucking delicious.”

“I want to suck you off, fuck, Gojo~ fuuuck.” coding your fingers in your slick, you rub quick, fast circles around your clit, causing your legs to tremble. “Gojo~ Gojo~”

“N-No, call me Satoru, please.”

“Satoru~”

Goj—Satoru tilts his head forward, his burning gaze on you, watching you slide a finger inside your tight heat. You don't think you've ever been so aroused. Having a stranger watching you finger yourself as he jerks off had your walls clenching around your fingers. Satoru must have thought the same thing because his tip dribbles more pre-cum, his cock throbbing hard as he matches his pace with yours.

“Oh god, I'm so wet.” Slick coats your fingers as you rub your clit with your thumb. “I can't remember the last time I was this wet.”

“I can tell, god, you're soaked.” Glancing at the screen, you can see Satoru gritting his teeth. “Oh fuck, I-I’m so hard it hurts, I-I’ve never done this before. God feels so good; all my brain is thinking is, ‘dick hard, feel good.’”

The conversation dies down, replaced with whines, moans, and grunts of pleasure. Your eyes never miss each other. You both constantly look each other over, whispering each other’s names like prayers. You try to imagine how his thick, long fingers would feel inside of you instead of your own. You know that he could reach the sweet spots inside you that you loved. At the same time, Satoru imagines replacing his hand with your own while his fingers take the place of yours.

Both of you are so worked up that you find yourself dangling over the edge of an orgasm before you know it. Your legs are trembling, toes curling, while Satoru’s hand moves faster his other hand, reaching down, cupping his balls, massaging them. Both of you are lost in each other’s pleasure without even touching the other. There’s chemistry between you. Both you and Satoru can feel it through the screen.

“Oh fuck, of fuck, fuuuuck fuck!” Satoru leans closer to his screen to watch you. “Oh god, I can feel it coming; it’s gonna be a big one. Baby~ fuuuck, please tell me you’re close.”

“S-So close.” a sharp inhale of breath sounds, “Oooh fuckin’ shit, Satoru, I’m gonna cum~.”

“Oi.” your eye hazily find him, “look at me when you cum.”

That, god, that was the hottest thing anyone has ever told you. “Cummin! Oh fuck, Satoru~! Satorruu!” the screen that leaves your body almost doesn’t sound human as you squirt all over your couch. Even though your orgasm is the hardest one you’ve ever experienced, not once do your eyes leave his.

“Good girl~ good fuckin girl.” his praises leave your cunt twitching. “Oh fuck, gonna fill you up all the way. Tell me you want it. Please.”

“Yes~ Satoru, inside~ inside~!”

The veins and his neck protrude as he slams his free fist against his desk, causing his setup to shake. Ropes and ropes of white cum spurt out of his cock. The sticky substance coats his abdomen, on the top of his thighs and hand.

“Fuck~ fuck~fuuuck!” His hand continues, moving up and down his shaft, milking his cock for all that it’s worth. “Fuuuck!” he hisses out through clenched teeth.

Several seconds pass, both of you breathing heavily, recovering from your orgasms. Swallowing hard at your dry throat, you slowly pull your fingers out of you with a wince. Satoru was the next move, grabbing some tissues off his desk and cleaning himself up. You can’t help but laugh softly in the silence of cleaning yourselves.

Hearing the angelic sound leaving your mouth, Satoru focuses his blue eyes on you. “What’s got you giggly over there?” much to his disappointment, you slide your shorts back on before sitting back on the couch.

“That was one hell of a meet and greet.”

Satoru’s lets out a rough laugh.”Yeah, it sure as hell was. I think I owe you a proper meet and greet.” The streamer let out a content sigh. “Are you free tomorrow night? I’d be happy to answer any questions you may have.” he leans back, fixing his boxers.

“Think you can keep your boner down long enough for that?”

“I guess we’ll have to wait and see. I can’t make any promises that it’ll behave.”

“Huh, what if I don’t want it to behave?”

Flushed cheeks darken in color as Satoru’s mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. “Goddamn, you're so hot. Who knew some chick with a mochi avatar was going to have me stroking my cock tonight.” God, he was so cute, both physically and in personality. “Which is super cute, by the way. Did you do it yourself, or did you have an artist commission it? Because I am in dire need of some new avatar artwork for my videos.”

“I drew it myself. I’m a freelance graphic design artist.”

“You takin’ commissions right now, Miss oh-so-hot-and-talented?”

“If I get this job I want tomorrow, I might have to take a brief break. But I would make an exception for you.”

Satoru opens his mouth to say something, but there’s a knock on the door behind him. “Shit, sorry, I gotta go; I promised my roommate I would help him hook up a computer upstairs.” With one final glance in your direction, Satoru, for once, was elated over a rumor that had spread about him over the Internet. “Tomorrow same time, mochi-gurl?”

“Sounds great, Satoru.”

After bidding farewell to the exceptionally hot man, you pass out on the couch. From the excitement of getting to meet your favorite streamer to the intensity of your orgasm. The combination of those contributing factors knocked you on your ass. While your neck was stiff, falling asleep like that on the couch allowed you to get some of the best sleep in months.

You woke up refreshed and ready for your interview that morning. Satoru had put a peep in your step as you walked into the coffee shop you had an interview with. The owner wanted to develop a new logo design for the shop. One that was both warm, welcoming, and had an adorable mascot.

“Wow,” The man across from you flips through your portfolio, “you're talented. You’re just a freelance artist?”

“Mhmm, I don’t like big corporations. I would rather help out small businesses and help support our local community.”

The man interviewing you brushes dark bangs out of his face, his tongue running over his lip piercing. “We love supporters of small businesses. People like you that keep our place going.” He brushes long, dark strands of hair before his dark eyes leave the page before him, meeting your nervous gaze. “Which is why I think you would be a great fit. Your art is exactly what I’m looking for when I think of our logo.”

“Really? That’s so good to hear. I promise you I won’t disappoint you. I’ll be sure to make your dreams come true.”

Your interviewer shuts your portfolio, handing it back to you. He held out his hand, his nails painted black, and his rings on almost every finger. When you first walked into this cute café, you were intimidated by the stranger. He was covered in tattoos and piercings, and his gauges were huge, but he couldn't have been any nicer. So, without hesitation, you stood up, shaking his hand.

“I'm looking forward to doing business with you, Geto.”

“Same goes for me; I’ll give you a tour and introduce you to everyone.”

Rainbow Dragon Cafe recently went viral for its excellent coffee, pastries, and aesthetic. Not only was it a café, but it was also a gaming café. There is a bar where people can enjoy their coffee and booths where they can sit down and work on projects if needed. On one wall, there’s a large flat-screen TV playing compilations of different streamers talking to the camera as they play games. A large sectional couch was set up in front of it so people could sit down and watch if they wanted to.

The other wall was set up so that people could take photos with the company's logo behind them. That was if they had a logo, which is where you came in. For the next few months, your job was to help the owner, Geto Suguru, design and revamp his menu and website. Once you succeed in your mission, a cute neon sign with the logo will be placed on the wall, covered in fake vines and flowers. It is the perfect spot to take photos and hashtag the cafe in their posts.

“This is Shoko; she manages the front and helps run orders to tables.” A woman with dark brown hair waved at you casually as she passed a cigarette in her mouth and headed for the front.

“Taking a smoke break, I’ll be right back.”

Geto led you into the back, where an espresso machine hissed. “Back here is Ryomen Sukuna; he is my best barista.” The muscular, pink-haired man in front of you, covered in tattoos, slammed a rag down on the counter.

“I'm not some fucking barista; I’m the king of coffee.”

“Right, king of coffee, sorry.” Geto introduced you to several other workers. Most of them were just high schoolers working there as a part-time. Itadori, Fushiguro, and Kugisaki waved at you before returning to doing their inventory. “And you’ll meet my girls eventually. They said something about getting more couches or pillows for the front. They’re the head of our social media team.”

You lean over the counter with Geto, overlooking the shop that you were hired to help. “I love the setup you guys have. It’s got my creative juices flowing.” Glancing at the TV, you watch a compilation of different streamers reacting to jump scares. “But I’m curious. Why make it a gaming cafe?” Geto follows your gaze, humming at your question.

“That’s all because of my best friend. I didn’t want just to run a cafe and bookstore; I wanted to do something different. He pitched the idea. A place for people to sip coffee, read a book, or play video games.”

“Sounds like he’s a good friend.”

“He is.” Geto jerks his thumb in the direction of a door. “He rents out the basement while I live in the loft upstairs. He's an investor; you might get to meet him if he ever drags his stupid ass out of the basement.”

“Oh, that wou—”

Before you finish your sentence, the door Geto is still pointing at is slammed open. “Suguru! Hey, do you think I could borrow that blue shirt of y-you—” God, if you hadn’t been holding onto the counter, you might’ve passed out? Blue eyes that had been locked and focused on the night before met your gaze. You almost didn’t recognize him because he was wearing clothes. “H-Holy shit, mochi-gurl?!”

Your favorite leisure streamer, the man you had masturbated with the night before, was standing right in front of you—more like towering over at a total of six three feet. Words seem to evade you as you stutter. “G-Gojo?” Why was the room spinning all of a sudden?

“Hey, I thought we went over this last night. You can call me Satoru!” his smile fades as soon as it appears on his face. “Sweetheart? Oh shi—” He’s rushing forward just as your world fades to black due to shock.

This was a dream right, it had to be a dream!

Forever Tag List:

@darkstarlight82 @pandoness @nealeart @simp-plague @sugurubabe

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yannawayne · 4 months ago

Text

iii. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Gunshot wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

“Repeat that,” he said, his voice tight.

A wave of stunned stares passed around the table. Tim quickly typed something on his laptop, his fingers moving with practiced speed. He then turned the screen around for everyone to see. The headline on the screen read:

“Wayne-Stark Feud Escalates: Damian Wayne’s Girlfriend Takes Top Honors in Stark Industries’ Prestigious Young Innovators Program”

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jason whistled again, this time in genuine admiration.

“Well, damn. She really knocked it out of the park.”

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown.

 ༻⊰───⋅

GOTHAM WAS BEAUTIFUL. The city's lights stretched out below you like a glittering sea, each pinprick of light a mesmerizing dance of color and shadow. The towering, sleek skyscrapers stood tall and proud, their glass facades reflecting a mosaic of neon hues and starlight. Between them, narrow alleys wove like dark veins through the city's heart, their secrets hidden from view. The flicker of billboards and the intermittent flash of police sirens were the rapid, erratic beats, sudden bursts that pierced the otherwise steady thrum of urban life.

Even from above, the city's heartbeat was loud, a living, breathing entity that pulsed with a desperate rhythm. No matter how one might describe it or what reasons one might offer, you found Gotham to be beautiful. Even now, despite the terror you felt in the moment.

From the shadows, Selina's gaze was sharp, her helmet reflecting the fragmented light of the city. She leaned casually against the metal railing, watching you carefully.

You took a deep breath, the cool, crisp air stinging your lungs and sharpening your senses. Every muscle in your body tensed as you focused on the edge of the building. The drop was dizzying, a thousand feet of dark emptiness that seemed to call out to you with both a thrilling invitation and a stark warning.

"All it takes is a leap of fate," Selina’s voice cut through the wind.

Once you jumped, there was no turning back. It was a point of no return, a decision that would define the trajectory of your night and perhaps your life.

"That's all it takes."

Her words echoed in your mind, mingling with the roar of the wind and the hum of the city. Slowly, you moved, your foot pressing forward until you were on the side of the building. The glass beneath you felt like a lifeline, each shift of your weight sending a jolt of adrenaline through your veins.

A leap of fate.

With one final, steadying breath, you adjusted your stance, your legs bending in preparation.

And then, with the night sky as your backdrop and Gotham as your stage, you leaped. The glass shattered beneath your feet, a shower of fragments raining down as you soared into the void. The world below rushed up to meet you, the sensation of falling merging with the thrill of flight.

For a fleeting moment, you were suspended between sky and earth.

Then you reached out with a steady hand, launching your web into the night.

THWIP.

The web shot upward, a silken thread connecting you to the distant skyscraper. In an instant, you were soaring through the air, the rush of wind against your face and Gotham a blur of lights below.

You were flying.

Swinging through the city, you rushed past streets and towering buildings. People looked up in awe, their faces illuminated by the soft glow of streetlights as they followed your form.

You shot up and soared past the metro tracks, the rhythmic clatter of trains below blending with the distant hum of the city. Each swing carried you further, higher, and faster, weaving through the urban landscape with the freedom of flight.

Gotham unfolded before you, a sprawling playground, and for a brief, exhilarating moment, you were unstoppable.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 2:32PM - Chemistry Lab, Gotham Academy.

A Few Months Later.

Over the past few months, you had quickly settled into your role as Spidey. The initial buzz of your debut had faded, leaving you working in Gotham's shadows. You were recognized by locals and criminals but had yet to make a significant impact on the city's larger stage. The occasional mention in articles was nice, but it mostly felt like a footnote compared to Gotham's big-name heroes.

Headlines were dominated by the likes of Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin. They were the ones who made the news, while you were still working your way up from the minor leagues.

In the beginning, Damian—Robin—seemed to have made it his personal mission to keep tabs on you. You’d spotted him a few times, lurking in the shadows with those white lenses glaring at you like he was waiting for you to mess up. It was almost amusing, if not a bit intimidating. It felt like he was waiting for you to do something spectacularly dumb, just so he could swoop in.

But as time went on, it became clear you weren’t exactly shaking up Gotham’s chaos. Your focus was on street-level crimes, dealing with the petty crooks and local thugs who didn’t warrant much more than a scowl from the bigger players. Damian, realizing you were more of a nuisance than a game-changer, gradually eased off. It was like you’d been demoted from “potential problem” to “minor annoyance,” and with that realization, he redirected his attention to Gotham’s bigger, more pressing issues.

And well, it was fine. You played the part of the neighborhood’s friendly Spidey with ease, dishing out smiles and saving the day. On the surface, everything seemed under control. But beneath the mask, a different story brewed. Restlessness gnawed at you, a persistent itch you couldn’t quite scratch.

The city’s shadows felt darker these days, more oppressive. You’d heard the whispers and seen the signs—Black Mask was back, and he was even more violent than before.

It was like he was putting on a show just for you, as if he was daring you to do something more, to be more.

Welcome to the Hotel California Such a lovely place (such a lovely place) Such a lovely face Plenty of room at the Hotel California Any time of year (any time of year) You can find it here—

Your music is abruptly cut off when your earbuds are yanked from your ears. You groan and turn, only to find Morgan smirking at you, casually swinging your earbuds between her fingers.

Over the past few months, you and Morgan had grown incredibly close—best friends, if you would call it that. Morgan’s hair was now cropped into a short pixie cut, and her wardrobe seemed to be mirroring yours more and more. Whether this influence was good or not was still up for debate in your mind.

“Asshat, give those back!” you snarl, reaching for the earbuds.

Morgan just smirks and leans out of your reach. “Oh, come on. What’s got you so pissy today?”

You groan and slump into your seat, burying your face in your jacket. “Just a lot on my mind. Ugh. I want to go home.”

“You’ve been in a funk for days. What’s up? You’re acting like the world’s about to implode.”

You roll your eyes, not bothering to look up. “It might as well. Things are getting insane out there.”

“It’s Gotham,” Morgan shrugs, tossing your earbuds back. You catch them with one hand and stuff them into your pocket. “Thought you’d be used to this crap by now.”

“I am used to it, but what’s that supposed to do, Starky?” You roll your eyes again, and Morgan grimaces at the nickname. “Am I just supposed to dance it away? Pretend everything’s okay when it’s clearly not?”

Morgan’s eyes narrow, and she gives you a hard stare. “Look, I get it. Shit’s messed up. But moping around isn’t gonna fix anything.”

You sigh and lean over your finished worksheet, erasing some of the leftover pencil scribbles. “It’s easy for you to say. You live in a penthouse with a view of the city. For you, it’s like Gotham’s just a playground.”

Morgan raises an eyebrow, a sly grin creeping onto her face. “Well, if you’re so stressed, maybe you need a little pampering. I could always offer to be your sugar mommy.”

You snort, shaking your head with a small chuckle. “You'd go broke trying to pay for my therapy. Gotham’s therapists charge extra for dealing with our kind of crazy. Hell. One of them literally became a villain herself.”

“Oh, come on," Morgan’s grin widens as she leans closer. "You’ve already got a sugar daddy anyway, don’t you? Damian’s practically a walking trust fund.”

“Had to secure my future,” you grin back, leaning over her side of the table. You point to one problem on her worksheet, circling a mistake with your pencil. “By the way, you got that wrong.”

Morgan looks down, eyes widening in surprise. “Damn. I thought I had that down. You’re really good at this.”

“Weeks of practice and 3AM cramming sessions,” you say with a shrug, leaning back in your seat. “It’s nothing.”

Morgan seems to think for a moment before glancing back at you. “Speaking of securing your future, have you ever thought about applying for an internship? I know a spot at Stark Industries that’s opening up soon.”

You raise an eyebrow, a hint of skepticism in your tone. “Stark Industries? Your dad's company? Why would I want to go there? Isn’t that where all the corporate rivalries come into play?”

“Not all of them," Morgan laughs, shaking her head. "I get it, though. There’s definitely some bad blood between the Waynes and the Starks. But this internship could be a game-changer for you. You’d get real experience, and it’d look impressive on your CV.”

You hum, your fingers drumming on the table. “I don’t know. Damian might maul me.”

Morgan rolled her eyes and nudged you playfully. "Come on, just think about it. It's a great opportunity, and I'd be there to make sure you don't get lost in the corporate jungle. If you're going to be Damian's trophy wife, you need to get used to dealing with this stuff. Who knows, you might actually enjoy it."

You sigh, considering her offer. “Alright, I’ll think about it. But no promises. Things are a bit... chaotic right now.”

Morgan nods, clearly understanding. “Fair enough. Just keep it in mind. It could be a real game-changer for you.”

“Yeah, I’ll keep it on the list,” you say, managing a small smile.

Class ends and you both gather your things, making your way into the hallway. The corridor is a chaotic swirl of students, their chatter and footsteps echoing off the lockers and tiled floors. Damian is leaning against your locker, his usual stony expression slightly marred by an air of impatience as he waits for you.

Morgan, walking beside you, suddenly reaches out and gives your ass a playful slap. You yelp in surprise, causing Damian to straighten up and cast a sharp, puzzled look at Morgan, who just grins mischievously.

“What the fuck,” you laugh, shoving Morgan lightly.

“Call me if you need anything, alright? And don’t keep me waiting too long,” Morgan smirks. Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, then shifts to Damian, who’s watching her with a fiery, barely disguised jealousy. She turns and strolls away, Damian glaring daggers into the back of her head like he’s trying to burn a hole through it.

“Later!” she calls over her shoulder with a wave, her grin as smug as a cat who’s just pissed in your shoe.

You walk up towards Damian, moving a hand to squeeze at his bicep. “Dames, are you okay?”

“She’s quite forward, isn’t she?” he murmurs, placing a hand over yours.

“She’s my best friend. Just loves to mess with me,” you snort. Standing on your tiptoes, you lean in and press a quick, affectionate kiss against his cheek. “And don’t worry, I’m all yours—no matter how much she tries to steal me away.”

Damian’s scowl softens slightly, though a trace of irritation still lingers in his eyes. “You’re lucky I’m feeling generous today."

He pushes himself off your locker with a subtle sigh. His gaze flickers with a hint of hesitation before he clears his throat and turns his full attention to you.

“Would you care to join my family for dinner tonight?” he asks, shifting on his feet. “I��m planning to take the night off from patrol. It’s been far too long since we’ve had some time together. You could stay the weekend if you’d like.”

You hesitate, your mind occupied with your own plans. “Thanks for the offer, Damian, but I’ve got a lot to catch up on at home. I’m really looking forward to a quiet night there.”

Home being the safehouse. Quiet being patrol. You wanted to kick some ass tonight.

Damian’s face visibly falls, his nose scrunching up in disappointment.

“Oh,” he says, his voice dropping slightly. “I see. I guess I should have expected that,” he adds, his attempt at indifference coming off as strained.

He shifts his stance, straightening as if to regain his composure, but a subtle downturn of his lips betrays his frustration. “Are you sure you can’t spare a moment? I thought we might enjoy some uninterrupted time together.”

You shake your head gently and smile as you smooth your hand through his hair, fixing the few stray strands that have gone askew. “I really have to go. There’s too much on my plate right now, and Mom wants me back early.”

Damian turns his head to the side, gently batting your hand away before reaching up to fix his own hair, running his fingers through it. His shoulders slump, and he clenches his jaw, clearly struggling to hide his disappointment. “Fine. If you have to put other things ahead of spending time with me, I guess there’s nothing more to be said.”

You notice the strain in his posture and chuckle, reaching out to squeeze his arms. “I’ll see you soon. Promise.”

Damian’s eyes soften a little as you lean in and press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. His eyes close momentarily, long lashes brushing against his cheeks.

When you pull back, Damian’s gaze meets yours, a touch warmer than before.

“Very well,” he says, his voice dropping to a softer, more tender tone. “I’ll be waiting for your call tonight.”

You offer a reassuring smile, then turn and head off, feeling his gaze on you until you blend into the crowd. Damian watches you go, the tension in his posture easing as he takes a deep breath. With a frustrated huff, he reaches for his car keys and makes his way to the parking lot, grumbling to himself.

He'll make sure to lift extra hard tonight.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 8:32PM - Personal Gym, Wayne Manor.

The gym at Wayne Manor is bathed in a subdued, moody light that stretches long shadows across the polished floors and sleek, high-tech equipment. The air is thick with the lingering scent of sweat, mingling with the low hum of an overworked air conditioner trying—and failing—to keep up with the rising heat.

Damian stands in front of the deadlift bar, wrapping straps around his wrists with a practiced grip. His rough hands pull the straps tight, the material digging into his skin as he secures them. He flexes his fingers, feeling the familiar tension in his muscles.

Please could you stop the noise? I'm tryna get some rest From all the unborn chicken Voices in my head What's that? (I may be paranoid, but not an android) What's that? (I may be paranoid, but not an android)

Music thunders through his headphones, creating a personal soundscape that drowns out the rest of the world. He's dressed in black sweats and a black hoodie, both soaked through with sweat.

Bending down, he grips the bar, his knuckles turning white. With a powerful grunt, he starts the lift. The barbell, loaded with an impressive weight, rises steadily. Damian’s face contorts with the effort as he concentrates on keeping his breathing steady and controlled.

Sweat beads on his forehead, and damp strands of hair fall over his molten eyes, clinging to his skin. Normally, Damian keeps his hair cut short, maintained to match his routine. But lately, his schedule has been packed, and his bangs have grown longer than usual. He grits his teeth, pushing through the lift, doing his best to ignore the annoying feel of hair brushing against his sweat-slicked face.

CLANG!

After a few seconds, Damian drops the bar with a resounding crash that echoes through the gym, the metal slamming against the floor and ringing off the walls. His headphones slip off his ears, falling onto the floor. With a sharp, frustrated snap, he flings his weight belt aside; the leather slaps the ground with a solid thud. Letting out an irritated scoff, he breathes heavily, his anger evident in each exhale.

In another corner of the gym, Tim is deep into his calisthenics routine, his body moving fluidly as he pulls himself up on the bar. His back muscles ripple with each movement, sweat glistening on his skin. He casts a curious glance toward Damian, his eyebrow arching at the loud crash.

“Not joining Bruce for patrol tonight?” Tim calls out.

Damian, clearly irked, casts a sidelong glance at Tim. “Grayson and Todd are out, as is Batwoman. They are more than capable of handling themselves. Unlike certain individuals I could name.”

Tim, ignoring the jab, looks at him with wide-eyed disbelief. “Seriously?”

“I have a life outside of Robin,” Damian retorts. “Unlike you, who seems to think that withering in front of the Batcomputer is the epitome of existence.”

Tim, rolling his eyes, sneers, “You’re just being a jackass because you’re stuck here sulking. It’s like I don’t even recognize you anymore.”

Damian’s scowl deepens. “It’s about clearing my head. Sometimes pushing myself physically helps with... other stuff.”

For most of them, working out is just a way to blow off steam or handle their emotions. Damian’s go-to routines are cardio and weights—anything that lets him channel his inner rage and frustration into something productive. Tonight, though, he’s taking it to another level.

Tim heads over to the water dispenser, his footsteps light as he moves. As he passes Damian, he delivers a playful but firm punch to Damian’s arm—not hard enough to cause real pain, but definitely with some intent. Damian scowls, rubbing his arm and shooting Tim a sharp look.

“Whatever works, I guess,” Tim shrugs, taking a chug from his water bottle. His Adam's apple bobs with the effort as he swallows.

“Patrols have been a washout the past few days,” Damian murmurs, wrapping his knuckles as he prepares for a boxing session. “I doubt anything of importance is going to happen.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 1:04 AM - Queens District, Gotham City.

"WOO!"

The night breeze rushes past you, a cool whisper against your face as you spin through the Gotham skyline. Below, the city sprawls in a chaotic mosaic of flickering lights and deep shadows. You glide through the air, the fabric of your suit rustling softly in the wind. Beneath you, the streets are a patchwork of cobblestones and cracked asphalt, each corner a reminder of where you’ve fought, protected, and survived.

Tonight is unusually slow. A surprise considering the area you patrol is a district near Crime Alley.

The vicinity around Queens in rundown Gotham, urbanized but not as bustling as the busier business districts, usually teems with activity. The area, close to the docks, is a maze of clustered buildings and the occasional factory, their smokestacks cutting dark silhouettes against the night sky.

The distant hum of machinery from the factories blends with the occasional sound of waves lapping against the docked ships. From your vantage point, you can see the bridge stretching out in the distance, its lights twinkling against the darkness.

Just as you start to think the night might pass without incident, you hear a distant commotion—a series of hollers and shouts echoing through the narrow streets. Your eyes narrow as you scan the area, searching for the source of the disturbance.

Then you spot her: a woman sprinting frantically down the street, her cries of terror slicing through the night air. Her short-cut hair whips around her face, and her wide eyes reflect sheer panic. Hot on her heels, a group of men give chase, their grotesque laughter bubbling up from their throats like a pack of pigs rooting through garbage.

Your heart skips a beat as recognition slams into you.

It’s Morgan.

Wait—what the hell is she doing here?

Morgan, who has no business being anywhere near this part of town—especially not at this hour—stands out like a sore thumb. She lives miles away in the heart of the city, far removed from this grim neighborhood near Crime Alley. Queens Street feels like a different world compared to her usual haunts.

Without hesitation, you dive down from the rooftop, landing with a thud that cuts through the night’s tension like a knife. The sudden appearance of your figure causes an immediate hush.

"Hey, kid! Stay behind me," you call out, changing your voice to sound deeper. "I’ve got this covered."

Morgan, clearly relieved but still visibly shaken, nods and takes a step back, her trust in you evident despite the fear in her eyes.

Cracking your knuckles, you address the would-be assailants.

"Gentlemen," you say, “Shall we resolve this quickly, or do you wanna continue your charade?"

One of them sneers, “Look who decided to crash the party. Here to play hero?”

You tilt your head, scratching at your neck. “Wow, I must be slacking if I’m getting an invite to parties like this. But hey, if you’re offering free entertainment, who am I to refuse?”

THWIP.

With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at one of the thugs, lifting him off his feet and sending him flying up to dangle from a nearby street lamp. He struggles and curses as he hangs there, the webbing holding him securely.

Another thug charges in, swinging a crude metal pipe. You leap over him effortlessly, grabbing the pipe mid-air and twirling it like a baton. “Wow, talk about a swing and a miss. I’d say better luck next time, but I’m not really into giving second chances.”

"Whoop!" You deliver a swift kick to his side, sending him sprawling into a nearby alley. He crashes into a heap of garbage with a muffled thud.

The remaining thugs, now visibly annoyed, glance at each other, clearly weighing their options. One of them, the largest and most boisterous of the group, musters up some bravado. He cracks his knuckles and sneers, “You think you’re funny, huh? I’ll show you funny!”

You raise an eyebrow and sigh dramatically. “Oh, come on. Don’t you want to have a nice chat?” You flick your wrist and a web shoots out, sticking over his mouth. “There you go! Now we can all enjoy some quiet time.”

He charges at you with a muffled, bull-like roar, but you easily sidestep, letting him stumble past. As he tries to regain his balance, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking him back and sending him crashing into a stack of wooden pallets. The crates topple over with a loud clatter, and he ends up sprawled on the ground, groaning in pain.

!!!

Your senses tingles just in time. Another thug lunges at you with a wild swing, and you catch his fist mid-air, twisting his arm with a practiced flick. Using his own momentum, you deliver a sharp uppercut that sends him reeling backward. He crashes against a nearby wall, dazed and disoriented. Quickly, you shoot a web at him, pinning him against the wall.

The last thug, now clearly outmatched, takes a step back, his form shaking. “You’re not worth it,” he mutters, raising his hands in surrender.

You laugh and walk over to him with a thumbs up. “That’s the best decision you’ve made all night.”

You shoot a web at his feet, pinning him in place. “Why don’t you just sit tight and enjoy the show? I’m sure the boys in blue will be along shortly.”

With the thugs now subdued and securely webbed up, you turn to Morgan, who’s watching with wide eyes. She lets out a shaky breath, clearly relieved.

“You know,” you say slowly, deepening your voice, “I didn’t expect to see Tony Stark’s daughter in a place like this. What’s the story?”

“Oh. Oh, you… know who I am,” Morgan says, catching her breath and chuckling weakly. “Well, I was just out for a... walk, and I made a wrong turn. Next thing I know, I’m being chased by a bunch of guys.”

"Uh-huh," you say, shaking your head with a hint of disbelief, the slits of your mask narrowing as you scrutinize her. "You’ve got a real knack for picking your strolls. Queens is kind of a crime magnet, you know. And you, being as famous as you are, might as well have a bullseye on your back. Just saying."

Morgan’s expression shifts to embarrassment, red flushing her cheeks. “Yeah, I know. I actually came here to meet someone about some tech. You know, to see if I could get my hands on something... a bit more... advanced.”

You raise an eyebrow, perplexed. “Advanced tech? You’re like... Tony Stark’s daughter. You have more tech at your disposal than most governments. Are you sure it's not drugs?”

"I am not a crackhead!" Morgan scowls and sends you a glare. “Sometimes, it’s not just about having access. It’s about finding unique pieces or... getting a better deal. Plus, sneaking out to do something on my own—well, it’s a bit of an adventure.”

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Teenage angst? Really?"

"Where’s the fun in having everything handed to you on a silver platter?" Morgan smirks. "A little thrill never hurt anyone.”

You just wave a hand at her, shaking your head again. “Fair point. Just please try not to make it a habit of going out at night alone. You uh... got a ride home?"

Morgan licks her lips, her expression thoughtful. "Guess... Guess I could call my dad."

You nod, giving her a thumbs up. "Good idea. And remember, if you ever find yourself in a pinch again, don’t hesitate to call for help. I patrol Queens. Just... don't make this a habit."

Morgan lets out a chuckle, her nerves easing. “I’ll do my best. Thanks for the rescue.”

With that, you turn and leap into the night, your form quickly vanishing into the darkness as you swing away. A sudden tingle on the back of your neck makes you glance back, but you see Morgan still standing there, her gaze fixed on where you disappeared.

You brush off the feeling—must have been a false alarm.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 3:18 AM - Queens District, Gotham City.

After a few hours, you decide it’s time to call it a night. Returning to your warehouse, you strip off your suit and slip into civilian clothes. Stepping out into the dimly lit streets, you keep your head low and your pace casual, blending seamlessly into the nocturnal cityscape. Gotham's alleys and shadows are no place for the spotlight, and drawing attention could be dangerous. Here, the key to staying safe is blending in—letting the city's dark corners swallow you up.

You pull out your phone and dial Damian’s number. Sure, you can handle yourself, but right now, you're out in your civilian identity. Better to play it safe.

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na…Batman!

The Batman ringtone echoes softly in the alley, its familiar chime cutting through the muted sounds of the city. You can’t help but smile at the stupid thing—the Batman brand (made without Batman's permission) has become so popular that it’s practically a commercial empire. Bruce, of course, loathes it. He's filed at least twenty lawsuits trying to shut it down, but the brand keeps growing.

There’s even Robin merch, which you’ve collected obsessively over the years, much to Damian’s embarrassment. He’s never quite gotten used to his persona being reduced to a collectible item, but your enthusiasm for it is well-known.

After a few rings, Damian picks up, his voice steady and unmistakable. “Habibti?”

“Hey, Dames,” you reply, keeping your tone light. “Just checking in. How’s everything on your end?”

There’s a brief pause, and you can almost hear the faint rustle of paper or fabric in the background before he responds. “Everything’s fine. Just buried in homework. Why are you calling so late?”

You detect the edge of concern in his voice, and it makes you smile. “Oh, just heading home. Got a bit wrapped up with some errands. Didn’t realize how late it had gotten.”

Damian’s tone sharpens, his concern clearly growing. “Errands? At this hour? Gotham isn’t exactly a walk in the park after dark. Why are you out alone? Do you have any idea how dangerous it is?”

“I’m fine, Damian," you reply, sidestepping a wet puddle on the street. "Just a few things I needed to take care of. I’m heading home now, so no worries.”

“You shouldn’t be out so late, especially not alone,” he insists, his voice taking on that familiar stern tone. “Do you realize how many things can go wrong? You could be in grave danger..”

“I promise, I’m being careful," you assure him. "I’ll be home soon. Just wanted to check in and let you know I’m okay.”

Damian doesn’t relent. “Fine. But stay on the line until you’re home. I need to know you’re safe.”

“You’re so dramatic,” you tease lightly. “But okay, I’ll stay on the line.”

There’s a soft huff from him, as though he’s trying to suppress a smile. “Good. And, for the record, I’m not being dramatic. I’m being cautious.”

“Whatever you say,” you reply, your tone light. “By the way, are you free tomorrow? There’s this new comic shop I wanted to check out.”

Damian perks up at that.

Finally.

It’s been weeks since you’ve had the chance to enjoy a proper date. The usual routines—dinner out, a movie, or just hanging out—have been squeezed out by the demands of Gotham. Damian felt the lack more than he’d like to admit. He’s missed them—missed you.

“Yes, I’m available," he says, almost too quickly. He doesn't want to seem overly eager, but the anticipation is hard to hide. "I’ll make time and pick you up. What time, beloved?"

“How about noon?” you suggest, swinging your keys lightly as you approach your apartment building. “That should give us plenty of time to explore the shop and maybe grab lunch afterward.”

You reach your apartment building and slip inside, the familiar creak of the door signaling your return. Glancing around to make sure no one's watching, you crouch and bound up the flight of stairs in quick, powerful jumps, reaching your floor in mere seconds.

Heading down the hallway, you adjust your phone and catch the end of Damian’s statement just in time.

“—I’ll be there at noon,” Damian confirms, the warmth in his voice unmistakable.

“Great,” you smile as you fumble with the lock. The sound of the key turning in the door echoes softly in the quiet hallway. You let out a sigh of relief as you finally open the door, stepping into the comforting familiarity of your home.

"I'm looking forward to it,” you continue, kicking off your shoes and setting them neatly by the door. “I’m home now, by the way! I’ll see you tomorrow.”

On the other end, Damian’s voice comes through the phone, warm and laced with the faintest hint of affection. “I shall see you then,” he replies, his care evident even through the small, digital speaker. “Goodnight, beloved.”

There’s a moment of silence as his words linger.

“Goodnight,” you reply softly, letting the warmth of his voice settle before you slowly lower the phone from your ear.

You slip your phone into your pocket and step into your living room, where the soft glow of the television fills the room. A Filipino drama plays on the screen, its melodramatic dialogue and heartfelt scenes subtitled in English. The rest of the room is shrouded in dimness, with only the flickering light of the TV breaking through the darkness.

As you make your way towards the kitchen, you notice Selina perched on a bar stool at the counter. She’s cradling a steaming cup of coffee, its rich aroma wafting through the air. Her gaze lifts to meet yours as you enter, curiosity etched across her features.

“You’re home a lot later than usual, honey,” she comments.

You pour yourself a glass of water, the quiet clink of the glass against the faucet a small comfort. You sit down across from her, the chair creaking slightly under your weight. “Yeah, it’s been one of those nights. I wrapped up patrol and ended up dealing with some trouble. Nothing major, though. But I did run into someone.”

Selina takes a slow sip of her coffee. “Who?”

“Morgan,” you say with a grim look. “She was out in Queens on some sort of tech hunt. Had to give her a little lecture about roaming Gotham alone.”

“The redhead? That’s definitely unusual. What was she after?”

“She was hunting for some tech—apparently, even with the best gadgets at her disposal, she thought Gotham had something special,” you explain.

Selina chuckles, shaking her head. “Typical Stark. Always chasing the next shiny thing. Did you know her dad’s been trying to worm his way with the Bats lately?”

You raise an eyebrow, intrigued. “Really?”

Selina takes a sip of her coffee, her expression bemused. “He’s been throwing money at them, trying to fund their operations. He’s got this obsessive need to upgrade superhero tech. Batman’s been turning him down flat. I guess his ego took a hit.”

You laugh, taking a swig of your water. “Can you imagine Tony Stark trying to ‘help’ Batman?”

“If those two could ever check their egos long enough to actually collaborate, it’d be a miracle,” she scoffed.

“Speaking of which,” you say, dumping your cup back into the sink, “on a scale of one to ten, how much do you think Damian or Bruce would freak out if I accepted Morgan’s invitation for a Stark internship?”

Selina’s grin widens. “Oh, honey, that’s a show I’d pay to see. Damian would hit a 100 on the scale of overreaction. Bruce might be a bit more restrained, but he’d definitely hit an 11.”

You roll your eyes with a laugh. “Lovely. Just what I need.”

Selina chuckles, shaking her head. “Remember when Bruce tried to offer you an internship? The look on his face when you turned him down was priceless.”

A twinge of awkwardness settles over you, and you rub the back of your neck. “Yeah, that was... something. It’s like he had this whole script for how he wanted the conversation to go, and when it didn’t, he kind of just... froze.”

Selina’s gaze softens a bit. “He thinks of you like family. And with you and Damian getting serious, he’s probably bracing himself for the long haul.”

You groan as you push yourself off the sink and head toward your room. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 12:03 PM - Empire Comics, Gotham City.

RING.

The bell above the door jingles as you and Damian step into the bustling comic shop. The aroma of ink, paper, and coffee fills the air, blending with the hum of excited conversations and the occasional laugh.

You’re sporting a casual look: a red cap with a Robin symbol on it, jeans, a white Batman shirt, and Damian’s soccer jacket draped over your shoulders. Damian is clad in his usual fit—a dark turtleneck, crisp cream pants, and black boots. He looks every bit the model for a high-fashion magazine, even in a comic shop.

The walls are lined with shelves packed full of colorful comic books and graphic novels. Display cases highlight rare editions and collector’s items, their glass gleaming under the shop’s lights. You’re in your element, eyes wide as you scan the rows, your fingers brushing the spines of the comics.

Grabbing one off the shelf, you flip it over with a grin, admiring the glossy cover. It’s an edition you’ve been eyeing for a while—a real gem.

“Do you want that?” Damian asks, his eyes flickering from the comic in your hands to your face. There’s a sharpness in his gaze, as if he's trying to dissect you with his eyes.

You nod, barely containing your excitement. “Definitely. It’s one of the limited editions I’ve been after.” You flip the comic over, eyes lingering on the price as you clutch it a little tighter.

Without a beat, Damian reaches for his wallet. “Let me handle it.”

A protest rises in your throat, but Damian cuts you off with a look that could freeze lava. His scowl deepens. “No arguments. It’s a treat for today.”

You open your mouth to argue, but Damian swiftly pulls the hood of your jacket over your eyes. “If you keep insisting on paying, I’ll just take back my jacket.”

“What?!” you hiss, instinctively clutching the jacket closer around you. “No way! You don’t even wear this.”

“Precisely. Which means I can reclaim it as a bargaining chip.” Damian’s lips curl into a smirk, smug satisfaction dripping from his voice. “Now, if you don’t let me handle this, the jacket’s going back to my closet. I suggest you reconsider.”

It takes a few more minutes of his gentle but insistent threats, before you finally give up. As he heads to the counter, you glance around the shop, taking in the array of comics and collectibles.

A newspaper rack catches your attention. The headline boldly reads:

“Spidey Foils Attack on Morgan Stark: Hero Swings in to Save the Day”

Damian returns shortly after, handing you the paper bag with a triumphant smirk. You beam at him, leaning in to press a kiss on his cheek. Damian hums at your affection, wrapping an arm around you to keep you close.

Emerald eyes flick to the newspaper on the rack, his expression shifting slightly.

“Stark was in an altercation?” he asks, his voice carrying a note of disbelief. He leans closer, the scent of freshly printed ink mixing with the rich, smoky aroma of his cologne.

You glance at the newspaper, the pages rustling softly as you turn them to face him. “Looks like it. It’s been a while since I saw a headline like this. Spidey doesn’t get as much press as you guys do.”

“Speaking of Morgan,” you say slowly, deciding it’s time to rip off the bandage. You lean against his chest, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of your jacket. “I was actually thinking about applying for an internship at Stark Industries. It could be a great opportunity, you know? She’s offered me a spot.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Damian’s expression shifts from casual interest to a full-blown scowl. His lips curl back, revealing a flash of teeth, and the muscle of his jaw rolls beneath bronze skin.

“Wayne Industries is far superior.”

Rolling your eyes, you allow a hint of amusement to creep into your voice. “Oh. I know. But Morgan’s offering me a spot. And honestly, it could be a huge opportunity.”

Damian’s eyes narrow, frustration evident in his voice. “I’ve offered you spots and programs at Wayne Industries before. Why accept hers but not mine?”

You deadpan. “I’m your girlfriend. They’d just see me as a nepotism hire.”

Damian grumbles in response, his expression darkening as he reaches for the newspaper. His fingers brush against the glossy paper with a soft rustle, and his gaze locks onto the photo of your vigilante form, captured mid-swing through the city. The image is dynamic, full of motion and energy, but Damian’s eyes narrow as he scrutinizes it.

You shift on your feet, the squeak of your Converse against the floor drawing his attention. Trying to break the tension, you clear your throat. “So,” you begin, your tone light but with a hint of curiosity, “have you ever encountered Spidey on the job?”

Damian’s expression hardens at the mention. His lips thin into a line, and a look of disapproval settles over his features.

“The Spider?” he scoffs “From what I’ve seen, they’re nothing more than an amateur.”

You feel a pang of offense at his harsh words but manage to keep your expression carefully neutral. “Really? I’ve heard they’ve done some impressive things.”

Damian’s emerald eyes lock onto yours, the frustration behind them clear as day. “Impressive?” he retorts, a hint of disbelief in his voice. “If you consider reckless behavior and a complete lack of tact impressive, then sure. But to me, it’s far from professional.”

Ouch. That was expected, but it still stung.

“Everyone has their own style,” you say, your eyes fixed on the floor as you run your tongue over your lips. “What might seem clumsy to one person could be strategic for someone else.”

“Strategic?” Damian spits out in a laugh. The newspaper crumples under his grip. “Their approach is more about spectacle than substance. They swing around like a circus act, with no real strategy. It’s a wonder they manage to accomplish anything at all.”

Frowning, you look back at Damian, who stands rigid, his shoulders tensed. “Maybe their methods look a bit rough, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t making a difference. They’ve managed to help a lot of people.”

“Helping people isn’t just about flashy moves and headlines,” he says, his voice rising slightly. He shoves the paper back onto its shelf, the paper crumpling from the force.

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, struggling to control the anger rising within you. As much as you loved Damian, his insufferable egotism could be unbearable at times. Your eyes focus on the comic book display, the vibrant covers searing into your retinas.

“You’re one to talk,” you can’t help but snap. “Robin and Batman are practically on the front pages almost every week. And what, you’re saying their efforts are worthless just because they don’t meet your standards? That’s pretty unfair. Just because they deal with lesser threats doesn’t mean they’re any less of a hero than you guys are.”

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Damian hisses, his tone sharper than intended. The sting of your criticism and his bruised ego fuel his words.

Damian craves validation more than he likes to admit. His entire life has been a constant battle to prove himself—whether it’s measuring up to his father’s expectations, competing with his peers, or affirming his place within the shadow of his legacy. He’s used to being the one in control, the one whose actions are seen as perfect. When that perception is challenged, it’s not just his skills or methods that are questioned; it’s his very worth.

The irony, of course, is that your approval matters more to him than anyone else’s. Your opinion matters to him, and your criticism hits harder than any public scrutiny ever could.

“I’m saying that they’re trying to help!” you snap, your voice rising to match his. From behind the counter, the cashier gives you a wary glance. “They’re doing things that you guys can’t always do.”

Damian’s expression hardens, his eyes narrowing. “What can’t we do?”

“Helping the little guys!” you snap, your frustration boiling over. You gesture toward the crumpled paper, your movements sharp and erratic. “Spidey—they stand for exactly what you stand for—the belief that everyone deserves protection and justice.”

Damian’s jaw tightens, his pride visibly wounded. “Maybe you should reconsider what you’re so willing to defend. It’s important to recognize when someone’s approach is flawed, even if it’s someone you admire.”

You shake your head, refusing to back down. “I’m not saying Spidey is perfect, but they’re out there trying. That counts for something.”

With a sigh of resignation, you tug his jacket off and shove it into his arms. Damian’s face scrunches up in hurt, the gesture cutting deeper than he lets on.

“I’m going home,” you say quietly, turning on your heel and heading for the exit.

Damian watches as you slip out of the shop, a bitter taste lingering in his mouth from the argument. But as he catches a glimpse of the hurt in your eyes, his anger begins to dissolve into regret.

Without hesitation, he follows you, his footsteps quickening until he catches up. Gently, he grips your shoulder to stop you.

“Beloved,” he calls out softly, his tone now tender. His earnest gaze meets yours, regret pooling in his eyes. “I apologize.”

You stop and turn to face him. “Apologize for what, Damian?”

Damian hesitates, searching for the right words. The silence stretches between you, heavy with unspoken feelings.

You try to move past him, your steps feeling heavy. “I just need some space right now."

Damian doesn’t let go. “At least let me drive you home.”

“No. I need to walk and blow off some steam.”

With a final, apologetic look, Damian steps back, giving you the space you need. You turn and start to walk away, the heat of the sun only intensifying your already heated emotions. The city, bustling with life, seems to close in around you as you move deeper into its more crowded parts. The shops grow closer together, the crowds thicker, the noise louder, and the streets narrower with every step.

Lost in thought and simmering with frustration, you’re suddenly jolted back to reality by an alarming noise—a commotion coming from a nearby alleyway. The muffled voices and scuffling footsteps cut through the city’s din, pulling your attention.

A group of masked individuals are cornering someone in the alley. The victim, pinned against the wall, is desperately trying to fend off the assailants. The attackers are demanding valuables, their threats laced with violence. Despite the bustling city around them, no one seems willing to intervene. The crowd keeps a safe distance, choosing to look away rather than get involved.

You glance down at your civilian attire—a shirt and jeans, not exactly ideal for a fight.

But someone has to help, and if you’re the only one who will, then so be it.

Taking a deep breath, you step into the alley.

“Hey!” you call out, trying to draw their attention away from the victim. “Pick on someone your own size!”

The muggers turn their attention toward you, and suddenly, their target comes into sharp focus. Tousled red hair spills out from beneath a white beanie, and thick black frames are crookedly perched on her nose.

Your eyes lock with hers, and you freeze—Morgan.

What is it with this girl and finding trouble?

Her eyes widen in sheer disbelief at the sight of you, practically screaming, Are you out of your damn mind? You can almost hear her thoughts. You flash a reassuring smile, throwing in a thumbs up that you hope translates to, “Relax, I’ve got this,” even though you’re pretty sure you’re both in deep shit right now.

Shaking your head, you refocus on the muggers. There are ten of them in total. Your goal is to keep their attention away from Morgan and buy time until help arrives—or if help arrives.

“Ten on one, huh? Not exactly fair, but hey, I’m feeling generous today,” you say, your voice steady despite the overwhelming odds. “Let’s make this interesting. If you take me on and win, I’ll buy you all a round of whatever you’re drinking. And if you lose”—you flash a cheeky grin—“well, let’s just say you’ll be spending the night in a cozy little cell, courtesy of the GCPD.”

The muggers burst into laughter, clearly entertained by the sight of an unathletic-looking eighteen-year-old in a Batman shirt stepping up to them with such bravado. You just grin, letting their amusement roll off you.

“Yeah, I get it,” you say with a shrug, rolling up your sleeves to your shoulders. “I might not look like much, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. So, who wants to take the first swing?”

The laughter fades as the muggers size you up. One of them, a lanky guy with a scruffy beard, steps forward, cracking his knuckles and sneering.

“Alright, girly,” he taunts, “unless you want to back out now, you’re about to get a taste of what we’re all about.”

Before he can react, you pull your arm back, focusing on the momentum. With a swift, forceful punch, you drive your knuckles straight into his jaw. The impact lands with a solid thud, sending him crashing into the alley wall, his head snapping to the side.

One.

The other muggers freeze. They exchange glances, their earlier laughter choked off. Morgan’s mouth falls open in shock.

“What the fuck,” she mouths at you.

A grin stretches across your face as you size up the remaining muggers.

“So,” you whistle, “who’s next?”

One of them steps forward, but you’re ready. A brutal left hook catches him square on the cheekbone, and he staggers back, blood erupting from his nose. He collapses to the ground, clutching his face in agony.

Two.

A woman with a wild, frizzy mop of hair barrels toward you, snarling menacingly. You sidestep her clumsy swing and deliver a powerful uppercut. Her head snaps back with a satisfying crack, and she crashes into the alley wall with a loud clang, blood streaming from her split lip and chin.

Three.

Before you can catch your breath, a wiry man with a rat-like face tries to dart around you, aiming for Morgan. But you’re quicker. You grab him by the collar, yank him close, and drive a vicious knee into his gut. He doubles over, gasping for breath, and you follow up with a hard right hook that sends him sprawling into a puddle of muck.

Four.

Adrenaline surges through your veins, and the earlier argument with Damian feels like a distant storm driving your fists. Each punch lands with a mix of frustration and resolve, the anger you’re trying to process fueling your strikes.

Two more muggers, a lanky guy with a snake tattoo and a burly man with a scarred face, charge at you simultaneously. You sidestep the lanky guy’s wild swing, then deliver a brutal, bone-crushing kick to his ribs. He crumples with a pained gasp, collapsing to the ground with a wheezing groan.

Five.

You pivot to face the burly man, deflecting his punch with a forceful block. With a grunt, you slam an elbow into his gut, making him double over, gasping for air. Before he can recover, you drive a fierce knee into his face. He crashes into the alley wall, blood and sweat mingling as he slides to the ground, clutching his face in agony.

Six.

That’s around half of them. You turn to face the rest.

“Last chance,” you blow a stray strand of hair away from your face. “Either you leave now or join your buddies in the hospital.”

The remaining muggers scramble, retreating as fast as they can down the alley. The noise of their hurried escape fades into the distance, leaving you and Morgan.

Breathing heavily, you survey the scene. The alley is littered with fallen muggers—some groaning in pain, others unconscious. Blood stains your hands and the ground, and your knuckles are bruised and swollen.

Morgan slowly rises from her crouched position, her eyes wide with a mix of shock and awe. Her gaze flickers over the scene—the battered muggers, the bloodstained ground, and you standing amidst the chaos, breathing heavily.

“That was…” she starts, shaking her head as if to clear the shock. “You’re something else. What the hell?! I didn’t know you could fight like that!”

You give a wry, tired smile. “Well, there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

Morgan steps closer, her expression softening from disbelief to something akin to admiration. “Seriously, though, that was insane. I thought we were done for, but you—”

DANGER.

Your instincts kick in with a jolt of alarm, making your hair stand on end. Everything slows to a crawl.

You see it: one of the muggers, still on the ground but moving, starts to stir. His fingers slip into his jacket, reaching for something concealed. Each movement seems to stretch out in excruciating detail, from the twitch of his fingers to the barely perceptible shift of his body. Morgan, still caught up in her surprise and relief, is too busy chatting to notice.

The mugger’s hand emerges from his jacket, revealing a glinting gun. You quickly fire a web, aiming to disarm him. The webbing sticks to the gun, but the mugger has already squeezed the trigger.

Without a second thought, you react instinctively.

“Get down!” you shout, pushing her aside.

BANG!

The sharp crack of the gunshot reverberates through the alley, and you feel a searing pain in your ribs. A hot, burning sensation spreads through your side, intensifying with every heartbeat. Morgan’s scream pierces the air, her horror evident as she watches you stagger.

You stagger back, clutching your side.

Well... shit.

“Motherfudger—” you grit your teeth, the pain in your side intensifying. You turn your focus to the mugger scrambling to flee, his gun now ensnared in your webbing.

With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot another web, pulling him toward you. As he comes within reach, you slam his head against the wall, the impact knocking him out cold.

Morgan rushes back to your side, her face pale. “Are you okay? Holy shit! Holy shit! You're shot.”

Her gaze then turns to the webs scattered across the alley, her eyes widening in realization.

“You’re—”

You hush her, slamming a hand over her mouth. “Quiet!”

She mumbles into your palm, eyes darting nervously. “Y-you’re Spidey!”

“Listen,” you say softly but firmly, removing your hand once you're sure she won’t start screaming, “we need to keep our voices down. I’m hurt, and we need to get out of here before more trouble shows up.”

Morgan bites her lip, running a hand through her frazzled hair, white beanie long discarded on the ground. “But you’re hurt, and the police—” She trails off, glancing around at the mess and the moaning muggers scattered on the ground.

“I’ll be fine,” you cut her off. “We don’t need the police right now. Just help me get out of here.”

Morgan’s face twists but she nods. “I know where to go.”

Both of you soon find yourselves swinging through the alleys. You grit your teeth, pushing through the burning pain in your ribs and focusing on the task at hand. Ignoring the searing ache, you accelerate, swinging through the city with Morgan clinging to your side. You take the longer route, weaving through the shadows to avoid detection.

Finally, you drop down into an alley beside her penthouse building. Morgan’s eyes widen as she takes in the sight of the blood seeping through the fabric of your shirt, a stark contrast against the white. She steps back, shock and concern etched across her face.

“Damn,” she curses. “You’re really hurt.”

“‘Tis but a flesh wound,” you grunt, pressing a hand against the wound to staunch the bleeding. “Now, let’s get inside before I bleed out or pass out—whichever decides to happen first.”

Morgan doesn’t waste a second. She grabs your arm and pulls you toward the back door of her building. The heavy steel door creaks open, and she nearly shatters the elevator buttons with the force of her pressing.

You lean heavily against her as she steps into the elevator with you. The harsh fluorescent lights inside the elevator are glaringly bright, intensifying the pain in your ribs with their sterile, clinical glare. As the metal doors close with a soft, echoing thud, the outside world fades away. For a fleeting moment, you find some relief as the lift begins its ascent, the gentle hum of the machinery offering a small distraction from the throbbing ache in your side.

Morgan keeps glancing at you, nervously biting her lip. “Just hang in there. We’ll get you patched up in no time.”

You manage a shrug, despite the discomfort. The pain isn’t as overwhelming as it might be for most, thanks to your spider abilities, but the real kicker is the identity reveal.

"Did I at least look badass?"

"Oh my god. I literally hate you."

When the elevator finally dings open, Morgan practically drags you out, guiding you swiftly down the hall to her penthouse. The door swings open, and she ushers you inside.

You collapse onto the plush couch, wincing as you sink into its cushions. The pain in your ribs throbs with each breath, and as the adrenaline fades, you feel every ache more acutely.

Without wasting a second, Morgan strides across the room and shouts into the air, her voice echoing off the sleek, modern walls.

“PEPPER, I need you!”

You’re caught off guard as a series of robotic arms extend from sleek panels in the walls, their metallic surfaces catching the ambient light. The arms are intricate, equipped with various tools and sensors, whizzing towards you.

One of the arms reaches out, its end featuring a gentle, flexible grip. It carefully tugs at your shirt, and you reluctantly slip it off, exposing the wound on your side. The arm’s sensors begin to glow softly as it scans your injury.

The room fills with a soft, synthesized voice. “Scanning gunshot wound. Location: left lower rib, depth: 4 cm. Severe damage, high infection risk. Blood loss: 150 ml. No internal bleeding. Administering anesthesia. Cleaning and debridement soon.”

Tiny robotic tools emerge from compartments within the arm—sterilizing swabs, a precision scalpel, and a fine, retractable syringe. The anesthetic solution is applied gently, its cooling sensation numbing the pain.

“Uh, what the actual fuck is going on?” you blurt out.

Morgan watches with a stony expression, her focus fixed on a tablet in her hands as she monitors your vitals closely.

“Oh, that’s PEPPER. She’s a Stark Industries AI I’ve had integrated into the penthouse. She’s pretty good at this kind of thing. Coded her myself."

The robotic arm emits a soft beep before starting the process of removing the bullet. You feel a series of sharp, targeted tugs as the bullet is gradually extracted, each pull sending a brief jolt of pain through your side. The bullet clinks as it drops onto a metal tray.

“Isn’t... isn’t PEPPER your mom’s name? Damn, you actually coded this?” you ask, your voice a mix of awe and disbelief.

Morgan gives a small, proud smile, her eyes meeting yours.

“I’m the next in line for Stark Industries, after all,” she says. “So yeah, I figured out how to make this kind of tech. And yep, Pepper’s named after my mom. She used to patch up my dad whenever he got into trouble.”

A fleeting, wistful look crosses her face, but she shakes it off quickly. “PEPPER stands for ‘Personal Emergency Protocol and Protective Emergency Response.’ It’s a tribute, and it’s supposed to handle everyday stuff and emergencies like this.”

The robotic arms continue their work, the AI’s voice providing updates. “Bullet extraction complete. Administering wound care and infection prevention. Proceeding with final checks.”

“Just hang tight,” Morgan says. “We’re almost done here.”

"This is—this is insane! It’s insane," you hiss at her, leaning back as the machine starts bandaging you. "Is this what rich people do? Build robots that can do fucking surgery?!"

Morgan chuckles softly, her eyes still focused on the tablet as she adjusts the settings. “When you have the resources, why not make the best use of them?”

The robotic arms complete the bandaging, applying a final layer of antiseptic and securing the bandages with a gentle press. The AI’s voice announces the end of the procedure with a soft chime. “Wound care complete. Vital signs stable. Patient recovery in progress.”

You let out a deep sigh of relief as the robotic arm finally withdraws. You stretch out your shoulders and take a moment to appreciate the absence of pain. “Well, thanks for the help. I guess I owe you one... or maybe a lot.”

Morgan’s smile is faint but warm, her eyes softening as she looks at you. “Well… you did save me today. And… on that night. I’d say we’re kinda even now.”

Suddenly, a new chime interrupts the moment. Morgan’s brows furrow as she glances at the tablet, her confusion giving way to awe.

“Whoa,” she breathes, eyes widening. “You’re healing at an insane rate... Your tissues are already regenerating. This is... freaky. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

You wince slightly as the last of the bandages is applied. The robotic arms retract with a soft whir, leaving behind a faint, antiseptic scent. You manage a tired smile, though your face is still flushed from the pain and the adrenaline crash.

“It’s the spider stuff,” you explain. “Enhanced abilities. Healing and pain tolerance are part of the package.”

Morgan’s expression shifts from shock to a wry grin, her eyes sparkling with a mix of disbelief and admiration. “No shit. You treated that gunshot like it was just a scratch.”

The redhead places her tablet on a nearby table and takes a seat directly in front of you. Her demeanor is a blend of fascination and a newfound respect. “So, you’re Spidey? I mean, I knew you were something special, but this...” She gestures to you with a grin. “This is next-level.

You raise an eyebrow, a teasing grin spreading across your face. “You think I’m special?”

Morgan’s cheeks flush slightly as she stumbles over her words, clearly flustered.

“Uh, well, yeah. I mean, I think you’re really smart and capable—like, a genius. I mean, your skills with chemistry and science are incredible. The way you analyze problems and come up with solutions, it’s like you’ve got a grasp of things that usually takes years to master. And then there’s the tech you’ve built—it's insane. Seeing you in action like that? It’s next-level. I didn’t expect you to be, like, superhero-level special.”

You blink in surprise, caught off guard by her enthusiastic praise. “Well… thanks,” you say, a wry grin spreading across your face.

Morgan, still flustered, clears her throat and tries to change the topic. “So, how long have you been doing this?”

You shrug, rubbing your eyes as the weight of the day settles in. “A while. It’s... been a lot. Sometimes it feels like the more I do, the bigger the threats get.”

“Huh,” Morgan leans forward, her eyes locking with yours. “I guess I’m in it now, too.”

“Woah,” you laugh, raising a hand. “No, no. I see where this is going. I’ve read too many comics. I know what you’re about to say.”

Morgan’s gaze narrows. “Oh, really? And what’s that?”

You lean back with a groan, your head tilting back against the sofa. The action causes your chest to rise and fall more rapidly, sweat clinging to your skin. Your throat bobs with each breath, and the effort makes your neck arch slightly.

Morgan’s eyes wander, taking in the sheen of sweat on your chest and the way your skin glistens. Her face flushes deeper as she stares.

You waggle a finger at her with a grin. “I know where this is headed,” you say, voice dripping with mock seriousness. “I’ve seen the trope before. The whole ‘I’m in this now too’ speech. And trust me, it’s usually followed by—”

“By what?” Morgan blinks, snapping out of her daze.

You give her a knowing look.

“Okay, fine, you got me,” she huffs, crossing her arms. “And before you say anything, I’m not just looking to tag along for the excitement. I genuinely want to contribute. I’ve got resources, skills, and—”

She gestures to the high-tech surroundings of her penthouse, where one of the robot arms gives a casual wave. “—I can do more than just sit on the sidelines.”

Pursing your lips, you nervously bite on your fingernails, glancing away. “See, this is where I’m supposed to give you the ‘I can’t put you in danger’ speech. The whole ‘this is too dangerous’ line. Normally, in a story like this, you’d be the love interest.”

Morgan slumps. “I appreciate that, really. But I’m not just some bystander here.”

“Morga—”

The door creaks open, and a soft, synthesized voice echoes through the apartment, cutting you off.

“Welcome home, Tony.”

Both of you freeze.

The front door swings fully open, revealing Tony FUCKING Stark himself.

His face is stony as he takes in the scene. His eyes dart from you—shirtless and in nothing but a bra, with bandages wrapped haphazardly around your torso—to Morgan, who looks flustered and disheveled.

You and Morgan stare right back, just as wide-eyed. There’s a beat of awkward silence as Tony’s brain catches up with the situation. He glances at you, then at Morgan, and back at you with a raised eyebrow.

“Uh, hey, Dad,” Morgan says, her voice hitting a pitch that could break glass. She scrambles to smooth her hair and adjust her clothes, her face a portrait of embarrassment.

Tony’s eyes narrow, clearly trying to piece together what he’s walked into. “Well, this is... unexpected. I didn’t realize I was interrupting... whatever this is.”

You, still sprawled on the couch, cross your arms over your chest, your face blazing red. “Um. Hello, Mr. Stark. This... looks exactly like it’s not what it seems.”

Tony’s gaze sharpens as he scrutinizes you. His eyes narrow, and he points a finger at you with a blend of suspicion and recognition. “Wait a second. Aren’t you that Wayne kid’s girlfriend? The youngest one. Darryl, right?”

“Damian,” you correct, trying to sound as nonchalant as possible.

“Yeah, him.” Tony squints. “So, what’s the deal? Am I looking at a tabloid scandal in the making here?”

Morgan’s face flushes a deeper shade of red, clearly mortified. “Dad!”

Tony’s expression shifts to one of mock seriousness as he holds up a hand, covering his eyes with exaggerated drama. “It’s okay! I’ll be in my workshop, pretending I didn’t see a thing. Just... try not to make any more headlines while I’m gone.”

“Sh—she’s not—!” you start to protest, but Morgan cuts you off with a rapid, high-pitched explanation.

“She’s the Stark intern I told you about!” Morgan lies straight through her teeth, sending you a look that screams, 'Go along with it!' “I was just showing her how some of the bots work!”

Tony squints at Morgan, then at you, and back at Morgan with a grimace. “For the love of tech, Morgan, next time you give your intern a hands-on demonstration, maybe keep it... less hands-on?”

Morgan sputters and gapes, but Tony is already turning on his heel and strutting out of the room. Over his shoulder, he adds with a shout, “Be who you are!”

The door swings shut behind Tony with a soft, final thud, leaving you and Morgan in an awkward silence.

“Does this mean I actually have to become an intern for your dad's company now?”

“Yes.”

You raise an eyebrow. “Couldn’t you have come up with a better excuse? Like, say, that I’m just a really good friend or something?”

Morgan rolls her eyes and flicks your ear. “Dude, chill. I can get you cool tech. I mean, who wouldn’t want access to Stark Industries’ gadgets? I can be the guy in the chair and all that cool Oracle stuff. Think of it as a tech upgrade for your superhero gig.”

“You want to be the guy in the chair? Seriously? I am not letting you be the guy in the chair.”

Morgan gasps in disbelief. “Why not?! I’m perfectly capable of providing a little tech support. And! I just showed you how I can help with your injuries.”

“I’m not sure if I want to gamble my safety on your ‘tech support.’”

“Come on, it’ll be fine!”

“I’m not letting you be the guy in the chair.”

“You’re just repeating yourself.”

“You keep pushing the ‘guy in the chair’ thing.”

“Well, you keep rejecting me.”

“Because you’re a civilian!"

"Am I?! Are you seriously doubting my tech skills?”

“More like your impulse control.”

Morgan huffs dramatically, her cheeks flushing slightly. “Ha, very funny. You’re one to talk! May I remind you who exactly got shot between us?”

“Fine!” you snap, throwing up your hands in defeat. “You win! You can be the guy in the chair!”

Morgan’s face lights up with a smirk as she pushes her glasses up with a satisfied flick of her fingers. “Perfect. But just so you know… I’m not planning on getting into any alleyway brawls.”

You narrow your eyes playfully. “Not like you could do anything with your spaghetti arms."

"Ass!"

“Also," you add. "You say that now, but I’ve seen how people get when they’re itching to help. You’re not allowed to step a foot into any of my alleys. You stay where it’s safe, understood?”

Morgan raises her hands in mock surrender. “Got it."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 8:12 PM - Crime Alley, Gotham City.

The moon casts long, eerie shadows across the grimy streets of Crime Alley, its pale light barely penetrating the oppressive darkness. The night air is cool and sharp as you swing effortlessly between buildings.

Morgan clings tightly to your back, her grip firm. Her breath comes in quick, exhilarated bursts as the wind howls around you, whipping through her hair and making her voice rise with the rush of the night.

“This is incredible!” she shouts, her words lost momentarily in the roar of the wind. “I had no idea you were so… so agile! I’m practically flying!”

You chuckle, tightening your grip on her. “Glad you’re enjoying it. Just remember to keep this between us, okay? I already texted my mom, told her I was working late on an internship. She’d totally lose it if she knew the whole story. I wasn’t supposed to let anyone know.”

Morgan nods enthusiastically, her laughter mingling with the wind. “Secret’s safe with me! Besides, this is way cooler than any boring internship!”

As you approach the warehouse, you swing gracefully from the rooftops, landing lightly on the building’s edge. You gently set Morgan down, her eyes wide with curiosity. You lead her to an open window, and together you step into the warehouse, emerging into the loft area that overlooks the cluttered first floor.

Tables cluttered with tools, spare parts, and old electronics fill one side of the warehouse. Shelves stacked with various gadgets, blueprints, and half-finished projects line the walls. A makeshift bed, complete with a thin mattress and a worn blanket, sits in a corner, flanked by a few of your personal touches like a small stack of comic books and a faded poster of a vintage comic.

“It’s a bit scrappy, but it gets the job done,” you explain, glancing around the space. “I’ve done a lot of work here over the past few months.”

Morgan sets her gear down on one of the tables, her eyes gleaming with anticipation. She starts pulling out a few gadgets, laying them out with a smile. You watch her with interest as she reveals the basics for now: a comm device, a sleek laptop, and a set of earpieces.

“Alright, so here’s the rundown,” Morgan says, holding up the comm device. “This little beauty will keep us in touch no matter where we are. It’s got encryption and a few extra features that’ll come in handy for tracking and coordinating.”

She places it on the table and picks up the laptop, opening it to reveal a high-resolution screen. “This is my command center. Well... laptop. It’s loaded with security protocols and a few surprises. I’ll be able to monitor everything from here, plus it has advanced analytics.”

Finally, she holds up the earpieces with a grin. “And these are for communication and hearing everything clearly, even in the middle of a mess. They’re noise-canceling and have a range that can reach the entire country.”

You stare at her blankly.

"You are... oddly prepared for this."

Morgan shifts her weight and shrugs nonchalantly. “I’m really into heroes, okay?! Stark Industries has some pretty cool special projects.” She coughs lightly as she sets the equipment down, arranging it on one of the tables. “Just wait until you see what else I’ve got in store."

You shake your head with a smile, letting her dive into the setup. As she busies herself with the tech, you move to the corner of the warehouse where you’ve set up a small training area. You pull out a yoga mat, your muscles aching from the day’s activities and the previous night’s adrenaline rush.

Spreading the mat out on the floor, you begin a series of stretches and exercises to ease the tension in your body. The quiet hum of the warehouse is soothing until suddenly, your ringtone starts blaring through the speakers.

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na… Batman!

You perk up, eyes wide, as the theme song fills the room. Morgan’s snort echoes through the space as she looks over at you, clicking something on her laptop.

“Nice fucking ringtone,” she laughs. “Damian’s calling.”

You squint at her, then glance at your phone, which is sitting a few inches away on the table. “Did you just hack my phone?”

“Hacked,” she corrects with a smirk. “You’d be surprised at what I can do with Bluetooth and a laptop.”

You roll your eyes and settle back down to squat on the floor. “You know, I thought I was supposed to be the tech expert here.”

Morgan shrugs nonchalantly. “Consider it a skill I picked up. Besides, if you’re going to have me as your tech support, you need to get used to this kind of thing.”

The ringtone continues to ring, and Morgan raises an eyebrow at you.

“Are you going to answer that, or do you want me to handle it for you too?”

You wince. “We had an argument.”

“Trouble in paradise,” she squints before pointing to the door of the warehouse. “Maybe you want some privacy?”

You glance at the screen, where Damian’s name is flashing. With a resigned sigh, you reach for the phone and press the end button. Morgan whistles and grimaces.

“Yikes.”

“Whatever,” you roll your eyes, trying to brush off the discomfort. “I’ll talk to him when I feel like it. Let me do my yoga in peace.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

"I'm sorry, this caller cannot be reached—"

With a sharp, irritated breath, Damian swipes the call away, the screen of his bike’s console dimming to black.

You didn’t want to answer? Fine. He had more pressing matters to attend to.

The bike’s engine roars to life with a deep, throaty growl, cutting through the night air like a predator on the hunt. Damian deftly navigates Gotham’s tangled mess of traffic, weaving between honking cars and startled pedestrians. The bike’s tires bite into the wet asphalt, the city lights reflecting off its sleek frame as he darts past another red light.

Tonight’s patrol is anything but routine. High-profile cases, gang activity, and urgent calls stack up like a never-ending to-do list, and Damian can already feel the weight of the week ahead pressing down on him. Gotham’s underbelly churns with unease, as if the city itself is bracing for something darker on the horizon.

BUZZ!

Just as he begins to settle into the rhythm of the ride, the steady hum of the bike’s engine is interrupted by the sharp buzz of his comm link. He glances down at the small screen embedded in the bike’s console, his eyes narrowing.

“Robin? You there? I’ve got something I need you to check out. It’s near your location.”

The familiar voice of Oracle crackles through the earpiece, cool and composed, but with a hint of urgency that sparks Damian’s interest. A digital map flickers to life on the dashboard, zooming in on a narrow, dimly lit alleyway nestled deep within one of Gotham’s most rundown districts.

“I’m picking up unusual activity,” she explains. “There’s a gang meet-up happening in that alleyway near Queens. From the chatter, it sounds like they’re discussing something big—possibly a new drug shipment or an upcoming operation. Get some eyes on them.”

“Understood. I’ll check it out,” he replies curtly. Damian’s grip tightens on the handlebars as he adjusts his course, the bike’s engine growling in response as he veers sharply toward the indicated location.

It only takes a few minutes before Damian pulls up to the alleyway. He slows the bike to a stop, the tires skidding slightly on the wet pavement before he parks it in a shadowed corner, blending in with the darkness. The engine’s deep rumble fades to a low, menacing purr before it finally falls silent.

Damian pulls off his helmet, his hair tousled from the ride. He shakes his head slightly, letting the cool night air ruffle through his dark locks. The city’s muted sounds reach his ears—the distant wail of sirens, the occasional shouts, the drip of water from a nearby pipe.

The alleyway ahead is cloaked in darkness, illuminated only by the occasional flicker of a faulty streetlamp. Shadows stretch and twist along the grimy walls, creating an unsettling landscape.

He dismounts and approaches the entrance to the alley with silent steps. As he ventures deeper, the muffled sounds of voices become clearer. The air grows heavier, thick with the smell of smoke mingling with an acrid tang of something burning and the less pleasant odors of old beer and rotting food.

Damian reaches into his earpiece and taps the control for his embedded mic. The small device activates with a soft, almost imperceptible beep and he begins recording.

“Did you hear about latest shipment?” One voice says, his accent thick and unmistakable, the words rolling off his tongue with a heavy Russian lilt. “It’s stolen Stark Tech. Black Mask, he’s making big moves, yes? Big tech deals coming soon.”

Another voice, sharper and edged with a typical Gothamite drawl, chimes in. “Yeah, I heard. Looks like he’s tryin’ to offload some high-end stuff. Somethin’ to do with the Octavius project.”

A third voice, younger and nasally, adds, “Octavius? Isn’t he locked up in Blackgate? Why would he be involved in any of this?”

"Money," the Russian explains, "Black Mask, he uses connections, push deals forward. Octavius, he is in prison, yes, but influence, it is not gone. We get in on this... payout could be very big."

Damian’s eyes narrow as he tries to move closer, but something tugs at him from behind. He glances over his shoulder and freezes when he sees a thin, webbed strand clinging to the edge of his cape. It’s almost invisible in the dim light of the alley but stands out starkly against the dark fabric of his cape.

Spidersilk.

Scowling, Damian tugs at his cape, attempting to peel away the stubborn webbing. It clings tenaciously, resisting his efforts with an almost defiant grip. Frustration flares as he yanks harder, the strained fabric slapping against the nearby wall with a loud snap.

The voices in the alley fall silent, replaced by the shuffle of feet and urgent whispers. Damian curses under his breath

Damian curses under his breath. He quickly snaps off the cape, leaving it behind in the shadows, and just as he does, a gang member swings a crude metal pipe toward him. Damian reacts instinctively, raising his forearm to block the attack, the clang of metal echoing through the alley.

Snarling, Damian wrenches the pipe from the thug’s grip and drives it into the man’s ribs with brutal force. There’s a sickening crack as bone gives way, and the thug emits a sharp, agonized wail before crumpling to the ground, clutching his side in pain.

Standing tall, Damian slowly steps out of the shadows, the darkness sweeping across his face like a shroud. The white of his mask catches what little light there is, giving it an eerie, spectral glow.

With a deliberate, almost ritualistic slowness, he draws his katana from its sheath. The blade catches and distorts the scant light, gleaming with a sinister, predatory sheen. As he spins the weapon with precise, practiced ease, the razor-sharp edge slices through the darkness, emitting a soft, chilling hiss.

“Here’s a piece of advice,” Damian sneers, his voice distorted into a menacing growl by his modulator. “You’re all out of your league. I suggest you leave now, before you make this any worse for yourselves.”

One of the gang members, either too reckless or too foolish to retreat, lunges at Damian with a rusty knife. The blade catches the scant light, its edge glinting menacingly as it arcs toward Damian’s side.

With a fluid, practiced motion, Damian sidesteps the attack, his hand shooting out to grasp the thug’s wrist and wrench it sharply. The knife clatters to the grimy ground as the thug lets out a pained cry. In a seamless follow-up, Damian flicks his katana, slicing across the thug’s torso with a precise cut that wounds but doesn’t kill.

Damian follows up with a brutal strike to the thug’s face, slamming him against the alley wall. Blood spatters onto the cracked pavement as Damian’s punch leaves the thug’s face a bruised, bloody mess.

“Had enough?” Damian growls, his voice a chilling rasp. The thug, dazed and barely able to stand, makes a feeble attempt to swing at Damian.

Damian easily deflects the pitiful attack, then brings the hilt of his katana down with a sharp crack against the thug’s temple. The thug crumples to the ground, unconscious before he even hits the pavement.

“Let this be a lesson, Damian calls out to the other men. He twists his wrist, adjusting his grip on the katana, letting blood drip from the blade in a slow, deliberate descent. As he advances towards the remaining gang members, the metal scrapes against the ground with a harsh, grating sound.

“That next time, you won’t be so lucky,” he continues, his carved jade eyes darkened with flecks of shadow, swirling like wisps of smoke.

The thugs, now visibly terrified, back away slowly, their bravado gone. The oldest of them, a burly man with a scar that cuts through his rugged face, steps forward.

“Alright, alright, we’re done here,” he growls, his voice betraying a tremor of fear. “We’ll leave. Just... just don’t kill us.”

Damian flicks his sword back. “Smart choice. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.”

The men scramble to their feet, their panicked retreat echoing off the narrow walls as they disappear into the shadows. The sound of their hurried footsteps gradually fades, leaving Damian alone in the quiet aftermath.

He sheaths his katana, the blade slipping into its scabbard with a soft, final click. His breathing is steady, but the adrenaline still buzzes beneath his skin. He scans the alley, taking in the mess left behind—smears of blood painting the pavement

His comm link crackles to life again, Oracle’s voice cutting through the silence. “Robin, report. What’s the status?”

“I recorded the conversation for you,” Damian replies, his voice steady as he turns. His boots crunch on the asphalt, the sound piercing the quiet as he kneels down to retrieve his discarded cape. He scowls at the stubborn webbing still clinging to his cape.

“That, and I’m starting a personal case,” he adds. He moves closer to examine the webbing, his gloved fingers deftly tearing away part of the fabric. The strands of webbing glint faintly in the dim light.

“A personal case?”

“Yes,” Damian confirms. He tugs his torn cape back into place, the frayed edges fluttering slightly as he smooths the fabric over his shoulders. He takes a moment to scan the alley one last time, the glinting remnants of webbing still catching his eye.

“I'm going on a hunt."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you trudge up the creaky, worn stairs of your apartment building, your footsteps pounding against the wood. Your muscles protest with every step, body aching from the lack of sleep.

Both you and Morgan were up all night setting up communication devices and sketching out possible upgrades for weapons and gadgets. Your mind is a foggy mess of blueprints and circuitry, making it hard to focus on anything but the thought of finally collapsing into your beloved bed.

Reaching your door, you fumble with the keys, and push the door open. The familiar scent of home—a mix of Selina's favorite lavender incense and the lingering aroma of last night's takeout—hits you, momentarily soothing your tired mind.

Inside, the windows are drawn open, and sunlight illuminates the living room, casting warm, golden beams across the worn-out furniture. Selina is sitting on the couch, engaged in an animated conversation with someone. You blink in confusion, your brain still foggy from sleep. Since when did you guys have guests?

You squint, then do a double-take.

Tony Stark. The Tony Stark is lounging on your couch, looking like he belonged there.

Maybe you were hallucinating.

You blink again, but he’s still there, looking impossibly real with his feet propped up and an easy smile on his face. It’s not a hallucination. This is real.

“Uh, Mom?” you manage to stammer out.

Selina turns and gives you a warm smile. “Look who finally decided to join us. Honey, you didn’t tell me you topped the rankings for their program!”

You… did?

“Uh, I did?” you ask, bewildered. You have no recollection of even applying for anything. The only time Tony knew about your existence was yesterday when you were literally shirtless at his apartment.

Tony chuckles, standing up and extending his hand. “You sure did, kid. Impressive work. I’ve been keeping an eye on the top candidates, and your projects really stood out. Thought I’d come by personally to congratulate you and talk about the next steps.”

You shake his hand, still in shock. His grip is firm, and his presence is undeniably magnetic. “Thank you, Mr. Stark. I’m… honored?”

“Honored, impressed—whatever you want to call it,” Tony says with a smirk, nodding at Selina before clapping a hand on your back. “Just know I’ve got big plans for you.”

Something feels off.

Your spider senses are buzzing like a live wire, setting your nerves on edge.

You force a smile, trying to mask the unease gnawing at you. The room feels too small, the air too thick. The sunlight streaming in from the window seems blindingly bright, almost as if it's glaring through a veil of distorted reality, making everything feel unreal.

As everything whirls into tunnel vision, the only thing you can focus on is Tony Stark, who seems too calm, too composed.

“Mom, would it be alright if I talked to Mr. Stark outside? We’ll be back,” you say, your voice steadier than you feel.

Without waiting for a response, you yank Tony toward the door. The latch clicks shut behind you with an ominous echo, and you steer him down the narrow, dimly lit hallway of the apartment building. The corridor feels tight and constricted, with the flickering lightbulbs casting uneven shadows that dance along the peeling wallpaper.

Once you reach the corner and are out of earshot, you turn to Tony. “Okay, what’s really going on?” you ask.

Tony raises an eyebrow, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his mouth. “Straight to the point, huh? I like that. I needed to talk to you about something important, and this seemed like the best way to get your attention without causing a scene.”

You furrow your brow, struggling to piece together what’s happening. “I don’t even remember applying for any program. Morgan just mentioned it to me. Are you sure you have the right person, Mr. Stark?”

Tony’s expression turns serious as he pulls out his phone. With a few swipes, he activates a holographic screen. A video begins to play, and your heart sinks as you recognize the scene.

The video shows you from months ago, in your Spidey suit, captured by a bystander's shaky phone camera. The camera focuses on the moment when a car, careening out of control, crashes through the guardrail of a bridge. A web is shot, the thread catching the car just before it plunged into the river below. There's a grunt from you as you strain to pull the car back onto the bridge, the muscles in your arms and shoulders visibly taut under the suit. Onlookers gasp and cheer when you succeed, landing lightly on the bridge beside the car.

Tony’s eyes bore into yours. "That's you, isn't it?"

Your heart skips a beat. The hallway seems to close in around you, the walls pressing in. You feel a bead of sweat trickle down your back as you stammer, "What? I—I don't... No?"

Tony's gaze remains fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "Come on, kid. Don't try to play me. I know it's you. Holy shit. What a catch! 4,100 pounds?"

"I really don't know what you're talking about," you lie and swallow hard. "That's probably fake you know right? It's probably some edit on Youtube."

"Oh, sure," Tony purses his lips and pulls up another screen. Your eyes scan it and you wince. "Guess this is fake too, huh?"

The screen displays medical records of your injury from yesterday—a gunshot wound that healed unusually fast. The data outlines the severity of the wound and highlights the rapid recovery process. Tony’s finger traces the timeline, pointing out the abnormal speed of your healing.

"Wowie," Tony gasps in mock-surprise. "Not exactly a normal recovery rate for a regular teenager, wouldn't you say? What the hell does your mom feed you, kid? Magic beans? And this—"

He pulls up another screen. It's a scan of your DNA. The image is a dense matrix of colorful strands and data points.

“Would you look at that,” Tony continues, crossing his arms. "You got some Spider DNA on you, kid. This is some next-level genetic crossover."

You exhale deeply, pressing your fingertips to your temples in an attempt to quell the rising tide of anxiety. “Did Morgan tell you about this?”

Tony shakes his head, a smirk tugging at the corners of his lips. “Nope. I have access to the records and all data from the bot. Guess she forgot to clear it.” He slides his phone back into his pocket. “And before you ask, I don’t just dig through people’s private stuff for fun.”

He points a finger at you, a self-assured smile growing on his face. "So. I’m right? You’re the... Spiderling. Crime-fighting Spider?"

"Spidey," you correct, leaning against the wall and crossing your arms. "Look. Mr. Stark. What do you want?"

Tony adjusts his glasses, peering down at you with a look of genuine appreciation. "Well, first, I want to thank you for saving my girl. I owe you one for that."

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

"Second," Tony continues, his tone shifting to business, "I’m here with a proposition. I’ve seen what you can do, and let’s just say I’ve got some big plans that could use a spider-shaped wrench in the works. Plus, I’ve got some nifty gadgets to keep you happy.”

You wince and shake your head. “Mr. Stark, I’m not looking to upgrade.”

"Well, you’re in dire need of an upgrade," Tony says, pulling up a picture of you in your suit and making a gagging face. He adjusts his glasses with a look of disdain. "Systemic. Top to bottom."

You roll your eyes.

"But before we get into that," Tony adds, his tone shifting to something more thoughtful, "I’ve got to ask: why do this? Why play the hero? Is it guilt? A sense of responsibility? Or just a really bad habit? What's your emo backstory, kid?"

You shift uncomfortably against the wall, the cool, rough surface pressing against your back.

"It’s... complicated," you finally say, your voice low. "When you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you. I can’t just stand by and act helpless."

"So, you’re playing the hero for the little guys, huh? Who else knows about this gig of yours?" Tony mutters

You exhale a heavy sigh, rolling your neck to ease the tension. "Morgan knows, and... Selina. And now, you."

Tony nods slowly, his fingers idly peeling back a section of wallpaper. "How’d would you like to spend a month at Stark Industries, kid?"

You sputter, "I can't just... What? Start living with you?"

"Well, yeah. I'm not exactly down to make the three-hour commute to your place."

"Okay, who said I was agreeing to this?"

"I did," Tony whistles and starts to move toward your apartment door. "Unless you want me to tell your ridiculously hot aunt that her kid got shot—"

THWIP.

Tony freezes, his foot now stuck as the sharp sound of the web echoes through the corridor. He looks down, eyes widening slightly as the web wraps around his ankle.

You stand with your hand outstretched. “Don’t tell Mom.”

Tony raises an eyebrow in mock surprise. “So, what’s it going to be? Make a decision now, or do I need to start spilling secrets to get your attention?”

You groan, your head thudding against the wall as you wrestle with the decision. After a moment, you exhale sharply, pushing the doubt aside. “Alright, Mr. Stark. I’ll take you up on your offer. But if we’re doing this, I need to be in the loop on everything. No surprises.”

Tony’s smirk widens as he extends his hand.

“Deal. Welcome to Stark Industries. You’re going to fit right in.”

"..."

"Now. Can you... get me out of this?"

 ༻⊰───⋅

The dining room at Wayne Manor was unusually lively this morning, a rare and welcome shift from the usual quiet. Bruce, seated at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, was partially hidden behind the day’s newspaper, only the top of his head visible as he read. The rustle of paper was the only sound he made as Alfred moved around his chair, silently refilling his coffee cup with a fresh, steaming brew.

To Bruce’s right, Dick and Jason were engaged in conversation. Every so often, their banter would erupt into laughter, the sound warm and familiar. Tim sat across from them, his laptop balanced precariously beside his plate, its glow reflecting off the food he barely touched. His eyes darted between the screen and the table, more absorbed in whatever was on his laptop than the breakfast laid out in front of him. At the far end, Cass cradled her latte in both hands, taking slow, thoughtful sips as her gaze wandered out to the gardens, lost in some distant thought.

Amidst the calm, Damian was anything but. His face was locked in a deep scowl as he hacked away at his breakfast, the knife in his hand scraping harshly against the plate, leaving deep, jagged scratches. Each slice seemed to require more effort than the last, the grating sound of metal against porcelain cutting through the room like nails on a chalkboard.

"Are you trying to eat your plate?"

"Die."

Bruce peered over the top of his newspaper, his brow furrowed in concern. The rustle of the paper paused as he glanced at his son, his gaze shifting from the newspaper to Damian. "Is something wrong, son?"

Damian’s grip tightened around his knife, his knuckles white. His jaw was clenched so tightly that it looked like it might crack. "The burger is insufficiently cut."

Tim, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard, barely looked up from the screen. He let out an exasperated sigh and rolled his eyes. "He’s mad because his girlfriend hasn’t been replying to his messages."

Damian’s eyes shot a sharp glare at Tim, but the anger in his gaze softened just enough to betray the truth in his brother’s words. His jaw twitched as he tried to maintain his scowl. Bruce raised an eyebrow, his concern now tinged with curiosity.

"Damn," Jason said, pausing mid-bite of his eggs. He leaned back in his chair, waving his fork around with a smirk. "What did you do? Did she finally get tired of you?"

"Don’t start, Todd," Damian snapped, his eyes narrowing as he glared at Jason. "My relationship status is none of your concern."

Dick leaned back in his chair with a chuckle. "Busy, or just avoiding you? There’s a difference."

"She might just be busy," Tim chimed in, taking a leisurely sip from his coffee cup. He set it down with a deliberate clink and met Dick's gaze with a knowing look. "Did you know she topped the Stark Industries Young Innovators Program?"

The table fell silent for a moment, the hum of conversation abruptly cut off.

The newspaper, now forgotten, slipped from Bruce's fingers and landed on the table with a soft thud. His jaw twitched, and his lips pressed into a thin line, fighting to control the storm of emotions churning beneath his otherwise stoic facade. He looked as though he were struggling to choose between bursting into laughter, breaking down in tears, or punching a hole in the wall.

“Repeat that,” he said, his voice tight.

“Wayne-Stark Feud Escalates: Damian Wayne’s Girlfriend Takes Top Honors in Stark Industries’ Prestigious Young Innovators Program”

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jason whistled again, this time in genuine admiration.

“Well, damn. She really knocked it out of the park.”

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown.

“Of course, I had already known she was impressive,” Bruce said slowly, his voice dripping with a hint of petty resentment. “It’s just… wonderful to see someone finally acknowledging it. Stark finally catching up.”

“Looks like he’s stealing your kid,” Jason snorted, shaking his head. "Who do you guys think is going to win the custody battle?"

“Tony,” Tim said with a laugh.

Bruce’s head snapped up, betrayed. “Tim—”

“Tony,” Tim repeated, scrolling through the article. “She accepted. She’ll be spending a month in Stark Tower’s living quarters. All expenses covered.”

“What.”

“Yep,” Tim said, not looking up from his screen. “All the perks of the job. Stark’s rolling out the red carpet.”

Damian’s scowl deepened, his frustration now entirely focused on his offending meal. He resumed his aggressive cutting, the knife scraping furiously against the porcelain, each slice resonating with his irritation.

Bruce slammed his coffee cup down on the table with a sharp clink.

“Stark,” he muttered under his breath, his voice low and edged with bitter resignation. “Of course, Stark.”

Stares and knowing grins were exchanged around the table.

“Can’t believe I’m being outmaneuvered by that billionaire showboat,” Bruce grumbled. “Not a drop of responsibility in that man. How on earth is he going to handle being a… mentor to her? Stark’s idea of responsibility is throwing money at a problem and hoping it magically solves itself. He’ll probably just have her parading around his tech labs, showing off to his high-profile friends while she’s supposed to be learning. It’s all a game to him. He’s just going to pat her on the back and call her a genius while he takes all the credit.”

“Oh my god,” Dick grimaced, trying to stifle a laugh. “The adoption senses are tingling.”

Bruce shot him a withering glance but was interrupted by Alfred’s calm, yet pointed voice. “You’re taking this a bit personally,” Alfred said. “If I were you, I’d be congratulating the young miss for her accomplishment. It’s a remarkable achievement, and it reflects well on her character.”

Bruce’s scowl didn’t fade, but his expression softened slightly. “I’m not questioning her achievement,” he muttered, his tone begrudging.

“She’ll be fine. If she can handle you, she can handle Stark,” Alfred snapped.

Bruce gasped in offense.

Alfred continued to move around the table, placing a pitcher of water in the center. As he wiped his hands with a cloth, he hummed thoughtfully. “Young Miss Kyle is more than equipped to manage whatever Sir Stark throws at her. Let’s all take a moment to appreciate her success and perhaps focus less on the competition.”

He glanced at Bruce with a hint of a smile. “We can invite them for a celebratory dinner, Master Bruce. It would be a fitting way to honor her achievement and show our support.”

CLANG!

A sudden, explosive smash shattered the calm of the room, followed by a harsh metallic scrape. Damian’s knife came down with such violent force that the plate beneath it cracked audibly, sending shards skittering across the table.

Alfred’s weary sigh broke the tension, and he glided over to collect the shattered remnants of the plate, his practiced hands carefully avoiding the jagged edges.

“I hope you enjoy cereal, Master Damian."

༻⊰───⋅

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im a hoe for comments/reblogs/asks/kudos

it fuels me <3 pls send more

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #selina kyle #bruce wayne #batman

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youremyheaven · 8 months ago

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A Basic Guide to Vedic Astrology

I think many of you are new to Vedic astrology, so I thought I'd give a little intro to some of the concepts, terminology etc

First and foremost, Vedic astrology dates back to 5000 BC - 10,000BC, which means it only takes into account Sun, Moon, Mercury, Venus, Mars, Jupiter, Saturn and the 2 nodes of the Moon, Rahu & Ketu along with your Ascendant. Outer planets like Uranus, Neptune, Pluto along with asteroids are NOT calculated as most of them were discovered only in the last 2-3 centuries.

A conjunction takes place when two planets are placed in the same nakshatra within 5 degrees of each other. Even if they are placed more than 5 degrees apart, so long as they are in the same nakshatra, they can to some extent be considered as conjunct (the effect will be less potent than an exact conjunction basically) BUT if you have Sun in Ashwini and Venus in Bharani, you DO NOT have Sun conjunct Venus in Aries, that is NOT how it works. Those two nakshatras have entirely different themes, mythologies, purposes, deities, planetary influences and lessons, how on earth can they be considered "conjunct"???

That said, wherever you have a conjunction in your chart will have a major influence on you. It is a very potent energy. Dont ask me if having Saturn conjunct Ketu in Ashwini makes you a Saturnian or a Ketuvian because that's not the point, its that those two planets have a specific relationship with each other in your context and to understand the functioning of one, you must look at the other (along with its placement, aspects etc etc)

There are 12 rashis, corresponding to zodiac signs and each rashi is divided into 2 or more lunar mansions called "nakshatras". If you've wondered why say Arieses all act so different, its because they're either UBPs or Revatis in their Vedic chart, contributing to vastly different personalities.

In Vedic astrology, we have the concept of 7 charakarakas all of which indicate a different purpose:

Atmakaraka aka the soul indicator. it is the planet at the highest degree and represents your soul/being. its your compass and points towards the calling of your soul

2. Amatyakaraka, it typically points to your career/profession and works alongside your atmakaraka. it is the planet at the second highest degree

3. Bhratrukaraka (planet at 3rd highest degree) points to relationships with siblings

4. Matrukaraka ( planet at fourth-highest degree in your chart) signifies your relationship with your mother or maternal figures. It represents the nurturing qualities within you and helps illuminate your connection to your mother or motherly figures in your life.

5. Putrakaraka (planet with the fifth-highest degree in your chart) reveals your approach to parenting and your potential for creativity. It provides insights into your connection with your children and your capacity for artistic expression.

6. Gnatikaraka (the planet with the sixth-highest degree in your chart) indicates obstacles and adversaries in your life. It reflects your ability to overcome challenges and confrontations, making it a valuable guide for navigating life’s hurdles.

7. Darakaraka (the planet at the lowest degree) it is associated with your spouse and romantic relationships. It uncovers the qualities you seek in a partner and offers insights into how you relate to your significant other. Understanding the Darakaraka can provide clarity on your love life and partnerships.

HOW TO STUDY NAKSHATRAS:

Read about the mythology behind your nakshatras. This helps shed light on its nature.

Look at your nakshatra's yoni consort. Read about what the yoni animal symbolically represents

Similarly, read about your nakshatra's deity, ruling planet, other naks under the same planetary influence etc

There are 4 purusharthas (aka motivations) in vedic astrology according to which nakshatras are classified. understanding the different classifications behind each nak helps us understand its nature better

similarly naks can also be classified by their ganas which describe the nature of these naks:

Deva = godly, Manushya = humane, Rakshasa = demonic

if you have a rakshasa gana nak, it does not mean you're a demon. it just points towards traits like selfishness, lack of generosity etc AND the person you are is sum of your whole chart, not just the gana of one nak, so don't beat yourself up

Naks are also classified on the basis of their qualities of which there are 7

they can also be classified on the basis of caste:

(all tables, pyramid etc by me so any mistake is mine oopsies)

4. Chart Ruler

The ruling planet of your ascendant sign is your lagna lord. If you're Mrigashira Rising, then your lagna lord is Mercury/Venus (based on whether your nak falls into the Taurus portion or the Gemini portion).

5. Navamsa or D9 chart

Look at your D9 after you've studied your D1 otherwise it'll feel like too much info you don't fully understand. Navamsa is consulted along with your D1/Birth chart. you can think of it as D1 promises certain things and D9 is if/how those things materialise. its like part 1 and part 2 of a story

I can't think of anything else that should be covered🤡but if you have doubts you can ask!!

I hope this was helpful!!

#astrology notes #astrology observations #sidereal astrology #vedic astro notes #nakshatras #astrology #vedic astrology #astro notes #astro observations #astroblr #jyotish

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divinationsanctuary19 · 1 month ago

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Your future spouse personality ~ Pick a picture

1 2 3

Remember to follow me!

Are you ready....

1...2....3

Let's go

1. The high priestess

A person who resembles this image might be someone full of contrasts—calm and serene yet capable of weathering life's storms. They have a gentle demeanor, much like the soft pink blossoms in the rain, radiating beauty and warmth even in difficult situations. The way the light filters through the rain suggests that this person brings clarity and hope into the lives of others, shining even when circumstances are tough. There's a quiet resilience to them, standing firm like the tree as the rain falls, but still allowing themselves to be vulnerable and open, much like the delicate flowers.This person might also carry an air of quiet mystery, much like the house in the background, partially hidden but undeniably present. They don't reveal everything about themselves at once, choosing instead to let others slowly discover their depth. Just as the rain refreshes the earth, this individual brings a sense of renewal and peace to those around them. They have an appreciation for the simple joys in life, finding beauty in moments that others might overlook, like the shimmer of raindrops on petals.

Beneath their calm surface, there's a strength that runs deep, like the roots of the trees, holding steady no matter how hard the rain falls. They are patient, understanding that growth takes time, much like the blooming of the flowers amidst the rain. Their presence is soothing, and much like the sunlight breaking through the rain, they bring warmth and comfort, illuminating even the stormiest days.

2. Queen of pentacles

A person who embodies this image could be someone deeply connected to nature, calm and grounded, with a peaceful, free-spirited personality. They have a quiet confidence, like the wide, open meadow that stretches under the soft sky. Much like the rolling hills, they are serene, unhurried, and comfortable in their own skin, valuing simplicity and tranquility. Their presence brings a sense of ease, as if they carry the soft whispers of the wind and the warmth of the afternoon sun with them.

This person appreciates the beauty in life's natural rhythm, much like the wildflowers blooming effortlessly across the landscape. They are thoughtful and reflective, often finding joy in solitude, as well as in the quiet moments spent with others. They are nurturing and gentle, providing a sense of calm to those around them, like the steady, unwavering trees on the horizon. Much like the green fields, they have a deep, steady presence that brings a feeling of renewal and hope, constantly growing and evolving but always staying true to their roots.This person might also carry an understated wisdom, like the trees in the distance that have witnessed countless seasons yet stand quietly, not seeking attention. They approach life with patience, allowing things to unfold naturally, much like the grasses and flowers that grow effortlessly in the open field. There’s an openness about them, a willingness to embrace life as it comes, whether it's a gentle breeze or a storm on the horizon.

Their calm exterior belies a deep connection to the world around them; they are the kind of person who notices the details others might miss—the subtle changes in the sky, the way the light shifts over time. They live in the moment, appreciating the here and now without feeling the need to rush forward. Yet, like the expanse of the meadow, they possess a quiet depth, offering more than meets the eye to those who take the time to really see them.

They are also nurturing, like the rich earth beneath the greenery, providing support and encouragement to those in their circle, helping others grow without seeking credit. Their presence is steady and reliable, always there in the background like the horizon line, a constant source of reassurance. Whether in the form of kind words or just being there when needed, they have a natural ability to comfort and bring peace to those around them, much like how the tranquil landscape evokes a sense of calm and balance.

3.The sun

A person reflected by this image would be someone with a radiant, uplifting energy, much like the golden sunlight breaking through the trees at dawn. They carry a sense of warmth and inspiration, always illuminating the paths of those around them, even in moments of uncertainty. Just like the rays of sunlight filtering through the branches, they have the ability to find beauty in even the most hidden corners of life, bringing light and hope to every situation.

This person is deeply thoughtful and reflective, someone who appreciates life’s quiet moments of stillness, much like the peaceful, early-morning scene in the meadow. They may prefer the road less traveled, walking a path that’s unique to them, but wherever they go, they leave traces of growth and beauty behind, like the dandelions and wildflowers dotting the grass. Their presence feels calming and rejuvenating, giving others the space to breathe and grow, just as the sun nurtures the earth.

There’s also a sense of quiet strength in them, like the trees standing tall and steady, rooted in their values and beliefs. They are someone who can weather the storms of life, knowing that the sun will rise again. At the same time, they have a deep appreciation for change, understanding that just as the sun shifts the landscape with its light, transformation can bring new perspectives and opportunities.

This person brings balance into the lives of those around them, offering both comfort and challenge, much like the contrast between the soft light and the solid trees. They have a grounded wisdom and an intuitive sense of timing, knowing when to let things flow naturally and when to take action, much like how the morning light effortlessly transitions the world from night to day. Their influence is subtle but profound, and they help others see the beauty and potential that exists in the most ordinary moments.

If you need a reading, check this out

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tteokdoroki · 7 months ago

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hurricane heartbreak katsuki bakugou ── ᡣ𐭩 ˙ ̟🩰 !!

⋆˙ᝰ about ! you’ve always thought that katsuki would follow you to the ends of the earth, until suddenly, he stops. especially when he realises that he’s better off without you. ( 2.6K )

warnings ! minors blank and ageless blogs do not interact. sfw, angst, no happy ending. characters aged up to 20s, unrequited love, friendship breakups, regular breakups, confessions, gaslighting, reader is morally flawed and a bad friend, katsuki is a hopeless romantic :(, fem!reader, pro hero!bakugou - not beta read!

as usual, katsuki moves to open the door before his mind can catch up.

he knows that he shouldn’t. if he kept the doors locked he could keep his heart safe from the ache that comes with the person on the other side. but, the bigger and weaker half of him succumbs to the longing laced in the blood that soars through the beating muscle keeping him alive. the same muscle every form of media since the dawn of time has associated with the human desire to be loved and adored.

it’s a human code that he can’t go against, like asking a neanderthal to fight it’s basic instincts. katsuki opens the door not because he wants to, but because he has to, even if his entire body twitches against the will of his one track mind and his hand lands on the cool metal doorknob in advance of his logical train of thought. besides, it’s raining tonight, and it would be cruel to leave you outside.

as usual, when you step past the threshold of the number two hero’s lush, bachelor pad-like home — he expects things to be different. for you to waltz in with your arms wide spread and a spark of joy in your eyes because you love seeing the blonde and because you missed him.

“it was so horrible,” you wail to him instead, just as you had done so on the phone — except this time, the cadence to your usually bright voice is as dull and as dreary as the weather outside. “he blew up at me, said that we were done ‘n that i was too clingy. just like that,” pouting, you shrug off your rain-slicked jacket and allow your best friend to hang it up for you. before you can start quivering like a pathetic stray dog, the begrudgingly kind pro hero places a set of clothes, warm and fresh from the dryer, into your hands and ushers you deeper into the space he calls home.

“fuck that guy,” he tells you, while you rant to him on the walk down the hall.

katsuki lets you you dry off and disappear into his room for spare clothes (as if you own the place), giving himself time to think and reflect. the you that katsuki knows and has bitterly come to love is hollowed and desperate — vying for any attention or affection she can get from people who just don’t care. he’s never understood it, the reasons why you go vying for the validation of others who don’t deserve a millisecond of your time, let alone your precious smile.

you know, the one that brings out the crows feet at the corners of your doe-like eyes and lifts the edges of your glossed lips ever so slightly. you illuminate a room and fill it with warmth when you’re happy and feel loved but when you’re like this… thrown out into the rain whilst being hungry for more — much like that of a stray…

…it’s bakugou’s hand that reaches out to feed you tender love and care from the pieces of his own broken soul. he does everything im his power to make you smile again, otherwise he’d shake the heavens from the sky and bring their shattered pieces back down to earth with his destructive quirk…for you.

everything is always for you.

katsuki is the one who deserves to see your radiant grin and be the one that’s always on your mind. so perhaps, he is no better than you, starved with a craving for the attention of someone whose thoughts are simply elsewhere. with someone else.

you resurface from his room wearing a discontinued all-might shirt with an iron-on design that’s cracked on the front and a pair of fluffy dynamight themed socks kept spare in katsuki’s wash for whenever you come over. by this time he’s already popped on the kettle for some herbal tea, though his back remains facing you — fingers clenched against his smooth marble countertop. “why would he say that?”

you shrug. “i don’t know… i probably deserve it. this always happens.”

to his right, the kettle’s whistle reaches it’s crescendo but katsuki doesn’t bother to add hot water to your tea.

the assessment you make as you pad back over to katsuki is only partly correct. he turns abruptly, prepped and ready to loosely wrap his arms around you in a familiar hug, another step in this bi-monthly routine the two of you have going. your nose presses into the middle of his molten chest, sending a pang through his heart like an arrow from Cupid whilst simultaneously riling up the butterflies in his tummy. you’re so cute, so sweet and it makes the blonde feel special to be able to witness the more vulnerable parts of you — the parts of you pieced back together by inexpensive glue after you’ve been shattered by heartbreak once more.

you, you’re too sweet to deserve this pain. the same pain that weighs down on the pro hero’s shoulders because he can’t stop chasing after you. this always happens, but you don’t deserve it. even if it’s like some sort of cathartic karma for leading bakugou on all of these years.

nonetheless, he’s never been the best at comforting people but a selfish warmth that burns brighter than his quirk spans throughout katsuki’s body whenever you seek comfort in him. even if all it does is chip away at his soul, knowing that you’re all torn up about someone else and someone that isn’t him yet again.

katsuki abandons the tea completely.

however, his cherry lips continue to open and close in search of words and phrases that may sedate your storm of emotions before they rain down on him — just like the world outside. they’re hard to come by, meaningful ones at least, so katsuki settles with a simple… “you deserve better.”

“yeah? well it doesn’t seem like it. every guy i’ve ever met has hurt me some way, somehow.” you quip blandly, obliviously. “who does better even look like?

me. is what bakugou wants to say. he looks like me. but now isn’t the time or place to tell you that, it’s never been. deep down, he knows that you might never see him that way, as a someone who could treat you right, as someone deserving of your darkest desires and sweet nothings, as someone who could be the very person you deserve to grow old with. you don’t look at him the same way, to you, katsuki will always be your best friend and source of comfort.

he’ll never be a lover or a special one or a boyfriend.

not to you.

never to you.

and sadly, he almost feels content to stay this way — if it means he’ll be able to have you near. with the two of you tucked away in one another’s arms, swaying to the melody of harmonious wind and rain, the abrasive, corroding nature of katsuki bakugou is tamed and the world comes to a standstill that feels sort of homely. its familiar, a routine he’s so easily settled into time and time again. confessing to you would be like disrupting the natural course of your relationship and bakugou has seen what you do to guys who cross your limits or suddenly no longer entertain you. sometimes they genuinely do hurt you, other times you’re like a little girl who no longer has a desire to play with her favourite toy — easily casting them aside. the blonde would hate to be one of them, to be thrown out by the person he loves most.

“you’ll find someone,” he says gruffly, after some time.

pulling away slightly and with a hand centre stage on katsuki’s ooey-gooey lovesick chest, you smile ever so gently. and it’s enough for him, even though it burns, it’s enough to make it worth it. all this suffering in silence, loving you from afar…that is, until he hears what you have to to say next.

“i wish i could find someone like you, kats.”

the rain outside has hit its peak, bordering on the edge of torrential as it drowns the concrete jungle outside and the grey clouds it pours from shroud the city in a similar darkness to the veil falling over katsuki’s mind. now that, it really pisses his off. someone like him? why not him? he doesn’t understand why you actively put yourself through the ringer when what you want is right before your very eyes.

like a sudden clap of thunder or a strike of bright lightning, katsuki has a realisation. he isn’t so sure how much more of this he can stomach or take. a few weeks ago his best friend, kirishima, had scolded him long and hard for allowing you to walk all over the explosive pro hero. maybe the redhead had been right, your words seem almost purposeful and calculated — designed to hit him right where it hurts. whether or not you’re aware of the fact.

“y’can’t keep doing this.” comes the blonde’s whisper, coasting just under his breath, so low that you almost miss it underneath the howling notes of the wind.

“what?”

“please stop doing this.” bakugou says again, but firmer, shrugging your hands from his well-built torso like they’ve given him an electric shock. a flash of hurt lines itself across your beautifully crafted features like a film of dust clinging to a marble carved sculpture belonging to an art museum. he hates it, how he can still admire you and treasure you even when you torture him with a punishment of unrequited love. “you can’t keep comin’ here every time you get your heart broken, knowing how i feel about you. it’s fucked up, you’re fucking me up.”

people have only ever dreamed of being able to bring the great dynamight down to his knees. a man of such power and force could never be shaken, especially with everything that he’s been through to get where he is today.

the colour in your voice pales, the glint to your eyes dulls and you nervously reach out for your best friend only to be rejected which hurts more than any shitty break up you’ve ever had. “k-katsuki…kats, what are you talking about?”

“you know exactly what i mean. don’t try to gaslight me or some shit.” katsuki puts it simply, fighting the lump in his throat that nearly stops him from being truthful. it’s always been a difficult task to push you away, “we play pretend, you come to me expectin’ me to lick your wounds ‘n shit. fuck, i’ve been doing it for the last ten years. since todoroki first rejected you in high school, then that guy from class 1B and then shindou from that other school once we went pro.”

he rambles relentlessly and you take every word while memories of each heartbreak flash brightly before your very eyes. it’s clear to you now, standing in front of him, that bakugou has been holding this, whatever this is, inside for far too long. concealing his emotions until his fuse was at its end and it all exploded to the surface. “katsuki stop it.” you say weakly, throat dry.

“fuck no! why should i?” the brash blonde spits venomously, his upper lip curling into an ugly sneer. one you’ve only ever seen when he’s talking to villains, or better yet, talking about your exes. “because it never stopped for me. you never stopped using me.” he blabs, but he’s hardly shouting — the mere fact that he isn’t freaks you out even more. “it’s so fucked up, i’ve been waiting for a chance with you for years. i never said yes to someone fuckin’ loving me for who i am. for all the shit that i come with because i was waitin’ for you.” for nearly a decade you’ve been offering katsuki all the riches in the world, only to pry them from his warmth fingers and leave him for cold and death.

you could apologise right then and there, make things right, tell katsuki that it was him all along and those other guys meant nothing to you. it’s what he wants so badly, it’s the only thing that could make him forget all of this drama and take you back into his arms. instead, you retreat like a hermit crab back into its shell, stepping back and away from your best friend while selfishly curling in on yourself.

“i didn’t… i didn’t ask you to wait.”

those words are like a lightening strike to the chest. the white flashbang outside illuminates your face for katsuki to see, guilt outlines the natural slopes and continue of your face and some kind of regret floods the black ink on your eyes. bakugou’s suspicions have been proven true. you’ve never wanted him, not in the way that he’s wanted you. it must be that. must be that you kept him around knowing he’d chase shooting stars and run to the end of a rainbow if it meant the prize was you.

“you didn’t have to,” katsuki’s breathing turns ragged, mimicking the uncontrollable winds of a brewing storm, and his anxiety peaks, spilling over the edge of a glass he’d tried to keep half full for so long. he knew this, all along, he knew that you’d reject him plain and simple but why does it feel like his world is ending. “would have done it anyways ‘cause i am…was… in love with you. you didn’t need to ask me because you knew i'd always be there.”

it hurts, the truth, it burns like acid rain dissolving through a manmade structure. you hate the taste of it in the air, as katsuki’s words ring through it — undermining the heavy rain pelting down against his roof. you don’t know what to say or tell him, but instead of the contentedness of being close to the blonde you now feel a sudden sense of impending doom. an epiphany. a realisation that you’re going to lose your best friend because you took advantage of a bleeding heart.

you’ve never been the only one whose organs were ripped out and ever-loving corpse was left for dead. each time pieces of you died at every soul-crushing rejecting you’ve ever faced — katsuki has been right behind you, falling to pieces, decomposing, breaking apart… watching you mourn a relationship with someone else.

someone that wasn’t him.

words and apologies tangle in your throat and form a knot that blocks their passage. what do you even say to someone who has inadvertently confessed their love for you — something in which you’re not sure you even believe in anymore? “i-i’m… i’m sorry,” slowly, you take a step forward, blindly reaching out for katsuki in his living room shrouded by darkness and only temporarily lit up my lightening crashes. but he steps back, he retreats into a person he used to be — one that was nasty and cruel despite how much he cared.

bearing his fangs, katsuki defends himself from the only person who could truly ever hurt him. you. his walls build up and he snarls again. “i don’t care.” though, his voice wobbles and his eyes are glossy under the harsh white light of the lightening by strikes outside — he remains defensive.

“i’m sorry,” you sullenly repeat. for what? not loving him? for using him? you’re not sure. “katsuki…i’m sorry—“

you sound so genuine, your voice so sweet and sorrowful — it’s almost enough to make the man melt, for his walls to fall away and his heart to open back up just for you. but bakugou knows better, if gives in and steps closer and holds you once more — the cycle will repeat. you’ll know that you can come to him whenever you want, and take advantage of his pathetic yearning and devotion to you. over and over again, for as long as you want. because if you call he’ll answer, always.

not this time though.

katsuki bakugou steels himself as though he’s facing his greatest foe, his jaw hardens, his ruby red eyes flutter shut and his head shakes and he tries so hard to resist you. when he finally looks at you again, after what feels like an eternity, you’re hopeful in thinking that maybe this can be fixed and you can keep your best friend. however, you’ve seen katsuki’s expression on a dozen other faces before.

that look people give you when they tell you it’s over, when they grow tired of you, when they leave you.

you know it all too well, the face of someone breaking up with you.

except this time you’re not losing a half baked love, this time you’re losing someone who adored every part of you even if it was severely flawed.

you’re losing your best friend. your katsuki.

and all it took was the clouds parting and the heavens crying for you to realise that.

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arminsumi · 1 year ago

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Can i request megumi comforting reader after a bad day? i need happy comfort fluff today and you words are magic

★ Stargazing with Megumi

★ Pairings : fem reader / Megumi

★ Synopsis : Megumi takes you stargazing. Who knew he was such a space nerd?

★ Content : fluff, comfort, cheesy/dorky flirting

★ Note : 🪄🔮 sprinkling cosmic happiness dust on u rn!! hope u feel better!!

Arms spread out, laid on your back in the cool grass as a humid summer breeze drifts by, looking up at the dusky purple sky as stars slowly start to appear one by one.

Megumi shifts around next to you, trying to get comfortable. He bends his knees, you glance at his legs and note how much longer his legs are than yours.

A soft sigh leaves his nose. He brings his hands together over his midriff and fidgets his fingers while stealing sideways glances of you.

One particular star in the sky has caught your attention. It shines like a jewel. You blink at it, ignoring all the other littler stars that are coming out.

"Megumi, which star is that?" you ask.

"That's Venus."

You stare at Venus. "Why is it so much brighter than the rest?" you wonder aloud.

Megumi looks over at you, his heart throbs, then he looks back to Venus.

"Because it has thick clouds that reflect lots of sunlight." he answers your curiosity, "Uh, and it's the closest to earth. You know, it's also the hottest planet in our solar system — because of its clouds."

He goes on a long, dorky ramble about planets and constellations. You smile and listen to him geek out about space.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

Just a few hours earlier, Megumi had found you lingering gloomily on the steps outside Jujutsu High.

He did a double take and furrowed his brows when he saw your weighted expression. Characteristically, he sunk his hands into his pockets and approached you coolly.

"What's that heavy face for?" he asked.

"Bad day." you shrugged.

"Oh..." he stiffened, "What happened? Do you want to talk about it?" he asked softly.

"No, nothing in particular happened." you replied, "It's just been one of those days, you know?"

He scrambled his brain for ideas that could make you feel better.

What would the others do?

What would Yuji do? He'd crack jokes until you smiled and then infect you with his contagious laughter. What would Nobara do? She'd take you out on the town for retail therapy — and hype you up in the fitting rooms until you felt like the hottest person in the world. What would Gojo do? Probably give you one of those bone-breaking hugs while saying something dumb like "Don't be sad, it's just life, kid."

But joking didn't come naturally to Megumi, and he didn't believe in retail therapy, and he was too shy and reserved to give you a bone-breaking hug, and he was too sensitive as a person to tell you to just get over it.

"Uh, do you want to stargaze with me?" he asked.

That was the only idea he could come up with. Laying in the grass and stargazing was something he did when life exhausted or disappointed him. The stars could call back his calmness.

⁕⁕⁕⁕

"... I feel bad for Mercury, it must be lonely without moons." Megumi finishes his long ramble about Mercury.

"I think I'm Mercury." you joke, laughing at yourself.

Megumi looks over at you, "Then I'll be your moon and keep you company."

Your cheeks warm up.

"Okay, then let's tell 'em to rename Mercury to Megumi and throw a me into its orbit, too."

Megumi fidgets with his fingers more as you and him flirt like dorks.

"... yeah, and then you can orbit around me." he nods.

"Sounds like a good time. I'd love to orbit around you."

His cheeks go red, but the lamps are too far away to illuminate his face and reveal his blush to you. So you just barely see his lips purse together into a smile.

"I'd also love to orbit around you. I could be like your moon admirer."

You burst out laughing at last, and then Megumi feels accomplished; he could actually fix your mood with some stargazing and dorky astral flirting.

For the rest of the night, he teaches you how to spot famous constellations and passionately talks about outer space. At some point, when he's saying something about Pluto, you zone out to his voice.

"... and you know, personally, if I were Pluto I'd be enraged. How dare they."

"You got a bone to pick with NASA, Megumi?" you chuckle.

"It wasn't NASA it was the IAU. And yes I have a bone to pick with them."

"So, why was Pluto downgraded to a dwarf planet?" you ask.

Megumi clicks his tongue, "Uhhh... something about it not absorbing surrounding debris or something? Like asteroids and stuff. But jeez, maybe the asteroids are Pluto's friends and he doesn't wanna absorb them, you know?"

You turn on your side and use your arm as a pillow. Megumi feels you looking at him, so he looks over at you.

"You're quite passionate."

"That's a nice way of calling me a space nerd."

"No, I mean it! I hardly ever see you talking so heatedly about anything. You're usually pretty calm."

Megumi smiles a little. "Bet it's funny to see me heated about big rocks floating in a vacuum, huh?"

"Yeah it's hilarious. Anyways... we should get back before we fall asleep here."

"Have you never slept under the stars? It's a great experience." Megumi says.

"I have not. But it's getting cold so... you better keep me warm."

Megumi tenses up as you snuggle him. The sudden closeness and feeling of your warmth and softness takes him aback and he goes completely silent.

You rest your head in the crook of his shoulder, sinking into him like a pillow.

"Hey Megumi?"

"Yes?"

"Isn't Venus the planet of love?"

"Yes...?"

"Nothing, nothing... just thinking."

His heart pounds.

I do not permit the copying/reposting/translation/plagiarism of my works. Do not steal what I've worked hard to create.

This is fictional work.

#fluff #sfw #jjk fluff #megumi fluff #megumi x reader #megumi #megumi fushiguro #megumi x fem reader #megumi x y/n #megumi x you #jjk megumi #fushiguro megumi x reader #megumi fushiguro x reader #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x reader #jjk x you #drabble #arminsumi

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disneyparksattractionstournament · 11 months ago

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Extinct Disney Parks and Attractions tournament round 3: Bracket CD

Reminder, you don't have had to experience any of the attractions/experiences to vote! Just read in the info and/or watch the vid,then vote for which you wish you would have experienced more/which sounds cooler!

Videos and propaganda/info dumping under cut

IllumiNations: Reflections of Earth: Epcot (1999-2019)

Propaganda:

Oh boy, here we gooooo. I could go on for hours about this show. It was one of the most unique nighttime shows Disney had, it was so unique to Epcot and didn't have any songs from disney films, which is what the park was suppose to be! Its all original and is so uniting and powerful. The soundtrack is absolutely gorgeous and fully original and gives me goosebumps everytime. Nothing can compare to how powerful it is. And yes, the middle section was a bit slow, especially if you couldnt see the globe well, but I think they should have just updated that part and kept the rest instead of forcing IP into Epcot like the replacement shows. This show was all about nations uniting and every culture being beautiful. From the torches that 'blow out', to all the fire in the middle, to the iconic globe opening with one united torch, to the different countries lighting up, to the jaw dropping finale of huge canon like fireworks coming out of each country area to finish with the brightest finale you will ever see, to the iconic song afterwards (from the Millennium Celebration Tapestry of Nations Parade!). And then Spaceship earth all lite up in purple with the song from Tapestry of Nations parade playing as you exit the park, nothing will beat the magic of that, and I cry every time I remember I will never experience that again. I kid you not, half the reason I did the DCP when I did, was so that I could see the last showing of this! Ill have to find video of me afterwards later xD This was my absolute fav show as a kid and remains so to this day. IN THIS ESSAY I WILL

youtube

Push the Talking Trash Can: Magic Kingdom, DCA, Disneyland, Hong Kong Disneyland, Tokyo Disneyland, Disneyland Paris (1995-2007/2014(tho he will a very rare appearance every now and again, but its not regular at all like it use to be/SO rare/for special occasions)

Propaganda:

I literally can't explain it, you had to experience it to see why it was so cool xD Just look at my face hugging it in the poll pic xD It was just one of those little unique disney things that made it so special. Ill find and post my vid later!

youtube

#disney parks #extinct disney parks attractions tournament #poll #polls #tournament poll #retired disney #disney world #epcot #illuminations #IllumiNations: Reflections of Earth #ILLUMINATIONS MY BELOVED #push #PUSH THE TALKING TRASH CAN #round 3

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disneyparktournament · 11 months ago

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Quarterfinals

East Coast

#disney #disney parks #tumblr polls #tumblr tournament #disney world #walt disney world #epcot #journey into imagination #illuminations: reflections of earth

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apod · 3 months ago

Photo

2024 September 1

The Moon Dressed Like Saturn Image Credit & Copyright: Francisco Sojuel

Explanation: Why does Saturn appear so big? It doesn't -- what is pictured are foreground clouds on Earth crossing in front of the Moon. The Moon shows a slight crescent phase with most of its surface visible by reflected Earthlight, known as Da Vinci glow. The Sun directly illuminates the brightly lit lunar crescent from the bottom, which means that the Sun must be below the horizon and so the image was taken before sunrise. This double take-inducing picture was captured on 2019 December 24, two days before the Moon slid in front of the Sun to create a solar eclipse. In the foreground, lights from small Guatemalan towns are visible behind the huge volcano Pacaya.

∞ Source: apod.nasa.gov/apod/ap240901.html

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pucksandpower · 1 year ago

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Ties That Bind

Charles Leclerc x royal!Reader + Max Verstappen x sister!Reader

Summary: life as Princess of the Netherlands is pretty perfect but when health issues become a (literal) royal pain, you discover a familial connection that will change your life forever

Warnings: struggles with infertility, child abandonment, serious health issues, medical procedures and treatments

This is what happens when I’m insane enough to try juggling writing an 8k+ word fic with studying in medical school

The night was a cascade of ethereal snowflakes, each one glistening under the pale moonlight, landing gracefully upon the earth. The silver car glided along the road, its headlights illuminating the path through the thick curtain of snow, like two piercing eyes navigating through sorrow.

Inside, Prince Frederik of the Netherlands drove in silent contemplation, the weight of the day’s news pressing heavily on his heart. Beside him, Princess Marianne stared out of the frosted window, her reflection capturing swollen eyes that glistened with fresh tears. Her fingers trembled slightly, crumpling yet another now irrelevant medical report indicating one more failed IVF attempt.

“I thought this time would be different,” Marianne whispered, her voice quivering. “I truly believed it.”

Frederik’s grip on the wheel tightened. He turned to his wife, pain evident in his eyes. “I know, my love. I know.”

As they drove, Frederik’s eyes caught a glimpse of something unusual by the side of the road. “What’s that?” He murmured, slowing the car.

Marianne followed his gaze. “It looks like a bundle ... stop the car!”

Frederik brought the vehicle to a halt. They both jumped out and hurried over to the mysterious object. As they approached, Marianne gasped. “Oh my God, Frederik ... it’s a baby!”

She quickly bent down to scoop the tiny, shivering form into her arms. The baby’s skin was cold, blue lips barely parting for shallow breaths as the thin pink blanket wrapped around it did little to fight the chill. “Who could do such a thing?” Marianne cried, holding the child close for warmth.

Frederik’s face hardened. “We need to get her to a hospital. Now.”

Back in the car, Marianne cradled the baby, trying to transfer her warmth. “Stay with us,” she murmured, tears spilling. “Please, stay with us.”

As they sped towards the hospital, Frederik reached over and held Marianne’s free hand. “It'’s a sign,” he whispered. “After everything we’ve been through today ... finding her like this ... it’s fate.”

Marianne looked down at the baby, her fingers gently brushing the soft wisps of hair on the child’s head. “Our little miracle in the snow,” she whispered back.

Frederik smiled faintly, squeezing Marianne's hand. “Yes, our snow angel. We’ll take care of her and she’ll take care of us.”

***

“You know, every time it snows, it feels like the world is celebrating the day we found you,” your father, now King Frederik, remarks, gazing out of the vast palace windows at the flurries descending from the sky.

You smile, reaching for a delicate pastry from the breakfast spread laid out before you. “And every snowflake reminds me of the warmth of this family that saved me from the cold.”

Your mother, Queen Marianne, hair now threaded with silver, gives you a loving glance. “Our snow angel, right when we needed you most.”

“Speaking of snow,” you muse, “I’m thinking of wearing the ice-blue gown for tonight’s gala. Thoughts?”

Your father raises an eyebrow, “For the Children’s Foundation event? Perfect choice. It complements the theme and matches the tiara your mother has picked for you to wear.”

You grin, “Who knew you had such a fashion sense?”

Your mother chuckles, “It’s a king thing. But he’s right. And with your sapphire necklace, you will be the talk of the gala.”

You take a sip of your tea, thinking of the evening ahead. “I want to ensure my speech captures the essence of our foundation’s work. It’s more than just another royal event, this is about making a real difference.”

Your father nods, “It always is for you. That genuine desire to impact lives, it’s how I know you will be a great Queen one day.”

You blush slightly, “I learned from the best.”

Your mother, with a hint of mischief, remarks, “And speaking of learning, have you decided on a dance partner for the first waltz? There’s quite a line-up available.”

You laugh, “Oh, Mom! Let’s not start matchmaking before breakfast is over.”

Your father joins in the mirth, “Give her a break, Marianne. Our snow angel must not melt.”

***

The regal hallways echo with the gentle patter of your heeled footsteps. Lately, the palace, your lifelong sanctuary, feels more like a maze. A sudden wave of dizziness makes you pause, leaning against a gilded wall for support.

“You okay there?” a soft voice calls. It’s your mother, her face etched with worry.

“Just a bit dizzy,” you mumble, attempting a reassuring smile.

She hurries over, her gown flowing. “You’ve been looking pale these past few days.”

Before you can reply, a sharp sensation pricks your nose. Touching it, you’re shocked to see blood on your fingertips. “Oh no,” you whisper, panic creeping into your voice.

Your mother’s eyes widen. “We need to see a doctor.”

“But the gala—”

“Forget the gala!” She interrupts. “Your health comes first.”

***

Inside the royal clinic, the room is a tense silence. Your father paces while your mother sits beside you, holding your hand tightly.

The family physician finally arrives, his expression somber. “Your Highness, Your Majesties,” he begins, “we’ve run several tests.”

“And?” Your father demands, halting his restless walk.

You take a deep, shaky breath, bracing yourself.

The doctor hesitates for a split second. “You have aplastic anemia.”

The room seems to close in. The words hang heavily, turning the opulent clinic cold.

Your mother’s voice trembles, “What does that mean?”

“It’s a condition where the bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells. This leads to fatigue, higher risk of infections, and uncontrolled bleeding,” the doctor explains.

Your mind races. The symptoms make sense now — the fatigue, dizziness, the nosebleed.

Your father’s face hardens, searching for hope. “What’s the treatment?”

The doctor looks grim, “The most effective treatment at this severity is a bone marrow transplant. We will need to find a matching donor.”

Your mother’s grip tightens on your hand, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “We’ll find one. We have to.”

Your father nods. “We will move mountains if we have to.”

You muster a small smile, drawing strength from your parents. “One snowstorm at a time.”

***

“How long does it usually take to find a match?” Youu inquire, voice trembling ever so slightly.

Dr. Van der Meer, the lead hematologist on your case, sighs, “It varies, Your Highness. Some find a match within their family, others from the global database. It can take days or even months.”

Your mother breaks in desperately, “But surely, with our resources, we can expedite the process?”

Your father adds, “Every avenue, every connection we have at our disposal is yours to use, Doctor.”

Dr. Van der Meer nods, “I understand the urgency, Your Majesties. We’ve already started to search within the national database. Meanwhile, we advise immediate family to get tested first.”

You interject, a sense of realization dawning, “But I’m adopted. Our genetic makeup differs.”

Your father and mother exchange a heavy look, the weight of your situation pressing down on them.

“We still have a vast network, a whole nation even,” your father muses. “Surely someone out there is a match.”

Dr. Van der Meer hesitates then says, “Actually, there has already been a hit from the database. A potential match.”

Your heart skips a beat. “Who?”

“We maintain confidentiality, Your Highness,” he replies. “But once we confirm the match and receive their consent, you will be informed.”

Your mother’s voice is tinged with hope. “So there’s a chance? A real chance?”

You lean forward eagerly. “When will we know more?”

Dr. Van der Meer offers a comforting smile. “Soon, Your Highness. For now, patience is our ally.”

***

“It’s been weeks, Doctor. Why haven’t we heard from the potential donor?” The frustration is clear in your mother’s voice.

Dr. Van der Meer looks up, choosing his words carefully. “The potential donor ... has some reservations.”

Your father’s brow furrows. “Reservations? Isn’t saving a life more important?”

The doctor clears his throat, “It’s a bit more complicated than that, Your Majesty. The potential donor is someone you’re familiar with.”

You lean forward, your curiosity piqued. “Who is it?”

There’s a momentary pause, the silence thickening. “Max Verstappen.”

Shock ripples through the room. The name isn’t just any name. It’s a name known to every Dutch citizen, celebrated in every corner of the nation.

Your mother blinks in disbelief. “The Formula 1 racer? We’ve met him multiple times at the Grand Prix. But why would he have reservations?”

Dr. Van der Meer hesitates, “There’s more to it. We ran some further genetic tests, customary for close matches. The results were ... unexpected.”

Your father leans forward in anticipation. “Go on.”

The doctor takes a deep breath, “Max Verstappen is not just a match. He’s ... he’s your half-brother.”

The room goes still. The revelation hangs in the air, too staggering to fully comprehend.

You feel your world tilt. “That’s impossible.”

Your mother’s voice is a whisper, “How can that be?”

Dr. Van der Meer clears his throat. “The genetic markers were unmistakable. Given the rare degree of compatibility and the markers we found, there is no doubt.”

Your father runs a hand through his hair, trying to process the news. “So all these years, at every Grand Prix, we’ve been cheering for ... family?”

You chime in, a flurry of emotions whirling inside, “And he doesn’t know, does he?”

The doctor shakes his head, “No, not yet. That’s the reservation. Revealing this ... it changes everything for him too.”

Your mother is contemplative. “We’ve celebrated his victories, felt the pride of having him represent our country. And now, knowing he’s family ...”

You interject, “And now, we need him more than ever. Not as a driver, not as a national icon, but as family.”

Your father’s resolve strengthens. “We need to tell him. He deserves to know.”

***

“How do you even begin a conversation like this?” You wonder aloud, staring at the blank screen of your laptop.

Your father, deep in thought, answers, “Honestly, directly, and with sensitivity. It’s uncharted territory for all of us.”

Your mothers adds, “Perhaps start by expressing your genuine feelings, without the weight of our titles or his fame."

You nod slowly, fingers hovering over the keyboard. “Dear Max,” you repeat out loud as you begin typing, then pause. “Too formal?”

Your father shrugs, “It’s sincere. And that’s what matters.”

Taking a deep breath, you continue:

Dear Max,

This isn’t a typical letter and I struggle to find the right words. By now, you might have been informed by the medical team about our unexpected connection. I wanted to reach out personally, not as the Princess of Orange, but simply as ... family.

Your mother reads over your shoulder, “That’s a good start.”

I cannot imagine how jarring this news must be. It was for me too. All these years, our paths crossed, shared smiles exchanged, never knowing the deeper bond we shared.

“Maybe mention the Grand Prix, how it has been a tradition for us,” your father suggests.

Every year at the Dutch Grand Prix, my parents and I cheered for you, felt immense pride in your victories. The realization that those cheers were for family adds a layer of emotion I can’t quite put into words.

I understand if you need time to process this. But I want you to know that this revelation changes nothing about the respect and admiration I hold for you. However, it does add a depth of connection, a newfound kinship.

Your mother, her voice choked with emotion, suggests, “Maybe let him know why it’s important now, about your condition.”

The reason I am reaching out now is not just about our newfound connection but also because of a pressing health concern I am facing. I need a bone marrow transplant, and as it turns out, you are my best match.

“Reassure him,” your father adds. “It’s a big ask.”

I understand the weight of this request. There is no obligation, only hope. No matter your decision, I want you to know that discovering this bond, this link between us, is a gift in itself.

Please take all the time you need. Whatever you decide, I respect and cherish the connection we have discovered. Wishing you all the best on and off the track.

Sincerely,

Y/N

Your father, visibly moved, murmurs, “It’s perfect.”

Your mother nods in agreement, tears shimmering. “It’s from the heart. Now, we wait.”

***

The roaring engines on the racetrack outside fade as the door to the private lounge close behind you. Max Verstappen stands there, his usual confident demeanor replaced with apprehension. The weight of the recent revelations is thick in the air.

“You look different without the crown,” Max remarks, a faint smile tugging at his lips.

You chuckle softly, “And you without the helmet.”

The initial ice broken, the two of you sit. A beat of silence passes. Then Max, eyes searching yours, asks, “Why now?”

You take a deep breath. “I’ve always known I was adopted. Every snowy day, my parents would recount the tale of how they found their snow angel. I grew up surrounded by love and privilege, never lacking anything.” Your voice trembles slightly, “But there were nights ... nights I’d wonder about the person who left me there, in the snow. Why didn’t they want me? Why did they abandon me to the whims of a storm?”

Max’s expression softens, his own memories surfacing. “I grew up with my father’s strict guidance. Racing wasn’t just a passion, it was life. There was little room for anything else. I always thought I understood my family but this ...” He sighs, looking away. “It makes me question everything.”

You nod, shared uncertainty bringing you closer. “But through all this confusion, one thing is clear: we’re family. Blood, it seems, has a way of revealing itself.”

Max smiles ruefully, “You know, I have a sister, a full sister. Growing up, we were close but our paths divided. Racing consumed me. Now, discovering I have another sister, you, it’s ... overwhelming.”

You chuckle, “Two sisters. Lucky you.”

He grins, “Twice the protective instincts.”

The humor fades, replaced by raw emotion. “You know,” you whisper, tears brimming, “Despite everything, I’m grateful for our paths crossing like this. Even if it took a lifetime.”

Max reaches out, taking your hand. “Me too.”

The weight of the moment presses on both of you. You look at each other, eyes brimming with tears, souls bared.

In a sudden rush of emotion, you step forward, collapsing into Max’s embrace. He holds you tightly, as if trying to shield you from all the past hurts, regrets, and questions. The warmth of the hug contrasts sharply with the cold memory of that snowy night. In his embrace, the years of wondering, the pain of abandonment, seem to melt away.

Pulling back slightly, you look up into Max’s eyes. With a tearful smile, you whisper, “Brother.”

He grins back, “Sister. How would you feel about attending the next race, not as royalty but as my guest?”

You hesitate, the memories of previous races filled with formalities and protocols. “It will be different.”

Max wraps an arm around you shoulders, “Very. But I promise, you will see the world of racing like never before.”

***

The roar of the engines, the excitement of the crowd — it was all distantly familiar. Yet, standing beside Max, everything feels different.

As you walk through the paddock, Max’s pride is evident. “Guys,” he calls out to his mechanics, “Meet my sister.”

They look up, surprised, then smiles break out across their faces. “It’s an honor, Your Highness,” one of them greets.

Max nudges him, “Just call her by her name.”

You laugh in agreement, “It’s nice to meet you all without the formalities.”

Max continues his introductions, his enthusiasm infectious. When you reach Christian Horner, he looks pleasantly surprised. “It’s been a while,” he remarks, “Though our meetings were always, well, more formal.”

You nod, “It’s a different world from this side of the track.”

Max beams, “And she’s getting the full experience today.”

When the race starts, every moment feels magnified, more personal.

And then, the checkered flag waves for Max.

The Red Bull garage erupts in jubilation. During the celebration, Max, still in his car, locks eyes with you from across parc fermé. You can see the moisture, the emotion in his eyes. The moment he is out of his car, he races over, pulling you into a tight embrace.

“This win,” he whispers hoarsely, “it’s not just for me this time. It’s for us. For family.”

As the Dutch anthem plays during the podium ceremony, tears fill your eyes. The anthem, a proud symbol of your country and kingdom, now also symbolizes the new, ever-growing bond with your brother.

Max, standing tall on the podium, catches your eye and winks. And as the ceremony concludes, he suddenly turns, aiming his bottle of champagne right at you. The spray catches you off guard, laughter bubbling up as the cold liquid soaks you.

“You had to, didn’t you?” You laugh, wiping away the liquid before it can sting your eyes.

Max ruffles your hair, “It’s my new duty as your older brother!”

***

“Hey, there’s someone I’d like you to meet,” Max says, pulling you towards the thrumming heart of the afterparty.

The vibrant lights and chatter fill the room but everything seems to slow as you’re introduced to a lean figure with tousled hair and hypnotizing eyes. “This is Charles Leclerc,” Max grins, “One of the toughest guys I’ve raced against.”

Charles offers a charming smile, “Pleasure to meet you. Max speaks highly of you.”

You raise your glass in a mock toast to your brother. “Glad to hear that my bribe has been paying off.”

Charles laughs, “Well, considering today’s win, you might just be his favorite person.”

The two of you share a laugh, an effortless ease settling between you as you barely notice Max walking off with a wink shot your way.

“You’ve been to several races, haven’t you?” Charles asks, sipping his drink.

“In a more official capacity, yes. But today was ... different.”

He nods, his gaze intense, “Being family changes the perspective.”

Charles leans in, his eyes twinkling with mischief. “Now that you’ve seen me on the track maybe I should show you some of my other talents?”

You raise an eyebrow, the thrill of the night’s excitement mixing with his words. “Oh? What other hidden skills do you possess?”

His voice drops to a sultry murmur. “Well, I make a mean pasta carbonara. Maybe I’ll whip it up for you someday.”

You laugh, the warmth of the moment spreading through you. “I’ll definitely hold you to that.”

Max, watching from a distance, nudges Carlos, “Look at them. Told you they’d hit it off.”

“You know, I’ve always been curious about the life of a princess,” Charles muses, a playful glint in his eye. “Is it all tiaras and tea parties?”

You smirk. “It’s more boring than you would think. But for a driver like you, every day’s a thrill, right? Speeding cars, roaring crowds, adoring fans?”

He grins, leaning closer, the proximity making your heart race. “Most days. But some nights, the thrill is ... elsewhere,” his gaze deepening, locked onto yours.

The two of you are drawn into a world of your own, the party’s noise fading into the background.

He brushes a stray hair behind your ear, his fingers lingering just a moment longer. “Have you ever considered doing a hot lap? It’s quite the rush.”

You laugh, feeling the warmth of his touch. “I don’t know about getting in a race car but I can think of something else I’d love to ride right now.”

As the club’s pulsating music envelops you, Charles leans in, his voice husky over the beat, “Care for a dance?”

You accept, and as you both move to the rhythm, the world around seems to disappear. The close proximity, the electric energy on the dance floor, and the feeling of his body moving against yours is intoxicating.

“Right now,” Charles murmurs, his lips brushing against your ear to be heard above the music, “I feel like the winner tonight.”

You smile, your gaze locked onto his, “The night is still young. Let’s see where it takes us.”

***

“I’ve noticed you’re attending more races lately,” Max comments, a teasing glint in his eyes as you both walk through the paddock.

You shrug, feigning innocence. “Well, I’ve developed quite an appreciation for the sport.”

Max chuckles, “Or for a certain Ferrari driver?”

Blushing, you retort, “Can’t it be both?”

Before Max can respond, Charles approaches, his smile brightening as he spots you. “Good to see you again,” he greets, though his eyes convey a warmth that words can’t.

“You too,” you reply in a voice softer than intended.

The three of you share some casual banter before Max excuses himself, leaving you alone with Charles.

“You know,” Charles starts, “it’s become the highlight of my race weekends, seeing you here.”

You smile, “I’ve come to realize that there’s more to F1 than just the thrill of the race. There are ... other attractions.”

Charles grins, “Is that so? Any attraction in particular?”

You playfully nudge him, “Don’t get too confident, Leclerc.”

Weekends spent at circuits become a regular fixture in your life. While you’re initially there for Max, the increasing time spent with Charles deepens your bond. The stolen glances during press conferences, the private moments away from the limelight, and the late-night conversations make the connection undeniable.

One evening, after a particularly intense race, Charles pulls you aside, his face flushed from the adrenaline. “Every time I cross the finish line and look towards the other garages, I hope to catch a glimpse of you.”

Your heart skips a beat. “And if you do?”

He smiles, “It either makes victory all the more sweet or the sting of defeat not quite as painful.”

***

“You’ve made the front page again,” Max remarks dryly, handing you a tabloid during breakfast.

You glance at the headline, The Princess and the Racer: F1’s Fairytale Romance accompanied by a candid shot of you and Charles out to dinner.

Charles groans, “They make it sound like a soap opera.”

You sigh, “It’s the price we pay, I guess.”

As weeks go by, the media scrutiny intensifies. Every public appearance and every minuscule gesture, is analyzed, often blown out of proportion. The weight of the world’s eyes strains the joy of your newfound relationship.

One evening, after a particularly invasive article speculating about a rushed engagement, Charles pulls you aside, his face drawn with concern. “I noticed you’ve been pale lately, more tired. Is it the stress from all this media attention?”

You hesitate, biting your lip. The truth is, it’s more than just the media. Your health has been deteriorating and you’ve been trying to hide it.

“It’s not just the media,” you admit.

His eyes are filled with worry. “What is it?”

Max, overhearing the conversation, interjects, “It’s her health. She didn't want to worry you.”

Charles looks at you in disbelief. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

You take a deep breath, “I didn’t want to add to the pressures of the season, to be another burden.”

He reaches out, holding you close, “You’re never a burden. We’re in this together.”

You take a shaky breath, drawing strength from his words. “I’ve been diagnosed with aplastic anemia. It’s a condition where my bone marrow doesn’t produce enough new blood cells.”

Charles pales, “That’s ... serious.”

You nod, “After this race, I’m starting chemotherapy to destroy the dysfunctional bone marrow in preparation for a transplant.”

Silence envelops the room. Charles processes the weight of the revelation, the enormity of the situation sinking in. “Why now?” He finally asks.

“Timing is crucial,” Max chimes in, “She’s been putting it off, not wanting to disrupt the season. But we can’t wait much longer.”

Charles runs a hand through his hair in frustration. “I just wish you had told me sooner.”

You reach out, touching his arm, “I didn’t know how. Everything was happening so fast — our relationship, the media attention. I didn’t want to add more stress.”

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his voice choked with emotion. “Promise me, no more secrets.”

You nod, tears streaming down your face, “I promise.”

***

“Are you sure you want to be here for this?” You ask Charles as you both sit in the sterile hospital room, awaiting the doctor who would be overseeing your chemotherapy treatments.

Charles takes your hand, squeezing it reassuringly. “Every step of the way.”

The door opens and the doctor walks in, a gentle but serious look on her face. “Before we begin, there’s something important we need to discuss. The chemotherapy might affect your fertility. It’s not certain but there is a significant risk.”

You freeze. You had expected side effects, the potential hair loss, the fatigue. But this? This was unanticipated. This ripped your heart out of your chest.

Charles tightens his grip on your hand, his face pale. “Is there ... any way to mitigate that risk?”

The doctor nods, “We can retrieve and store your eggs. It’s a procedure done before chemotherapy in some cases. You will need hormone injections for about 10 to 12 days to stimulate the ovaries.”

You look at Charles, your eyes filled with tears, “It’s another delay.”

Charles brushes a tear from your cheek, “We face this together. I am here for you no matter what you decide.”

The days that follow are a whirlwind. Charles is by your side every step of the way, providing both emotional support and administering the daily injections.

Each evening, he carefully prepares the hormone shot. “Ready?” He asks, looking into your eyes.

You nod, trying to put on a brave face. But the physical discomfort is nothing compared to the emotional toll. Still, with Charles by your side, each day becomes bearable.

One evening, as he administers the injection, he whispers, “I’m so proud of you. Your strength amazes me every day.”

Tears spring to your eyes. “I couldn’t do this without you.”

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace, his warmth enveloping you. “You’ll never have to.”

***

“Are you sure about this?” Charles asks, his fingers brushing yours as you lay on the hospital bed.

You take a deep breath, meeting his gaze. “I am. It’s a step towards preserving a potential future, one I hope to share with you.”

His eyes soften. “Every step, I’m here.”

The medical staff move around in the background, preparing for the procedure. The hum of machines and the sterile environment contrast starkly with the intimate bubble you and Charles share.

As the procedure begins, Charles holds your hand, his thumb drawing comforting circles on your skin. “Remember our trip to Monaco?” He murmurs, attempting to distract you. “The sea, the laughter, the little café by the pier?”

A smile tugs at your lips, even as you nod for the OBGYN to proceed. “The one with the overly sweet pastries?”

Charles chuckles, “That’s the one. Imagine us there, a decade from now, two kids in tow, arguing over whether chocolate or vanilla is better.”

The image he paints eases your tension, providing a temporary escape from the clinical room. The retrieval is swift but the emotional weight lingers.

“You did great,” Charles murmurs, brushing a stray hair away from your face.

You smile weakly, “One hurdle crossed.”

The next phase comes swiftly the following day: chemotherapy. The treatment center is full of artificial warmth — the walls painted a deep yellow and the heater working overtime to keep patients as comfortable as possible — but it does nothing to counteract the chill of fear that has taken over your body.

When the nurse enters with the IV bag for your chemotherapy, Charles stands up, his stance protective. “How does this work?”

She explains the process, her voice soft, “The medication will enter her bloodstream and target the rapidly growing cells. There might be some side effects but we will monitor her closely.”

You feel a pinch as the needle is inserted and soon the clear liquid starts making its way into your veins. You blink rapidly, willing the tears away before Charles can see them.

Attempting to lighten the mood, he starts recounting some of his funniest moments from racing. You chuckle at his anecdotes, grateful for the distraction.

Hours pass. The room is filled with a mix of medical beeps and Charles’ voice, offering a counterbalance of cold reality and warm comfort.

As the IV bag nears empty, you feel a wave of fatigue. Charles notices. “Rest,” he urges softly, his thumb caressing your hand.

You nod, closing your eyes, “Thank you for being my anchor.”

He leans in, placing a gentle kiss on your forehead. “Always, for every challenge, every step. Always.”

***

“I still can’t believe you made him go,” your mother murmurs from the chair next to you. The hum of machines and the sterile scent of the hospital room are in stark contrast to the roaring engines and burning rubber of the track that you can almost sense through the television screen.

You manage a weak smile. “He belongs on the track, Mom. This race is crucial for the championship.”

“He wanted to stay,” your father adds. “He’s racing with a heavy heart.”

“I know,” you whisper, a tear trickling down. “But he’s strong. And I want him to win, for both of us.”

The room falls silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the machines. You can feel the potent cocktail of drugs coursing through your veins, sapping your strength but a necessary step to fight the disease within.

The TV in the corner broadcasts the race. You hear the commentator’s voice, “... Charles Leclerc, giving it his all today. You have to wonder where he’s drawing this intensity from.”

You know the answer.

The laps go by. With each turn, each overtake Charles makes, you can sense his determination, his desire to win not just for the title but for something else … someone else.

“You should rest,” your father advises, noticing your drooping eyelids.

But you resist, wanting to witness Charles cross the finish line.

The final laps are intense. Charles battles fiercely, and as he takes the checkered flag, the room bursts into subdued cheers.

“He did it!” Your mother exclaims.

You feel a swell of pride. “For us,” you whisper, before fatigue takes over and you drift into a deep sleep.

As consciousness slowly returns not too long after, the first thing you notice is the gentle vibration of your phone on the bedside table. Groggily reaching for it, you see a new message notification from a group chat with Charles and Max.

It’s a photo of Charles and Max, still in their race suits, grinning ear to ear. Charles holds up his first-place trophy while Max proudly displays his second. They’re both covered in champagne, evidence of the post-race celebrations.

These are for you. For our champion.

With shaky fingers, you type back:

My heroes. Thank you for being my strength. So proud of you both. Can’t wait to see you again.

Your mother, noticing your reaction, peers over your shoulder. “Those boys,” she says with a fond smile, “they really adore you.”

You nod, wiping away a tear. “I’m so lucky.”

***

“Hey, sis,” Max’s voice is soft, tinged with a mix of worry and hope as he sits beside you in the pre-op room, “Ready to share a bit more than just DNA?”

You manage a small smile, despite the anxiety. “As long as you don’t start claiming we share driving skills.”

He chuckles, squeezing your hand. “Promise.”

The doctor enters, clipboard in hand. “Both of you understand the procedure, correct? Max, we will be extracting bone marrow from your pelvic bone. It’s a relatively straightforward process but you might feel some discomfort.”

Max nods resolutely. “Anything for her.”

You swallow hard, emotions swirling. “Thank you, Max. This ... it means everything.”

He looks at you, eyes filled with a brotherly love that’s grown exponentially over the past few months. “We’re family. We look out for each other.”

As Max is wheeled away for his extraction, he offers a brave smile. “See you on the other side.”

Hours later, as you sit by his bedside, watching him slowly come around post-procedure, you squeeze his hand. “You okay?”

He groans, “Feels like I’ve done a doubleheader race without any breaks. But it’s worth it.”

Then comes your turn. Max, despite his exhaustion, insists on being present. The stem cells he donated are infused into you through a central line. It’s a simple procedure but one filled with so much hope and emotion.

Max watches closely, gripping your hand. “You got this,” he murmurs as the life-saving cells flow into your body.

You try to show a convincing smile before closing your eyes and praying to whoever’s listening that this works.

***

The pale blue walls of the hospital room have become all too familiar, the rhythmic beep of machines a constant in the background. You’re reclined on the bed, an IV line dripping nutrients and much-needed blood transfusions into your system. As your body adjusts to the new bone marrow, these are crucial.

Max is seated beside you, a crossword puzzle in hand. The chairs aren’t particularly comfortable but he’s still rarely left your side.

Max taps his pen against the paper thoughtfully. “Alright, here’s one for you. Seven letters: someone who is always there, no matter what.”

You raise an eyebrow, pondering. “Is it brother?”

He grins, “You’re getting good at this.”

You chuckle, “Well, I can’t help it when the answer is so obvious …”

He leans in closer, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “I snuck in some of those chocolates you like from that little shop in town.”

Your eyes widen in mock horror. “You rebel. We’ll be banished from the kingdom.”

He winks, producing a small box from his bag. “Worth it.”

As you both indulge in the illicit treat, you realize just how much these little moments, these shared smiles and inside jokes, make the ordeal bearable.

Max notices your contemplative expression. “Hey, what’s on your mind?”

“Just thinking about how lucky I am to have a brother who sneaks chocolates into a hospital for me.”

He extends his pinky towards you, “Always. Until the end of the race.”

You intertwine your own pinky with his to immortalize the promise, “And beyond.”

Just as the two of you are finishing the last of the chocolates, the door swings open quietly. Charles steps in, his eyes immediately seeking you out. There’s a bouquet of fresh flowers in his hand, their vibrant colors standing out against the sterile environment.

“You two conspiring without me?” Charles teases, setting the flowers on the bedside table.

Max smirks, “Just ensuring she gets her daily dose of chocolate, doctor’s orders.”

Charles moves to your side and presses a soft kiss on your forehead. “How are you feeling today?”

“Better now that my two favorite racers are here,” you reply with a smile.

Charles laughs, “I see. Well, the doctor outside told me your blood counts are improving. Seems the new bone marrow is getting to work.”

You nod hopefully. “One day at a time.”

Charles moves closer, taking your free hand. “Every day is a step closer to getting you out of here.”

Max, sensing the intimate moment, stands up, stretching. “I’ll leave you lovebirds to it. Need to grab a coffee and give that crossword another go.”

Charles smiles gratefully at him, and as Max exits the room, you’re left in a bubble of comfort and warmth with your boyfriend.

***

“Grant our daughter strength and good news,” your mother’s prayer weaves through the tense atmosphere of the room.

Charles’ grip on your hand tightens and he whispers, “Whatever the news, we face it together.”

“Guide the hands of the doctors, let their knowledge lead to healing.”

Max, on your other side, offers a comforting squeeze, his face betraying his own anxiety. “You’ve come so far already.”

“And bless our family with your grace and protection.”

The prayer lingers in the air just as the door opens.

“Grant her the strength, the health, the life she deserves ...”

The doctor steps in, a manila envelope in hand. Everyone’s gaze immediately fixes on him, the room heavy with bated breath.

He looks around the room, making eye contact with each one of you, then finally says, “The results are in.”

You feel Charles’ hand tremble slightly … Max’s grip tighten … your father barely breathing behind you … a silent prayer still on your mother’s lips.

“The bone marrow has taken exceptionally well. All indicators and markers are positive.” The doctor smiles. “You’re officially in remission. You’re cured.”

A tidal wave of emotion crashes over the room. Tears immediately spring to your eyes, happiness and relief mingling in each drop.

Your mother’s whispered prayer crescendos into a heartfelt “thank you,” choked with emotion.

Your father, the ever-composed king, has moisture in his eyes as he holds you close, “Our snow angel, our miracle.”

Charles pulls you into a tight embrace next, his voice a shaky whisper, “You did it.”

Max is grinning from ear to ear. “Told you, sis. Until the end of the race and beyond.”

***

“Look at them,” Max says, nudging you as the camera pans over the pit crews, each member prominently sporting a bright red ribbon. “All in solidarity.”

Charles beams, joining the conversation. “It was Max’s idea. The ribbons. Both teams were eager to join in.”

You’re touched, tears threatening to spill. “It’s incredible. Both of you, your teams ... I’m speechless.”

The commentator on the screen picks up on the theme. “For those just tuning in, both the Ferrari and Red Bull teams are wearing red ribbons today in support of aplastic anemia awareness, a personal cause for them given the recent battle of the Princess of Orange with the condition.”

Mid-race, Max’s voice crackles over the team radio, “This one’s for you, sis.”

Charles, not to be outdone, pushes his car to the limit, the red ribbon painted on his helmet clearly visible every time the camera focuses on him.

Later, as you walk back out through the paddock, fans approach, many sporting red ribbons of their own. One young girl looks at you with stars in her eyes, “I wear this for my mom. She’s fighting too, just like you did.”

You pull her into a gentle hug. “She’s got this. I know she does.”

***

As soon as the statement goes live on the official website of the Netherlands Royal Family, the internet erupts.

The Royal House of the Netherlands is pleased to announce that Her Royal Highness, Y/N the Princess of Orange, and Mr. Charles Leclerc are officially courting.

Your phone buzzes incessantly with notifications. Charles, seated beside you, chuckles, “Well, there’s no going back now.”

Your father enters the room, a smile playing on his lips. “The people seem to be taking the news ... enthusiastically.”

Your mother, scrolling through her own device, adds, “And overwhelmingly positively. Listen to this: We’ve seen them together. Their chemistry is undeniable. Wishing them all the best!”

You exhale, a weight lifting off your shoulders. “I was so nervous about the reaction.”

Charles brushes a strand of hair behind your ear, “We’re in this together, remember?”

Max bursts into the room with his usual energy, “You two are trending. The fans are loving it!”

Screens across the nation flash images of you and Charles — at the racetrack, during hospital visits, candid moments captured by keen-eyed photographers. Talk shows and news channels dive deep into analyzing your relationship, piecing together any crumbs of insight they might have.

A popular racing pundit remarks on a live broadcast, “Their bond is evident, both on and off the track. Charles’ performance has been exceptional since they've been together. It’s clear that they draw strength from each other.”

The public’s fascination is insatiable. Magazines are splashed with titles like Love in the Fast Lane. But despite the media frenzy, what touches you most are the personal messages. Fans share artwork, write songs, and pen heartfelt letters, celebrating love and the winding path that brought you both to this moment.

One evening, as you and Charles sit on the palace balcony overlooking the city, he turns to you, “They’re acting like we’re some sort of fairytale.”

You lean into him, “Maybe we are. It’s our story and I wouldn’t change a single thing.”

***

“You know,” your father begins, a playful glint in his eye as he slices into his steak, “I had an amusing conversation with Prince Albert the other day.”

Charles, taking a sip of his wine, raises an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Your father chuckles, “He said Monaco might need to extend an invitation for our next state visit given that we seem to have shared interests now.”

The table erupts in laughter. Your mother adds, teasingly, “And here I thought we were simply bonding over diplomatic ties.”

“So,” Max leans forward eagerly. “Any embarrassing stories about Y/N? I have to make up for all of the childhood adventures I’ve missed.”

“Oh, there are plenty! Remember the time she tried to drive a lawnmower and ended up in the rose bushes?” Your father says, trying to look serious.

Marianne chuckles, “Don’t remind me! Those were my favorite roses.”

You groan, hiding your face in your hands. “I was eight! And I thought it was a car!”

Charles grins, squeezing your hand under the table. “I can only imagine a mini version of you so determined behind the wheel.”

“And at her sixth birthday party,” your father recounts with a smirk, “she declared that she’d be ruling the kingdom by sundown and tried to hold a mock council meeting with her stuffed toys.”

Charles nudges you playfully, “Planning coups at six? Should I be worried?”

You swat him lightly, “It was a phase.”

As dessert is served, your mother turns contemplative. “You know, I’ve always believed in destiny. And seeing all of you here, witnessing the bonds and the love, it reaffirms that belief.”

Charles nods his agreement, “Life has a way of bringing the right people together.”

Your father raises his glass, “To family, in all its forms. To the journeys we embark on and the memories we create.”

The clinking of glasses has never sounded sweeter.

***

Charles, his face flushed with the victory of the 2025 World Championship, stands on the podium, trophy in hand. The cheering of the crowd is deafening but as he signals for a microphone, a hush descends.

“I’ve never done this before,” he starts emotionally, “naming my car, I mean. I watched Seb do it year after year and I always wondered what that felt like, to have such a connection.” He takes a deep breath, his gaze scanning the audience until it lands on you. “This season, I finally understood. My car, the one that just secured this championship, I named it after the most important person in my life.”

The crowd waits with bated breath.

“I named it,” he continues, his voice breaking slightly as he keeps his eyes locked on yours, “after you. After the woman who has been my anchor, my strength.”

You feel tears prickling your eyes as the sheer intensity of his words hits you.

Charles signals and you’re gently nudged forward, guided up to the podium. The world seems to blur, the noise, the people, everything fading until it’s just you and him.

“Every race, every lap, I had two goals: to win for the team and to make you proud,” he confesses, his eyes never leaving yours. “You are my world. And today, in front of everyone here, in front of the world, I want to ask you one thing.”

He gets down on one knee and your hands move of their own volition to cover your mouth. Producing a gorgeous ring, Charles looks up at you, his eyes shimmering. “Will you marry me?”

The world stops.

The deafening cheers of the crowd seem quiet compared to the beating of your heart.

Tears stream down your face as you nod. “Yes. A thousand times yes.”

No sooner have the words left your mouth than Max and Lando, the other two podium finishers, gleefully seize the moment. With mischievous grins, they uncork their champagne bottles, dousing both you and Charles in a bubbly shower. The liquid gold sparkles in the sunlight, adding to the magic of the moment.

Charles pulls you close, capturing your lips in a passionate kiss as you both get soaked.

***

The grand cathedral, bathed in the soft glow of a thousand candles, echoes with the hushed whispers of eagerly waiting guests. Roses, lilies, and orchids cascade down the pillars, their fragrance mingling with the scent of incense.

Behind the doors of the bridal suite, Max stands beside you, dressed impeccably in a classic tux. There’s a brotherly tenderness in his eyes as he reaches out, smoothing the delicate lace of your dress to ensure that every detail is perfect.

“You look breathtaking,” he murmurs, the emotion of the day making his voice waver.

“You clean up pretty well yourself, Man of Honor,” you reply, squeezing his hand.

As the first strains of the bridal march begin, the doors open, revealing the grand aisle, lined with well-wishers from all corners of the globe. Your father steps up and offers you his arm, his eyes glassy with pride and a hint of melancholy. “Ready, my snow angel?”

You nod, tears of happiness already blurring your vision. The world narrows down to the altar, where Charles stands, back straight in his crisp full dress uniform. As you make your way down the aisle, your eyes lock with his and the universe contracts to that singular point of connection.

Charles’ normally composed features give way as he takes in the sight of you. His eyes, also glistening with tears, convey a depth of feeling that words could never capture. Love, gratitude, wonder — all interwoven in that magnetic gaze.

His voice breaks as he whispers just for you, “You are my dream, my reality, my forever.”

Your own voice is thick with emotion, “And you are my heart, my soul, my love.”

As vows are exchanged and promises made, the world bears witness to a love that defied odds, overcame challenges, and brought together not just two souls but two worlds.

And as you both seal your commitment with a kiss, there is not a single dry eye in the cathedral. Because love, true love, is a force to be reckoned with, and today, it reigns supreme.

***

The soft whimpers of a newborn fill the air of the private birthing suite. Nestled in your arms, wrapped in a royal blue blanket, the baby prince stirs, his tiny fingers curling around one of yours.

Charles, sitting beside you, gazes down at your son with sheer wonder. “He’s perfect,” he says in a teary whisper.

You nod, tears streaming down your face. “Our little miracle.” The journey, the IVF treatments with your frozen eggs , the hope, the fear — everything culminated in this singular, beautiful moment.

The door opens gently, revealing Max, his eyes wide as they take in the sight before him, and your parents, their faces a canvas of joy and pride.

Max approaches tentatively, his usual confidence replaced by an awe-inspired reverence. “May I?” He asks softly.

You nod, handing over the precious bundle. As Max holds the baby, a bond forms instantly. “Hey there, little one,” he coos, “Your godfather is here.”

Your mother, tears in her eyes, leans in, planting a gentle kiss on your son’s forehead. “Welcome to the world, our precious grandchild.”

Your father, hoarse with emotion, simply murmurs, “An angel for our snow angel.”

And you know what? You decide that the fans were right. Your life really is a fairytale.

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