#stark!reader

Earth-616. They were lucky enough to land within the protected perimeter of the Avengers compound. Alarms had flared, and Stark AI systems immediately flagged their arrival as potential incursion, until Bucky, who was currently manning the base while the other Avengers were away, recognized their signatures. He had seen versions of them before. Well, sort of.

“Facial recognition in progress. Welcome, Jonathan Storm, Susan Storm, Reed Richards, Benjamin Grimm. Earth-828 identifiers not found in multiversal registry. Alert: cross-dimensional duplicates confirmed.”

“Facility overseer: Dr. Stark, Stark Industries Executive Director.”

You’ve always had a main conference room reserved on the 41st floor of the Stark Tower—sleek glass walls, walnut wood table stretching across the length of the room, and a buzzing holographic projection of global networks, economic forecasts, and defense analytics. The kind of environment you thrived in. A structured chaos, numbers and negotiations, walls that are tall enough to keep emotions out.

You had just shut down an aggressive pitch from a foreign investor, when your phone lit up on silent mode, flashing a name you rarely ignored. Bucky Barnes—very few people could pull you out of a board meeting, and he was one of them. You calmly and professionally excused yourself, and stepped out into the hallway, your heels clicking against the polished marble floors. You pressed the phone to your ear.

“Barnes?”

Bucky’s voice had that clipped tension you had come to know and recognize right away from past emergencies. “You need to get to the compound. ASAP. Something…or someone showed up. Four of them. Not exactly hostile, but not from here either.”

“And dad?” Your eyes narrowed slightly.

“Still off-world. Cap, Romanoff, Barton, Wanda, everyone’s out. It’s just me here, and them.”

“Alright, I’ll be there in ten, tops.”

That was enough to convince you to go back to the compound. You pivoted, already striding towards your own designated elevator, tailored blazer moving with each swift step. You didn't know then that in a different universe, you had died in Johnny Storm’s arms, and you also didn't know that he would crawl into this one.

The drive to the compound was a big blur of the city lights and thoughts. FRIDAY updated you the en-route, inter-dimensional signatures detected, arrivals confirmed not to be hostile, communications disrupted. Reed Richards, Sue Storm, Ben Grimm, and Johnny Storm—names you recognized from archived reports, not from this universe, but recognized them nonetheless.

Inter-dimensional incursions were not new to you anymore. The multiverse was a broken glass pane, cracked and scattered, forever shifting. But what matters the most was what, or rather who, fell through. By the time you stepped into the compound hangar, Bucky was already waiting. Dog tags, fitted tactical shirt, arms crossed, his vibranium arm flexed as though he was already on edge.

“They’re in the east wing.” Bucky muttered, walking beside you.

“Any aggression?”

“The stretchy one keeps talking science. The rock guy hasn't smashed anything. The woman’s assessing the area, and the fourth one…” he paused briefly. “He’s loud and impatient.”

You entered the main holding room, but it was more like a debrief lounge at this point—bright lights, reinforced walls, and monitors overhead. Reed, Sue, Ben, and Johnny turned simultaneously when you stepped in, confident and composed—Stark blood running through your veins. Commanding without even trying.

Reed tilted his head lightly, Sue regarded you with both caution and familiarity, Ben grunted something unintelligible under his breath, and Johnny…Johnny went still. You felt it, but you didn't know it, at least not yet. Still, there’s something about the way his expression crumbled for a split second, how his chest stilled and shoulders locked. It was as if the world had stopped rotating for him, and only to restart violently seconds later.

Grief really had a funny way of burning someone alive from the inside out. Johnny had seen your face a thousand times inside his dreams, broken memories, photographs that he could no longer bear to look at. In his universe, you had always been his everything—best friend, fiancée, and the woman who had seen through his flashy charm and fire-wielding ego, but most importantly, the man who could barely sit still long enough to talk about his feelings. You had called him out on his recklessness, you were the one who grounded him.

You had saved him, until he could not save you.

In his universe, he watched you die in his arms minutes before your wedding. He was too late. Johnny never forgave himself for what had happened, and he swore that he would never love anyone again. But now, here you were. Standing before him in a pressed charcoal suit, your Stark Industries pin clipped to your lapel, posture sharp and assertive. Your eyes, while familiar, did not carry the softness that haunted his memories.

You didn't know him. Not at all.

Johnny didn't even blink, and you had no idea why. You didn't even flinch, just crossed your arms slightly, assessing the four of them.

“I’m here on behalf of Stark Industries and the Avengers initiative,” you said calmly. “You are no longer in your home dimension. Earth-616, to be exact.”

Reed stepped forward. “That would explain the shift in vibrational frequency. I’m Dr. Reed Richards, and—”

“I know who you are,” your tone was polite, efficient, but firm. “My father had catalogued the Fantastic Four from multiple universes. Your presence here is abnormal, to say the least, but not entirely surprising.”

Sue exchanged a look with Reed, and Ben shrugged. But Johnny had not moved an inch. His eyes were fixed—burning, with something that is unspoken. Something that is agonizing. He took a shaky breath, stepping forward as though drawn to you by some invisible tether.

“You…” it spilled out of Johnny’s mouth. Barely a whisper, almost like a prayer.

You turned your gaze to him fully then. Johnny’s face—handsome, disheveled, bright blue eyes, and blonde hair slightly askew from whatever chaos they had come through. He looked at you with a strange devastation.

Johnny took another step, his voice breaking a little, with Bucky shifting closer, protective by default. “You’re alive…”

You raised a brow at him. “I don’t believe we have met before.”

Johnny blinked harshly, like he was holding back a tidal wave. He gave a small broken chuckle, but it was devoid of humor, only grief. “Yeah, we have. Or we had.”

“You must be confusing me with somebody else.” You said, remained composed, even as you felt something heavy settled inside the room.

Reed spoke up softly, cautiously. “Johnny, don’t.”

“You…you died in my arms. I couldn't save you,” his voice was raw, hands trembling. But Johnny didn't stop looking at you. “And you’re here. You’re…here. Alive and well.”

Sue closed her eyes briefly as though she had already witnessed this scene before. You inhaled slowly, calm but not cold. You glanced back at Bucky. There was a flash of concern in his eyes—he knew loss, and had recognized it immediately.

You turned back, locking eyes with Johnny. “I…I’m sorry about whatever had happened. But I’m not her.”

Johnny’s jaw clenched, but nodded slowly. It was a tough pill to swallow. “I know,” his voice was a broken whisper. “But you look exactly like her.”

In the silence that followed, you softened, just slightly. There was a small shift in your tone. “I understand. This must be very difficult for you.”

He laughed—painfully, soft, and reverent. “You have no idea.”

You eventually initiated the logistics—secure housing, containment, and possible ways to return them to Earth-828. Reed gave all the data needed as possible, Sue collaborated, while Ben asked about the whole place. Johnny remained mostly silent, but always near you—watching and haunted.

It was already late when the team arrived, finally back from their off-world assignment. The quinjet had landed just before midnight, kicking up a storm of dust and loose papers across the landing pad. But you did not need a visual, you already knew that they were here.

You waited exactly twelve minutes before heading down. The lights in the hallways were dimmed at night, polished steel and glass of the compound washed in cool, bluish tones, corridor screens still displayed Stark Industries dashboards—satellite updates, global activity patterns, neutral-linked alerts that are synced to your personal feed. The soft hum of machinery surrounding you—familiar and efficient.

When you reached the briefing room, the doors slid open automatically. The mood inside was markedly relaxed, war was over—for now. Whatever battle they had just returned from must have ended in their favor. There was no tension lingering in the air, only the calm disarray that followed adrenaline. The energy was warm, familiar—low laughter, scattered banter, bodies slouched in chairs, and armor half removed. Some had ditched their gear entirely.

They all looked up when you entered the room.

You quickly scanned the room quickly—Steve was leaning back in his seat, forearms resting on his thighs; Natasha stood behind him, arms folded, and a faint smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth; Rhodey was beside Wanda, both of them in quiet conversation; Vision stood off to the side, as if waiting say his thoughts or opinions; Sam was perched casually near the end of the table; and both Bruce and Clint were in the middle of arguing over some minor mission detail. The only one that was not around was Thor, but you already knew he had returned to Asgard for a matter involving the bifrost.

Then there was your father. Tony was standing near the head of the table, his arc reactor glowing faintly beneath his black tactical undershirt, a half-empty espresso in one hand and a proud, tired grin on his face. You walked up to him, professional as ever despite the familial bond.

“Welcome back.”

“Hey, kiddo.” Tony said affectionately, arms open in invitation.

You allowed yourself the briefest lapse in composure, leaning in for a side hug, letting your hand rest on his back. Tony pressed a warm kiss to your temple, a gesture so casual, and deeply familiar that no one inside the room batted an eye.

“You cut another meeting short, didn't you?” He muttered low enough that only you could hear.

“Well I had to, Bucky called.”

“Always dragging you out of your high towers, huh?”

“Only when there’s something important,” you replied, pulling away from the side hug. “And this time, it was.”

“Alright, show me.” Tony’s tone shifted immediately to something serious.

“FRIDAY, let’s begin.” You turned towards the front of the room, and FRIDAY’s interface lit up at your voice command.

The room became silent as the lights dimmed, and the circular holographic projection table came alive, bathing the center of the room in cool light and flickering motion. You did not use the scripts, you didn't need them. You spoke clearly, posture straight, hands resting lightly on the edge of the table as you walked them through everything.

“Earlier today, four individuals arrived through what Dr. Reed Richards had identified it as an unstable inter-dimensional rift. Their molecular and vibrational signatures match that of Earth-828. They are currently contained and housed on-site under temporary status.”

A glowing map of the multiverse expanded across the table, folding over itself with rings and constellations of data. Earth-616 was centered in blue, while Earth-828 glowed in red.

“They call themselves the Fantastic Four. Their existence had been recorded in multiple other universes, though this is the first instance of confirmed cross-universal physical entry into our dimension from their team.” You continued.

FRIDAY had projected high resolution images; Reed’s molecular stretch in motion, Sue’s brief invisibility flicker, Ben’s stone form, and lastly, Johnny, surrounded by flame, hovering in the air with smoldering eyes. You noticed that from the corner of your version, Bruce’s interest.

“They are not hostile,” you clarified. “At least not at this time. Bucky did an initial assessment, and I’ve already spoken to all four.”

“They crash land into our universe and get a five star welcome?” Clint quipped, scratching his chin.

“They didn't crash,” you corrected. “They were pulled. They’re as stranded as anyone would be in their situation.”

Natasha stepped forward. “Do we know what caused the rift?”

“No, not yet,” you replied honestly. “Dr. Richards has a working theory involving harmonic convergence across layered multiversal tears, and one of those may involve our own previously recorded incursions.”

You paused. Then, with a subtle flick of your fingers across the hologram’s edge, you pulled up the compound’s schematics. “I’ve assigned them quarters in the east wing, and they’re secured. Not cells, but isolated enough that we can monitor movement and communication without giving them the impression of imprisonment.”

Rhodey let out a low whistle. “You did all that on your own?”

“I didn't think it's wise to wait for everyone to get back before making the decision.” You said plainly.

Steve nodded in approval. “Good call.”

“I also figured Bruce and Ben would either kill each other or get along splendidly,” you quipped with a faint smile. “So they’re currently as far from each other as the architecture allows.”

A ripple of low laughter passed around the table. Bruce glanced up with a soft smile. “What’s he like?”

“Gruff,” you said. “Surprisingly perceptive.”

“And the others?” Wanda spoke softly from her place near the corner.

“Well, Dr. Richards is brilliant, the kind of mind that could rebuild the whole compound from scratch with a coffee and screwdriver. Susan Storm has tactical precision, she’s already been memorizing layout grids. Then Johnny Storm…” you stopped yourself, a pause. Just long enough for Tony to glance at you. “Johnny Storm has a unique energy, one we should keep an eye on.”

“Flaming hothead,” Bucky offered dryly from the back of the room. “In every sense.”

You didn't bother to correct him, and you didn't speak again for a moment.

Tony folded his arms. “And you’re sure they’re not a threat?”

“If they were, we’d already know by now.” You met his gaze. “They’re shaken, stranded. But I believe they’re sincere.”

Another beat of silence passed. Then, FRIDAY’s voice filled the room. “Would you like me to archive the debrief for full internal access?”

“Yes,” you replied. “Log everything under multiversal priority class. Assign all access clearance to Level 4 and above. Thank you, FRIDAY.”

“You’re welcome, Miss Stark.”

The projection faded, and the room slowly returned to its normal brightness. You took a moment to glance around familiar faces. The family you didn't choose, but in some ways, had grown into. The world was always changing, but this room remained constant, and you took pride in that. However, you remained quiet and stood by the projection table. You could feel her eyes on you before she even spoke. Wanda.

Wanda hadn't moved, nor laughed. Hadn't looked away from you since the moment you faltered during your rundown of the Fantastic Four. Her gaze was calm but piercing, like there was some unspoken understanding etched behind her irises.

A quiet voice in your mind sighed, “you shouldn't be surprised.”

You quickly shot her a glance, lips were still. Wanda hadn't said anything aloud, she didn't need to. It was both a blessing and a curse for you, being known so easily by someone like her. You met her eyes just for a second, Wanda didn't press, at least not yet. But you knew she knew what was running through your mind.

You cleared your throat, drawing the room’s attention again before anyone could fully disperse. “There’s…” you trailed off. “There’s one more thing.”

The tone in your voice was measured with control, you slightly shifted in your balance, and put both hands inside the pockets of your trousers. Your action no doubt pulled everyone’s attention back to you instantly. Your father raised a brow, Natasha tilted her head, Bruce paused mid-step, Sam eased back down into his seat, and Wanda stayed motionless.

Like the good old fashioned way a Stark would break a news, you gave it to them straight.

“There’s a minor issue,” you kept your tone even, professional, though your fingers subtly tapped against the table’s edge. Once, twice, and a third time before you forced them still. “It concerns Johnny Storm.”

There was a sudden flicker of alertness around the room, like soldiers instinctively tightening their grip on imaginary weapons.

“He’s not dangerous,” you clarified quickly. “None of them are, that hasn't changed. But Johnny Storm recognized me somehow.”

“According to what I had gathered from Reed and Johnny himself, my counterpart was a significant person in his life.”

A beat passed, then you said it softly but clearly. It was a truth that felt so foreign and yet inexplicably close.

“In their universe, my counterpart was his fiancée.”

The room went very still, but you kept speaking, voice steady even as your heart betrayed you with its weight. “We were told that we were supposed to get married, but I died minutes before the ceremony. Johnny wasn't able to save her in time.”

You didn't add the rest, not aloud. You didn't say how broken Johnny looked the moment he saw you. How he said your name like it was the last thing anchoring him to reality. How your presence seemed to rip open something deep inside of him. Instead, you forced the breath out of your lungs.

“That’s why he looked at me like that, like I was a ghost. Well I’m not her, obviously. But I think seeing me like this—alive, here, breathing. It was disorienting for him. That’s all.”

Clint leaned back slightly, arms folded. “Damn.”

“That…” Bruce trailed off, frowning thoughtfully, half processing the emotional and multiversal implications. “That kind of trauma layered with alternate universe memory, that’s—”

“Dangerous,” Natasha finished, sharp-eyed. “Not just for this Johnny guy, but for her too.”

Wanda’s voice finally entered the conversation, soft and certain. “It’s not just a memory, he feels it. Every single part of it.” She turned her head towards you slowly, “you’re feeling it too.”

Your fingers curled subtly against the side of the table. Wanda didn't need to ask for permission, she never did because she already knew. Wanda had seen the thoughts that you tried to suppress, like static behind your composure. Not longing or recognition, none of those, but something shaken. Like there was a part of yourself that was trying to remember a dream that somebody else lived. You looked away from her, then back towards the rest of the room.

“But he’s not a threat,” you said again. “He hasn't done anything inappropriate—no aggression, no pushing boundaries. He’s just grieving, and that’s all this is. It does not compromise anything.”

Sam leaned forward. “And you? You good with this?”

“I don’t have a personal attachment, I don’t know him.” You said straightforwardly. “But I understand that for him, this might be difficult. So we treat it like any other psychological impact of multiversal travel. We keep boundaries, we observe.”

“Are you sure that’s all it is?” Rhodey asked gently.

“Yes, and if anything changes, I’ll report it right away. But for now, we give him space, and treat him like we’d want to be treated if our world shattered beneath our feet.”

Your father clapped his hands once, decisively. “Alright, we’ll monitor the situation. But good call telling us, kiddo.”

“Guy crosses universes just to find out his fiancée is alive somewhere else. That’s heavy.” Clint quipped.

“Yeah,” Bucky muttered from behind him, arms crossed. “It is.”

You began collecting your datapad and hologrid controls. One by one, they gathered their gear, drifting out into the corridors with quiet goodnights or murmurs about late night snacks, showers, or sleep. Steve gave you a gentle pat on the shoulder as he passed, Clint threw you a crooked smile, and Bruce placed a hand on your back in a familiar gesture of calm reassurance as he walked past. Your father, Tony, gave you a hug—that fatherly kind, and told him that everything’s okay. Finally, the room emptied until it was just you and Wanda left. She stepped closer to you, voice low.

“I can help, if you want,” she said softly. “I can block him out, or help you anchor yourself if it ever feels too much.”

“Thank you, Wanda.” You replied softly. “I may take you up on that.”

Wanda touched your arm once more, and then slipped out of the room, leaving you and your thoughts alone again. You rubbed at your temple, the lights were low and the room was quiet.

You should get some sleep, you know that, considering you have an early morning meeting with a new investor. Yet, as you stood there all alone in the darkened debriefing room, your mind drifted unwillingly to Johnny again—to the way his voice trembled, the way he said that you died in my arms.

You were not her, but somehow, you felt haunted.

Peter Parker.

Well. Secretly.

Because your father, Tony Stark, would never approve.

He’d made that painfully clear the second Peter stepped foot into the compound.

“This is my daughter,” Tony said cheerfully, clapping a hand down on Peter’s shoulder with just a bit too much pressure. “You touch her and I’ll make sure that suit flies itself into space with you in it.”

Peter froze. “S-Sir—got it. Loud and clear. Space is… very cold. I hear.”

Tony smiled. Too wide. “Good kid.”

As if that weren’t enough, the others didn’t exactly make things easier.

Natasha caught on almost immediately, forever watching the two of you with a knowing smirk, dropping comments like, “You’re standing awfully close,” or, “Wow, Parker, you blush easier than I thought.”

Steve had slipped effortlessly into the role of overly protective uncle, offering Peter firm handshakes and even firmer lectures about respect and curfews.

And then there were Sam and Bucky.

They loved you. Truly. They’d burn the world down for you without hesitation.

But Peter?

If there were a book titled “One Million Ways to Embarrass a Teenage Boy”, they’d already be half way done.

“Hey, Spider-Boy,” Sam would call, slinging an arm around Peter’s shoulders. “You ever, uh, stick to walls accidentally when you’re nervous?”

Bucky would nod thoughtfully. “Happened to me once. Ripped a door clean off its hinges.”

Peter would sputter. You would laugh. And later, you’d apologize into his shoulder while he pretended not to enjoy the attention.

The only people you ever really found peace with were Wanda, who understood quiet better than anyone else.

At first, there wasn’t even a spark.

It started slow. Two teenagers surrounded by adults who didn’t get the jokes, the trends, or why bullying kids on roblox wasn’t actually morally wrong. (they started the fight anyways. you guys would just end them)

Late nights in the lab became routine. Homework spread across worktables, Peter perched on a stool while you sat on the floor with your back against the counter.

Over time, those inches of space between you shrank.

Knees brushing.

Shoulders touching.

Soft giggles over inside jokes whispered so quietly they felt like secrets, even when no one else was around.

And then came the night on the roof.

The compound was quiet, the lake reflecting the stars like spilled light. You sat side by side, legs dangling over the edge, the cool breeze tugging at your hair.

Peter picked at the hem of his hoodie. “Do you ever feel like… you’re not really allowed to be tired?”

You glanced at him. “All the time.”

He let out a shaky breath. “Everyone expects me to be okay. To keep smiling. To keep helping. And I want to. I do. But sometimes I’m just—”

“Tired of pretending,” you finished softly.

“Yeah. That.”

You leaned your head against his shoulder. “You don’t have to be strong up here.”

Peter turned toward you, eyes searching your face like he was afraid to hope. “Neither do you.”

The moment stretched—quiet, fragile, terrifying.

Then he leaned in.

The kiss was gentle. Hesitant. Like both of you were testing whether the world might shatter if you crossed that line.

It didn’t.

Six months later, sneaking around the world’s most trained spies and heroes had become your favorite game.

Being together felt easy in the quiet moments, so normal it almost hurt. Peter walking you back to your room after missions, bumping his shoulder into yours like it was an accident. Sharing earbuds on the couch while pretending to watch a movie, his head slowly tilting until it rested against yours. Him building tiny gadgets just to make you laugh, mini web shooters that sprayed silly string, or a bracelet that warmed when you held hands.

Late nights became your thing.

Peter would sit cross-legged on the lab floor while you sprawled beside him, his mask tossed carelessly nearby. Sometimes he’d absentmindedly play with your fingers while explaining whatever he was working on, voice soft, eyes lighting up in that way that made your chest ache.

“You know,” he’d say quietly, “this is my favorite part of the day.”

You’d smile. “The science?”

He’d glance at you, shy but sure. “You.”

Stolen kisses in empty hallways. Fingers brushing in the lab. Peter’s hand warm and sure at your waist whenever no one was looking.

Until the day you got caught.

It happened on accident.

You and Peter were in the lab late, too late, because that’s where you always ended up when neither of you wanted the night to end. The overhead lights were dimmed, the only real glow coming from holograms and scattered screens.

Peter stood between your knees while you sat on the edge of a table, his hands resting loosely on your thighs as he talked. You weren’t even listening anymore, too focused on the way his thumb traced absent patterns, the way his voice dropped when it was just the two of you.

“You’re staring,” he said softly.

“You’re cute,” you replied.

He smiled, cheeks warming, and leaned in. The kiss was slow, familiar, safe. His forehead rested against yours afterward, noses brushing.

“I wish we didn’t have to hide,” he murmured.

Before you could answer—

“Wow.”

You both froze.

Tony Stark stood in the doorway, arms crossed, expression unreadable. Behind him, like a perfectly choreographed nightmare, were Natasha, Steve, Sam, and Bucky.

Peter nearly fell over trying to step back. “M-Mr. Stark—sir—I—this isn’t—”

Your hand shot out, gripping his wrist, grounding him. “Dad.”

The room was silent.

Natasha broke it first. “So that’s been happening.”

Sam let out a low whistle. “Man. I owe Bucky twenty bucks.”

Bucky nodded. “Knew it.”

Steve looked between you and Peter, then cleared his throat. “Are… are you both okay?”

You nodded. “Yes.”

Peter swallowed, straightening despite the panic written all over him. “I care about her. A lot.”

Tony’s gaze flicked to where your fingers were still laced together.

“How long?” he asked.

“A while,” you said quietly.

Tony exhaled slowly, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I leave you alone for five minutes.”

Natasha leaned in. “Technically it was six months.”

“Nat,” Steve warned.

Tony sighed again, then looked at Peter. Long. Assessing.

“You hurt her,” Tony said flatly, “and I end you.”

Peter nodded immediately. “Understood.”

Tony turned to you. “You happy?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Very.”

Another pause.

Then Tony muttered, “Unbelievable.”

Natasha smiled. “That’s Stark approval.”

Tony shot her a look, then glanced back at Peter. “You make her smile.”

Peter nodded, voice steady now. “Every day.”

Tony groaned. “Great. Fantastic. I officially hate this.”

You waited.

“…But,” he added, quieter, “I trust you. Both of you.”

Peter’s eyes widened.

Sam clapped his hands. “Aw. Family moment.”

Bucky smirked. “Still don’t like him.”

Peter squeezed your hand.

And this time, he didn’t let go.

But he was smiling too.

Lyonel of House Baratheon,

It has been some time since we’ve last spoken and for that neglect you have my apology. The North has a habit of swallowing a person whole. It’s a different world up here than the rest of Westeros and much different since the last time you graced our halls. I pray this letter finds you in strength and good health.

I write to you not only as your friend but also asking a favor if you’ll hear me. You will remember my sister, Y/N? She was just a girl the last time you had looked upon her trailing after us in the yards. Time has seen fit to change that. She has grown into a woman with great beauty and grace, though I believe father would sooner lock her in the highest tower than suffer too many wandering eyes upon her. He has been trying to secure a match for her hand for some time. Suitors have come, as they always do. Some with fine cloaks and fouler manners, others with titles but little honor. My brothers and I have done what we can to dissuade him from the men who have come seeking her hand and thankfully for now he heeds us. Yet I fear our counsel will not be able to stand for much longer. He grows impatient to see her wed, and I would not see her handed to a man who is so unworthy of her. I do know he loves her, but I believe being the last daughter to wed is growing on him.

And so, I turn my thoughts south. To Storms End and my friend.

You are a good man, Lyonel. Strong of arms and steady of heart. Even if you do not care to admit. Handsome enough that I know the maidens of the Stormlands no doubt find reason to linger in your halls so they might just catch a glimpse of you. I know as well as most of Westeros that you have not been eager to seek a wife, yet I ask you to consider this: what if the Stag and the Direwolf were to stand side by side? Ask for her hand… Join our houses in bond and in blood. I trust you to protect her, keep her safe, and give her the future that she deserves. Unlike the lords who thus far have darkened our gates. If our positions were reversed, you know I would not hesitate to do the same for you.

Think on it, old friend. Send word if so with all haste, the winter winds carry more than snow, and time is seldom our ally.

May the Old Gods and the New watch over you until we meet next.

Your friend,

Jonnel Stark

It had been a sennight since a raven arrived bearing the crowned stag of Storm’s End stamped in gold upon the parchment. A sennight since Lord Lyonel Baratheon had asked for your hand. And a sennight since your father and brothers accepted on your behalf.

Winterfell had not known such a stir in some time. Every glance cast your way carried new weight – as though you had already become something other than what you were. A bride. A bargaining piece no longer waiting upon the board but now moved in the game of life.

Your father, Lord Cregan Stark, had long to see you wed. Suitors had come and gone beneath the direwolf banners. They were either lords with proud names, knights with polished armor and hollow smiles. Some were cruel in the eyes, others just foolish. A few were just simply unkind to look upon. Thankfully, your brothers had stood as a wall before you, turning aside those who they saw fit to be deemed unworthy. They guarded you fiercely and you could not thank them enough.

Yet this match… this one they did not contest.

Lyonel Baratheon.

You had not seen him since you were a little girl chasing after your brothers and him through the godswood. You only remembered him in flashes- laughter loud enough to echo in the yard, dark curls, and a devilish smile. Lyonel was and still is friends with your elder brother Jonnel. They had squired together for a season when they were younger. The ‘Laughing Storm’ they called him. You had heard the stories. How he fought like thunder given flesh. How he could fill a hall with laughter one moment, and silence it the next with a single look. You could only pray the truth of him was kinder than the legends.

His letter had been plain and direct. They would leave Storm’s End for Winterfell once they have received the reply to the match. They would travel by boat from Storm’s End to White Harbor. My brothers would be there to greet the traveling party. He stated that the sea, weather permitting, would bear them swifter north than horse and wheel could on the long journey north. Even then it would still be a few weeks’ time before their arrival. But you prayed to the Old Gods each night before the heartwood for good seas and a strong wind to carry them. For a safe voyage. And you prayed also for a man worthy of the trust your brothers had placed in him. And though, you scarcely dare to admit aloud. You prayed that the laughing Storm would find reason to laugh alongside you.

Three weeks later…

Another raven had arrived. It arrived at dawn and was taken at once to your father’s solar. By midmorning you and the rest of Winterfell were made aware the Baratheon fleet would make harbor within the week. Your brothers were to ride by nightfall and take the small welcoming part to White Harbor and be their escorts here. To see him safely north along the Kings road to Winterfell.

Your betrothed.

Your nerves were starting to kick in. In just a few short weeks or mayhaps less you would become a married woman. No longer only a daughter of Winterfell, no longer a Stark, but a Baratheon. A stormlander. The thought felt strange. Unsure if you were ever going to return to Winterfell. You never left the North. Never seen lands where winter didn’t rule half or most of the year. Yet you heard the tales of the stormlands, the wild green hills, the crashing seas against the cliffs, and the thunder that rolled through without warning. So different from the North. So different from the comfort of your home.

As the days passed on there were moments when fear had crept upon you. A daughter given in marriage belongs to her husband’s house. Such was the way of the world. Such has it always been. That was what being a woman was about. To bend, not to break. To leave the hearth of home and kindle another. To bind houses with your name and your womb. All your sisters had gone before you. Each wed, each sent south or west, but now also mothers. You alone remained, the last daughter beneath Winterfell. You were a product of your father’s third marriage along with three brothers and one sister. Siblings to spare at that rate to fill the our hall twice over. My father had his sons to inherit, to command, and to carry the direwolf forward. A daughter, then, was coin best spent wisely. So when Lyonel’s letter arrived bearing his bold sigil, your father seized upon the chance as a gift from the gods themselves. A High Lord’s house. Ancient blood like your own matched with strength.

The Direwolf and the Stag.

That night you stood upon the battlements and watched your brothers as they made for White Harbor.

The days had gone by and the welcome party would arrive today. With each passing day you grew anxious settling beneath your ribs like a restless bird. You had heard the stories time and time again of Lyonel Baratheon. A warrior of great renown. Would he be kind? Would he be gentle in his strength? Or would his reputation ride before him like a hearld none could silence? Before they had left your brother Jonnel had met your hand with his giving a light squeeze.

“He will be good to you,” he had said. “This is no ill match. The Old Gods have their hand in it, I’d wager. And if not I will come to Storm's End myself and challenge him." You clung to those words.

Winterfell was made ready in full splendor for their arrival. The lanterns around Winterfell were lit. In the Great Hall tables were being prepared and set with roasted meats and fresh bread, casks of ale rolled into place, and servants hurried to make everything just right.

In the courtyard you waited. Your father stood tall and stern in his furs, your mother at his side, her hand resting lightly upon yours. The towns’ people also had line along the walls of Winterfell and the roads leading up to it. Even the smallfolk wished to gaze upon the meeting of the Direwolf and Stag.

Then the sound came. The heavy groan of the gates were drawn open. As you stood next to you mother with bated breath as what was to come. The courtyard filled with the thunder of hooves. Your brothers filed in first with their cloaks snapping in the wind. Close behind them a sea of yellow and black the banners of House Baratheon streaming high above the helms. The crowned stag apparent on every article of cloth.

Looking through out the troop. You heard him before you saw him. His laugh. Deep and rolling, rich as distant thunder. It carried above the noise of men and horses. It could belong to no other.

He came into view astride a great destrier, sitting tall on the saddle. Even before he dismounted, you could see the truth of it, he was a seasoned warrior, as your brother had said. Large in both frame and presence.

When at last he swung down from his horse, the earth itself seemed to take notice. His gaze lifted then, seeking the stairs where my father stood. Where you stood. And when his eye met yours, the air fled from your lungs.

He was indeed a great man in stature- rugged and unvarnished. His thicks curls, dark yet streak with silver, perfectly framed a face marked by both laughter and battle. His beard was full around his mouth, also silvered. The silver and greys of his hair shown that he lived boldly and freely. He was everything your brother had described and more. You had only hope he had the kindness to match. But handsome, nonetheless.

Surely, he was not of youth, but he was a storm.

And yet, as he stood there in the fading light of WInterell’s yard, you saw more than strength in him. There was warmth in the curve of his mouth, and something keen in his eyes as they lingered upon you. Not of possession or calculation, but of recognition.  Your heart started to hammer against your ribs.

He came forward at last, boots striking firm against the stone of the courtyard. Before your father he stopped and bowed properly, deep enough to show respect, but not so low as to forget the weight of his name. He offered the same to your mother.  Then he turned to you. He stepped closed and bowed lower still.

“My lady,” he said, his voice rich and warm liked mulled wine.

You gave a proper courtesy to Ser Lyonel, “My Lord. I am Y/N.”

He extended his gloved hand towards yours and happily you placed your own within them, fingers dwarfed by the breadth of his grasp. Yet he held your hand carefully. He sweetly placed a kiss upon your knuckles, the brush of his beard lightly grazing against your skin. When he straightened there was a spark in his eye, and with it the faintest wink that only your eyes caught. Now a heat rose to your cheeks hoping he could not tell.

“Ser Lyonel Baratheon,” my father’s voice rang out. “It does us the honor that you have journeyed so far to seek my daughter’s hand. The last time you had graced our halls, she was only but a child not yet bloomed. We trust her beauty has not disappointed you.”

A softer man might have bristled as your father’s bluntness, your father not known for not getting right down to the point. Lyonel let out a small huff of a laugh, the rumbling sound in his chest sounding close to distant thunder.

“My Lord,” he replied easily, “She is more than beautiful. Her beauty rivals that of the Stormlands and Storm's End itself.”

There were murmurs at that, and you felt your father’s measured gaze linger upon him, weighing his words.

“Come,” your mother interjected, her voice smooth as silk but it held the authority of the Lady of Winterfell. “Let us not keep our guest standing out in the cold. You have sailed and ridden far, my lord. Please come inside and warm yourselves by our hearths and enjoy a meal with us as we welcome you to Winterfell.”

She gestured everyone to follow towards the Great Hall, lantern light spilling gold across the stones.

Father took her hand and led the way, direwolves and stags following in behind them. The courtyard slowly emptied as the processions passed through the doors of Winterfell.

Lyonel remained beside you.

Without a word, he offered his arm. You smiled and slipped your hand in the crook of his elbow. The heat of him was radiating even through the layers of black and yellow wools and furs as though he brought the Stormland’s heat north within his blood.

Together you followed the procession into the ancient walls of your home.

The Great Hall was alive with light and sound by the time you both entered.

Torches flared along the walls, their flames dancing along the stones of the ancient keep. The long tables groaned beneath the roasted venison, bowls of bread still warm from the ovens, wheels of northern cheese, flagons of dark ale and mulled wine. The banners of House Stark hung heavy and proud above you, the direwolf watching all with solemn eyes, but near the doors, the crowned stag of Baratheon had been hung with equal measures. The North and the Stormlands under one roof.

Lyonel had guided you both to the head table with a steadiness you did not realize you needed after these last few weeks. When he drew out your chair, you had caught more than one raised eyebrow throughout the crowd. Apparently, a high lord showing such a courtesy surprised them. But it also surprised you as well.

 Once you were both seated, the hall had settled in a rhythm of comradery and cheer. Men’s cups were filed, toasts were being shouted, and your brothers were recounting to you the journey from White Harbor with enough embellishments to make even the crossing of muddy road sound heroic.

“Jonnel. I have heard you talk about your trips from home to White Harbor and never have they sounded so interesting. I wonder what the case was this time?” you jested towards your brother. He rolled his eyes and down the rest of his ale.

You felt Lyonel’s gaze upon you again as you turned back from jesting your brother.

“So,” he said at last, leaning slightly towards you. “Tell me, my lady.. do you always look so calm before a hall of watching eyes, or is that a skill reserved for tonight?”

“I have had many years of practice,” you replied, lifting your cup though you didn’t really drink from it. “Winterfell teaches one early that walls have eyes and ears.”

He huffed softly in amusement. “Storm’s End teaches much the same. Though our walls tend to shout back instead.”

“That does not surprise me. I have heard the tales.” You said, giving the faintest of smiles.

His answering grin was slow but bright. “You expected thunder and found laughter instead, didn’t you?”

“I expected the laughter,” You admitted. “The thunder remains to be judged.”

He placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “Cruel already, my lady? I have only just arrived, and we have yet to be wed!”

“And already you presumed to know my temperament?”

“I presumed nothing Y/N.” he said, his tone lowering just enough that started to warm your skin. “But I do hope to discover it though.”

Before you could reply. Your father rose.

The hall quieted as it did when Lord Cregan Stark stood to address the hall. “My lords, my ladies, friends of the North and honored guests of the Stormlands,” he began, “we gather here tonight not merely to welcome Lord Baratheon, but to mark the special occasion of joining our two ancient houses!”

There were nods and cheers of approval.

“The wedding shall be held in a week’s time,” he continued. “The rites shall be observed according to the customs of both of our lands. We have called a septon to attend for those who keep the Seven-“

You felt Lyonel shift slightly beside you.

“-yet my daughter is of the North,” my father said. “And so, she has requested that their ceremony and vows to be spoken before the heart tree, beneath the eyes of the Old Gods. “

The words settled over the hall like fresh snow.

My father returned to his seat, Lyonel leaned closer once again. “You did not ask for a grand tourney or a hundred singers to sing of our union?”

“I have little desire to be sung about,” you jested.

 “Since we are to be married before the heart tree I must ask. Is there a godswood in Storm’s End?” you asked trying to maintain conversation with your soon to be husband.

“There is. Although I will admit that it has not been properly cared for in such a time. But mayhaps we can see to caring for it now that a direwolf will be stalking my halls.” He stated.

You took a small sip of the mulled wine from your cup. “I would like that very much.” You said.

“Then so it will be done. It is the least I can do if it offers a small comfort of the North to you.” He offered.

“You know my father and mother married in front of the heart tree and so have my sisters. As a girl I wished to have been married in front of it. So I thank you for obliging me in this.”

He looked at you like he was searching for the right words. “It is the least I can do to marry a woman as lovely as you are. I do not plan on being a husband who does not care for what his wife wants and likes. You are to be the Lady Baratheon. What is yours will be mine and if the godswood is important to you and then well it is important to me as well. If I am to take a direwolf to wife, I would not deny her the forest that raised her.”

Something in your chest eased at that.

“And what about you, my lord? Have you no wishes of your own for this marriage?” you asked quietly.

He considered, swirling the ale in his cup.

“I would have honesty,” he said at last. “And laughter. I have seen far too many unions forged only for duty. Let ours have more than that, if we can manage it.”

His knee brushed yours beneath the table whether by accident or on purpose. You could not say but you did not move away.

“But what if we cannot my lord?” You asked.

He looked to you. “Please call me Lyonel.”

You then asked again. “And what if we cannot Lyonel.” You saw the slight appreciation of you actually saying his name. But he leaned closer again, his voice dropping to a murmur only meant for your ears.

“Then we shall simply have to learn how.”

The corner of your mouth curved despite yourself. “You are very certain of your abilities, aren’t you?”

“In more ways than one.” He said with a wink. “But I am a Baratheon,” he replied lightly. “Even the storms can wear down stone in time.”

you met his gaze, holding it.

“I am a Stark,” you said. “Stone does endure.”

His grin returned slower this time, less boyish and more intent.

“Good,” he said. “I would not have it any other way.”

And after that for the first time since the raven had come with his seal, your nerves did not feel like shackles, but of anticipation for the future.

She wore a black bikini and dark sunglasses, stretched out beneath the sunlight. One arm rested behind her head while the other draped lazily across her stomach. Relaxed Natasha was rare enough. Relaxed Natasha inviting you to spend the day with her? Was like a diamond in the rough.

Earlier that morning, she’d knocked lightly on your bedroom door before leaning against the frame. “Come sit by the pool with me today,” Simple, casual. But your heart had started racing immediately anyway.

Your pull to Natasha, and her pull right back to you, in a word had been miraculous. You’d been a young friend of Tony’s, something of a little sister to the man. You’d come from a troubled, orphaned past and he’d given you a place to stay. Now, you lived at the compound. You helped where you could, with research, mission support, communications, the less flashy stuff. Something else you’d gotten and you weren’t exactly sure how, was Natasha Romanoff’s attention.

You noticed a stark (no pun intended) difference from the looks she gave her other comrades and the looks she gave you. Soft looks were reserved from you, soft tones even more so. And you can’t remember having ever seen Natasha hug the other Avengers, or squeeze their hand, running her thumb along their knuckles. But that was the treatment that you got.

You’d spent your late nights together when neither of you could sleep, just you and Natasha in the kitchen with decaf coffee and deep conversations. Then came the touches. Natasha’s hand on the small of your back. Her knee bumping hours beneath conference tables. Natasha taking and squeezing your hand when she could sense you were overwhelmed with something.

You weren’t sure when it had shifted into something else. Maybe it was when Natasha started kissing you on the cheek when you ended the night. Maybe things had shifted the night she showed up at your room after a nightmare, and you’d held her close, snuggling up until sunrise. More than likely, it was the tennis court incident. God, the tennis court.

You still thought about it constantly. It happened last month after one of Tony’s parties. Too many people, too much noise. You’d barely gotten two words in with Natasha all evening.

Then suddenly, she’d appeared at your side and muttered, “Come with me,”

No explanation. Just Natasha leading you through the compound at midnight, fingers hooked loosely around your wrist. You’d ended up at the outdoor tennis courts under dim floodlights, warm summer air thick around you.

The second that gate clicked shut behind you, Natasha kissed you. Hard. Like she’d been holding herself back all night. You remembered stumbling backward until your spine hit the fence, Natasha crowding impossibly close while her hands framed your face.

You’d laughed breathlessly against her mouth at one point and whispered, “Nat—“

“I know,” she’d murmured before kissing you again. Like she couldn’t stop. Like she didn’t want to. You remembered hoping the moment never ended. And the way Natasha had rested her forehead against yours afterward, your breaths mingling, made you think she felt the same exact way.

So why did you still feel insane about it half the time? Why did every unanswered text make your stomach twist? Why did every mission leave you wondering if Natasha would come back distant again? Why did you feel so deeply while Natasha remained impossible to read? The thoughts followed you everywhere, even now. Especially now. Here you were, spiraling quietly beside her.

Sure, Natasha had been affectionate today. Softer, seeking you out more often. But your brain kept insisting that it was temporary. That eventually Natasha would realize you cared too much.

You turned another page in your book without processing a single word. A moment later, Natasha shifts beside you. You felt her looking before you actually glanced over. Sure enough, her sunglasses had dipped slightly down her nose so she could peer over the frames. Her smile was sleepy and fond and it made your chest squeeze.

“What?” you ask softly.

“Do you know you furrow your brows when you’re trying really hard to concentrate?” Natasha says.

Heat crawls into your face immediately. “I’m not straining myself or anything. I’m just reading. But it’s hot, so yeah, it’s a little hard to focus.”

Natasha snickers and settles back again. You try again to focus on your book, and fail a second time. Because every few minutes, Natasha would glance over at you. And sometimes she’d smile, and sometimes, she’d just look. Like she was just taking you in, admiring your presence. Which somehow made everything worse. Because if Natasha cared, really cared, wouldn’t things feel more certain than this? Wouldn’t you know what you were to her?

You were so lost in your own thoughts that you almost startled when a shadow suddenly crossed your book.

You look up, and Natasha is stood above your chair now, sunlight outlining her hair in coppery gold. God, she was beautiful.

“Wanna get in the water with me?” Natasha asks.

The answer escapes before you can think too hard about sounding eager. “I’d love to.”

Natasha smiles and holds out her hand. Your pulse skips as you take it. Her fingers curl around yours with familiar ease, and she gently tugs you to your feet. The walk to the pool was short, but Natasha never let go.

The concrete heats the soles of your feet while distant laughter echoes around the yard. Natasha stops at the water’s edge beside you. Blue water gleams beneath the afternoon sun.

For a moment, neither of you speak. Then, Natasha quietly asks, “What’s going on?”

Your stomach drops, but you attempt a smile. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been in your head all day, I can tell.”

Of course she noticed. Natasha noticed everything about you.

“It’s nothing.” You deflect.

Natasha turns fully toward you then. “Hey.” She squeezes your hand once. “Talk to me.”

And maybe it was the heat of the sunlight, or the way she’d looked at you all morning, but suddenly the words were pushing at your throat, too hard to keep inside.

“You ever worry,” you started quietly, staring at the pool water instead of her face, “that maybe you made something bigger in your head than it actually is?”

Your question is met with silence and you immediately regret speaking. Your laugh is nervous and you go for another deflection. “Forget it. That sounds dramatic.”

“Don’t do that.” Natasha says coolly.

You swallow hard. Natasha steps close enough for you to feel her body heat, smell the intoxicating musk of her perfume. “What makes you think this isn’t real to me?”

The question catches you so off guard that you finally look at her. Natasha’s expression had gone soft in that way she only allowed around you. It made your heart stuttered.

“You’re hard to read sometimes,” you admitted.

A flicker of guilt flashes across Natasha’s face and it surprises you. Then, she reached up and brushed a strand of hair away from your cheek. The gesture was unbearably tender.

“You know why I brought you to the tennis court that night?” she asks quietly.

Heat floods your face once again. You shake your head.

“Because I’d just spent four hours wanting to kiss you,” Natasha murmurs. “And I couldn’t stand pretending otherwise anymore.”

Your breath caught. Natasha’s thumb traces lightly across your cheekbone. “I invite you into my space constantly,” she continues softly. “You’re the first person I look for when I come home from missions. I sleep better with you beside me,” A tiny smile tugs at her mouth. “You’ve somehow convinced the world’s greatest spy to willingly talk about her feelings.”

A startled laugh escapes you through the emotion clogging your chest. Natasha steps even closer.

“This isn’t one-sided,” she said firmly. “I’m so incredibly fond of you, y/n,”

Every spiraling thought in your brain seemed to stop in that moment. Natasha looked genuinely offended by the thought of you doubting her feelings for you. And suddenly all those tiny moments over the past few months rearranged themselves differently in your head.

Natasha bringing you coffee exactly how you liked without asking. Her hand finding yours beneath blankets during movie nights. The way she always drifted toward you in crowded rooms. The tennis court. This pool.

You look up at her, searching her eyes. “I’m fond of you too, Natasha,” you reply. “So goddamn fond.”

Tony had insisted on arriving in the armored Audi because “neutral ground” still meant “I brought my own goddamn exit strategy,” and Pepper had her hands full keeping Morgan from interrogating Damian about his sword collection. You, meanwhile, had spent the entire car ride trying not to fidget with the neckline of your simple black cashmere sweater and dark jeans. Wednesday dinner at the manor wasn’t black-tie, thank God. Still, you’d caught Jason’s eye once at the gala. You weren’t about to show up looking like you’d tried too hard… even if your stomach was doing nervous flips the whole way.

Alfred greeted you all at the door with perfect British composure and a tray of hors d’oeuvres that made Morgan’s eyes light up like Christmas.

“Master Wayne and the family are in the main sitting room,” he said, voice warm with that dry humor only butlers seemed to master. “Though I should warn you, the young masters have already begun their traditional pre-dinner debate about whose turn it is to disarm the security system this month.”

Tony chuckled. “Sounds about right. Lead the way, Jeeves 2.0.”

You followed, heart doing an annoying little flip when you stepped into the room.

The Waynes were scattered in various states of billionaire-casual. Bruce stood by the massive fireplace, nursing a glass of something amber and talking quietly with your father like they were already negotiating world peace (or at least patent sharing). Dick Grayson was draped dramatically over an armchair, laughing at something Tim was showing him on a tablet. Damian sat ramrod straight on the couch, arms crossed, looking like he was plotting the fall of empires. And Jason—

Jason was leaning against the far wall, arms crossed, wearing a dark gray henley that hugged his shoulders way too well and a pair of black jeans that should probably be illegal. His hair was still artfully messy, and when his eyes found yours across the room, the corner of his mouth lifted in that same crooked, dangerous smirk from the gala.

Your stomach did the traitorous flip again. Shit.

“Stark delegation has arrived,” Dick announced cheerfully, hopping up. “Hi, I’m Dick. Ignore the murder gremlin in the corner—he bites.”

“Grayson,” Damian hissed.

You smiled, polite but warm, though your voice came out a little higher than usual. “Nice to meet you officially. I’m—”

“—the one who actually read Jason’s pretentious literature paper,” Tim cut in, pushing his glasses up with a grin. “Respect. Most people just Google ‘Jason Todd death’ and call it a day.”

Jason pushed off the wall and crossed the room in a few easy strides, stopping just close enough that you could smell the faint trace of leather and something like gunpowder and rain. “Ignore them. They’re jealous I have better taste in citations than they do in life choices.”

You swallowed, suddenly hyper-aware of how close he was. “You weren’t kidding about reading my paper.”

“I don’t kid about Victorian lit and ethical resurrection,” you said, trying to sound casual even as your cheeks heated. “The part where you compared the Pit to Darcy’s pride and prejudice against his own nature? Brutal. Accurate. A little too on the nose.”

Jason’s eyes darkened with something like surprise and heat. He stepped closer. “Most people see the scars and the attitude and assume that’s all there is. You looked at the footnotes.”

You shrugged, fiddling with the hem of your sweater because what the hell else were you supposed to do with your hands? “I like footnotes. They usually tell the real story.”

Before you could embarrass yourself further, Tony’s voice cut through the room like a goddamn siren. “Hey. Kiddo. Personal space.”

He was suddenly right there, sliding an arm around your shoulders and pulling you back a step with that overprotective dad glare firmly in place. “Jason Todd, right? The one who died, came back, and still can’t stay out of trouble. Cute. But let’s keep those hands where I can see them, yeah? She’s eighteen, not eighteen-and-looking-for-a-bodyguard-with-a-death-wish.”

“Dad,” you hissed, mortified, your face burning. You wanted the floor to swallow you whole. “Stop it. We were just talking.”

Tony raised an eyebrow, unrepentant. “Talking. Sure. I saw the way he was looking at you. I invented that look, kid. I know exactly what it means.” He turned back to Jason, voice dropping into that fake-friendly tone that meant business. “She’s smart, she’s got my sarcasm, and if you even think about breaking her heart, I’ll build a suit specifically designed to shove your resurrected ass back into whatever hell-pit you crawled out of. Clear?”

Jason didn’t flinch. If anything, his smirk grew. “Crystal, Stark. Message received.”

You groaned, covering your face with one hand. “Oh my God, Dad. Can we not do this right now? In front of everyone?”

Morgan, already perched on the arm of the couch and halfway through a mini quiche, cackled. “This is better than the chocolate fountain. Dad’s going full Iron Dad mode.”

Dick and Tim were both trying (and failing) to hide their laughter. Damian just looked disgusted. Bruce, for his part, simply took a slow sip of his drink, the ghost of amusement in his eyes.

Jason glanced at you, that feral grin softening just a fraction. “Tour of the non-classified parts of the manor? Before your dad decides to suit up?”

You nodded quickly, desperate to escape the embarrassment. “Yeah. Tour sounds good. Really good.”

Jason’s hand brushed the small of your back—light, barely there—as he guided you toward the hallway. The touch still sent warmth racing up your spine, but now you were painfully aware of Tony’s eyes burning holes into both of you.

He led you through corridors lined with portraits, past a library that made your inner nerd weep, and into a smaller sitting room that overlooked the gardens. Moonlight spilled through tall windows, turning everything silver and shadow.

Jason stopped by a bookshelf, fingers trailing over a worn copy of Pride and Prejudice. “You weren’t kidding about the paper.”

You leaned against the opposite shelf, still awkward from the earlier interruption. “No… I really did read it. The Austen bit was good. Really good. I just… I don’t usually talk about this stuff with guys who look like they could bench-press a car.”

He turned, eyes dark and intent. “You’re dangerous, you know that? Pretty, smart, and you don’t flinch at the messed-up parts.” He stepped closer, voice dropping low. “Your dad’s probably already designing that anti-Red Hood suit just in case. But fuck it—next week, just us. No family bullshit. No suits. No footnotes. What do you say, Stark? Let me take you somewhere that doesn’t involve our dads measuring whose tech is bigger.”

Your breath caught, heart hammering. Before you could even open your mouth to answer, a small, sharp voice cut through the room like a knife.

“Todd, if you are attempting to court the Stark girl with such vulgar prose, you are embarrassing the entire family,” Damian said, appearing in the doorway with his arms crossed and a sneer that could curdle milk. “Father would be disappointed. Grayson would call it ‘cringe.’ And I, for one, refuse to witness another one of your pathetic attempts at romance.”

Jason’s head snapped toward his little brother, jaw tight. “Damian, I swear to God, if you don’t fuck off right now—”

“Language,” Damian replied coolly, inspecting his nails. “And you wonder why she has not yet agreed. Your approach lacks subtlety. Perhaps you should consult Grayson. He is the expert in… what is the term? ‘Rizz’?”

You bit your lip, trying not to laugh at the sheer absurdity, but your cheeks were flaming again. Awkward didn’t even begin to cover it.

Jason pinched the bridge of his nose. “Out. Now. Or I’m telling Alfred you fed Titus the last of the roast beef.”

Damian smirked, clearly unbothered. “As you wish, Todd. But do try not to scare her away with your… caveman courtship.” He turned on his heel and disappeared back down the hall.

Jason let out a low growl. “Sorry about the demon spawn. He lives to ruin my life.”

You laughed nervously, rubbing the back of your neck. “It’s… fine. Really. My dad’s doing the same thing, so… we’re even?”

Before Jason could try again, Dick’s voice echoed cheerfully from the hallway. “Jay! Tim needs your opinion on the new grapple line specs—something about ‘ballistic trajectory’ and ‘not exploding this time.’ Also Alfred says dinner in five!”

Jason muttered a string of curses under his breath. “Fucking hell. Give me two minutes.”

But two minutes became five when Tim appeared next, tablet in hand, dragging Jason into a quick debate about recoil compensation while you stood there awkwardly pretending to examine a painting. Every time Jason tried to steer the conversation back to you— “Anyway, about next week…” —either Dick would crack a joke about “baby bird finally getting game” or Damian would pop up again with some dry, cutting remark about “primitive mating rituals.”

By the time you all finally made it to the dining room, Jason looked ready to strangle someone, and you were equal parts amused and mortified.

Dinner passed in a blur of sharp banter, surprisingly good food, and the occasional near-argument about whose tech was better suited for “ethical climate intervention.” Jason sat beside you, his knee brushing yours under the table more than once—deliberate, warm, promising. Every time it happened, you’d glance at Tony, who was watching like a hawk with that overprotective glare, and you’d feel your face heat up again. Tony even leaned over at one point to mutter, “I see that knee, Todd. Watch it.”

When the evening finally wound down and goodbyes were exchanged at the door, Jason walked you out to the car while the others lingered inside, though you could feel multiple pairs of eyes watching from the windows.

He stopped just short of the driveway, turning to face you under the soft glow of the manor lights. “Wednesday wasn’t nearly long enough,” he said, voice rough. “Look, before anyone else interrupts—next Friday. You, me, somewhere quiet. No siblings. No dads. No demon brat calling my game cringe. Just say yes, Stark.”

Your heart raced, a shy, awkward smile tugging at your lips despite everything. “I… yeah. Yes. But only if you promise not to get interrupted mid-sentence again.”

He leaned in, slow enough that you could pull away. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours—soft at first, then deeper, tasting faintly of the wine from dinner and something undeniably him. When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours again.

“Deal,” he murmured. “And if any of my idiot brothers show up, I’m shooting them with rubber rounds.”

As the Audi pulled away, you glanced back once. Jason stood on the steps, hands in his pockets, watching you go with that same half-smirk—though you could see Damian lurking in the background, already opening his mouth for one last parting shot.

Tony cleared his throat from the front seat, gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary. “So. Should I start designing the anti-Jason suit now, or wait until he inevitably does something stupid and heroic?”

You laughed softly, leaning your head against the window, the ghost of Jason’s kiss still warm on your lips and your cheeks still burning from all the awkwardness and interruptions. “Wait, Dad. I think I’m going to like this particular terrible decision… even if you threaten to blast him into orbit every five minutes and his brothers keep cockblocking him.”

Outside, Gotham’s lights blurred past, but for the first time in a long while, the city didn’t feel quite so dark.

And somewhere in the shadows, you knew a certain red-hooded vigilante was already counting the days until Friday—probably while plotting ways to keep his siblings far, far away.