Hellooo!! Im Not Sure If Your Requests Are Open So Feel Free To Ignore This But I Was Wondering If You

hellooo!! im not sure if your requests are open so feel free to ignore this but i was wondering if you could write for tasm!peter where the reader just got her wisdom teeth removed and she’s all loopy on anesthetics and forgets peter is her boyfriend? i saw this video where this girl got her wisdom teeth pulled and forgot she was dating her boyfriend and fell in love with him all over again😭😭

https://www.tiktok.com/t/ZPR7sGQo5/

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

"Here she is," the nurse says gently, walking you out with his arm behind your back. "Alright, say hi to Peter." 

"Hi, Peter," you mumble, eyes on the floor. 

Peter grins at you, worry warm at the back of his throat. "Hey. Is that everything?" he asks, nodding at the nurses paper bag of aftercare. 

"Everything you'll need." The nurse helps Peter take over, hoisting your arm over his shoulders before stepping away. "Alright, feel better, okay? And don't hesitate to call if something comes up. We're here to look after you." 

You seem appreciative in your fog, but it's hard to tell. Peter curls his arm around your hip and gives it a soft rub as he leads you to the stairs. Whoever devised the floor plan here had murder on their mind —the second floor is completely inaccessible. Luckily, Peter has a lot of strength at his disposal. 

You can feel it. "Woh, you're strong," you murmur. 

"You know that already." His grip on you tightens, pretty much carrying you down the tight staircase. 

"Do I?" you ask. You make a sound like you're hurting, a squeak. 

"I'd hope so." At the end of the staircase, he sits you down, worried you're not feeling well. "You okay? I can princess carry you if you need me to." 

You look at him with wide eyes. He turns to check there's no one standing behind him, but you're really looking at him. "What?" he asks, touching your knee, imploring. "You look like you've seen a ghost." 

"You're Peter?" you ask. 

Ah, the amnesiac effect of anaesthetic. His touch turns comforting, stroking your thigh with as much care as he can drive into his palm alone. "That's me. Hey, if you're forgetting me, does that mean you're not mad at me for last Friday anymore? 'Cos I know you said you forgive me but I can tell it still pisses you off–" 

Your eyes fall to his hand. "Why would I be mad at you?" you ask. 

"I finished the milk and put the carton back in the fridge, even though I promised I'd stop doing it. You see the jug and think there's milk left. We were gonna have macaroni and cheese..." He nudges your fingers with his. "Are you okay? You don't look like yourself."

"What do I usually look like?" 

"Not so, you know. Daunted." 

"You're really handsome," you whisper, refusing to meet his eye. 

"Oh, you think so?" 

You nod like your head is too heavy. You're embarrassed, you sweetheart, oh my god Peter could cry into your lap. 

"Let's get you to the car, baby." 

"Where are we going?" The gauze gives you the world's most adorable lisp, and it turns your gasp into a hum as Peter stands you up. 

"Home." 

"Together?" 

"Yeah, we live together. It's a nice place, and you're a great decorator, you know? It's cozy." 

"Thank you," you say shyly. 

You're not not shy with him, but it's been a long time since you got so quiet over a practically innocuous comment. He wants to see how you'll react to real compliments, over the top stuff that he one hundred percent means. It's a little mean, but when will you ever be like this again? 

He helps you out past the desk and onto the street to your car where it's parked a half a block down. "Don't worry about all this, okay? I'm gonna take such good care of you, sweetheart. There's an ice pack and a brand new comforter with your name on it waiting at home." Peter smiles at your starry eyes as they flash to his, amazed at his simple plans. "How does that sound, beautiful? Is there anything you want before we head home? Anything that would make you feel better?" 

"You're gonna take care of me?" you ask breathlessly. 

"That's my job. That's my number one boyfriend duty." 

"You're my boyfriend?" 

"I am!" he says happily, laughing as he speaks. "For a while. I've been trying to take things further but you're always really shy about getting married–" 

"You want to get married? To me?" 

Peter presses a soft kiss to your cheek. "You're the only person I'd ever want to get married to. We already picked the flowers–" 

"We did?" 

He laughs again, all your questions. He loves regular you but loopy you is especially endearing. "Last time I got super drunk, yeah. You never let me forget it." 

"So you love me?" you ask, stopping short.

"I love you so much," he says immediately, hugging you into his side. He dots another kiss against the top of your head. "You should remember that even if you don't remember me." 

"I love you," you say quietly. 

Peter doesn't know if that's your memory returning, or if you've fallen in love with him in the last fifteen minutes. He could easily fall in love with you that quickly, and yet he's still amazed at your confession. 

"That's good. That's great. Thank you, sweetheart," he says, desperate to hold your face in his hands but weary of causing you future pain. "There's your car," —he points, lowering his head to yours to make sure you can see it, hand now protectively held between your shoulder blades— "let's go home now. Yeah?" 

You start walking again at his requests. He can pretty much see the steam rising off of your face, giddy with happiness at these revelations. You're together, you're in love, and you think he's handsome. He wonders what you'll have to say about his biceps in this state of delirium; you go crazy for his arms sober. 

Which reminds him. 

"I totally have another secret to tell you," he says, unlocking the car as you approach and helping you into the passenger seat. 

"What is it?" you ask. 

Peter closes you in and skirts around the door, climbing into the driver's seat. He's glad that New York is as ridiculously loud as ever, because not even the closed doors or your sodden gauze can smother the way you shriek.

"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!" 

if i bend under the weight + sun bleached flies

synopsis: tim's super! s/o gets hit with kryptonite and gets stuck under a building tags: gn! reader, blood, broken bones, needles, panic attacks part of my dc augu-whumpers series ; requests for this are open!

⋅────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────⋅

PREVIEW.

"Was that a crash? Damn, that was loud."

"A building collapsed in the far east. Supers is in charge of that area."

"Supers? You there? Status report. What happened?"

“Shit! Shit! Shit! They’ve been hit with Kryptonite. Vitals are unstable! Someone get there now!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Tim cried too, tears mingling with the grime on his face. “I’m sorry, I know, I know, baby. Please! Come on, we have to get up.”

⋅────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰────⋅

You were a super.

A near-indestructible hero with strength beyond measure. People watched in awe as you deflected bullets, halted runaway trains, and shattered barriers that would have left ordinary heroes in ruin.

To them, you were an immovable rock, impervious to life’s storms, a being untouched by doubt or weakness.

You had grown used to this. You were used to being seen as strong, so much so that you rarely had backup on missions. You were often sent out alone, expected to handle every crisis on your own. After all, you were a super. You fought solo, without regret, without asking for assistance. You believed you could bear it all.

But now, you found yourself beneath the skeletal remains of a collapsed building, the wreckage pressing down on you with a force that should have been a mere inconvenience. Dust and debris swirled around you in the dim light filtering through cracks in the rubble. The once-sturdy structure groaned and creaked as if protesting your struggle.

Normally, you would have lifted the wreckage effortlessly, but something was terribly wrong with your powers. Your hands, usually so strong, trembled as they strained against the concrete. You could feel the weight of each individual slab pressing down on you, pinning you to the ground.

Kryptonite, you thought, the realization hitting you with a force almost as crushing as the debris. The last memory you remember is being hit with a green glow.

Whimpering, you took a deep breath, strands of damp hair fell over your eyes, clinging to your sweat-soaked forehead. The burn in your side, a sharp and unfamiliar sting, pierced through the usual numbness. Your breathing came in ragged gasps, each inhale heavy with the smell of dust and despair. You had grown so accustomed to invincibility that pain felt like an unwelcome stranger. The once-mighty walls of your strength seemed to be crumbling, just like the debris around you.

There was a ringing in your ears, a harsh buzz that grew louder. You realized it was your communication link, crackling with urgency. You heaved, your head lolling to the side as you struggled to keep the building aloft. Every muscle screamed in protest, and the once-lightweight concrete now felt like it was made of lead.

"Supers? You there?"

Someone's voice echoed in your ear, Batman you think, steady and calm.

"Where are you? We need some backup here, stat."

You swallowed hard, feeling a lump in your throat. Your eyes drooped, the weight of your exhaustion pulling them down. "S… Sorry. I'm in a situation right now. I can't provide backup. Might actually need some..."

There was a pause, a brief silence that felt like an eternity.

"How serious is your situation? I don’t think anyone will be able to help you for a while. Think you can handle it?"

You could hear the detachment in his voice, the cold, clinical tone that expected you to push through just as you always had. There was no urgency, no hint of concern—just an unwavering belief that you would somehow manage.

Belief that a super could hold their own.

You blinked away the growing tears, shifting your position slightly to alleviate the burning in your side. The ringing in your ears had subsided, replaced by the dull roar of your own heartbeat.

"O—okay. I think I can hold on for a bit." Your voice was barely more than a whisper, the words forced out through gritted teeth.

The comm-link clicked off, the abrupt silence leaving you alone with the weight of the world pressing down on you.

You struggled as you lifted the building, feeling the bones in your wrists start to give way under the pressure. A sharp, searing pain shot through your arms as the bones cracked, the sickening sound lost in the groaning of the collapsing structure.

Your palms were now raw and bleeding, cut by the jagged edges of the debris. Warm blood trickled down your arms and you heaved, throat dry.

Tears mingled with the sweat on your face, blurring your vision. You blinked them away, focusing on the task at hand. You had to hold on. You had to keep fighting. The world above depended on it.

Slowly, agonizingly, you managed to lift the building a few inches. It was a minuscule shift, but it was enough to make a difference. The weight shifted slightly, and you could see a small gap forming. With a final, desperate effort, you managed to lift the wreckage high enough to create a gap wide enough for you to fly out.

As you emerged into the open air, you collapsed onto the ground, your breathing ragged and uneven.

For now, at least, you had held on.

 ༻⊰───⋅

"Was that a crash? Damn, that was loud."

"A building collapsed in the far east. Supers is in charge of that area."

"Supers? You there? Status report. What happened?"

“Shit! Shit! Shit! They’ve been hit with kryptonite. Vitals are unstable! Someone get there now!”

There was a cold, icy feeling sinking deep into Tim's bones as he heard the announcement through his earpiece. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat feeling slower and more labored than the last.

He quickly checked his location on his communicator. The display flickered with stark, cold reality—he was indeed the nearest to the scene, but still a grueling 15 minutes away. The distance seemed to stretch into an endless expanse, each second feeling like an eternity.

Without hesitation, he sprinted to his bike, his movements driven by sheer adrenaline. The cold, numbing fear was replaced by a burning urgency as he mounted the bike and roared to life. He maneuvered through traffic with reckless speed, weaving and cutting corners as if each second lost could mean a life.

As he drove, the cold, numbing fear slowly began to ebb away, melting into a fiery, scalding anger.

"Why the fuck weren't there reinforcements?!" he shouted into the earpiece, his voice laced with frustration and desperation. "Did no one think to check the fucking area? Is everyone just sitting around with their heads up their asses?!"

The bike roared beneath him, and his driving became even more reckless. Tim leaned into every turn, the engine's growl mingling with his furious breaths. He spotted a fence ahead, a barrier that seemed to mock his urgency.

Without a second thought, he gunned the throttle, launching the bike into the air. The bike soared, crashing through the fence with a deafening crack. Concrete and debris exploded around him as he slammed into the ground on the other side. The impact jarred his bones and rattled his teeth, but he barely registered the pain.

He tore through the final stretch of the city streets, his bike a blur of metal and fury. The wreckage came into view, a twisted maze of steel and concrete.

Tim skidded to a halt, his heart pounding furiously as he dismounted. He spotted you, hunched over right beside the collapsed rubble, your blood seeping into the grass.

Tim’s heart felt as though it was being torn in two as he saw the state you were in. His rage gave way to the deep, icy fear again as he rushed forward.

With trembling hands, he carefully rolled you onto your back, his gaze sweeping over your injuries.

Your face was ghostly pale, streaked with a grimy mix of dirt and blood. Each shallow, labored breath you took seemed to cut through the air with an echo of a sob. The severity of your injuries was laid bare—cuts and bruises marred your skin, each wound a painful testament to the violence you had endured. Blood pooled around you, a dark, crimson stain against the surrounding debris, making his stomach churn with a sickening nausea.

His eyes fell to your wrists, and he was horrified by the sight of them—clearly broken, twisted at unnatural angles.

He leaned down, his voice softening with a tender, almost broken affection.

“Hi, pretty bird,” he whispered. “I’m here. I’ve got you.”

“Kryptonite,” you rasp out, your voice barely more than a whisper.

“I know, I know,” he whispers back, his voice low and soothing. He reaches into his utility belt, pulling out a syringe with a green needle, filled with a bright, clear liquid. It was an antidote, a precaution he had hoped never to use.

Tim was always prepared for every situation, his mind a labyrinth of strategies and contingencies. One of the many things you loved about him. His meticulous nature meant that nothing was left to chance, and that care extended to you, his lover.

His hand was steady as he moved to insert the needle, but when you thrashed in pain, he realized too late that the entry had been rougher than he intended.

The sharp intake of breath you took, the wince that crossed your face—these were things he had rarely seen, and he realized just how fragile you were in this moment.

Tim had always relied on your metahuman durability, knowing that you could handle whatever force he threw your way, trusting in your strength without a second thought.

Then you screamed and cried, your sobs echoing through the night. The pain was unbearable, a relentless pressure squeezing you from every angle. Tim’s face crumpled in horror and panic, his usually calm demeanor cracking under the weight of your suffering.

He administered the antidote with trembling hands, his movements hurried yet tender. The needle was pulled away with a gentleness that belied his growing panic.

“I’m so sorry,” he choked out, moving to comfort you. “I didn’t mean for it to hurt. Please, just hold on. I’m right here.”

His hands were unsteady as he brushed the sweat and tears from your face, touch as gentle as he could manage despite his own mounting panic.

Tim was losing his grip. The sight of you, so vulnerable and hurting, was terrifying and so, so, so unfamiliar, driving him to a near hysterical state.

The antidote began to take effect, the green glow from the syringe slowly dissipating as it worked to counteract the kryptonite’s effects. But Tim’s relief was fleeting. The urgency of the situation pressed down on him, and he realized with a jolt that he needed to get you to a safer location.

“Come on, pretty bird, I need to get you up,” he said, his voice quivering with desperation.

Each attempt to lift you was met with new waves of agony, your screams slicing through the air like a jagged blade. Your cries were heart-wrenching, each one a brutal slash against his soul, unraveling him with every tortured note. The dark, red stains seeped into his heart, a reminder of how he was failing you.

Tim cried too, tears mingling with the grime on his face. “I’m sorry, I know, I know, baby. Please! Come on, we have to get up.”

With a desperate heave, he dragged you into his arms. You shuddered violently, your body wracked with ragged, sputtering sobs. Tim's heart squeezed with each gasping breath you took, and then, with a final, shuddering exhale, you fainted, your body going limp against him.

Panic surged through Tim like a tidal wave. His breath came in frantic bursts as he cradled you, trying to stay calm despite the overwhelming fear clawing at him. His hand fumbled for his comm device, his movements erratic and desperate.

He knew he had the skills—both medical and analytical—to assess your situation and manage it. His training had equipped him with the ability to stabilize injuries, evaluate critical conditions, and make quick decisions under pressure. But now, those skills felt useless against the crushing weight of his fear.

“Someone, please!” he screamed into the device, throat raw. "Help me!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

iv. 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, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

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The room falls into a stunned silence as everyone’s eyes widen at your disheveled state.

Selina’s gaze narrows, her irritation barely masked by a tight-lipped smile. Bruce’s face pales, his eyes darting between you and Selina, clearly alarmed. He shoots her a panicked, questioning look. Selina responds with a weary sigh, her hands momentarily covering her face as if trying to shield herself from the scene. She looks utterly drained.

You attempt a casual wave, though it comes off as weak. Blood drips down your bruised knuckles, cascading down your palm. “Hey, everyone. Sorry, I’m late.”

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes stormy with shock and something akin to anger.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demands.

Ah, a typical dinner at the Waynes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Wednesday, 6:54 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City. Three Days Later

THE ROOM IS QUIET except for the occasional rustle of clothing as you pack your things. You carefully fold your favorite hoodie, tucking it neatly into the suitcase. Next, you grab a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, and your worn-out sneakers. You pause, fingers lingering on a framed photo of you and Damian at a carnival, his arm slung over your shoulder, his lips pressed against your head.

Both of you haven't spoken since the argument. It's been three days of radio silence on both ends. But you couldn’t prevent the inevitable. Bruce invited you and Selina for dinner tonight—a congratulatory party, he says.

With a sigh, you place the photo gently on top of your clothes. You move to your desk, picking up a stack of notebooks filled with sketches and half-finished plans, tucking them into the side pocket of your bag.

The door creaks open, and you see Selina standing there, her arms crossed and a proud smile playing on her lips.

“Hey, hon. Packing up for your big adventure?” she asks, stepping into the room.

You smile, nodding. “Yeah. It’s only for a month, but it feels like I’m leaving for a year.”

Selina walks over, picking up a small figurine from your desk and inspecting it. “I’m proud of you, you know. This is a huge opportunity.”

“Thanks.” You smile and turn back to your packing, reaching for your suit. The sleek, black material glistens in the light. As you fold it, Selina raises a brow.

“You’re not seriously thinking of bringing the suit, are you?” she asks.

You hesitate, looking down at the suit. “I thought I might need it. Just in case.”

Selina sighs, her hands finding her hips as she gives you a look. “You always think you might need it. But this internship is a chance for you to have a life outside the vigilante shtick. It’s good for your future. A chance to live a normal life.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Normal? Mom, I stopped being normal the day I got these powers. There's no going back to that.”

“Maybe not,” Selina concedes, running gentle fingers through your hair. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have something close to it. You deserve to have options, to see what else is out there for you. What happens if you don’t want to do this forever?”

You roll your eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface. “And what if I do? What if this is who I am? This internship is a great opportunity, I get that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not like everyone else.”

Selina kneels down, her eyes locking onto yours. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m asking you to give yourself a chance to be more than just the suit. You’re smart, talented, and capable of so much more than this double life.”

“Yeah, well, having a double life seems to be the family business, doesn’t it?” you retort, a bit more sharply than you intended.

Selina’s expression twists. “And maybe that’s why I want more for you. I want you to have the choice I never did. To find out who you are without the mask, without the mission.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of her words but also the pull of your own truth. “I hear you. But I think I need to bring it. Just in case something goes wrong.”

“God. You are just as stubborn as me,” Selina sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. Shaking her head, she rises to her feet. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind about this internship. It’s a chance to see what else is out there for you.”

“Promise,” you hum. Just as you’re about to pack it, your phone buzzes. Quickly, you glance at the text.

Morgana:

Busy tonight? There’s a shipment near the docks. Tech equipment from what I see.

You could infiltrate. They have valuable info.

It's… Black Mask.

For a while, you stare at the phone, biting down on your bottom lip. Finally, with an exhale, you place the phone face down on the floor, deliberately ignoring the message for now.

You turn your attention back to the task at hand, refocusing on packing your suitcase. Selina gives you a look but doesn’t press further.

“Ready for tonight?” she asks, changing the subject.

You nod, though you feel a knot in your stomach. Bruce’s congratulatory dinner feels more like a test than a celebration, especially with the tension between you and Damian still unresolved. You zip up the suitcase and glance around your room, making sure you haven't forgotten anything essential.

“Yeah, ready as I'll ever be,” you reply, attempting to sound confident.

Selina nods approvingly, then steps closer, bending to pull you into a hug. “I’ll go get dressed. You do too, alright?”

You nod as Selina leaves the room, her footsteps fading into the distance. Turning back to your suitcase, you rummage through the clothes, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans and a red jacket. After slipping on some socks and sneakers, you reach for a black shirt. But as your hand hovers over the fabric, your gaze is drawn to your suit laid out on the bed.

The spider logo on its back glares at you, its eight-legged emblem almost seeming to reach out with an imperceptible pull, as if urging you to embrace your other self.

After a moment of inner conflict, you give in. You carefully pull on the suit beneath your clothes, feeling the snug fit of the material wrapping around you. With the suit in place, you slip on the black shirt, followed by the jacket and jeans. Finally, you tuck your mask into the pocket of your jacket.

With everything packed and ready, you head downstairs. Selina is still in her room, and you catch sight of her as she steps into view, looking a touch more formal than you in a sleek, off-shoulder black dress that hugs her curves. It’s short, tight, and effortlessly elegant.

“Done already?” she hums, moving to her vanity and starting on her hair and makeup.

You nod, leaning against the doorframe and giving your hair a casual tousle. “Yeah, figured I’d keep it simple. Not sure I’m in the mood for fancy.”

Selina glances at you through the mirror, a small, reassuring smile curling her lips. “You look great. And don’t worry too much about tonight. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her.

The clock on the wall reads 7:00. You have three hours before the dinner, and Selina, always the early planner, will be occupied with her preparations for a while.

Pulling out your phone, you check Morgan’s message again. If you played your cards right, you could handle the shipment bust quickly and still make it to the dinner on time.

Clearing your throat, you push yourself off the doorframe and tug your hood back on. You head downstairs, making sure to keep your movements casual and unhurried, as if nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen.

“I’ll be heading out for a bit. I want to get some flowers for Alfred,” you call out, your voice carrying through the house.

Selina glances up from her vanity, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. “Alright, but don’t be too long. We need to leave once the driver arrives.”

“Got it,” you reply with a quick nod, turning and heading out of the room. You make your way downstairs, slipping out the front door and into the crisp evening air.

Once you’re in the privacy of a nearby alleyway, you waste no time. Tugging off your shirt, you shove it into the pocket of your jacket, feeling a rush of adrenaline. You slip on your mask, adjusting it carefully until it fits snugly, the familiar material settling comfortably against your skin. Your jeans, jacket, and sneakers stay on for practicality, and you plan to put the black shirt back on later.

With everything in place, you secure your earpiece and gadgets, pressing the earpiece into position and activating it. The familiar hum of your tech springs to life, and you’re ready to move. The city’s sounds fade as you slip into the shadows.

“Morgz? You there?” you call out, already scaling up the side of a building.

A crackle of static precedes Morgan’s voice. “Yeah, I’m here. You on your way?”

“Just about to leave,” you reply, grabbing onto a ledge and pulling yourself up. “Any updates on the shipment?”

“It’s scheduled to arrive in about 30 minutes. The tech equipment is being unloaded from a truck into a warehouse. Security’s decent, but nothing you can’t handle. You’re only 15 minutes away from your spot right now.”

“Got it,” you confirm, reaching the rooftop and taking a moment to scan the area below. “I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the heads-up.”

You launch into action, web-slinging towards the docks with a focus on speed. Normally, you’d be showboating and performing flips, but tonight, every second counts. The journey takes a bit longer than expected—20 minutes instead of 15.

As you approach the docks, you spot a boat pulling up to the edge, its silhouette cutting through the darkness.

“Surprised you even took this up,” Morgan’s voice murmurs through your earpiece. “Thought you weren't allowed to patrol on school nights.”

“Technically… I’m not,” you reply, weaving between buildings and adjusting your trajectory for a swift descent.

“Yeesh. Going rebellious already?”

“Teenage angst, remember?” you quip, a grin forming beneath your mask as you prepare to intercept the shipment

Landing on a rooftop adjacent to the warehouse, you take a moment to plan your entry. The warehouse is a large, industrial building with a few tall windows and a side door that looks like it’s used for deliveries.

Security cameras are mounted on the corners of the building, rotating every now and then. You quickly survey the area, noting the guards' position.

There are a couple of guards patrolling the perimeter, walking in predictable patterns. One guard is stationed near the side door, checking his watch occasionally. The other two are more mobile, taking turns walking around the exterior and scanning the area.

Beyond the security, you see five workers moving boxes from the boat to the warehouse. The open doors at the far end reveal crates of tech equipment being unloaded.

You activate your earpiece. "Update. Three guards outside. Five active workers. They've got cameras. Can you get those down for me?"

Morgan's voice crackles through your earpiece. "On it. Give me a sec."

You watch the cameras, waiting for them to go offline. The guard near the side door looks at his watch again, oblivious to what's about to happen. After a tense moment, Morgan's voice comes back. "Cameras are down. You've got about an hour before the system kicks in again. Oh. That and there are about 5 more guards inside."

"Perfect," you hum.

You time your movements with the guards' patrols, slipping through the shadows. You approach the side door, keeping low and quiet.

Inside, the warehouse is dimly lit, with stacks of crates creating narrow pathways. The workers are busy unloading the truck, their focus on the task at hand. You crawl up the walls swiftly and silently.

You spot a terminal near the back of the warehouse, its blinking lights indicating it’s connected to the inventory system.

Time to get to work.

“I'm at the terminal. What’s next?” you whisper into the earpiece.

Morgan’s voice comes through with a steady tone. “First, plug in the flash drive I gave you. It should start copying the inventory data automatically. While that’s running, you’ll need to locate the main control panel for the security system and plant the tracker I sent you. This will let us keep tabs on future shipments.”

You nod, even though she can't see you. "Got it. Flash drive first, then tracker."

You slip down to the terminal, plugging in the flash drive. It hums quietly as it begins copying the data. You glance around, ensuring no one is watching, then make your way to the security control panel, hidden behind a stack of crates. You plant the tracker quickly, securing it in place.

"The tracker is set," you inform Morgan.

"Great job. The data copy should be done soon. Once it’s finished, you can pull the flash drive and get out of there."

You make your way back to the terminal, keeping an eye on the workers and guards. The flash drive's light blinks, indicating it’s nearly done. You wait a few more tense moments until it goes solid.

"Data copied," Morgan confirms. "You’re clear to go."

You pull the flash drive and tuck it safely into your pocket, then start making your way back towards the exit, sticking to the shadows. Just as you reach the door, you hear voices nearby.

“Hey, did you hear something?”

Your heart stops as the guard’s flashlight beam sweeps dangerously close to your hiding spot. You freeze, pressing yourself against the cold metal wall, barely breathing.

“Probably just a rat. Let's check it out just in case.”

You curse silently under your breath, watching as the guards start moving in your direction.

The first guard steps closer, his flashlight scanning the area. You silently crawl up the wall, positioning yourself above him. With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at the flashlight, yanking it out of his hand and into the darkness.

“What the—” the guard starts, but you quickly web his mouth shut and pull him up towards the ceiling, wrapping him tightly in webbing and securing him to the roof. You knock his head against the metal, and he passes out.

The second guard, alarmed by the sudden commotion, turns his back to you as he draws his weapon. The rifle fires, but your spider sense helps you dodge the shots. Cursing, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground. Before he can react, you web his hands to the floor and sling his weapon away.

Dropping from the ceiling, you slow your landing with a web and slam your foot down onto his head, knocking him out.

Despite the relatively quiet disposal of the two guards, the earlier rifle shot already alerted the other workers and guards in the warehouse. You hear shouts and hurried footsteps approaching.

“Someone’s here! Find them!”

Guards scramble, their flashlights slicing through the darkness, casting erratic beams that dance across the warehouse walls. You sprint and flip away, weaving between crates and machinery, but a new threat emerges from the shadows—a massive, burly man, easily twice your size. He’s built like a brick wall, his muscles straining against his uniform, and his face looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, etched with a permanent scowl.

“Who’s messing around in 'ere?” the giant roars, his voice reverberating through the cavernous space. He brandishes a rifle, and from the looks of it, he seems to be their leader.

You glance at your watch—damn, it’s been two hours already. Only an hour left.

Still… you could probably get one fight in before leaving.

Swinging out of the shadows, you land in front of the giant, hands on your hips.

“Hi there, Mr. Villain!” you call out, catching a punch he sends your way and giving his hand a playful shake. “I’m Spidey, your friendly neighborhood nuisance. Always nice to meet someone who’s got a real ‘heavy’ presence. Looks like you’ve got a security problem here. That is totally my bad.”

The giant snarls at you. He fires his rifle, but you deftly dodge the bullets. With a swift move, you fire a web at his feet and arms, pinning him momentarily to the ground. The rifle is knocked from his hands, clattering out of reach.

The guards scramble to regroup, and you spring into action. Flipping back into the air, you disarm the remaining guards—quick web blasts here, a roundhouse kick there, an uppercut thrown. Each guard crumples under the assault, slamming against the walls one by one, webbed together in a tangled heap.

There’s a snap as the leader breaks free, roaring in fury and charging at you like a battering ram. You duck under his swinging arm and fire a web at a stack of crates. The crates topple and crash into his path, heavy wood and metal smashing together. He stumbles, cursing and flailing wildly.

“Careful there! You might just crush your own merchandise,” you taunt, sidestepping his erratic swings.

In that moment of distraction, you web his gun away. But as you turn back to face him, a sharp, urgent jolt of danger spikes through your veins, a warning so intense it feels like an electric shock. Your instincts scream at you to move, and you leap to the side in a desperate maneuver. But it’s too late.

A figure emerges from the shadows, their knife gleaming menacingly under the harsh warehouse lights.

Shit, you missed one guard.

The blade slices through your suit, leaving a burning, agonizing wound in its wake. You stagger, clutching your side as blood seeps through the torn fabric, pooling on the cold concrete floor. With a grimace of pain, you quickly shoot a web at the guard, slamming them against the wall with a forceful swing and pulling their knife away.

“Spidey?! Come in. Shit. What happened to staying stealthy?” Morgan's voice crackles through the earpiece. “PEPPER, run back their vitals on me.”

A mechanical voice responds through your earpiece. “Vitals are stable. The wound is a deep laceration on the left side, approximately six inches long and half an inch deep. Blood loss is moderate but under control due to the suit’s padding. The injury narrowly missed major organs and arteries. Immediate first aid is recommended, followed by stitches.”

“Looks like I’ve got a new scar to show for tonight,” you heave, trying to ignore the throbbing pain as the giant stalks toward you. “But I’m not done yet.”

The man's roar shakes the warehouse. His eyes blaze with fury as he stares you down. “You think you can take me, you puny spider?”

You lift your chin, forcing a grin despite the pain. “Puny? That’s funny. I’ve taken down bigger."

The giant lunges at you, grabbing a heavy metal rod and swinging it like a battering ram. You barely manage to dodge, feeling the rush of air as it whooshes past you. You retaliate with a web shot aimed at his face, but he swats it away with a roar, his massive arms smashing through your webbing.

“Careful there, big guy,” you quip, “I’m not into heavy metal, but thanks for the offer!”

Suddenly, his hand connects with your chest, grabbing the front of your suit and lifting you off your feet. He hurls you against a stack of crates, the impact knocking you into the wall. You slide down to the floor, disoriented, blood running down your split lip.

While you're down, the giant strides toward you, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground like a mini earthquake. You push yourself up, struggling to stay upright as he launches a flying knee at you. Your senses blare like a siren, urging you to move. Instinctively, you roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow that lands where you had just been.

“Hey, watch it! I’ve got places to be after this!” you yell.

Before you can react, a powerful punch crashes into your face, sending you reeling.

“That one’s definitely gonna leave a mark,” you groan, pain radiating through your skull. Desperately, you fire a web at his legs, hoping to slow him down. The webbing sticks momentarily, but he tears through it with sheer brute force.

Groaning, you shake off the dizziness, rolling your shoulders to loosen them before pushing yourself back to your feet.

“Alright,” you mutter, taking a deep breath. “Clearly, the webs aren’t working. Guess we’re sticking to fists. Put ’em up, big guy.”

Laughing with a guttural, mocking tone, the giant charges at you. As he lunges, you brace yourself and bring your fist up to guard your face. With a burst of power, you jab forward. Your knuckles connect with his face with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone shattering and flesh splitting echoing through the warehouse like a thunderclap.

JAB!

The man staggers back, his head snapping violently to the side, blood spraying from his jaw. Before he can regain his footing, you launch into a spinning kick. Your leg swings with explosive force, crashing into his chest and slamming him into the wall with a resounding crash.

You follow up with a powerful jump, driving a kick into his ribs. The impact produces a sickening crack. He lets out a pained roar and collapses, slumped against the wall.

Quickly, you flick your wrist and shoot a web at a pipe high above, the webbing coiling tightly around it. With a determined grunt, you spin and yank the pipe down with all your strength. The metal pipe crashes down onto the giant with a resounding clang, the force of the impact knocking him out cold.

You take a couple of deep breaths, blood and sweat mingling on your clothes and face as you survey the wreckage. The giant groans weakly—alive, but definitely out of commission for the moment.

“Looks like the big guy’s all out of steam,” you murmur, wiping the blood from your brow with a grim smile. “Now, time to find that exit before my own steam runs out.”

With a final glance at the chaos you've left behind, you swing toward the exit. The cut on your side throbs with each movement—though it's slowly healing, the pain and blood are still very much present.

"Spidey? You alright? What the fuck, you just beat that guy within an inch of his life."

“He’ll live,” you huff as you swing through the streets. After fumbling around for a while, you pull your phone from your jacket and curse at the time. Only ten minutes before the car arrives. “Uh, Morgz, do me a favor. Where’s the nearest flower shop?”

"Christ. You just busted down an illegal tech deal and now you're out for flowers?" Morgan’s response comes through the earpiece before you hear some typing. “There’s a florist two blocks from your current location. I’m sending you the address. But—You really need to take care of that wound.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply. There's a ping as the location pops up on your phone. “Just need to pick up some flowers. Trust me, it’s important.”

You adjust your swing to head toward the florist, landing quietly in the alley outside. With quick movements, you slip off your mask and start changing. You discard your jacket, revealing the bloodied suit underneath. The suit’s dark color masks most of the stains, but it's still a grim sight.

You pull on your shirt over the suit, trying to conceal the worst of the mess. The sticky, wet feeling of blood against your skin is unpleasant, and you grimace as you adjust the shirt. Finally, you slip the jacket back on, hoping it will help you blend in and give you a semblance of normalcy.

Taking a deep breath, you straighten up and glance at your reflection in the nearby puddle. The image staring back at you is a disheveled mess: hair tousled, face bruised and bloodied, jeans stained with grime and blood, and a jacket barely concealing it all.

“Not my best look,” you bite your lip. “But it’ll have to do.”

With a sigh, you step into the flower shop. The bell above the door jingles softly, and the warm, floral scent is a welcome relief from the warehouse’s stench.

The florist looks up from behind the counter with a curious glance. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your disheveled appearance but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed. In Gotham, a bloodied teenager is probably just another Wednesday.

“Evening,” the florist says, his voice carrying the neutrality of someone accustomed to the oddities of city life. “What can I do for you?”

You give a quick nod, trying to keep your tone casual despite the blood still seeping through your shirt. “Need something nice. Simple. No need for anything flashy.”

The florist nods and starts arranging a bouquet of flowers. You drift over to a corner and find yourself looking at some daisies, their bright, cheerful colors a stark contrast to your current state.

“Spidey? How’s it going?” Morgan’s voice crackles through your earpiece.

“Alright,” you shrug, though she can’t see it. “Can I get a rundown on my vitals?”

Morgan’s voice hums and there’s the sound of clicking keys. “Vitals are stable. The cut is slowly healing, but you’ll need to properly bandage and get some of that stitched later Happy to say you're not going to die bleeding out.” She pauses, and then adds, “You’ve got a couple of broken ribs though.”

You blink in surprise and pat at your sides, feeling nothing. “Really? Guess that’s my pain tolerance working overtime. Didn’t even notice.”

“Please tell me you’re getting that treated first,” Morgan says, a hint of concern in her voice.

“Nope,” you reply, moving to pay for the flowers. “Already running late. Mom will kill me if she finds out.”

Morgan’s voice is laced with skepticism. “She’s going to find out anyway.”

You sigh, trying to ignore the twinge in your side. “I’ll just say it was a mugging.”

“Do you really think she’ll believe that?” Morgan asks, her tone dry.

You let out a small, pained chuckle. “In Gotham, maybe. But realistically…no. I’m just hoping to buy myself a little time before it all catches up to me.”

With the bouquet in hand, you head back out into the night. You tuck the flowers into your free pocket and swing off into the darkness. As you soar through the city, you reach for your earpiece and say a quick, “Goodnight, Morgz,” before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans.

Just as you near the bridge, your phone rings. You glance at the screen and curse under your breath—Selina’s calling, and from the look of it, she’s been trying to reach you multiple times over the past hour.

Yeah, you’re definitely in trouble.

You answer the call, forcing a casual tone. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

Selina’s voice comes through, clearly agitated. You can hear her huffing as she closes the apartment door, the background noise of a car engine rumbling outside. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting forever. We’re all set to head out.”

You quickly scan the streets below as you swing past, trying to gauge your location. “Uh, I’m on 2nd Broadway… actually, make that 3rd Broadway. And… 4th of Broadway! I’ll be there in… twenty minutes tops. Almost there, Mom!”

Selina’s frustration is evident as she hears the wind rushing past you. “Are you swinging?”

“Nope,” you lie smoothly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just a bit of a detour. You know how it is.”

“Honey,” Selina’s tone softens slightly but remains firm, “I can hear the wind. Are you really swinging around? It’s a school night. You know the rules—”

You wince, knowing you’ve been caught. “Just… had a few things to take care of. I’m on my way. Promise. Actually, why don’t I meet you at Wayne Manor instead? I’m near the bridge. Ya know, the one by the docks.”

There’s a brief, incredulous pause on her end. “Why are you near the docks?!”

You avoid the question, trying to keep the conversation moving. “Long story. Look, I’m running late. Can we just meet at Wayne Manor? I’ll explain everything after dinner.”

Selina’s frustration doesn’t ease, but she sighs. “Fine. Wayne Manor it is. But don’t think for a second you’re off the hook, young lady.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “Understood. See you soon. Love you, Mom.”

Selina scowls as she ends the call and heads down to meet Alfred. Stepping out of her apartment building, the bustling, gritty streets of Gotham greet her. The distant sounds of sirens and the chatter of pedestrians fill the air.

Alfred, noticing her irritated state, opens the door for her with a raised eyebrow. "Good to see you Miss Kyle. May I inquire where the young miss is?"

Selina forces a smile, trying to mask her frustration. “She’s… handling something that came up last minute. She’ll meet us at the manor.”

Alfred nods, a hint of concern in his eyes, but he says nothing more. He closes the door behind her as she slips into the car, adjusting her coat and glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The engine starts, the low hum blending with the city’s background noise. As the vehicle pulls away, Selina leans back against the cool leather seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, her mind already racing through the conversation she knows is coming.

You were dead meat.

 ༻⊰───⋅

After nearly an hour of high-speed swings through the city, you finally arrive at Wayne Manor, breathless and disheveled. You drop down to a nearby clearing, carefully checking to ensure the cameras don’t catch your arrival.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you press the doorbell. The chime resonates through the grand entrance, a reminder of the time ticking away. You glance at your phone and curse under your breath when you see the time—an hour and thirty minutes late.

The swinging took longer than expected, and to make matters worse, you had to intervene when this ginger reporter was being robbed. You couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

You hear footsteps approaching from inside. The door swings open, and Alfred stands there, his eyes widening as he takes in your bruised and bloodied appearance. You lean against the gate, your fingers curling around the metal.

“H—Hey, Al.”

“Goodness me!” Alfred exclaims, hurrying over to the gate and pulling it open wide. He ushers you inside, his gaze sweeping over your injuries with clear concern. “Miss Kyle, you’re in quite a state!”

You manage a tired smile, carefully pulling out the bouquet from your jacket. The bouquet is a sorry sight—torn petals, crushed blooms, and snapped stems, looking like it’s on the verge of dying.

“Sorry, I’m late,” you say, wincing at the state of the flowers. “These… are for you. Sorry. I… uh—ran all the way here. I hope I’m not too late for dinner.”

Alfred takes the flowers with a gentle smile, his concern momentarily overshadowed by a touch of warmth. “Thank you, Miss Kyle. However, I assure you it’s fine. The others have already started eating. They won’t mind if you—”

“It’s fine! This is just…,” you pause, pursing your lips as you scramble for a plausible excuse. You force a smile, shaking your head and pulling your jacket hood further over your face to hide the swelling bruise around one of your eyes. “Hah, you know how Gotham can be.”

Alfred gives you a sad look but doesn’t press further. “Very well… If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

He leads you through the grand hallways, the echo of your footsteps blending with the soft hum of conversation. As you reach the dining room, the door swings open, revealing a table already set and bustling with activity. Selina, Bruce, and the others are seated, their conversations halting as they turn to see you.

The room falls into a stunned silence as everyone’s eyes widen at your disheveled state.

Selina’s gaze narrows, her irritation barely masked by a tight-lipped smile. Bruce’s face pales, his eyes darting between you and Selina, clearly alarmed. He shoots her a panicked, questioning look. Selina responds with a weary sigh, her hands momentarily covering her face as if trying to shield herself from the scene. She looks utterly drained.

You attempt a casual wave, though it comes off as weak. Blood drips down your bruised knuckles, cascading down your palm. “Hey, everyone. Sorry, I’m late.”

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes stormy with shock and something akin to anger.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demands.

Ah, a typical dinner at the Waynes.

Tim’s eyes widen, his mouth slightly ajar as he takes in your battered appearance. He looks you up and down, clearly at a loss for words.

Cassandra’s expression is tense, her fingers fiddling with her utensils. Her eyes dart between you and Selina, trying to read your body language.

Bruce, who had been quietly observing, stands up and approaches you with slow, measured steps.

“You’re hurt,” Bruce murmurs softly, his hands gently resting on your shoulders. His eyes search yours for an explanation. Despite the intimidating presence he exudes, there’s something about his touch that makes you feel a surprising warmth. “What happened, kiddo?”

You wince slightly at the barrage of questions, but before you can respond, Damian’s intense gaze locks onto yours. His eyes are a mixture of anger and deep concern, and the weight of his stare makes your voice catch in your throat. Although he says nothing, his intense look speaks volumes.

“Just… a rough night. Got into a fight.” The words come out more uncertain than you intended, offering little comfort.

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly, and a deep sense of fury radiates from him. You try to ignore it. “And who was this?”

The memory of junior high flickers in your mind. Back then, Gotham Academy, being an elite school, made you an easy target for bullies. When Selina found out, she was furious, but Bruce’s reaction was even more intense. For reasons you didn’t fully understand at the time, he had every single kid who bullied you suspended. People learned to steer clear of you after that.

“It ended up alright,” you try to reassure Bruce, seeing the look on his face. “Really, it’s not as bad as it looks. It was just a run in with some rando on the street.”

Everyone’s reactions vary, but it’s the look in your aunt’s eyes that strikes you the hardest. Selina’s weary gaze peeks out from behind her hands, and the sight makes your face crumple.

“Pull off your hood,” Selina commands, her voice icy and devoid of warmth. The room falls into a heavy silence, everyone’s eyes locked on you as she straightens in her chair, nails digging deep into the mahogany table.

You remain silent, your gaze fixed on your shoes as you scuff the dried mud across the luxurious marble floor.

“Take off the damn hood and show me your face!”

The silence stretches, filled only by the heavy breaths of the onlookers.

With a sharp exhale, you throw your head back, scowling as you clench your jaw tightly. You yank the hood off in one swift motion. The hood falls away, and the full extent of your injuries is revealed. Selina’s gaze locks onto the black eye, the bruises, and the cuts that mar your face. Her expression shifts from shock to a deepening scowl, her lips trembling as she fights to control her rising anger.

Everyone waiting for the storm that is sure to follow.

Instead, Selina’s hands fly to cover her face, and she looks as though she might faint at any moment.

Bruce stares at you with something akin to horror, frozen in place.

Before anyone can react further, Damian abruptly stands, his chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, he strides over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the room. His muttered words are barely audible, “I’ll take care of their injuries.”

Bruce moves back to Selina’s side, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he tries to offer comfort. You can hear his soft, reassuring whisper as you walk away, “You can stay for the night. It’s too late to head out now. Give her some time.”

Selina, still visibly shaken, nods gratefully, her eyes following Damian as he helps you toward the manor’s second floor.

Damian leads you into his room and shuts the door behind you. He gestures for you to sit on his bed, and you plop down with a heavy sigh. You watch him retreat to the bathroom, your eyes lingering on the raw, bloodied skin of your knuckles with a tinge of guilt.

Damian returns moments later with a first aid kit, his jaw clenched tight in concern. He kneels down before you, reaching out to tug off your jacket, but you shake your head, not wanting him to discover the suit underneath.

“I’m going to change in the bathroom,” you rasp. Damian silently nods, moving to his closet and pulling out one of his cotton shirts and boxers. He hands them to you with a resigned sigh and leans against the wall beside the bathroom door, giving you the privacy you need.

You take the clothes and make your way to the bathroom, avoiding your reflection in the mirror as much as possible. Inside, you drop your jacket, shirt, and pants to the ground, peeling off your suit slowly. You wince as the bloodied cut on your side comes into full view.

You quickly change into Damian’s boxers, deciding to stay in your bra and keep the shirt off for now. You bundle your suit and hide it under your jacket and pants, folding it as neatly as you can. Steeling yourself, you step back into the room.

Damian’s eyes harden as he examines the cut, which has partially healed over time due to your enhanced abilities. It’s now only about four inches long. If Damian had seen the cut in its original state, you would have been in for the lecture of your life.

“Sit down,” Damian finally speaks, his voice firm. He begins to open the first aid kit, movements precise and methodical. You drop your ruined clothes in a far corner and plop back down on his bed, rubbing your hands together nervously.

A beat passes as Damian finishes cleaning the wound and reaches for the anesthesia, preparing to start stitching you up. You shake your head and push his hand away. “I can take it.”

“No,” Damian scowls and continues his work. He applies the anesthesia despite your protests, injecting it around the wound to numb the area. The needle pierces your skin with a sharp sting, followed by a dull, throbbing sensation as the anesthetic begins to take effect.

He sets the syringe aside and picks up a pair of sterilized tweezers and needle and thread. You watch as he carefully makes the first stitch, his hands steady and precise. The thread pulls tight, closing the wound with a series of tight, even stitches.

His long lashes flutter over his hooded eyes with each focused blink, his emerald gaze intense and filled with concern. The warm ambient light of the room casts a gentle glow on his deep tan skin, accentuating the chiseled contours of his face in a soft, almost ethereal light.

The beam of light highlights the light almost invisible scar that stretches from his cheekbone to his crooked nose, tracing the elegant curve of his cheekbone and the strong, defined line of his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his full lips, noting the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

His hair is meticulously styled, with longer strands on top falling in inky, sleek waves across his forehead, remnants of gel catching the light. Damian’s thick, well-kept hair frames his face like brush strokes, adding to his strikingly handsome appearance.

Unable to hold yourself back, you raise a hand to cup his cheek. Damian hums, a low, soothing sound that rumbles in his chest. He keeps his eyes focused on your wound but tilts his head slightly to press a soft, tender kiss to your wrist.

With the stitches complete, Damian shifts his attention to bandaging the wound. He secures the bandage, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he smooths out the edges. Finally, he raises his head and meets your gaze, eyes conveying everything he can’t say aloud.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into Damian’s embrace, dropping your hands onto his shoulders. He responds instinctively, taking your hands in his. Large, calloused fingers gently lift yours, pressing a tender kiss to each of them before moving to softly kiss your bruised knuckles.

With a whisper of your name, Damian draws your hands over his shoulders. You smile, sinking deeper into his embrace, arms draped over his strong back. Damian holds you close, lifting you off the bed as he pulls you into a hug. His arms wound up around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, his warmth and strength enveloping you in a secure, reassuring hold.

“You know, trying to keep secrets from me is pointless,” Damian murmurs. “I am the son of the greatest detective in the world. I will find out what happened.”

You chuckle softly, feeling the tension ease a bit. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just let me hold you, you insufferable know-it-all.”

Damian’s grip tightens slightly, his tone softening. His forehead rests against yours, hearts swimming in his emerald eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate your nonsense. But seriously, you need to start talking.”

“Maybe later,” you reply, smiling against his shoulder. “Right now, I just need you.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

An hour later, it’s already 1 AM, but you and Damian are still awake, watching a show on his television. You’re curled up together on his bed, the soft glow of the screen casting gentle shadows around the room. The quiet hum of the show is the only sound, blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the night.

You rest your head against Damian’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. Despite the late hour, the warmth and comfort of his embrace keep you from drifting off.

“This show is surprisingly bearable,” Damian murmurs, his voice a soothing rumble in the otherwise quiet room.

You smile, nuzzling closer. “Told you it was worth a watch. Thanks for staying up with me.”

Damian’s fingers gently stroke your hair. “I would never dream of abandoning you, even if it means enduring your rather questionable taste in television, beloved.”

You chuckle softly. “Questionable taste? This show is a gem. You’re just reluctant to admit I’ve expanded your horizons.”

“Expanded my horizons?” Damian arches an eyebrow, squeezing your shoulder. “More like subjected me to a marathon of pedestrian entertainment.”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. As the episode continues, you both settle into a comfortable silence. The earlier tension seems like a distant memory now.

Damian’s hand moves slowly, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His thumb begins to trace gentle, deliberate patterns on your back. You shiver slightly at the unexpected sensation, a delicate ripple of warmth spreading through you. His touch is soft yet firm, spelling out something with careful precision.

Though you don’t fully realize what he’s doing, Damian continues writing out the words to Talia’s favorite Arabic love poem onto your skin. Each stroke feels precise and intentional, like a caress that’s both soothing and reassuring, yet intriguing in its deliberate slowness.

“My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty,” his thumb whispers across your skin, “my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is.”

The gentle pressure of his touch, the rhythmic way his thumb moves, slowly eases you into sleep. As each verse of the poem is imprinted on your skin, you find yourself drifting off, nestled against his chest. Damian tenderly presses his lips to your temple, wishing you sweet dreams.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 3:02 AM - Damian's Room, Wayne Manor.

Dick walks toward Damian’s room and pushes the door open as quietly as possible. Despite his efforts, the hinges creak sharply, breaking the stillness of the night and immediately rousing Damian from his sleep. The sound, persistent and jarring, triggers a reflex honed by years of training.

Damian’s eyes snap open, his muscles tensing as his protective grip around you tightens. You’re nestled securely in his arms, both of you cocooned under the blankets.

Damian’s gaze narrows as he locks onto Dick. In one fluid motion, he reaches beneath his bed, retrieves a katana, and throws it.

SHINK!

With a roll and a practiced twist, his older brother effortlessly dodges the blade, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Such a dramatic wake-up call… Good morning to you too," Dick grins, clearly used to this routine. “Alright. I know it’s late, but Selina is still up. I think she wants to talk to Y/N.”

Damian’s snarl is a low, dangerous rumble. “If you wake her, I will cut your hands off,” he growls.

Dick raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by the threat. “Come on, Dames. It’s not that big of a deal. Just let her know she’s needed.”

Damian’s glare remains fixed, but he eventually nods, the tension in his body easing slightly. With care, he untangles himself from you, mindful not to disturb your sleep. However, as he attempts to get out of bed, you startle awake, your hand darting out instinctively to grab his wrist.

Confusion and concern flash across your face as you murmur, “Damian?”

He pauses, his expression softening as he looks down at you. “It’s okay, love. I apologize for waking you, but Miss Kyle is calling for you.”

You tense immediately, and Damian feels a pang of guilt unfurl in his gut for disrupting your rest.

You sigh softly and rise slowly, wincing slightly as though the wound still bothers you. Although your injury has healed, you’re determined to keep up the act, unwilling to make it too obvious that you’re fine. You know you’re on thin ice, and the last thing you want is to make things more suspicious.

Damian instinctively moves to support you, his hand steadying your back as you get up. Dick, watching from the doorway, offers you an apologetic look, his expression softening with pity.

Damian helps you to your feet with gentle, reassuring care. As you step out of the room, he retrieves a jacket from a nearby chair and drapes it around your shoulders. You smile as you recognize it as his varsity soccer jacket. The fabric feels warm and comforting against your skin.

As you and Damian approach the door to his room, you hesitate and turn to him.

“I think I need to handle this alone,” you say quietly. “Can you wait here?”

Damian's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates, his protective instincts flaring.

“Are you sure?” he asks, running a hand up your back.

You give him a reassuring smile. “Yes, it’s better this way. I’ll be fine.”

Damian’s expression softens reluctantly. “Alright. I will be right here if you need me, beloved.”

You watch as Damian retreats to his room, his hand sliding around the katana lodged in the doorframe. He pulls it out before the door closes softly behind him. Dick, meanwhile, falls into step beside you and guides you down the corridor. His presence is steady and reassuring, a calming force in the tense atmosphere.

As you walk, Dick leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur. “Your mom’s been on edge all night. I’m… not sure what’s going on, but she made it clear she wanted to talk to you immediately.”

You nod, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. “I figured as much,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady.

Dick’s expression turns serious, but a wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You gave us quite a scare there. Just remember, as a future Mrs. Wayne, we’re all here for you, no matter what.”

You chuckle softly, the warmth of his words providing a small measure of comfort. As you reach the door to Selina’s room, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation ahead.

The room is dimly lit, with the tall windows open to the balcony, the curtains fluttering gently in the Gotham breeze. Selina stands by the window, her back to you, still dressed in the elegant outfit she wore to dinner.

The door clicks shut behind you, and she turns her head slightly, her gaze cool and unreadable.

"Are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

You bite your lip, feeling a rush of anxiety. “I was. I was just—” You hesitate, struggling to find the right words. “I passed by, okay? I saw it and I had to intervene—”

Selina cuts you off, her tone sharp and unyielding. “I have eyes. I know what happened. I was told there was a shipment—an underground technological shipment by the docks. It was infiltrated. They found all the men webbed. Webbed. To the walls and floors. Don’t lie to me, honey.”

You sigh, realizing there's no point in hiding the truth.

“Yeah. Okay,” you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. “It… was planned.”

Selina’s eyes narrow dangerously as she strides towards you, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Her silhouette is imposing, framed by the muted glow of the city lights filtering through the window. “Did you have any clue whose men those were?” she demands, her voice like a whip crack in the silence.

“Yeah, I did. I knew exactly who,” you snap, your frustration boiling over. “Look, I get that you don’t want me involved, but you don’t get to decide that for me. I did what I had to do.”

Selina’s eyes flash. “Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?! This isn’t some petty criminal we’re talking about. This is serious.”

“I know it’s serious, mom!” you shout, unable to contain your anger any longer.

Selina’s eyes flash with anger, her expression hardening. “Really? I don't think you do. Black Mask is a dangerous man, and you’re walking right into a mess that’s bigger than you can handle.”

“Dangerous player?” You retort, voice rising. “Black Mask is a monster. He’s the reason my parents are dead. And don’t forget, he’s the reason your sister is gone too.”

Selina’s face pales, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. “I do not want this for you. I want to keep you safe. The fact that you’re diving headfirst into this mess—”

“Excuse me?” you snap, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost something? I need to do this. I need to find out what happened.”

“You may have your reasons for wanting to keep me out, but I can’t just be a bystander. Not anymore,” you continue. “Especially since every time I bring my mother up all you do is give me the bare minimum.”

Selina’s eyes widen, a mix of hurt and frustration flashing across her face. “You think I’m holding back information from you? I’m trying to protect you! When your mother died, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else I cared about get hurt."

“We’re so past that,” you say desperately, your voice rising. “Mom, look at me! Just look! I have Spider DNA in my veins. My boyfriend is a vigilante. I’ve faced kidnappings and attempts on my life ever since I was born! You can’t keep treating me like a child who needs to be sheltered from reality.”

Selina’s face falls. “I know. I know you’ve been through so much. It’s just—I don't want you to be a target for Black Mask. He’s a ruthless predator, and I didn’t want you to be in his crosshairs.”

“I’m already in his crosshairs,” you assert, bending down and reaching into your sock where you’ve hidden the flash drive containing the information you retrieved from the warehouse. You had tucked it in earlier while changing in the bathroom.

“This,” you continue, holding up the small device, “contains information on all his future activities. This was the mission I had earlier. I did this on my own because clearly, you wouldn’t help me.”

Selina’s eyes widen in alarm. “Have you put no thought into the rules I set?! Putting yourself in that kind of danger—”

“Danger I’m already in,” you cut her off. “Danger I’m about to face.”

"Brat," Selina hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously, fangs glinting in the moonlight like a cornered cat.

“What? You think you can stop me?” you scowl and hiss back, venom lacing your tongue. “I’m about to spend a month at Stark Industries, where you won’t be able to monitor my every move. I’ll have access to resources and allies who aren’t trying to keep me in the dark. I’m done playing by your rules. And if you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to take you down.”

Selina’s eyes narrow, a storm brewing within them. Without a word, she darts forward, her hand slicing through the air like a blade. With a swift, decisive move, she sends you crashing onto the small balcony. The cold night air hits your face, and the city lights below seem a distant blur.

"Prove it."

Before you can fully recover, Selina is already on you again. You flip away from her claws, landing deftly on the railings, using them as a springboard. The metal is cold against your feet, but you use its rigidity to your advantage.

“I’m not a child, Selina,” you call out, flipping again to avoid another swipe. “I’m your daughter, and I’m stronger than you think!” You dodge a kick, weaving and flipping around on the railing.

Selina’s eyes flash with anger as she leaps onto the railing beside you, both of you grappling in a struggle. “And I don’t want to see you dead, fighting battles you’re not ready for!” she shouts.

She sweeps low, trying to knock your legs out from under you. You barely manage to react in time, webbing the railing to swing back up and regain your balance.

You drive a foot into her chest, the impact sending her sprawling back to the ground. She lands with a controlled roll, quickly getting back on her feet.

Selina’s eyes flash as she springs back into action, using the balcony’s ledge for a high, spinning kick. You dodge, twisting in mid-air and grabbing onto the edge of the balcony to swing around it, evading her strike.

“You think you can control me with fear?” you shout, flipping back onto the railing. “I’ve been fighting my own battles since before I could walk.”

Selina’s expression hardens as she uses her agility to scale the wall, trying to get above you. “And that’s exactly why I’m trying to protect you,” she quips back, leaping down with a clawed swipe aimed at your shoulder.

You duck and roll, webbing the railing to pull yourself up and avoid her attack.

“If you truly care about me, you’ll let me go,” you retort, landing in a defensive stance. “If you try to stop me, if you try to control me, you’ll only push me further away. And I promise, I’ll fight back with everything I’ve got.”

Selina scowls, her eyes blazing as she moves to swing again. You work fast, intercepting her attack and grabbing her wrist. In a swift, calculated move, you use her own claws against her, drawing a line of angry red across her shoulder.

Selina hisses sharply. The sight of her blood stops you cold, a wave of shock and guilt washing over you. You freeze, staring at the crimson lines marring her otherwise perfect skin.

She starts to smile, a small, almost reluctant grin that slowly grows wider. The sight is so unexpected that it momentarily takes you aback. Then, much to your surprise, she begins to laugh—a rich, genuine sound filled with a mix of relief, amusement, and something deeper you can’t quite place.

“You think this is funny?!” you exclaim, confused and teetering on the edge of anger.

Selina looks at you with a bitter smile, her laughter fading.

Selina meets your gaze with a bitter smile, her laughter fading. “This must be what Batman feels like talking to me,” she murmurs. “Stubborn, headstrong, and impossible to keep out of trouble.”

You slowly ease from your defensive stance, confusion furrowing your brows.

“You really are my daughter,” Selina says, her voice tinged with admiration and resignation. “Alright, fine. Point proven. Trying to cage you would only make you fight harder to claw your way out. Literally. I should know better than anyone how that feels.”

“O… kay?” you mutter. “I guess we’ve I've proven my point. So… what now?”

Selina takes a deep breath, clutching her bleeding shoulder. “Now, we talk. Like sane adults. No more clawing each other’s faces off.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

A few minutes later both of you are sitting on the bed, warm tea in hand from the tea set in your room (because of course, each guest room in the Wayne Manor is equipped with one.) The jasmine tea steams gently, warming your fingers and providing a comforting contrast to the cool air. Selina sits across from you, her shoulder wrapped in bandages.

You’ve been recounting the events to Selina: from the mugging with Morgan to the shooting when you saved her, the help from PEPPER and the robots in your recovery, and how Morgan has taken on the role of your personal Oracle. Despite the openness, you’ve chosen not to reveal that Tony Stark is aware of your secret identity, keeping that detail to yourself for now.

Selina stares at you blankly, her eyes wide. The distant ticking of a clock fills the silence, marking the passing moments of her stunned reaction.

“So, you’ve been pulling all the strings?” she asks. "Orchestrating all of this?"

You lick your lips, choosing your words carefully. Orchestrating is a strong word. More like everything is falling into place. But that does sound better.

“Something like that,” you say, nodding.

Selina blinks, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Well, I suppose trying to rein you in would be a lost cause at this point. So, what exactly is the plan from here?”

You set your cup down with a soft clink, the porcelain meets the saucer with a delicate sound that momentarily punctuates the silence. Taking a deep breath, you continue, “I need to dive deeper into Black Mask’s operations. With Morgan’s help, I’ve got the tech and the intel, but there’s still a lot we don’t know.”

Selina nods, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, her gaze distant. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but what about your safety?”

You sigh, leaning back slightly. “I’ll take every precaution I can. And Morgan will keep me updated. But I can’t just wait for answers. The internship will give me access to the materials I need, and I… plan to build a new suit.”

Selina pauses, studying you intently.

“But,” you continue, leaning forward, “I know I can’t do this alone. I need allies. And, well, I was thinking of a re-debut. You know how Catwoman has been doing more good lately? They’re calling you the protector of Crime Alley.”

Selina rolls her eyes, though a smile tugs at her lips. “Continue.”

You lean in closer, your hands fiddling with your shirt. “If you’re willing, I could really use your support.”

Selina sets her teacup down, her fingers lightly tracing the rim as she considers your request. “A partner?” she muses. “You realize that if I publicly ally myself with you, Batman will find out immediately. It won’t be long before they connect the dots.”

You nod, acknowledging her point. “True, but I’m sure they’ll find out sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time. Why not get ahead of it?”

Selina shakes her head slowly. “I don’t want you as my partner, honey. I’m not here to keep you in the shadows or under my wing. If you’re going to run with the big cats, you’ve got to learn to pounce on your own.”

She pauses, her expression turning serious. “But let’s not kid ourselves—Batman will notice. The moment you step out into the city proper, you’re going to be a target. And once you’re on his radar, a contingency plan will be set.”

You stay silent, fiddling with your fingers.

Selina’s gaze hardens. “And that’s what worries me. Bruce is just a man—no powers, no special DNA. But if he sets his mind to something, he can take anyone down. I don’t want you caught in that crossfire.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Selina cuts you off.

“Which is why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

You look at her, curiosity piqued. “Contingency plan?”

Selina nods, her tone heavy. “When I first took you in, my plan was to leave the city as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. However, I did make sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

Selina’s expression softens slightly. “I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was meant to be another safehouse—a place to go if things ever got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for both of us, just in case we needed to disappear quickly.”

You blink, processing this new information. “Metropolis? Really?”

Selina nods, her voice tinged with a mix of regret and determination. “Yes. It was meant to be a last resort. If the situation ever got out of hand, if people discovered our secrets, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want you to be hunted down. I wanted to make sure we had somewhere safe to go.”

You stare at her, processing the gravity of her words.

Selina’s eyes soften slightly. “It’s still an option if things get too messy. But for now, I’ll help you as much as I can here."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Damian walks up the stairs, his steps muted against the polished wood. In his hand, he clutches a thick blanket he’s taken from the storeroom. The absence of your presence has made his room feel uncomfortably cold, and he's hesitant to go back to sleep without you there.

As he approaches the guest room where you and Selina are deep in conversation, he slows his pace, the soft hum of your voices drifting through the slightly ajar door. The gentle glow of the hallway light casts elongated shadows on the walls. He hopes the extra layer will provide some comfort and help him stay awake until you come back.

He knows he should respect your privacy—a lesson he’s learned the hard way after being caught tailing you during patrols more than once. But his curiosity tugs at him. He hesitates outside the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, straining to catch snippets of the conversation drifting through the slightly ajar door.

“Which is why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

The voices are muffled, but Damian can detect the guilt in Selina’s tone.

“Contingency plan?”

There was a pause.

“When I first took you in, my plan was to leave the city as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. However, I did make sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

“I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was meant to be another safehouse—a place to go if things ever got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for both of us, just in case we needed to disappear quickly.”

Damian freezes.

"Metropolis? Really?"

Selina’s voice carries a note of sorrow. “Yes. It was meant to be a last resort. If the situation ever got out of hand, if people discovered our secrets, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want you to be hunted down. I wanted to make sure we had somewhere safe to go.”

Damian remains frozen in place.

Hunt? Who was hunting you down that made Selina think it was necessary to relocate rather than seek help from his father? Did she not trust Batman's abilities? Did she not trust his?

His grip on the blanket tightens, the fabric biting into his palms. A bitter, sour taste rises in his throat. Had he not shown her enough of his dedication? Had he not proven that he was willing to lay down his own life for you? Did she truly believe he wasn’t capable of protecting you, of stepping up when it mattered most?

The rage inside him swells, seething at the thought that she would undermine his commitment. How could she think that running away was the answer? How could she believe that abandoning Gotham and leaving him and Bruce out of the fight was a better choice? Did she think her secretive plans were a better solution? Her decision to keep you from his father, to keep you from him, felt like an insult to everything he had fought for, everything he had sacrificed.

Panic starts to claw at him, twisting his insides into a tight knot. Or maybe it was because he wasn't enough? Gods, he knew you were too good for him, but was he so inadequate that she thought hiding you away was the only option? The thought gnaws at him, making his breath come faster and his heartbeat pound in his ears.

He remembers the first day he was left with Bruce, the way his own father looked at him, the way his brothers looked at him—like he was wrong. Damian's insecurities flood his mind. He was always the outsider, the boy who had to prove his worth to a family he barely understood.

Every time he made a mistake, every time he let his temper get the best of him, it was another mark against his name. He was the son of Batman, but he wasn’t like Dick, or Tim, or even Jason. He was different, and that difference often felt like a curse.

Sometimes, it feels like no matter how much good he does, it’s never enough. The ghosts of his actions, the blood on his hands, they’re always there, reminding him of what he’s done, of what he’s capable of.

And now, Selina’s confession feels like another blow to his fragile sense of self-worth. If even she doesn’t trust him, if even she thinks he’s not enough to protect you, what does that say about him?

Panic surges through him, making his legs feel numb and his head spin. His vision blurs at the edges, and his breaths come in shallow, rapid gasps. He stumbles forward, needing to escape, needing to find a safe place. His body moves almost on its own, carrying him towards his room.

Was he what Selina was protecting you from?

The thought strikes him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling. The blood, the violence, the cold efficiency with which he was taught to kill—it all comes rushing back. Damian was trained to be an assassin, raised by the League of Shadows to be a weapon, a tool of destruction.

He was forged into something terrifying.

He feels numb as he stumbles into his room, the familiar surroundings doing little to comfort him. Sinking to his knees, he clutches the blanket to his chest, seeking some semblance of warmth. But the cold, hollow feeling inside him only grows.

The voices of doubt and self-loathing grow louder, echoing in his mind. Damian doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the floor, trying to control his breathing. Time seems to blur, each second stretching into an eternity. His thoughts spiral, a maelstrom of fear and insecurity, until he hears the soft creak of the door opening.

You stumble in, and he freezes.

Your eyes widen as you take in his disheveled state, the blanket clutched tightly in his hands, his face pale and eyes wide with panic. You rush to his side, dropping to your knees beside him.

"Dami," you whisper, concern etched in your voice. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he shakes his head, unable to meet your gaze. He doesn't deserve to.

You hush gently, raising your hands to his face. "Can I touch you? You’re having a panic attack, baby."

He nods, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. Your hands are warm and steady as you cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks.

"Look at me," you murmur softly. "Focus on me. Breathe with me."

He struggles to follow your instructions, his eyes locking onto yours. You take a deep breath in, exaggerating the motion, and slowly exhale. He tries to mimic you, his breaths hitching but gradually evening out.

"That's it," you encourage. "In and out, nice and slow. You're doing great."

Damian's grip on the blanket loosens slightly as he continues to focus on your breathing, finding a semblance of calm in the steady rhythm. Your presence anchors him, drawing him away from the chaotic storm in his mind.

"You’re safe," you whisper. "I’m here with you. Just keep breathing."

Gradually, the tension in his body begins to ease. He leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. The panic that had gripped him so fiercely started to ebb away, replaced by a fragile sense of security.

"Are you scared of me?" he says suddenly, his voice rough but vulnerable.

The question hangs in the air. He doesn’t mention what he overheard, but the question reveals the depth of his doubt.

You gently brush a strand of hair from his face, your eyes soft with understanding. "Scared of you? Damian, I’m not scared of you. I’m worried about you. You’re pushing yourself too hard."

He clenches his fists, the blanket still wrapped around his hands. "I… I can’t seem to do anything right. It’s like I’m always falling short."

"You’re not falling short," you reassure him softly. "You’re human, and you’re trying your best. That’s more than enough."

You lean in, your lips pressing against his in a tender, reassuring kiss. As you pull back, your eyes are filled with a deep sorrow.

"Can I ask what brought this on?" you whisper.

Damian takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the floor as he gathers his thoughts.

“I overheard part of a conversation between you and Selina,” Damian begins, his voice sharp and dripping with bitter resentment. “She spoke of a contingency plan involving an apartment in Metropolis and expressed concerns about someone hunting you down. If… If she felt the need to protect you from something by leaving, does that imply I’m not… enough? That I’m not seen as capable of protecting you?”

His words come out with an edge, each one reflecting his feelings. He meets your gaze with eyes darkened by hurt and anger. “I wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who could safeguard you, not merely another liability. But now it seems I’m just… inadequate. As if my dedication and efforts amount to nothing.”

You start to speak, but Damian interrupts, his tone harsh and demanding. “Who’s hunting you? What’s going on? Beloved, I’ve let you into my life—please, let me into yours.”

You take a deep breath, struggling to steady your racing heart and calm the storm of emotions churning within you. Damian’s words linger heavily in the air, his frustration and hurt palpable in every sharp syllable.

You know it’s time to reveal the truth.

With a measured breath, you begin, your voice soft yet firm. “Damian, I understand why you’re feeling this way. I really do. This is difficult for me to say, but… there’s something you need to know.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “Damian, it’s really not what you think. There’s a lot more going on than you realize. I’m investigating Black Mask. He’s got some operation threatening Gotham, and it’s connected to everything that’s been happening lately. I’m trying to figure out what he’s up to, and…”

You pause, struggling to find the right words. “And I might have something to do with that vigilante spider you’ve seen around.”

Damian’s eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He stands there, his mind racing as he pieces together the implications of your confession.

The increased absences, the unexplained injuries—suddenly, everything starts to make sense. He can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. How did he not connect the dots? The vigilance, the secrecy—it all makes sense now.

You’re being hunted by Spidey, he concludes with a scornful look.

With a dramatic sigh, Damian steps closer and clasps your hands in his.

“I understand,” he says with a grave tone. “I suspected as much. You don’t need to explain yourself, beloved.”

You grin with relief, misinterpreting his seriousness for support of your dual life as Spidey.

“I was going to tell you,” you say, your tone warm and reassuring. “Just… couldn’t find the right moment.”

Damian’s eyes soften, but a steely resolve glimmer in them as he gently presses a kiss to your knuckles.

If the spider is the threat, then it’s the spider he’ll take down. He’ll deal with this new enemy no matter what.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 7:53 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

Damian pulls up to the sleek, glass-fronted Stark Industries building, its modern architecture gleaming in the morning light. The structure towers above, its façade a mesmerizing expanse of reflective glass panels that catch and scatter the sunlight, creating a dazzling play of colors. A polished steel entrance welcomes visitors, a bustling crowd already walking in and out.

As the car comes to a smooth stop, he turns to you with a soft, reassuring smile. You reach over, pressing an affectionate kiss to his lips.

His fingers gently brush your cheek as he murmurs against your lips, “Be careful.”

His words are barely a whisper before he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. The moment stretches, filled with the warmth of his touch and the electricity of the connection between you. You giggle softly, your lips trailing up his jaw, leaving a flurry of tender kisses.

“I will,” you beam, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Promise.”

With a final, lingering glance, Damian pulls away, giving you a last wave before driving off towards Gotham Academy. The sleek sports car glides smoothly down the street, leaving you standing in front of the imposing building. As part of your internship program, you’ve been given a whole month off of school to settle into Stark Tower.

You clutch your bags tightly in your hands. Exhaustion pulls at your every muscle—patrol, the fight, and the travel have left you feeling like you're on the edge of collapse.

Bags under your eyes betray the sleepless night, while the oversized shirt and sweatpants you’ve borrowed from Damian make you look more like you’ve just rolled out of bed than a professional intern.

Technically, you did roll out of bed, having snagged only about three hours of sleep.

How the hell did Batman and the Robins manage to juggle this kind of life week in and week out? Right now, you feel like death is just a breath away, waiting to claim you.

“Hey, kiddo!” Tony Stark’s voice calls out from a distance, cutting through your fog of exhaustion. “You planning to stand there and stare at the building all day, or should I start looking for a tow truck to drag you inside?”

He steps out of his sleek sports car, tossing his keys to the valet with a flick of his wrist that’s more showmanship than necessity. As he strides towards you, his eyes do a quick, amused sweep over your disheveled state.

“If this is how you show up for an internship, I might need to start charging for comedy, too,” Tony says, giving you a light shove on the shoulder. “Seriously, you look like you’re auditioning for a zombie movie. I hope the rest of your day doesn’t involve roaming the halls groaning for brains.”

You give a weary sigh and shuffle alongside him into the building. “Good to see you too, Mr. Stark.”

Tony continues with a smirk, “Don’t worry, you’re not the first intern to look like they’ve been dragged through a war zone. If you’re lucky, I might even let you keep your sanity after a few weeks.”

He leads you into the sleek, glass-walled elevator, pressing the button for the upper floors. The elevator hums softly as it ascends.

You turn to him, trying to muster the energy to keep up with his banter. “So, where’s Morgan?”

“Working on your new tech stuff,” Tony replies. “She’s buried under a mountain of circuits and cables. If you’re lucky, you might get to see her emerge from her tech fortress.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the upper floors of Stark Tower. Tony guides you down a pristine, modern hallway. The glossy surfaces reflect the ambient light, adding to the tower’s futuristic ambiance. He stops in front of a door adorned with a sleek plaque bearing your name.

You gawk at it, eyes widening. “Damn.”

Tony pushes open the door, revealing a spacious, elegantly furnished room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the cityscape, and the room is equipped with a large, comfortable bed, a sleek desk, and a cozy seating area.

“Welcome to your new digs,” Tony says, gesturing grandly. “I’d say it’s a bit of a step up from your old place. Given your current state, though, I’d suggest you take it easy for now. Rest up, and maybe try to look less like you’ve just walked off a horror set, okay?”

Despite your exhaustion, a small but genuine smile tugs at your lips as you take in the luxurious surroundings. “Thanks, Tony. It’s really… nice.”

With a casual salute, Tony heads towards the door. “Anytime. Now, go on and get some rest. I’ll let Morgan know you’re here. If she manages to claw her way out from under her tech mountain, she might swing by to say hi.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

A few hours later, you’re well rested and dressed in a much more presentable outfit: a crisp white button-up shirt tucked neatly into flared slacks, paired with white sneakers that give you a polished yet casual look. You rub the last remnants of sleep from your eyes as you head toward the elevator.

As the doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss, you step inside and swipe your ID card against the scanner. The elevator's high-tech screen lights up, revealing a list of floor options that seem almost endless. You whistle, taking in the array of possibilities before selecting the tech room.

Just as the elevator begins its ascent, a voice suddenly speaks up, making you jump with a startled yelp.

“Good morning!” the voice says cheerfully. “Welcome to Stark Tower. How can I assist you today?”

The voice belongs to FRIDAY, the building’s AI system. The holographic interface on the screen displays a friendly, animated avatar of FRIDAY, who greets you with a warm, digital smile.

“Hello!” you respond, still a bit taken aback. “I’m, uh, just heading to the tech room.”

“Understood,” FRIDAY replies smoothly. “I’ve already noted your arrival. The tech room is on your left once you exit the elevator. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can help with, sexiest vigilante.”

You blink at the nickname, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“That’s definitely Morgan’s touch,” you mutter.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal the tech room, a chaotic hub of high-tech equipment and tangled wires. In the middle of the room, wires are bundled haphazardly, and remnants of a fire extinguisher are scattered around. Morgan is crouched amidst the mess, her hair tousled and her face smeared with a bit of grease and soot.

She looks up, freezing. “Let’s be honest,” she says, a wry smile on her lips, “you’ve seen me worse.”

You step into the room, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of Morgan’s disheveled state.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” you remark, your eyes scanning the cluttered workbench strewn with components and tools.

Morgan brushes a few stray wires out of her way and stands up, stretching with a groan. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. Between the latest tech malfunction and the mini-explosion, it’s been a real circus.”

She then steps over to you, grabbing a case from a nearby workbench and handing it to you with a grin. You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, as you take the case from her and twist it in your hands. With a click, you open it to reveal a pair of sleek, high-tech glasses.

“For you,” Morgan says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “They’re equipped with all sorts of features—real-time data, targeting assistance, and even some advanced communication options. Basically, they’re your new best friend in the field.”

You slip the glasses on, adjusting them to fit comfortably. The world immediately sharpens, and a translucent display overlays your vision, showing various readouts and notifications. You gasp in awe, your amazement reflected in Morgan’s fond smile as she watches your reaction.

She then moves to grab another device—a metal-looking belt that covers your entire stomach. At its center is a prominent spider emblem. She clasps the belt around your waist and gives it a reassuring pat.

“Tell it to go on,” Morgan instructs.

Confused, you turn to her. “Huh?”

“Just think of a suit wrapping around you and command it to do so.”

You give her a skeptical look but decide to give it a try. Closing your eyes for a moment, you focus on the idea of your suit materializing.

“Suit, activate,” you command softly.

Immediately, you feel a tingling sensation as nanoparticles begin to stream from the belt, enveloping your body. The sensation is oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a warm, secure embrace. The suit materializes in shimmering panels, stretching and shaping itself around your form. The glasses transform into a sleek helmet, molding to fit your head with a satisfying click.

The entire process takes mere seconds, and when you open your eyes, you’re fully suited up. The suit fits perfectly, a striking blend of red and black. The primary color is a deep, vibrant red that covers the majority of the suit, accentuating your form. Black accents trace intricate web patterns that start from the center of your chest and radiate outwards, adding a sense of movement even when you’re standing still.

The chest emblem is a bold, black spider, its legs extending across your torso and seamlessly merging with the web patterns. The emblem is detailed and striking, drawing immediate attention. The helmet, now a sleek, black mask with a smooth, glossy finish, features white eye lenses that glow faintly. The same high-tech display you saw in your glasses is now visible in the helmet, integrated seamlessly into your field of vision

Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. “Not too shabby, right?"

"What. The. Fuck."

 ༻⊰───⋅

In the next episode, set to air tonight or tomorrow, Robin beats the shit out of Spidey! Next chapter is the big reveal + Where a lot of the more major stuff happens :PPP

Part 1 Here! / Part 2 Here! / This is Part 3! / Part 4 Here!

A/N: I don’t think the poll is over yet, but this one was very clearly going to have the highest percentage, I’ll do the “maybe if we were closer in age” one later though!

If you haven’t already please check out my Batman zine, it’s got so much fanfiction and beautiful art from five different artists! Please check it out, please. I need to find a way to compensate these artists. You can check it out here!

Bruce slumps in his chair, a longing glance spared to the decanter on the bookshelf.

He closes his eyes and wills away the craving. It’s always ten times worse when he wakes up the next day, and he can’t afford feeling worse at this point in his life.

Wasn’t it just yesterday he was twenty years old and he could spend all night playing Bruce Wayne’s party boy image, and be up in three hours feeling none the worse for wear. Now even after nine hours of solid sleep, he wakes up sluggish with an ache in his bones.

I have to be strong.

“Why did you keep her away from us?”

“Who?” he asks absentmindedly, his entire focus still on the brandy.

“(Y/N).” It’s the last name he expected to hear, especially from his oldest son. He looks up, hoping he’s misheard, but the look in Dick’s eyes proves him wrong.

Looks like I’m going to need that drink after all.

He reaches for the decanter, two crystal glasses retrieved from his desk drawer instinctually, glittering on his desk.

“Why are you bringing this up now?” He stalls by taking a sip, feigning casual, like the mention of your name alone didn’t set his heart racing.

“Don’t play this game with me Bruce,” Dick sounds more sad than angry, and it softens him. “Why didn’t you let us see her?”

“It’s complicated.”

“Then start untangling it for me.”

Bruce sighs, taking another sip of his father’s brandy. There’s a million reasons he could tell his son, none of which would be lies entirely, but softer than the truth.

But when he looks up into Dick’s eyes, he can’t bring himself to say any of them. Armed with nothing but liquor at the bottom of his cup, for the first time in four years, after dodging this question from reporters and acclaimed journalists and new paramours, he finally tells the truth.

“Because I didn’t want her to see you.”

A simple, ugly truth. He doesn’t bother looking up to see his sons reaction, he already knows a kind boy like Dick, a boy who’s fully believed his entire life that good prevails, won’t be able to process that his father did something like this. He makes better use of his time by refilling his glass.

Dick slumps in the chair by the time he’s polishing off his second peg, and pouring in his third.

“You did it to punish her?” He can see anger begin to replace shock, and he doesn’t blame him for it, but Bruce is angry enough at himself for the both of them.

“I wanted her to forget we ever existed.” This truth is as kind as it is ugly, and the nuance confuses Bruce even now. But three glasses of brandy affect him in a way that makes his tongue feel lighter and his mind feel free.

“I wanted to give her a potato sack full of money and jewels, and send her far away where no one knew who she was. I wanted her to meet a good partner, someone who would always put her first, and if they decided to extend their family I wanted her to be able to move on without feeling like she left anyone behind.”

“So you wanted her to have a great life, far away from you, and you never wanted to hear anything about it,” Dick’s voice is cold.

Bruce shakes his head. He wanted to hear everything about your new life. What kind of partner you picked. How you spent your days. When you got married. When you had your first child. When you had your second. Everything. And on bad days, he’d close his eyes and let himself imagine it was him standing next to you, that in some alternate universe he made a single different decision that gave him permission to deserve you.

“I was just tired of hurting her,” when you came in to his life, for the first time, he felt like he’s been allowed to have something of his own. Not as Batman, protecting to the city, or Bruce Wayne the mask he carried, but him as a man. But he could never seem to return the reverie you extended to him.

“Do you think she’d ever be able to move on, to live even a semblance of a normal life, if all of you were showing up at her house all bruised and beaten?”

Dick stays quiet now, and Bruce hates himself for having to say it out loud. His son may be an adult in the eyes of the law, but some parts of him are still childlike. After all, Bruce isn’t the only one putting Gotham first.

“I wouldn’t call the way she’s living now normal.” Dick’s been to your penthouse, he’s seen the photo albums full of tabloid clippings and the rare pictures he and his extended family post on social media. He’s seen the journal you keep, hidden on your bookshelf that he mistook for a regular novel during his bi-weekly trips to your place, full of notes on every article and picture and what might be happening behind the scenes to prompt a public appearance like that. Years of deductions and question he could have answered with a single text message a month, but Bruce wouldn’t even allow that.

Dick’s anger grows.

If Bruce had told him he did it to punish you, he’d be angry, but he would understand. Sometimes when you love someone that much, someone who’s too good for you, you grasp at any way to keep them. But this is a million times worse than that.

“If you loved her that much why’d you even let her go?”

Again, another question he wasn’t expecting. Maybe it’s the alcohol, but he doesn’t feel the sharp sting of surprise this time.

“Because sometimes love isn’t enough.”

Dick leaves. Bruce pours another glass, and when he’s sure he’s alone he pulls out his wallet, tugging out the family photo he keeps tucked beneath his black card, turning it over to see your portrait taped on the other side.

The corner of his mouth quirks up.

It was from when you’d both just gotten married, before you were used to upper class etiquette. You complained all morning about having to get ready and wear a bunch of expensive uncomfortable clothes designers had sent in for the article in the Gotham Times, emphasizing how ridiculous opulence like this was when there were so many bigger issues in Gotham.

He’d bought out every copy of the magazine in the city. He still had most of them, tucked away in a box in his closet that became the casket for your relationships. Every now and then he’ll unearth it, just to allow himself to be haunted again by your memory.

But for tonight, just your picture and a glass of brandy is enough.

“You’re so much better at this than I am.”

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER FOURTEEN: PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE (LET ME GET WHAT I WANT)

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SUMMARY ↳ ;) Damian and Jon are easy to spot, standing together near a large decorative display. Jon's bright smile is a beacon, and Damian's more reserved demeanor contrasts starkly with his friend. They’re standing in front of a window. It paints the image of being surrounded by snowfall as they chat away. pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: threats of bodily harm wc: 4.3k

Nothing quite says party like a Tony Stark party. You distinctly remember your first one. You weren’t even planning to come, but when Tony saw you in bed with pajamas he bullied you into getting dressed. He said that you ‘needed to get out more’, which was bull, but whatever. As payback you drank as much alcohol as you could sneak. The scolding from Steve you got was worth it seeing Tony’s appalled stare.

This time, you intend to stay in bed.

Bruce Wayne has decided to throw a New Year’s Gala, for whatever reason. You think it doubles as a charity, but you don’t know why else he would throw it, nor do you care enough to find out. He did invite you, but you’re not too keen on being perceived by society.

“You look nice,” you muse, seeing Damian in his little formal wear. He’s made a quick stop in your room, for whatever reason. He’s a cute sight, so you’re not complaining.

Damian adjusts the cufflinks on his formal wear. "Thank you," he mutters, glancing away for a moment before meeting your eyes again. "You should come.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. "Nice try, hun. But I’m really not in the mood to be around a bunch of snooty elites."

He sighs, looking slightly disappointed. "It would be more bearable with you there."

"Flattery will get you nowhere," you tease, reaching out to straighten his tie. "Besides, someone has to stay and hold down the fort. Unless, of course, you’re asking me to be your date?”

He rolls his eyes but doesn’t dignify your comment with a response. Finishing fiddling with his tie, you step back from him. You see his hands twitch just a tad.

“Hi, [Name].” You turn to see Jon poking his head through your doorway, smiling cutely. He steps in, letting you see that he too is dressed up for the party.

“Well shit, look at you,” you grin, eyes roaming his figure.

He spreads his arms out, bashful. “Look at me,” he says, hands coming up to fidget with his tie. “I wasn’t sure about the tie, though. Damian said it was too flashy.”

You chuckle softly. “He’s just jealous he can’t pull it off like you.”

Jon laughs, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

There’s a comfortable silence as you glance between Jon and Damian, both looking unexpectedly nervous in their formal wear. It’s a stark contrast to their usual confident selves when they're out on patrol or facing down villains.

“So,” Jon starts, his tone casual, “are you coming with us?”

“Absolutely not,” you grin. “I do not have the energy to deal with people right now.

Damian huffs softly, exchanging a knowing glance with Jon before turning back to you. "You're missing out on Father's attempt at social philanthropy," he remarks dryly, clearly not a fan of the gala idea either.

Jon nods in agreement, his smile widening. "True, but I guess we'll have to suffer through it together."

You chuckle at their banter, appreciating their effort despite your reluctance. "Well, make sure to bring me back a good story or two. Preferably involving Bruce embarrassing himself on the dance floor."

Jon grins mischievously. "Deal. We'll keep you posted."

As they leave your room, Damian pauses at the door, looking back with a faint smile. "If you change your mind," he offers quietly, "you know where to find us."

You nod, blowing them kisses as they leave. You settle back into your cozy spot, grateful for the quiet evening ahead. From here, you can hear the chatter and glasses clinking from partygoers downstairs. You sigh and sink into your bed with no further plans for the night. Just as you start to drift into a more relaxed state, your thoughts briefly return to Damian and Jon.

Damian. Damian is so complex. So rich in character. He carries an air of absoluteness around him. Every now and again you have that realization that everybody around you is living their own complex lives. You guess that realization hits harder, since you had never entertained the thought of him being real. Foolish on your pat, with what you know.

Jon, Jon exudes a warmth that contrasts with Damian's reserved nature. His easy going manner and quick smile charm you so. Only he, who gets his powers from the sun, could shine so bright. He's the kind of person who can brighten any room he enters.

The sounds of the party drift up faintly, a reminder of the world outside your cozy sanctuary. For now, you're content to enjoy this peaceful moment to yourself, letting your eyes drift close.

.

.

.

“Hello?” a voice echoes out. It’s yours. An amalgamation of bright lights closes in on itself behind you. Footsteps echo as you walk down the alley. You don’t hear any civilians walking and talking or any cars going down the roads. New York is quiet tonight.

Swinging up onto a building, you began making your way across the city. The eerie silence is unnerving you. The usual hustle and bustle is conspicuously absent, replaced by an unsettling calm. In fact, New York is… completely dark. Not one apartment light is on.

Avengers tower looms over the city. It’s the only building with—some—light. The building… isn’t really a building. Half of it is gone, jagged and broken edges pointing skyward. Cracks litter the walls, glass broken.

Your footsteps echo softly as you approach the tower. The air feels heavy with a sense of desolation. There’s pieces of broken armor and weapons. Flickering lights casting eerie shadows.

As you move through the ruins, a faint voice calls out—a whisper carried on the wind. You turn, but there's no one there. The silence intensifies, punctuated only by the distant sound of your own breathing.

Suddenly, a figure appears before you—a spectral image of Tony Stark, his armor battered and glowing faintly. His eyes meet yours with a mixture of sorrow and determination.

"You were supposed to be here," he murmurs, his voice echoing in the empty chamber. "Where were you?”

You reach out, but your hand passes through his ethereal form. He fades slowly, leaving you alone. You see a broken red, white and blue shield in the distance. 

“No, no, nononono. This wasn’t supposed to happen–”

There’s a woman behind you. She seems familiar. “You left us.”

You left them. All to die.

There’s a piercing scream as you're sucked into an explosion of colors below you. You try to reach out, to grab onto something, but there’s no one there.

You sit up with a gasp, suddenly at a loss for breath. Your body is tense and sweaty and you’re breathing heavily. Your heartbeat is booming in your ears. It feels like it’s going to burst from your chest. The sensation of falling fades as you orient yourself to the familiar surroundings of your room.

You glance around, reassuring yourself with the reality of your peaceful sanctuary. The sounds of the party downstairs continue to drift up faintly, a distant reminder of the world outside your door. You rub your temples, trying to dispel the last traces of the unsettling dream.

Taking a deep breath, you reach for a glass of water on your bedside table, sipping slowly to calm your nerves. “Karen, how long was I asleep?”

“Only an hour.”

You bury your face in your hands, breathing. Sometimes you think your mind is your biggest enemy. You should’ve figured, really. You haven’t had a proper nightmare since you’ve gotten here. It was only a matter of time.

“Might I suggest heading to the Den to take your mind off things?” Karen's voice is soft, achingly so. It’s comforting.

You don’t respond verbally, only nodding your head. You throw off the covers sluggishly, still trying to ground yourself. You put on the first clothes you find. They’re definitely not gala material, but that’s fine. You’ll only pop in to tell someone where you’re going.

Titus is loitering the halls, but he comes to you when he sees you out and about. He sniffs you, gruffing like he’s disturbed by something. Maybe he can sense that you’re a little unnerved right now. You give him good pets before moving on past him.

The grandeur of the gala spills out into the hallway, the lights casting a warm, inviting glow. Chatter floods your ears as you arrive just outside the entrance to the grand room. The place is perfectly lit up and shiny. The sounds of laughter and conversation form a stark contrast to the silence of your dream, grounding you.

Damian and Jon are easy to spot, standing together near a large decorative display. Jon's bright smile is a beacon, and Damian's more reserved demeanor contrasts starkly with his friend. They’re standing in front of a window. It paints the image of being surrounded by snowfall as they chat away.

You hesitate at the entrance, your eyes drawn to Jon and Damian standing together. The way Jon's eyes light up when he looks at Damian, and the small, almost imperceptible smile that tugs at Damian's lips in response, speaks volumes. They stand close, their bodies angled toward each other.

Damian reaches out to brush away a curl from Jon's face. Jon smiles, mouthing something. He talks animatedly, eyes bright. Damian watches. Fondly, you realize, he’s watching. There’s even a little small smile on his face. It puts a matching one on your face. It reminds you of Pepper and Tony, the way they look at each other.

Like they’re in love.

…

Oh.

Oh.

Holy shit, they’re in love, aren’t they? Holy shit. How did you not notice? Well… you’re not often hanging out with both of them at the same time, are you? You know they hang out on their own without you. They were friends before they knew you of course. Since they were children. Oh God, you hope they aren’t, like, secretly dating or anything. You’ve been flirting with them, but it was playful! You swear!

.

.

.

God, what have you been doing?

You need to get home. You’re not supposed to be here. You should be at the tower, playing darts with Clint, or looking for colleges you want to go to. Not here, not pretending like everything is fine, everything is normal, everything is how it’s supposed to be. You’ve forgotten yourself, gotten too comfortable. You feel a sudden detachment, like a thread just snapped. This is a borrowed fantasy.

Like clockwork, you put on a grin, baring your teeth. You take a step back, the sounds of the party fading into the background. It's as if everything is moving in slow motion, every sound is distant and every breath is drawn out. The party fades away as you turn, making your way towards the exit. Each step feels heavy, like you're carrying a weight you can't quite name.

All you hear is a constant ringing in your ear as you swing from building to building. There are people in the streets, no doubt celebrating the incoming new year. The city seems especially alive, lights twinkling. You’re grateful you can’t feel the biting cold air thanks to your suit. You fear you’re already feeling too much right now.

By the time you reach the familiar tunnel, your stomach is in knots. You’re on autopilot as you move the rubble, climbing in. The cute fairy lights feel too bright now. Your mask retracts, letting you breathe in.

You grab a screwdriver, not yet knowing what you’re going to do. “You might be able to finish before midnight,” chimes Karen.

Really? Had you been that far along in your progress? Oh. Maybe you knew and just forgot. You don’t really know right now. Your legs feel stiff as you approach the particle accelerator, screwing in a part tight. You work methodically, hands steady despite the turmoil in your mind. Each screw, each connection, each calibration is a step closer to completion, closer to... what? A return to your old life?

Karen's voice interrupts your thoughts gently, "You're almost done. Just a few more adjustments."

You nod absently, tightening another screw. The particle accelerator is nearly ready. Your mind drifts to the dream again—Tony, the absence of life, your home that you don’t recognize. "You left us," echoes in your mind.

Finally, the last screw is in place. You step back, wiping a hand down your face, and take a deep breath. The machine hums with a soft, steady power. It's ready. You're ready. Or at least, the machine is.

You stand back, staring at the particle accelerator with a mix of anticipation and apprehension. The steady hum of the machine fills the air, a stark contrast to the chaos in your mind. It's a portal, a bridge to another reality (the start of one, at least) another chance to set things right—or at least, to find some semblance of peace.

You insert a prism into it, making sure it’s secure. “Initializing…” hums Karen. The particle accelerator hums, lights flickering on and running down it. Sound whirls as you grab the little wheel you attached to it. “Approaching maximum power.”

The machine shakes as you turn the wheel. The prism turns, guiding a light. The light cuts through the space, producing fire and sparks where it hits. It cuts an old pipe in half. Whoops.

In front of you, lies an object akin to that of Tony Stark's arc reactor. Of course, it’s not actually an arc reactor, it’s just there to hold the new element. The light pierces and cuts until finally, it reaches its target. You think you hear the prism chime as the light hits the little triangle in the holder. You know that that’s the case when the chime gets louder as the light gets brighter. Brighter, brighter, brighter—oh.

You turn the machine off, looking at the glowing creation. The light fades, showing you the bright glowing triangle that is the new element. You sigh in content.

You duck under the particle accelerator, approaching the mimic arc reactor. Your fingers flex in anticipation, reaching out. The claws of your suit clink against the tiny triangle as you pick it up.

“Congratulations, [Name]. You’ve successfully recreated Tony Stark’s new element.”

You hum. “Well, couldn’t have done it without you and your awesome know-it-all abilities, my dear.”

A symphony of crackles, pops, and booms that fill your ears. Each pop rattles off as it fades. Oh, the fireworks. Is it…

“What time is it, K?”

“It is currently twelve AM, on the dot. I think this was an appropriate way to start the new year, don’t you?”

You chuckle, bowing your head. “Happy New Year.” You wonder if Damian and Jon… no. Probably shouldn’t think about that.

“Happy New Year, [Name].”

“...Happy New Year…”

You whirl around, fist tightly curling around the badassium. There’s no one there. Um. Were you imagining things? Oh, you see now, a figure there in the corner. A figure, somebody. Somebody that looks like…

Looks like…

“I know I’m probably the last person you want to see right now…”

How did your senses not pick up on them?

“I… don’t know what I’m doing here myself.”

They’re stepping closer to you.

“I guess… well. I don’t know.”

It’s… it’s…

“But I do know… that I’m sorry. I was… I shouldn’t have done what I did.”

It’s the spider… the one from the warehouse. The reason why you’re here.

“You…” Suddenly, you can’t breathe.

They clasp their hands behind their back, looking around the room. Then they look at you. Stare at you. The eyes of their suit squint as they take in your face. “Pretty cozy place. More cozy than mine, that’s for sure.”

You put down the badassium, afraid you’ll break it in your fist. They turn to look at it, then at the particle accelerator. “You work fast. Faster than me. It took me way too long to make that big stupid thing. I didn’t have any blueprints or even confirmation that it would work, but–”

A scratchy yell erupts from your mouth as you pounce at them. They dodge, fucking spidey senses.

They hold out their hands. “Woah woah woah, wait–”

You don’t wait. You lunge at them again, claws swiping out to them. It lands, leaving behind red. They don’t have an armored suit like yours. You have the advantage.

They scramble out of your way, knocking over things as they go. “Please–”

You grab their suit at their collarbone, pulling them to you. “You!”

“Me?” they squeak.

“You’re the reason I’m fucking stuck here!”

“I know I know, and I’m sorry. I’m sorry! I wasn’t thinking! I was being stupid! I just–”

“I don’t care,” you growl, showing your fangs. Your shoulders flex, releasing the nano spider legs. They emerge hauntingly, their sharpened points glinting, poised and ready to strike.

“You know, I’m not really like the other spiders. Most of ‘em anyways,” you drawl. “Apart from being the only [Name] I know, my moral compass is a roulette wheel. I’m a hero of course, I save who need saving, and punish who needs punishing.”

“Truth is,” you lean in, eyes wide and flickering with hot pink, “I am much more keen to violence than the others. I’ve killed people. A couple of people, actually,” you admit, voice low and intense. “Doesn’t make me a true good person, of course, but it does make the world a bit safer for those that are.”

They try to struggle free, but you hold them firm. "I'm going to figure out what you need. So tell me, what the fuck are you doing?”

They sniff, taking in a deep breath. “I never wanted to hurt you. I don’t hurt people.” Their hands quiver as they latch onto yours. “I just wanted to go home, and I thought you were gonna stop me–”

You growl and they yelp. “It’s not an excuse! I know it’s not an excuse, but it’s my explanation. I just.. I felt bad. I was…” they pause.

“I was working on this machine. A particle accelerator,” they sigh, oblivious to the way your ears start ringing. “I was messing around, and I got stuck in your universe. I tried to go back home. I tried for so long, acting like everything was normal, like I belonged but I… I had to go back home.” Their voice gets wobbly. “I spent so long there, I got desperate.”

They start sniffling, and you know they’re crying. “I thought, if I could find where you went… I could help you get back to your universe. So what happened to me won’t happen to you.” They take a step back. Oh, did you let them go? “I can’t take you with me. Other things can't pass through my portal without turning to dust, but…”

They reach into a pocket, pulling out a small, intricate device. It glows softly in their hand, emitting a faint, steady pulse.

“...What is it?” you croak.

"It's a catalyst," they explain, their voice still shaky. "It’s what I used to stabilize the rift. You know, so my atoms wouldn’t get scattered across space.”

Your gaze narrows, skeptical of the device in their hand. "Why should I trust you?" you demand, voice edged with exhaustion and anger.

They take a deep breath, looking into your eyes with a mix of desperation and sincerity. "You shouldn’t,” they admit. "But I know what it's like. I wouldn’t wish it upon anyone."

You stare at the catalyst, the faint pulse mesmerizing. "And if this doesn't work? If you're lying?"

You feel their eyes on you through their mask, voice filled with regret and determination. "Then you can do whatever you think is necessary. But I promise you, I'm not lying."

Your silence hangs heavy between you. The sounds of the fireworks outside are distant echoes, reminding you of the world outside this tense moment. Finally, you reach out and take the catalyst from their hand, feeling its weight and the subtle hum of energy within.

“You really want to help?” you whisper, fist curling around the catalyst. “Find Miguel O'Hara from Earth-928.” Your grip tightens around the catalyst as you step back, letting the weight of the moment settle in. The stranger stands still, their eyes fixed on you through their mask. You can see the weariness in their posture, the heaviness of their own burdens reflected in their stance.

“Find him, and tell him where I am.”

They nod slowly. “I’ll find him. I promise.” Their voice holds a note of determination.

You step back and wave an arm. “Just go.” You’re well and truly done with everything at the moment.

They stand for a moment, looking at you. Looking through you. Then they turn away, and all you see is an eruption of bright and colorful light, before it’s gone just as fast as it came. The Den feels unfamiliar to you now.

You sink to the floor, mentally, physically, and spiritually exhausted. Sound is distant, the only thing you hear is a loud ringing. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, chest heaving. Your face feels wet. Ah, it’s tears. You’re crying. Why are you crying?

“–me]! [Name]! Come on, come back. I’m here, it’s okay–”

“Jon?” Is that your voice?

An arm curls around your shoulder and crowds you into his embrace. His warmth contrasts starkly with the cold dread that had settled in your chest. He holds you tightly, his presence grounding you. You cling to Jon like a lifeline, his warmth grounding you in the present.

“It’s okay,” he whispers, hand smoothing down your back.

Sniffling, you sink into his embrace. “What are you doing here?” you mutter.

“Where else should I be?” With Damian. “I stuck my ear out, heard your heart beating fast. And the sound of you… well.”

You sigh heavily, cheek against his chest, listening to his own heartbeat. It's strong and steady, everything you want to be. “My heartbeat?”

He nods against your head. “Your heartbeat.”

You sigh again, a mixture of exhaustion and relief. “Oh, Jon...”

"Shh," he soothes, his hand still moving gently along your back. "You don't have to say anything right now."

"I don't deserve you," you murmur into his chest, your voice barely audible.

Jon tightens his hold on you, his voice firm yet gentle. "Don't say that. Please don’t say that."

You take a shaky breath, feeling the weight of the night’s events settling over you. Jon’s presence is a comforting anchor amidst the storm of emotions swirling inside you. “I just… I don’t know what to do, Jon.”

He tilts your chin up gently, his blue eyes filled with concern and determination. “You don’t have to figure it all out right now. We’ll take it one step at a time, together.”

You don’t say anything, simply resting your head against him. His lips press against your forehead, gently and warm.

“In other news,” you sniffle, moving to get out of his embrace. He holds on to your for a moment, uncertain. But a persistent tug from you makes his arms drop. You reach up, grabbing the small glowing triangle. “Look what I made.”

He eyes the small thing in your claws. “What is it?”

“The badassium. The new element that I’ve created.” You rock it around gently. “I did it.”

Jon's eyes widen with surprise and admiration as he gazes at the glowing triangle in your hand. "That's incredible," he says, reaching out to gently touch the shimmering surface.

You nod, a small smile tugging at your lips despite the lingering heaviness in your chest.

He looks up at you, his expression softening with concern. "Are you... okay?"

You hesitate, unsure how to answer. Instead of words, you hand him the glowing badassium, letting him examine it closely. The warmth of his touch is grounding. He studies it, turning it this way and that, before looking at you again. He puts it down where it was, coming back to you to hold your hand.

“You’re incredible,” he breathes. You don’t have any words, so you keep your mouth shut. 

“...Wanna go home?” he asks tentatively. You nod. He slowly steps forward, kneeling down and hooking his arms under your legs and back when you show no sign of hesitance. Jon lifts you effortlessly, cradling you close as he stands. You rest your head against his shoulder, eyes feeling heavy.

“I'm not invalid, Jon.”

“Just let me take care of you.” He shouldn't say things like that.

He makes sure that the Den is properly blocked and hidden by the rubble. After that, all you feel in the cold air biting at your cheeks as he flies you across the city. The lights below blur into streaks of color as you soar through the night sky. You cling to him, feeling the steady rhythm of his flight beneath you.

People are still at Wayne Manor as you approach, lights shining bright. Jon serves around the side, pulling up to your room's window. You sigh in relief as he gently sets you down in your room.

You see Damian rush over to you both, suit jacket forgotten. Was he waiting here for you?”

“Where were you?” he demands, hands coming up to rest on your arms. His concern is evident, his eyes searching yours for answers.

Jon steps forward, his hand resting on Damian's shoulder. "It doesn’t matter now. They’re okay," he reassures Damian, who nods slightly, though the crease in his brow doesn’t go away.

"Sorry," you say sincerely, looking at both of them, "for worrying you." You gently push Damian’s hands off you and go to your bed. Your clothes are comfortable enough, you decide. The soft pillow feels heavenly as you sink into the mattress. Hands come up the pull your blanket over you, lightly caressing your forehead before leaving.

Hushed voices bickering are the last thing you hear before darkness pulls you in.

notes: so... how we feeling? LOL

ngl i feel like the reasoning is cheap but how y'all liking the parallel? it'll make more sense later on, i promise ;)

also am i evil for using the "oh. oh." in that context? yes. yes i am

➤ find something worth saving (it's all for the taking)

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

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SUMMARY ↳ Not everybody takes time to appreciate the holidays, it seems. Damian’s brow furrows as he inspects your arm. “You were…” “Awesome?” “Reckless.” pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: nada wc: 3.2k

totally forgot to mention this last chapter, but this fic now has an official playlist!

It takes some convincing from Damian and Jon for them to let you go back to work. Jon says you shouldn’t be back so soon after getting shot. You tell him that your body is fine and ready to go, and also remind him that one of the first things you did when you were better was spar with the whole damn Batfamily. He looks properly sheepish after being chastised.

Damian says that you don’t need the job anymore, since you live with his family now. You tease him, asking if you technically classify as his sugar baby. He scoffs, turning away. It gets him off your case.

Sam damn near jumps over the counter to get to you when they see you walk in. “[Name]!”

At Sam’s shout, Carrie and Garrett pop their heads out from the back. Carrie’s face lights up, smile lines showing as she rushes over to join you and Sam’s hug. Garrett lets one of his rare smiles show, patting your head.

“You shouldn’t be back so soon,” frowns Carrie, pulling back.

You would lift up your shirt to show that you were fine, but she’s right, you shouldn’t be back so soon. A bullet wound on a normal person wouldn’t be completely healed just yet, but, you know, super healing. You’ve been left with a very faint scar. Jon spent his time tracing it, eyes hard and lidded. It gave you goosebumps when his fingers would pass over it.

You wave them off, laughing softly at their concern. "I'm fine, guys, really. It's good to be back."

Sam eyes you skeptically, arms crossed. "You better take it easy, though. We can handle things here."

Carrie nods in agreement, though she's smiling. "Just don't overdo it. We were worried sick about you."

Garrett gives you a nod of approval, his expression serious yet supportive. "Glad to see you're up and about, [Name]. Take care of yourself."

You promise them you will, appreciating their concern and warmth. Sam ushers you behind the counter, immediately putting you to (light) work, much to your amusement.

"So, spill," Sam insists, leaning in conspiratorially. "What happened?”

“What do you mean?” you ask as you organize some sugar packets.

“Dude, Robin and Superboy literally hauled your ass out of here.”

“They just took me to the hospital, Sam,” you sigh. “I got shot, it was pretty urgent.” Shoving a pastry in Sam's mouth, you push past them to ready the coffee makers. “In other news, I moved in with my future rich spouse.” It’s a way to distract them from questioning too much.

Predictably, Sam chokes on the bun. “What!? Hold on, back up a minute, when did you start dating somebody?”

“It was a joke, we’re just friends,” you chuckle. “He’s a huge worrywart and refused to let me go back to my apartment. Could barely walk out of the front door this morning. Said I didn’t even need this job anymore, basically said he’d take care of me.” He didn’t really, but whatever. “Isn’t he sweet?”

“So you’re telling me he basically said you can be the rich trophy partner? Why the hell are you here then?” Sam deadpans.

You match their expression. “Wow. Nice to know I was missed.”

Sam rolls their eyes. “You’re impossible. Who’s the guy anyway?”

“Damian Wayne.”

Sam blinks. Once. Twice. “Can you repeat that? I could’ve sworn you said Damian Wayne. Son of Bruce Wayne. Heir to Wayne Enterprises.”

You huff, placing a hand on your hip as their brain fumbles. “Dude, you bagged the big one. Holy shit, I didn’t know you could pull like that.”

“I told you, we’re just friends.”

“I thought he was, like, stuck up, or something. Cold ice prince type.”

You feel the need to defend Damian’s honor, even if Sam has no true ire towards him. “He’s nice. A good friend. He’s just… awkward.”

Sam takes time to look at you, a brow raised. You hope they're not doing that thing when they just look at you and know all of your secrets. Eventually they hum, dropping it.

“...You think you can ask his dad to pay my tuition–”

Tonight marks your first official patrol with the Batfamily. You're already suited up, crouched on the ledge of a rooftop with Damian. His cape billows in the wind. The city below is alive with lights and sounds, a symphony of Gotham’s nighttime pulse. You adjust your stance, feeling the adrenaline start to course through your veins. Damian is focused, his eyes scanning the streets for any sign of trouble.

"Keep your eyes sharp," Damian says, his voice a low murmur. "Gotham's quiet tonight, but that can change in an instant."

You nod, your own senses heightened, every sound amplified in the quiet of the rooftop. The tension in the air is palpable, a reminder of the city's ever-present dangers.

Damian glances at you, a hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You ready for this?"

“Been ready, are you?” you challenge with a smile.

Suddenly, a voice speaks into your ear. It's Barbara. "We've got a situation near downtown. Reports of a robbery in progress."

Damian tenses, his eyes narrowing. "Let's move."

You both leap from the rooftop, descending into the city's shadows. The thrill of the chase ignites your senses as you navigate the rooftops with practiced ease. Damian is a blur of motion beside you, his movements precise and controlled.

Your arm muscles tense and release with every web swing. You take time to twirl and flip around Damian in an elegant dance as he swings with his grappling hook. The two of you move around each other in synchronized harmony.

As you near the location of the robbery, you spot the scene from above. A group of masked men are trying to break into a high-end jewelry store. The glass is shattered, and the alarm is blaring. Damian signals for you to flank them from opposite sides.

You land silently behind a dumpster, observing the thieves as they hurriedly shove jewelry into bags. Damian moves in from the other side, his presence a shadow in the night. You wait for his signal, your muscles coiled like springs.

With a sharp nod from Damian, you spring into action. You leap out, webbing one of the thugs to the ground before he even realizes what’s happening. Damian disarms another with a swift kick, his movements fluid and efficient.

The remaining thieves scramble, but they're no match for the two of you. You dart between them, your webbing and acrobatics keeping them off balance. Damian is a blur of motion, his strikes precise and powerful. Within moments, the robbers are subdued, webbed up and disarmed.

Damian steps back, catching his breath. "Nice work," he says, his tone grudgingly approving.

"Were you practicing those moves to impress me?” you ask cheekily.

“Why, were you watching me?”

“I just can’t take my eyes off of you,” you sigh dramatically.”

“Stop flirting, losers,” Stephanie teases on the comms.

Just as you're about to talk back, a low rumble echoes through the alley. The ground shakes slightly, and you exchange a wary glance with Damian. A nearby manhole cover bursts open, and a hulking figure emerges from the sewers. It's Killer Croc, his massive form towering over you both. What the hell.

"Well, well, what do we have here?" Croc growls, his eyes gleaming with malicious intent.

You throw up your hands. “Come on man, I wanted an easy night.”

Croc advances with heavy footsteps, his massive claws glinting in the dim light. Guess he’s not in the mood for chit-chat. Croc chuckles, the sound sending a chill down your spine. "Think you can stop me, little bats?" His voice reverberates through the space, filling the space with menace.

“I am not a bat,” you mutter. “Only in spirit I guess." Killer Croc has a similar demeanor to that of Rhino, at least in terms of size. You’ve dealt with more than enough of them to be well equipped to deal with this situation.

You exchange a quick nod with Damian, silently communicating your plan. "Let's do this," he says, his voice low but determined.

Without hesitation, you both spring into action. Damian charges forward, engaging Croc head-on with a series of lightning-fast strikes and evasive maneuvers. Meanwhile, you use your agility and webs to dart around Croc, aiming to distract and disorient him.

Croc swings a massive fist, aiming for Damian, who narrowly dodges and counters with a precise kick to the knee. You take advantage of the opening, firing webbing at Croc's arms, aiming to restrict his movements. The webs hold momentarily before Croc tears through them with brute force. Boo.

"Keep him distracted!" Damian calls out, his voice cutting through the chaos.

You nod, focusing on keeping Croc off balance while Damian assesses the situation. With each move, you gauge Croc's reactions, looking for vulnerabilities to exploit. His strength is immense, and you start to hope this won’t take long. You’d like to get a decent rest tonight.

Damian maneuvers around Croc, striking with calculated precision. His training and experience shine through as he lands blows with pinpoint accuracy, each one aimed at weakening Croc's defenses. You watch in awe, both of Damian's skill and the sheer determination in his eyes.

As the fight wears on, Croc becomes more aggressive, his attacks growing wilder and more unpredictable. You dart in and out, using the environment to your advantage, hoping to find an opening. It's a dangerous dance, the alley echoing with the sounds of combat and the occasional growl from Croc.

Croc is getting overwhelmed, which means he’ll get desperate. His eyes keep darting to the window. He’s gonna try to escape, shit.

He shoves Damian to the side with his arm. For a split second, you want to make sure he’s alright, but you know he is. Trust that he is. You seize an opportunity to leap onto Croc's back as he charges out of the alley and onto the street. The sudden movement sends pedestrians scattering, and cars screech to a halt to avoid the monstrous figure rampaging through the city. You wrap his shoulders, providing you some extra distance from him as he tries to reach for you. He bucks and twists as he runs, trying to shake you off.

Croc flips up cars as he runs. Your claws dig into his shoulders as you steer him out of people's way the best you can, while simultaneously trying not to get thrown off. People scream and flee as cars swerve to avoid the chaos. With each passing moment, your muscles strain under the weight and movement of the monstrous villain.

“Should you be on vacation or something? It’s the holidays! Take a day off, Christ,” you grumble.

Croc chuckles dangerously. “Hang on tight, not-bat.”

It’s your only warning (aside from your senses screaming at you to get out of the way. Too bad you can’t) as Croc makes a superhuman leap, crashing straight through a window of Gotham Mall. Your suit protects you from the glass as it crashes down around you. Shoppers scream and scatter as the massive creature barrels through the aisles, sending displays and merchandise flying.

“Do you have any non-destructive hobbies?” you huff, dodging his grabby hands. Croc cuts a corner narrowly, slamming you slightly into a wall.

“Swimming. In the sewers.”

“Well, of course, where else?” Oh shit, there’s a baby in the way! You throw a web from each wrist, pulling yourself over to the stroller. You pick it up and narrowly move it out of Killer Croc’s way, putting it down next to the mother and quickly webbing yourself back onto Croc.

“Thank you!” the mother cries.

“You’re welcome!” is all you can say before your web pulls you back onto Croc. You curl your hand into a tight fist and hit him right in his head as you return. Croc staggers from the force of your punch, shaking his head as he attempts to regain his bearings. His momentum slows, giving you a moment to catch your breath.

“Spinnerette, report,” Bruce asserts in your ear.

“Uh, Killer Croc’s rampaging in Gotham Mall. Trying to minimize the damage,” you breathe, dodging another swipe from Croc. 

The noise of glass shattering and displays being knocked over is deafening. You hear Damian's voice cut through the chaos over the comms, “I’m en route. Hang tight.”

You cling tighter to Croc, using your agility to stay out of his reach as he wreaks havoc through the mall. “Yeah, hanging tight is kind of the plan,” you mutter, half to yourself.

You web his face, causing him to growl in frustration. Croc has a thick hide as protection, so your fangs won’t be able to pierce him. Your venom is useless here, which sucks because it would’ve been really nice to have in this situation.

Okay, you’re on the third floor of the mall, since the bastard jumped real high. How can you trap him? His advantage is his strength, so you need to restrain him so that he can’t use it. The whirring of a grappling hook catches your attention. Looking behind you, you see Damian swinging over to you, surprisingly gaining speed.

You spray a web towards him, catching him by the chest. Damian grips it as you pull him towards you. He lands with ease on top of Croc’s back. Croc's roar of frustration reverberates through the mall as Damian joins you.

“Fancy seeing you here,” you quip.

"Thought you could use a hand," Damian replies, his eyes never leaving Croc.

You grab his hands and wrap them around the makeshift web reins you had attached to Croc. “She–” you tap the ring you gifted him you know is under his glove, “–will tell you what to do. Don’t let him hurt anybody.”

Damian tries to catch your hand as you swing away, but you’re too quick for him. You gain speed, swinging ahead and away from Croc. “Tell me where a big glass window I can crash through is, K.”

“Take a left here.”

You swerve to the left. You can hear the commotion behind you as Croc thrashes and roars, but you focus on finding an exit point.

“Straight ahead.”

There. A large window overlooking the city. You see other buildings sparking with lights. Bracing yourself, you send yourself hurling into it. The glass shatters as you crash through it, arms out in front of you to protect yourself. Screams of people fade away behind you as you fall into the air. You’re lucky, there’s an intersection below you.

You swing onto a nearby lightpost. “I need the biggest and stickiest web you got, K.” You launch off and aim your hands in the middle of the intersection.

“Certainly, but it won’t be big enough for Killer Croc,” she says as a good and proper spider web slinks out and attaches to nearby light posts and buildings. The spiral pattern doesn’t extend to the radius of the web. “You’ll need to spin the rest of the web yourself.”

Bouncing off the center of the web, you start spinning the web across the intersection. The web begins to take shape, forming a large, intricate net that spans the entire intersection. Civilians look up in awe at your work. 

“Spinner!”

You look over as you hop across the web to see Nightwing grappling over. “Get the civvies out of here!”

He pauses, then nods. He swings down, quickly directing people away from the intersection to safety. He enforces power into his words, arms gesturing for them to go.

“Robin and Killer Croc are approaching.”

Using the web as momentum, you launch yourself and spray a web onto the ledge from which you jumped off. Climbing up, you stare down the large hallway of the mall. Croc is running straight towards you. He hasn’t thrown Damian off yet, so that’s good.

“Come on! I’m right here!”

“What are you doing–” hisses Damian in the comms.

Killer Croc growls, charging at you. His steps are thundering, echoing in the mall.

You brace yourself, waiting for the right moment. Croc lunges forward with a roar, his massive form barreling towards you. You time your move perfectly, leaping to the side just as Croc lunges out of the window space. You grip Damian’s cape, tugging him off of Croc as he begins to fall. The web bounces up and down as he lands in the center, trapped.

You pat Damian’s shoulder before jumping off the ledge after him. More webs spray from your wrist as you restrain Crocs arms to the web. You ignore his curses and yells as you struggles against your trap. It’s no use, the web holds firm.

“Holy cow,” whistles Dick, walking over. He reaches out to poke the web, but you snatch his hand away.

“Do that and we’d have to amputate you. It’s really sticky,” you frown solemnly. You’re joking of course.

Dick pulls his hand away, holding both of them up and a surrender gesture. “Okay, okay, I won't touch it,” Dick says with a grin, clearly amused. He looks around at the chaos in the mall, where people are cautiously peeking out from hiding places or rushing to leave.

“You know, you’ve certainly made a mess,” he comments, gesturing to the shattered glass and displaced merchandise around you.

“Actually, I think I’ve done worse.”

“Guess you’re fitting right in,” Dick remarks, his tone light but approving.

“Have I earned my rite of passage?” you smirk.

“Maybe if you can survive a month without causing a city-wide panic,” he teases, flashing you a grin.

Damian lands gracefully behind you, his cape billowing dramatically behind him. He surveys the scene with a critical eye, his expression serious and focused. You can tell he eyes Croc’s trapped form before he hurries over to you.

You hear the sirens of Gotham’s police force wail closer. “Always late to the party, it seems,” you hum, pursing your lips. You groan and flex your shoulder, still tingling from your little wall slam earlier.

“I’ll take it from here,” Dick reassures as the cop cars come to a stop near the scene. “You crazy kids go.”

Damian seems to have no qualms about that, since he grabs your hand and tugs you away. You let him drag you around, swinging with him as he grapples away. You swing through the night with Damian, adrenaline still coursing through your veins.

Coming to a stop on a rooftop, Damian’s hand runs down your arm, squeezing gently. “Are you hurt?” he asks gently.

“A little bruised, but I’ll be okay.” Your arm tingles under his touch. You chalk it off as pain.

Damian’s brow furrows as he inspects your arm. “You were…”

“Awesome?”

“Reckless.”

You catch his hand in yours, giving it a reassuring squeeze. “I knew what I was doing, birdie.” He sighs, a mixture of relief and frustration evident in his voice. “I know, I know,” you reply softly, bringing his hand to your lips and pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “But I’m here, and I’m fine.”

He meets your gaze, a small smile tugging at his lips. “You handled yourself well back there.” The moment lingers between you, the adrenaline of the night’s events slowly fading into a quiet calm. Damian’s thumb strokes over your hand, a silent gesture of reassurance and gratitude.

Damian holds your hand tight as he guides you home.

The next day, Spinnerette is trending.

notes: short chapter because its really just a filler but next one is gonna pop off i PROMISe

also, i hope i captured killer croc correctly? have literally never watched or read anything with him in it so im SO sorry if he is nothing like how he is supposed to be

also i straight up yoinked this scene from Spider-Man: Miles Morales, just replaced rhino with croc.