Ii. What's Up Danger?

ii. 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, Mild sexual jokes, Making out AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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PREVIEW. Damian’s voice grew louder, closer. “If you don’t give me my phone back right now, I will—”

Before he could finish, the screen shifted again. The phone wobbled as Damian wrestled for it and Tim tried to pull it back. In the background, Jason’s voice cut through with a snarky tone. “No way she’s actually real. I thought she was just a figment of his imagination.”

“Stop! Unhand it! None of you insipid fools have any concept of how to behave with respect!"

Jason managed to snatch the phone away with a triumphant smirk, his eyes narrowing as he took you in. Among Damian's brothers, he was the one you saw the least. You wouldn't be surprised if he didn't remember you.

“Hey, I'm Jason. Don't freak out, but I think he’s cheating on you.”

Damian’s voice immediately rose in alarm, “I am not! Todd!”

Jason waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying himself. “Pretty sure I saw him with some redhead just last week—”

In the background, you could hear the clink of Damian’s katanas being unsheathed. The phone jerked as the struggle intensified, Tim’s voice chiming in with panic. “Alright, alright! Don't stab him! Here’s your phone back.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

THERE WAS A SHARP CREEK AS THE METAL door was forced open, and you coughed as a cloud of dust emerged. Selina chuckled softly, her silhouette framed by the dim light filtering through the grimy windows. She guided you into the warehouse, her steps echoing in the vast, empty space.

"One of my safehouses," she explained, shutting the door behind you both. "Secluded, off the grid."

Old crates and metal shelving units lined the walls, and a few scattered tools and broken machinery hinted at its previous use. Selina flicked a switch, and a single, flickering bulb cast a weak, yellow glow over the room.

"We can lay low here for a while. This can be your personal hideout," she said, moving to clear a dusty table. "No one knows about this place, not even Batman."

You hummed in response, your gaze sweeping over the vast, dusty warehouse. The once grand space had fallen into neglect, the floor littered with debris and the windows clouded with grime. The overhead lights flickered sporadically, casting long, wavering shadows that danced across the walls.

Selina, leaning against a stack of forgotten crates, let you roam for a while. After a moment, she pushed herself away from the crates and approached you, her footsteps muffled by the thick layer of dust on the floor.

Her hand landed on your shoulder with a firm grip, gently guiding you to the side. "Come on," she said, her voice carrying a hint of excitement. "I want to see something."

You followed her through the cluttered space, weaving between old barrels and rusting equipment until you reached a clearing. Here, the walls were less covered by debris. The area was bathed in a slant of sunlight streaming through a dirty skylight, illuminating the dust motes that floated lazily in the air.

Selina stopped and turned to face you, pointing to a relatively wide stretch of wall that loomed in the dim light of the warehouse. "Show me what you can do. Use those hands again."

"Sure," you replied with a nod, trying to get rid of any nerves with a shake of your hands. "Seems easy enough."

You approached the wall, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. Placing your hand on the cold, rough surface, your palm stuck to the wall, and you lifted your other hand, repeating the motion. Soon, all of your limbs were adhered to the surface, and you began to climb. Your movements were initially hesitant, but as you gained confidence, you moved more fluidly, scaling the wall with ease. You hung from the ceiling with your hand, smiling down at Selina.

Selina watched you with a glint of pride in her eyes, clapping slowly. 

"Not bad," she called up to you, her tone approving. "Now, let's see if you can get down."

You took a deep breath, preparing to jump. Remembering the superhero landing techniques you’d seen on TV, you leapt from the ceiling and aimed to land gracefully on your knees. The impact, however, was harsher than you anticipated.

You hit the ground with a jarring thud, your knees slamming into the floor with a painful smack. The sudden shock radiated up your legs, sending a sting of pain through your body. You let out a soft yelp as you crumpled, sitting on the floor and clutching your knees.

“Owowow,” you muttered, grimacing as you rubbed your knees in a weak attempt to soothe the ache. “Okay, superhero landings: they look badass but they definitely don’t feel badass.”

Selina's snort was barely contained as she watched you, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You know, in real life, landing like that is a good way to hurt yourself," she said. "Okay. Lesson number one. Do not put all the weight on your knees or legs when you land. Instead, roll with the fall and distribute the force. I promise, your knees will thank you."

With that, Selina moved to demonstrate. She climbed onto a low shelf and stood poised on the edge, her posture perfect. With a flourish, she leapt down, her landing smooth and controlled. She rolled effortlessly and ended up in a crouch, looking like she was ready to pounce.

"See?" she said, dusting herself off and grinning at you. "The superhero landing is overrated. In the real world, you don’t want to end up with knees that sound like they’ve been used as a drum kit."

You eyed her with a glare, still hunched over on the floor. "Okay, okay. I get it. So, no superhero landings unless I want to spend the next few days in agony."

Selina gave you an approving nod. "Exactly. Now let’s see if you can do it without making me laugh."

"Alright, I’ll give it another shot. But if I end up rolling into a pile of broken crates, it’s all on you."

 ༻⊰───⋅

The next few days were a whirlwind of training under Selina’s watchful eye. Her approach was relentless yet patient. She pushed you to the brink of exhaustion but never beyond your limits, ensuring that every movement was honed to perfection. 

The first segment of your training focused on parkour, a basic skill for navigating the urban landscape of Gotham. The first few days began with stretches and warm-ups before diving into rolls, jumps, and twists. Unlike Selina, whose movements were fluid and graceful, your style was more rough-hewn and spiderlike—less sleek than cat-like, but uniquely scrappy and effective. The city became your playground, and with each leap and bound, you grew more adept at maneuvering through it.

Once you had started to get the hang of parkour, the focus shifted to flexibility training. Your days were packed with yoga, and gymnastics exercises. Yoga quickly became a ritual, a quiet counterpoint to the intensity of your other workouts. Gymnastics was a thrill, full of dynamic moves that felt as if they belonged in a circus. The flashy routines might not always seem practical, but they certainly made you feel like you could be the next Robin. 

The next focus was on web practice. Selina couldn't help much in that department, so you took to practicing on your own by swinging between buildings. Initially, the height had you clutching the sides of buildings like a nervous cat. But as you became more comfortable, swinging through the air started to feel natural—like you were born to do it. 

To round out the training, Selina introduced you to one last segment: hand-to-hand combat. Given your enhanced strength and agility, she decided to focus on bare-knuckle boxing. 

You quickly discovered that boxing with bare knuckles was far more complicated than it looked on TV. Early on, your punches, fueled by your enhanced strength, were more like wrecking balls than precise strikes. You landed blows with such force that the floors and walls ended up with cracks and holes. One training session saw you accidentally punching the training bag out a window. In another one, you got so wrapped up in perfecting a combo that you accidentally swung around and clocked yourself in the face. 

The bruise wasn't pretty but it made you realize you needed to control your strength. If you didn’t, the risk of accidentally causing a death was very real.

Despite the frequent bruises and sore muscles, you could feel your progress with each passing day. The aches were a small price to pay for the improvement in your skills. 

Right now, you were in your bedroom, it was four in the afternoon, and according to your new training schedule, it was time for yoga. No surprise—Selina had insisted that flexibility was just as crucial as strength and agility. You found yourself in mid-crow pose, balancing on your hands with your knees resting on your upper arms. A YouTube video played on your laptop on the floor, the instructor’s calming voice offering tips as you tried to maintain your balance.

“Focus on your breath,” the instructor advised. “Keep your core engaged and your gaze forward.”

You exhaled slowly, maintaining your balance effortlessly in the pose. Just as you were settling into the routine, your laptop rang with a FaceTime request. Shifting your weight to one hand, you answered the call with a smile, putting the video in full screen with your free hand.

Damian’s face appeared on the screen, his eyes widening in surprise as he took in the sight of you. He was lounging in bed, his hair tousled, and dressed in a fitted black shirt that accentuated his physique.

“Habibti. Are you... doing yoga?” he asked, a slight red tint on his ears

You tried not to grin too widely as you held the pose. “Yeah, believe it or not. It’s part of my new training routine.”

Damian’s eyebrows shot up, clearly surprised. His eyes briefly traced over the tensed-up muscle of your arms, a hint of admiration flickering in his gaze. “Training, you say? I wasn’t aware you had an interest in such pursuits.”

You smirked, stretching out your legs with ease. Damian’s eyes traced over the curve of your back, lingering for a moment longer than necessary. “Well, Selina's been pushing me to get better. Uh... self-defense and all. It’s been intense, but I’m actually enjoying it.”

You followed up with a few air push-ups, grunting slightly as you bent your arms down. The effort seemed to spur him on, more than you expected. Damian’s cheeks flushed deeply, and he hastily raised his phone's camera to the ceiling, trying to hide his flustered expression.

He had always admired strength and discipline, qualities he held in high regard for himself and others. Seeing you, someone he deeply cared for, excel and push your limits in a way he hadn’t expected stirred a mix of admiration and something more heated. 

Damian cleared his throat and adjusted his position, attempting to appear casual as he lowered the camera back down. “Well, I must admit, I’m rather impressed. I didn’t expect you to exhibit such dedication.”

You completed your set of air push-ups and settled back on your heels, a satisfied grin lighting up your face. “Thank you. It’s been challenging, but I’m making progress. Mom’s a tough coach, but her methods are effective.”

Damian’s gaze softened as he watched you ruffle your damp hair with a towel. The warm, golden light of the setting sun bathed your face in a soft glow. He shifted his position, now lying on his stomach with the lower half of his face buried into a pillow, emerald eyes melting.

"You're beautiful."

A small smile tugged at the corners of your lips, but you quickly suppressed it with a cough, trying to regain your composure. "Thanks."

Just as the moment settled, a loud crash interrupted the tranquility. Damian flinched, and his phone tumbled to the side, leaving you with a view of the ceiling. Incoherent shouting and laughter filled the background, accompanied by the distinct sound of someone barging in.

“Grayson! You insufferable, blundering imbecile! How many times must I tell you to knock before you manage to comprehend basic manners? You’re a barely tolerable nuisance, a wretched excuse for a brother. Now, leave, before I lose my temper!”

Oh.

You snorted and continued to listen as more voices joined in.

“Oh, Damian’s got himself a little video call buddy. Hope you’re making a fool of my little brother, whoever you are.” A tuft of dark hair with a white streak appeared briefly before the phone was abruptly snatched away, revealing a downward view of someone’s face.

Tim’s face stared down at you from the screen as he waved. "It’s his girlfriend.”

Before you could react, Damian’s voice roared in the background. “Tim, you absolute imbecile, give me my phone back this instant!”

Dick’s head popped into view next, his blue eyes the only part of him visible as he peered at you with a mischievous grin. “Y/N! Give me the phone. I wanna say hi too!”

You couldn’t help but laugh, waving to the two of them. “Hey, guys. Nice to see you too,” you smiled.

Tim shrugged, still holding the phone. “Sorry about this. You know how it is here.”

Damian’s voice grew louder, closer. “If you don’t give me my phone back right now, I will—”

Before he could finish, the screen shifted again. The phone wobbled as Damian wrestled for it and Tim tried to pull it back. In the background, Jason’s voice cut through with a snarky tone. “No way she’s actually real. I thought she was just a figment of his imagination.”

“Stop! Unhand it! None of you insipid fools have any concept of how to behave with respect!"

Jason managed to snatch the phone away with a triumphant smirk, his eyes narrowing as he took you in. Among Damian's brothers, he was the one you saw the least. You wouldn't be surprised if he didn't remember you. 

“Hey, I'm Jason. Don't freak out, but I think he’s cheating on you.”

Damian’s voice immediately rose in alarm, “I am not! Todd!”

Jason waved a hand dismissively, clearly enjoying himself. “Pretty sure I saw him with some redhead just last week—”

In the background, you could hear the clink of Damian’s katanas being unsheathed. The phone jerked as the struggle intensified, Tim’s voice chiming in with panic. “Alright, alright! Don't stab him! Here’s your phone back.”

Just as Tim was about to hand it over, Dick swooped in one last time, his face filling the screen with a very unflattering close-up of his mouth. “Wait! I didn’t get my turn! Y/N! I hope you're doing okay. When are you planning to visit the manor again?”

You just shrugged and snorted as Damian’s screams and the scuffle of feet continued in the background. The phone changed hands again, this time revealing Alfred’s face as he peered down at the screen with a raised eyebrow.

"Say hi, Alfred," Dick's face appeared beside him and the butler smiled.

"Good afternoon, Young Miss Kyle. I do hope you are well. Everyone is quite worried about you after the incident during prom."

You managed a small, sheepish smile, running a hand through your damp hair. “Thank you, Alfred. I’m doing much better now.”

Alfred nodded, his expression softening. “That’s good to hear. Please take care, and don’t hesitate to call if you need anything. Master Bruce sends his good wishes as well.”

Dick’s grin widened as he gently nudged Alfred aside, taking back the phone. “See, even Alfred wants you to come over. It’s unanimous! Right, Cass?”

The screen shifted again, showing a brief glimpse of Cass who simply raised two thumbs up and nodded her head. There was a final round of shouting, tangled limbs, flying fists, and laughter before the screen whirled again and the door slammed shut, leaving Damian’s grumbling face to reappear on the screen.

“Apologies for the disturbance,” he muttered, running a hand through his disheveled hair.

You chuckled, shaking your head. “It’s fine, Damian. Your family’s just... lively.”

Then you squinted your eyes and laughed. “Is your shirt... ripped?”

Damian glanced down, noticing the tear in his shirt for the first time. It ran across his shoulder down to his ribs, revealing the defined contours of his muscles beneath. The golden light from the setting sun highlighted the ridges of his physique, casting soft shadows that accentuated his form. His cheeks flushed slightly.

“It appears so. All thanks to my insufferable brothers.”

Damian set his phone down and moved to his closet. The room around him was bathed in a warm glow, the last rays of the sun filtering through the large windows. You could see the remnants of the earlier chaos: a pillow half off the bed, books slightly askew on the shelf, and one of Damian’s katanas leaning precariously against the wall.

You whistled as he pulled his torn shirt off, admiring the way his back muscles moved. Damian glanced over his shoulder with a raised eyebrow, but a small smirk tugged at the corner of his lips. After a minute, he pulled out a clean black shirt, slipping it on with practiced ease. The fabric stretched over his chest, fitting snugly and highlighting his athletic build. He picked up the phone again, his face coming back into view.

“Better?” he asked, trying to sound casual.

“Much better,” you replied, still smiling. “Though I wouldn’t have minded if you took a little longer.”

Damian rolled his eyes, but his expression was warm. “Idiot.”

He settled back down, setting his phone on his lap, giving you a nice view of his arms as he leaned over. The muscles in his forearms flexed slightly as he adjusted the angle, and you couldn't help but admire the way his strength showed even in such simple movements.

"So... Is it true? Do you really have a secret blonde on the side?” you tease him with a grin. 

Damian’s eyes widened, and he straightened up, immediately on the defensive. “It was a cruel jest, nothing more. Todd is insufferable, but he possesses no actual knowledge of my personal life. I would never—! My devotion to you is absolute, and I have no desire for anyone else. Their incessant teasing is merely a pitiable attempt to provoke me. I assure you, my intentions are solely to be by your side and to build a future together.”

You cut him off, a cheesy grin spreading across your face. “A future together?”

“TT,” Damian’s face turned a deeper shade, and he flustered, hiding his face from the camera with an embarrassed groan.

You chuckled softly, deciding to ease the tension. “Are you going on patrol tonight?”

Damian’s face reappeared, now much more serious and composed but still flushed. “Yes, I am. The usual rounds. Gotham never sleeps.”

You nodded, trying to sound nonchalant despite the worry blossoming in your chest. “Be careful out there."

Damian hummed. “I’ll be cautious. And if anything happens, you’ll be the first to know.”

You smiled back, feeling a warmth in your chest. “Sounds good.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

THWIP.

“Is that the best you’ve got?” Selina taunted, swiping at the webs you cast and tearing them apart with ease. “I thought you were better than this.”

Both of you were in the warehouse, deep into the early hours of the night—2 AM. Selina, ever the night owl, had opted for a sparring session over her usual Catwoman escapades. It seemed the night was better suited for training than prowling tonight.

You grinned, focusing on your next attack. “Oh, I’ve got plenty more. Just warming up!” With a quick flick of your wrist, another set of webs shot towards her, aiming to entangle her legs.

Selina nimbly leaped over the webs, landing with a fluid motion. “Warming up? You’re going to need more than that to catch me.” She launched herself towards you, her claws extended, slicing through the air.

Reacting quickly, you executed a flip, your body twisting mid-air. As you spun, you evaded Selina's claws by mere inches, landing softly on the balls of your feet. “You know, for someone who’s supposedly training me, you sure like to make it difficult.”

"Aren't you the least bit curious?" Selina smirked, slowly turning to face you. “Training isn’t supposed to be easy. If it were, it wouldn’t be worth the effort."

You dropped into a boxing stance, fists raised and ready. “Easy? Who said anything about easy?” You shot back with a quick jab aimed at her midsection. She nimbly dodged it, her movements fluid and precise. Undeterred, you followed up with a powerful cross, your fist just grazing her cheek.

“Let's see if your skills can match that mouth,” she taunted. 

You growled in frustration, launching into an aggressive combo of punches. Left jab, right cross, left hook—you threw each punch while occasionally shooting webs, but Selina danced around them with her cat-like grace. As she dodged a particularly forceful uppercut, you shot a web at her feet, trying to catch her off guard. She just leaped out of the way.

“Getting better,” she admitted, landing a bit rougher than usual. “But not good enough.”

You returned to your boxing stance, senses tingling. “Not yet, but I’m learning.”

Selina lunged again and you ducked under her swipe. She quickly adjusted and lunged at you with a sudden burst of speed. Before you could react, her claws grazed your jaw, sending you stumbling backward. 

“Damn,” you cursed, wiping a trickle of blood from your chin. 

“Learning yet?” she replied with a smirk. 

You grinned and charged at her, launching a flurry of punches. This time, your webs managed to stick to her torso. You pulled her toward you with a sharp tug, forcing her forward. As she stumbled into range, you swung with a powerful punch, connecting squarely with her chin.

Selina winced as she was sent sprawling to the ground, but she quickly recovered. Huffing, she sprang to her feet, brushing off the dust and massaging her jaw with a wry smile. "Nice hit."

“Didn’t hit you too hard, did I, Mom?” you asked, your concern evident as you tugged off your gloves.

Selina chuckled, brushing off a stray web from her hair with an exaggerated flick. “Hardly. I’ve been hit harder by a wayward cat toy."—An obvious lie, you were a very heavy hitter—"But I appreciate the effort.”

You relaxed your stance, feeling a rush of accomplishment. “Just trying to keep up with you.”

"Is that so?" Selina moved to one of the tables, grabbing a handful of ice for her jaw and sliding on a sleek, black jacket on her lithe frame. Turning to you, her eyes sparkled with mischief, a playful smile tugging at the corners of her lips. “Well then... Still have some energy left?”

You rolled your shoulders, savoring the satisfying ache of a good workout. “Yeah. I’m not quite ready to hit the hay yet.”

Selina hummed as she bent down to lace up her boots. “Good. We’re going out.”

You perked up in excitement. It had been days since she’d let you venture out and put your new skills to the test, and you were eager for some action. “Really? You mean it?”

“Yep,” Selina said, pulling a web from her hair with a sly grin. She tossed the ice pack aside, the clink of melting cubes hitting the metal table echoing through the room. “Time to see what you’ve learned. Go get ready."

You nodded and did as told. You slipped on a red varsity jacket—Damian’s from the school’s soccer team. (Despite being a star player, he never bothered wearing it. So you decided to steal borrow it for yourself.) The jacket was oversized on you, but it offered that familiar warmth and the faint scent of his cologne. You kept your training clothes underneath: leggings and a sports bra, the same gear you’d been sweating through in the warehouse. On your feet, you pulled on your red, ratty Converse, their worn-out soles feeling oddly comforting as you prepared for the night ahead.

It wasn’t long before you and Selina were bounding across the rooftops of Gotham, the cityscape a dazzling tapestry of lights and shadows beneath you. The night air was crisp, carrying the distant hum of the city’s nightlife and the occasional whoosh of a passing vehicle far below.

“Keep up!” Selina’s voice rang out, sharp and playful.

On cue, she leaped off a high point with the grace of a cat, her body twisting and flipping through the air while her legs stayed straight. The moonlight caught the glint of her eyes and the flash of her jewelry as she executed a perfect landing on a street lamp. The lamp swayed slightly under her weight, but she held her position with poise, a smirk playing on her lips.

With a grin, you shot a web at the streetlight, using it to swing in a wide arc around the pole. The momentum carried you through a series of rapid spins, your laughter blending with the whistling wind. You pulled yourself up and off the lamp, flipping through the air before landing on the adjacent rooftop with a roll. 

“Nice moves,” she called at you and leaped from the lamp, diving into a graceful spin before landing beside you. 

Both of you continued moving, the exhilaration of the chase fueling your every leap and bound. The city lights streaked past, a blur of neon and shadow, until your eyes were drawn to a large billboard flashing the latest headlines. The bold text blazed across the screen: “Gotham High Senior Prom Interrupted by Villain Connected to Sionis Crime Family: Chaos Erupts.”

You came to an abrupt halt, your movements slowing as the gravity of the news sank in. Your gaze locked onto the billboard, where a stern-looking anchor appeared, speaking in a measured tone. 

“Last Saturday, the prom event at Gotham High was disrupted by a violent attack. Eyewitnesses reported a scene of utter chaos where a villain equipped with mechanical arms infiltrated the event, resulting in a brief but intense altercation. Several students sustained injuries, and there have been confirmed reports of substantial damage to the school's gymnasium. The assailant, identified as Octavius Burton, was apprehended by Batman and his protégé, Robin. Burton, a former professor at the academy, was terminated following inquiries into his activities connected with the Sionis Crime Family, an organization with known affiliations to the criminal figure known as Black Mask. Authorities are continuing to investigate the underlying motives behind this incident.”

Tucking your hands into the pockets of your jacket, you turned as Selina began to make her way to you, your brow furrowing with concern. You observed her expression carefully, noting the subtle shift in her eyes as the news report continued. 

Black Mask was always a sensitive topic between you two, given the deep-seated pain tied to the loss of your parents and Maggie Kyle. The mention of him always had a way of casting a shadow over your conversations.

“Have you seen anything strange lately?” you asked, trying to gauge her reaction.

Selina glanced at you, her eyes narrowing slightly as she considered her answer. “Actually, I have,” she said, her voice low and contemplative. “I’ve noticed some of the gang’s activities have been unusually erratic. They’re moving around more, and there have been whispers of new operations.”

“And what do you think it means?” you asked carefully, trying to avoid pushing too hard.

Selina shrugged slightly, her eyes narrowing as she considered her response. “It’s hard to say. They’re usually pretty secretive, but something feels different this time. Like there’s a bigger play going on.”

You chewed on your inner cheek, feeling a familiar tightness in your chest. This was the most you’d managed to get her to talk about Black Mask or any of the darker aspects of her other life. It wasn’t often Selina opened up about such things, and the rare glimpses she offered were often fleeting, like shadows slipping through your fingers.

“Have you been able to find out anything specific?” you asked, tugging at the sleeves of Damian's jacket. “Any leads or patterns that might hint at what’s coming?”

Selina’s expression grew more guarded, her eyes narrowing as she weighed her words. “Not much,” she admitted reluctantly. “Just fragments and whispers. But whatever’s brewing, it’s got those boys on edge. And when they’re on edge, you know something big is about to go down.”

You nodded, feeling a knot of anxiety in your chest. You shut your eyes for a brief moment, gathering the courage to voice your thoughts. When you opened them again, your gaze was steady. 

“I want to look into it,” you said firmly. “If there’s something happening, I need to know what it is. It’s... it’s important to me.”

Selina froze. “I’m sorry, what?”

You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, feeling the weight of your words as they hung in the cool night air. “I can’t shake the feeling that everything’s connected. There’s too much coincidence here to ignore.”

Selina’s eyes narrowed, her posture stiffening as she took a step back. “What do you mean?”

You ran a hand through your hair, trying to keep your voice steady despite the knot in your throat. “Oh, come on. Think about it. My parents died because of Black Mask. Then, this villain linked to Black Mask shows up and creates chaos at the prom. The very next day, I wake up with spider powers, and then I discover my dad was researching spider-human DNA modification. The puzzle pieces are there. I just need to put them together.”

Selina’s expression darkened, her features set in a hard line as she scrutinized you through narrowed eyes. “Excuse me?”

You met her gaze, feeling a surge of frustration mingled. “I know! I know it’s dangerous, and I know Batman and the others probably have it covered. But I need to know what really happened with my father. I need to find out for myself.”

Selina’s eyes widened slightly, and she let out a disbelieving laugh, her hand coming up to her forehead as if to steady herself. “Whoa, whoa, whoa. Kid, don’t get ahead of yourself. Just because I trained you for a week doesn’t mean I’m about to let you go and get yourself tangled up with the Sionis Family.”

You bristled at her dismissive tone, stepping closer, you waved your hands around in desperation. “But you don’t get it. I can’t just sit back and ignore this. It’s not just about training or staying safe; it’s about finding answers. Answers about my father and the connection to all of this.”

Selina’s expression hardened, her protective instincts flaring. “You think I don’t understand that? I lost your aunt... my sister too, you know. I get how hard it is. But jumping headfirst into danger without understanding the full picture is reckless. The Sionis Family isn’t just some petty gang—they’re dangerous, and they’ve got resources and connections that could put you in serious harm.”

You took a step back, feeling the sting of her words. “You think I’m too weak to handle it, don’t you? That I’ll just fall apart like everyone else you’ve seen?”

Selina’s eyes widened. “That’s not what I meant—”

“But it is what you’re implying!” you shot back. “You’re treating me like I’m still a child like I can’t make my own decisions. I-If you don’t think I can handle it, then train me like a soldier so I can be ready! But don’t just shut me out because you’re afraid of what might happen.”

"I don't want a soldier. I want my daughter," Selina hushed, now face to face with you. “You're my daughter. You're my girl. You are a child whose whole world was turned upside down with no explanation. You were left there all alone, on my doorstep. And I took you in because I couldn’t stand to see you lost and alone. Now, you’re asking me to let you dive headfirst into a world that killed everyone I loved and nearly destroyed me.”

You shook your head, trying to protest, but she silenced you with a firm yet gentle tone.

“I know you're confused. I know you're angry. So angry about your mother's death. And, baby, I am too,” she whispered. “But you have so much ahead of you, and I don’t want this world to consume you before you’ve even had a chance to truly live. This life, it’s... it’s not what I want for you.”

“But what if this is what I want?” you asked quietly, looking back up at her. 

“You’ll regret it,” Selina said softly, her voice heavy with melancholy. Her shoulders sagged as she pulled you into a tight embrace. “I see myself in you, in all the ways I wished I could have been something different, something better. It scares me because I know all too well what this life can do.”

The news report had long since ended, replaced by a loud, garish commercial flashing across the billboard. The vivid hues of red and yellow spilled over both of you, casting an almost surreal glow on your faces. As the relentless noise and flashing lights swirled around you, you simply nodded and clung to her, the weight of her words sinking deep as you hugged her back.

 ༻⊰───⋅

The newly bought alarm clock, purchased after the old one was smashed the night after prom, blinked at you with relentless precision. Its bright blue neon numbers cut through the darkness: 

3:43 AM.

You were seated at your desk, robin-themed socks snug on your feet and a green blanket draped around you for warmth. The soft glow of your laptop screen illuminated your face as you pored over a labyrinth of links and tabs, your eyes scanning for any scrap of information related to Octavius Burton. The room was quiet except for the faint hum of the computer and the occasional click of your mouse.

Both you and Selina had returned from the rooftop after the tense conversation, the air between you still charged with unspoken words. Selina, visibly exhausted, had offered you a final, goodnight kiss on the cheek before retreating to her bed. The weight of your conversation had clearly worn her out, but you remained restless.

A few more links scrolled by on your laptop, but the information was sparse and unhelpful. Restlessness gnawed at you, the room feeling too stuffy and oppressive. You glanced at your window, an idea taking shape in your mind.

You grabbed your laptop and closed it with a decisive snap. The screen went dark, but the soft blue light from your alarm clock still bathed the room in an eerie glow. You slid your feet into your shoes and approached the window.

Opening it quietly, you peered out into the night, the cool air splashing against your face like water. Using your spider powers, you crawled effortlessly up the side of the building. Once there, you settled onto the edge. 

Cool and refreshing, a welcome change from the stuffy room. You pulled out your laptop, its glow casting a soft light on your face. 

As you continued your search for information, the quiet of the night enveloped you, broken only by the occasional distant sound of the city below. It felt like the world had opened up just a little bit more.

With a click, you redirected your search to something more personal. You began scrolling through the company pages of Osborn Industries, the old company where your father had worked. 

You skimmed through employee directories, old press releases, and archived news articles. You paused at a page detailing the company’s history. Among the names and dates, you spotted a familiar one: Octavius Burton.

The text described him as a former lead researcher who worked at Osborn Industries for a brief three years before his abrupt departure. Huh. 

Shaking off your unease, you shifted your focus to a research site where your father had published his work. Searching for his name, you navigated to his profile. 

Scrolling through his list of publications, you examined the coauthors and acknowledgments. Your heart skipped a beat when you came across a paper that mentioned Burton in its acknowledgments section. It read:

“Special thanks to Dr. Octavius Burton for his invaluable insights and technical expertise during the development of this project.”

A knot formed in your stomach as you closed the laptop, your head beginning to throb. The pieces of the puzzle were starting to fit together, but the edges were still blurred, the full picture just out of reach. You needed more information, more clarity, to untangle the web of connections. But the more you uncovered, the more you realized just how deep this went.

Scowling, you rubbed your temples, trying to soothe the growing tension. Then, the sudden, unsettling tingle of your spider sense flared to life. It began as a faint prickle at the back of your neck, quickly escalating into a sharp, alarming sensation that made your heartbeat race.

Instinctively, you turned, the hairs on the back of your neck standing on end. As you faced the source of your unease, a shadowy figure dropped down, landing silently just a few feet in front of you.

Without hesitation, you swung your fist toward the intruder, the laptop tumbling from your lap and clattering onto the rooftop. Your knuckles connected with their jaw, causing them to stumble slightly before regaining their footing. Growling, you threw another punch, but a gloved hand intercepted your fist mid-air.

"Habibti?" came a familiar voice, edged with surprise.

You looked up to see Damian, clad in his Robin suit, his expression a mix of concern and mild irritation. His jaw was already beginning to darken with a splotchy mix of red and purple.

"Oh my god!" you exclaimed, mortified. The realization of who you had just struck hit you like a wave, your cheeks burning with heat. "I—I'm so sorry! I didn’t mean to—"

Damian adjusted his stance, wincing slightly as he gingerly touched the sore spot on his jaw. “Really, habibti? Is this how you greet everyone who drops by? I must say, I’m both impressed and deeply insulted.”

He then pursed his lips, throwing his head back in thought, the white slits of his mask narrowing. “That punch—while executed with commendable force—was aimed a little too enthusiastically. A more restrained approach might yield better results. Precision and control, rather than sheer aggression, are often more advantageous.”

You gaped at him as he scrutinized your stance with a critical eye. “And your balance was off. You need to maintain your center of gravity better. Proper alignment and posture are crucial to executing strikes effectively without compromising your stability.”

"Are you... judging my punch?"

Damian’s lips curled into a smirk as he continued his assessment, clearly reveling in the opportunity to critique. Brat.

“Well, if the shoe fits,” he said with a self-satisfied air, adjusting his gloves with a flourish. “It’s only fair that I offer some guidance, given the rather dramatic introduction. You could have neutralized me more efficiently if you had employed a bit more finesse.”

You crossed your arms, trying to mask your irritation behind a mask of cool detachment. “Well, excuse me for not living up to your high standards. Maybe next time I’ll try to avoid punching the person who’s supposed to be giving me tips.”

"It was a decent hit. You’ve managed to impress me. Consider it a compliment, really. Most people don’t even get the chance to lay a hand on me," he crossed his arms with a wry grin.

“I hate you,” you grumbled, but despite your words, you wrapped your arms around his torso and buried your face into his chest. Damian simply huffed and placed his arms over your shoulders.

“Why did you drop by anyway?” you asked, lifting your head to look up at him.

Damian’s arms tightened around you as he responded, “I was in the neighborhood. Curiosity got the better of me. And it seems I was right to investigate,” his gaze flickered toward your laptop, still lying on the rooftop.

You eyed him with skepticism. “Really? You just happened to be passing by? You do know this is Catwoman's territory.”

“Tt,” Damian scowled, averting his gaze as the tips of his ears turned a faint red. “It’s not as if I was actively searching for you,” he said, his tone attempting to sound indifferent. “Just a fortunate coincidence, I suppose.”

You reached up and gently touched Damian's face, tracing a scar around his eyebrow with a tender touch. 

“Idiot,” you said affectionately, a soft smile playing on your lips.

“Hardly,” he replied, a subtle warmth in his tone as he moved to lift you into his arms.

“Put me down,” you groaned. “I’m heavy.”

“Beloved, my bench press warm-ups weigh more than you,” he retorted with a smirk. Before you could say anything, his arms tensed around you, and he pulled you down before effortlessly tossing you into the air.

A startled scream tore from your lips as you flailed instinctively, a web shooting out behind you. The sticky thread snared the edge of the rooftop with a faint hiss, pulling taut and catching Damian’s attention. His head whipped around, confusion clouding his features as he tried to make sense of the unexpected blur of movement.

In that heart-stopping moment of panic, you plummeted back towards him, landing in his arms. 

Shit. 

Without a second thought, before he could fully look back, you grabbed his jaw, pulling him into a kiss. Damian’s surprise was palpable; his eyes widened in shock, but as you deepened the kiss, his initial confusion quickly melted away. His arms wrapped around you, responding with a fervor that matched your own. 

After a few minutes, Damian attempted to pull away, his curiosity still evident. But you weren’t having any of it. With a soft, pleading whine, you drew him back into the kiss, your hands sliding over the contours of his armor as you whispered his name against his lips.

Beneath the hardened exterior and the carefully constructed armor, Damian was achingly soft. The mere thought of kissing you, of feeling your lips against his, had managed to distract him so thoroughly that the facade he worked so hard to project fell away like fragile shards of glass.

Damian’s attempt to pull away only lasted a heartbeat before he was drawn back into the kiss. His hands tightened around you, one sliding up to cradle the back of your neck while the other pressed firmly against your lower back, pulling you closer. Your hands roamed across the sleek surface of his armor, fingertips tracing the ridges and contours as if memorizing the feel of him.

Damian groaned your name into the kiss, the sound low and throaty. His lips trailed down to your neck, leaving a trail of heated, tender kisses that made your breath catch.

Suddenly, the sharp crackle of his earpiece broke through the intimate moment. Damian’s body tensed, and with a swift, almost mechanical movement, he leaped several feet away from you, landing hard on his feet. He straightened, his posture rod straight as he adjusted his earpiece.

“Dam—Robin,” came Tim’s voice through the earpiece. “Eugh. What the hell is that noise? I thought you were on patrol. Are you seriously making out on the job? Jason and I are getting an earful of... whatever that is. Are you trying to set a new record for most traumatizing patrol ever?”

Jason chimed in with a tone dripping in sarcasm. “Yeah, thanks for the front-row seat to the romance, demon brat. I’ll be sure to add that to my list of things I didn’t need to hear tonight. Next time, maybe give us a warning before you make me want to shoot myself.”

"TT," Damian’s face flushed a deep crimson as he yanked the earpiece from his ear with a grimace. His hand slammed down on the divide, causing it to crumble in a fit of anger. 

"Oh," you watched with an amused grin as he spun on his heel with a sharp, almost frantic movement, and leaped away from the rooftop in a swift exit. 

"Next time, try to keep the earpiece off!" you shouted after him with a grin. Damian just jumped away faster, soon disappearing from sight. You sighed, the grin slipping from your face as worry began to creep in, tightening your chest.

Turning around, you saw the web you had shot, stuck on the ground, glistening faintly under the moonlight. Panic bubbled up inside you as you moved toward it, your hands trembling slightly. Fuck. That was a close call.

With a deep breath, you picked up the web, its sticky texture clinging to your fingers before you managed to toss it off the roof, watching it disappear into the darkness below. The night seemed eerily quiet in the aftermath, every rustle of leaves or distant siren making your heart race.

You glanced around the rooftop one last time, ensuring no other evidence was left behind.

"I have got to be a lot more careful," you sighed to yourself, the words barely more than a whisper. You picked up your laptop, the familiar weight grounding you as you made your way back to your room. For now, all you could do was hope Damian remained oblivious to the web and your secret stayed safe.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Monday, 2:19 PM - Chemistry Lab, Gotham Academy.

“...and as you can see, the rate of reaction increases with temperature, which in turn affects the activation energy required. Remember, it’s crucial to maintain consistent variables to ensure accurate results. Any questions?”

The room hummed with a mix of scribbling pencils and the occasional murmur as students exchanged glances and half-heartedly raised hands. One student’s question prompted Dr. Foster to smoothly transition to another segment of the lecture.

You slouched over your desk, your focus wavering between the textbook and the monotonous drone of the lecture. The room felt stifling, the endless rows of lab benches and flickering fluorescent lights amplifying the sense of tedium. Your pen danced absently across the paper of your notebook, sketching a series of spiders—each one more detailed than the last. It was the third-to-last class of the day, and you found yourself counting down the minutes until freedom.

This was one of the only classes you didn’t share with Damian, and his absence made the wait for dismissal feel even longer.

With a sigh, you let your pen hover over the paper, your thoughts wandering. You sketched a particularly detailed spider, giving it a little mask and cape for amusement. The mundane buzz of the classroom was punctuated by the occasional shuffle of papers and soft murmurs from other students, but it all blended into a dull hum.

“You like spiders?” came a voice, interrupting your idle doodling.

You turned to find your seatmate, Morgan, looking at you with a curious expression.

Morgan Gwendolyne Stark—her full name rolling off the tongue like something out of a high-fashion magazine—was your lab partner in Chemistry class and a standout at Gotham Academy. She was a top student, a robotics prodigy, and the heiress to Stark Industries, Wayne Industries' rival company. 

You blinked, slightly taken aback. “Oh, um... yeah. I guess so. Just an interest.”

Morgan leaned closer strands of chestnut hair falling over her shoulders. "Really? Most people find them creepy. What got you into spiders?"

You glanced at your notebook, where intricate doodles of spiders and webs sprawled across the page. "I don't know," you began, hesitating. "They're just... fascinating. I like their webs."

Morgan nodded thoughtfully, a small smile playing on her lips. "That's pretty cool. I get it. I have a thing for coding. Guess we all have our quirks, huh?"

You couldn't help but smile back, feeling a bit more at ease. As the bell rang, signaling the end of class, students began to gather their belongings and prepare to leave. The clatter of backpacks and the rustling of papers filled the room as everyone moved with a collective sense of relief. Morgan leaned back in her seat, crossing her arms with a small smile. She tilted her head and studied you with a curious, playful gaze.

“What’s your name again?” she asked, a hand moving up to adjust the glasses on her face.

You blinked, momentarily taken aback by the question. After months of sitting next to her, you'd assumed she’d have gotten it by now. Hell, you two did tablework assignments together, shared notes, and even collaborated on that tough group project last semester. 

“You... don’t know my name?” you asked, your voice tinged with disbelief.

Her eyes widened slightly, a hint of embarrassment coloring her cheeks as she realized the weight of her question. She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, her fingers fidgeting with the edge of her notebook. The faint blush on her cheeks deepened, contrasting with the freckles dusting her skin.

“Oh, I know your name,” she lied horribly, her voice faltering just a bit. “I… just want to know if you know it.”

A smile crept up your cheeks as you gathered your notebook and packed it away, your movements slower and more deliberate.

“I’m Y/N Kyle,” you said, offering a gentle smile.

“Nice to meet you, Y/N,” Morgan smiled back. Her eyes sparkled with a mix of relief and amusement as she tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear. “Maybe next time we can trade more than just doodles and spider talk.”

“Sounds good, Morgan,” you said as you managed a sheepish smile, sliding your backpack over one shoulder and standing up. 

As students filed out of the classroom, you and Morgan exchanged a final look. She gave you a quick, playful wink before turning to join her friends, who were already waiting by the door.

Walking out of the classroom, the hallway was filled with the usual hustle and bustle of students eager to head home or to their clubs. The walls were lined with lockers, some open and spilling over with books and personal items. The chatter of conversations and the occasional laughter echoed off the walls.

As you pushed through the crowd, your phone buzzed in your pocket. You pulled it out, glancing at the screen. It was a message from Damian:

SUGAR DAMI:

Beloved, I'm afraid I can't drive you home today. I have soccer training that will extend until 5 o'clock.

You sighed, feeling a slight pang of disappointment. Selina was out on a heist for the whole day, and you weren't looking forward to boring yourself to death in your apartment. 

With a huff, you typed a quick response:

YOU:

No worries, I'll figure something out. Good luck with training!

Slipping your phone back into your pocket, you adjusted the strap of your backpack and headed towards the back entrance of the school. Pushing open the heavy double doors, you stepped outside into the crisp afternoon air. The sky was a clear blue, with only a few wispy clouds drifting lazily above. The sun cast a warm, golden glow over the school grounds, and the sound of distant traffic mixed with the chirping of birds.

You made your way to a secluded side of the school grounds, glancing around to make sure no one was watching before deftly jumping over the fence. Landing smoothly on the other side, you slipped into an alleyway, your footsteps echoing off the narrow brick walls. You bounded up a fire escape, scaling the building with ease. 

At the top, you rolled your shoulder, loosening up. The view of your apartment was visible even from here, but that wasn't the venue in mind.

"To the warehouse it is," you muttered to yourself. With a final glance back at the school, you took off across the rooftops.

 ༻⊰───⋅

It didn't take long for you to reach the warehouse. The familiar scent of old wood and metal greeting you as you pushed open the heavy doors. 

With a tap of your finger, you opened Spotify and turned on some music, the tunes playing from the speakers sitting on a nearby table.

Don't wanna be an American idiot One nation controlled by the media Information age of hysteria It's calling out to idiot America

Still in your school uniform, you took off your blazer and tossed it somewhere on the floor, leaving you in your shirt and tie, slightly rumpled from the day's wear. The warehouse felt cooler without the extra layer, and the air against your skin was refreshing.

Webbing a few panels of the wall, you formed a hammock and jumped onto it, the structure swaying slightly as you settled in. The rhythmic motion soothed you as you lay back, feeling the tension of the day begin to ease.

Settling deeper into the hammock, you pulled out your phone and began scrolling idly through the latest news reports. The headlines were grim, detailing the latest string of crimes committed by Black Mask. As a Gotham native, you were used to the constant stream of bad news, but it still made your stomach churn slightly.

One headline caught your eye:

"Multiple Tech Industries Robbed: Black Mask Suspected in High-Tech Heist Spree"

You clicked on the article, your eyes scanning the details.

"In the past week, several leading tech companies have reported break-ins and thefts, resulting in the loss of millions in high-tech equipment and proprietary technology."

The article detailed the affected companies and the nature of the thefts. Wayne Enterprises had reported missing experimental nanotechnology components. LexCorp was missing cutting-edge encryption devices, while Queen Consolidated had reported the disappearance of prototype energy sources.

Your brow furrowed as you took in the list. Black Mask was stepping up his game. He was gutsy, you'd say that, targeting Wayne Enterprises when Gotham was practically owned by the company. Maybe you could ask Damian for info. He might have some insights that could help you in your personal little mission.

Then there was a tingling sensation, a familiar prickle at the back of your neck, like tiny electric currents dancing along your spine. It heightened your senses, sharpening your focus as if the world slowed down for a brief moment. You turned just in time to see Selina swinging in with her bullwhip, landing on the ground with a graceful yet forceful thud.

Smirking, you raised a hand in greeting. “You didn’t roll. That’s really bad for your knees.”

She straightened up, her black leather suit catching the dim light that filtered through the dusty windows. “Oh please, honey. You know, I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you,” she rolled her eyes, a fond smile tugging at the corners of her lips.

"Why so early?" you hummed. "Thought you were out for the whole day. Got caught by Batman again?"

"Caught? Please, I let him think he had a chance. I needed to be back early to remind you who the real master thief is around here," she scoffed, sauntering over to you, her boots clicking against the concrete.

She held a small, black bag in her hand. With a casual flick of her wrist, she tossed it your way. The bag flew through the air in a smooth arc, hitting your stomach with a soft thud. You grunted slightly, and moved to grab it in your arms.

“What's this?” you asked, an eyebrow raised at her.

“Just a little something I picked up on my way back,” she replied with a smirk, leaning against a nearby crate. “Figured you could use a bit of excitement.”

Opening the bag, you found a sleek, black suit inside. The material was smooth and definitely Kevlar. Government-grade material. The bodysuit was similar to Selina’s, but as you turned it around, you saw a spider symbol stitched onto the back.

“A suit?” you marveled, pulling it out for a closer look.

Selina smiled, pulling her goggles up and moving to sit by you. “I made it myself. Took a while to get everything just right, but I think it’ll suit you perfectly.”

You traced the spider emblem with your fingers, feeling a mix of excitement and hesitation. “I thought... you didn’t want me to go out into that world?”

Selina sighed softly, her expression softening as she watched you. “I was hesitant at first. You know how dangerous it can be out there. The streets of Gotham aren’t forgiving, and I’ve seen too many people get hurt—or worse—because they weren’t prepared. But I also understand why you feel the need to do this. It’s in your blood, just like it’s in mine. We’ve both got that itch.”

She paused, her gaze distant for a moment before focusing back on you. “When I first started, I was headstrong, eager to prove myself. I took risks, some stupid, some necessary, but I learned. This is my way of making sure you can learn the ropes without getting in over your head.”

Her eyes softened further, a hand coming up to rest on your shoulder. “I care about you, and I don’t want to see you get hurt. But I also know that keeping you on the sidelines isn’t fair. So, if you’re going to be out there, I want you to be safe. I want you to come back in one piece, honey.”

"You're going to let me patrol?" you rasped out, a grin so wide it spread across the ends of your cheeks.

Selina’s tone sharpened. “Don’t think for a second this means I’m giving you free rein. I’ll be watching. One wrong move, and I’ll be right there to pull you back. But for now, consider this my way of making sure you’re ready.”

“I won’t let you down,” you said, smiling as you hopped off the hammock.

She smirked, giving your shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You better not, kid. Now, get suited up. Let’s see how you look in action.”

You took the suit and headed to a makeshift changing area in the corner of the warehouse. The material felt surprisingly light and flexible, molding against your body perfectly. You glanced at yourself in a cracked mirror propped against the wall. The sleek, black suit clung to you like a second skin, the spider emblem on the back standing out against the dark fabric.

Stepping out of the changing area, you caught Selina’s eye.

She circled you once, twice, before nodding in approval. “Not bad. You look like you mean business.”

You grinned, crossing your arms over your chest. “I do mean business.”

“Now, before anything, let’s set some rules,” Selina began, raising a clawed finger in the air. “First, no killing – under any circumstances. That’s a non-negotiable.”

You nodded solemnly.

“Second, no involvement with gangs – steer clear of any gang activity. This especially includes Black Mask and his operations. They're too dangerous and unpredictable.”

You deflated a bit but nodded.

“Third, no crossing paths with the Bats – stay clear of their patrol routes and avoid any interaction with them. This means no going into their known territories.”

“No patrolling on school nights – your education is your priority. You need to be rested and focused for school.”

“No associating with Catwoman – you can’t be seen with me in costume. It raises too many eyebrows and could lead Batman or others to figure out who you are.”

“So... I get to go solo?” you grinned.

Selina rolled her eyes. “Yes, but I’ll be tracking your every move. Stick to small, street-level threats like muggings, burglaries, and assaults. No big jobs or anything that could draw too much attention.”

“After patrols, come to the warehouse first – don’t go straight to the apartment. We need to debrief, and it’s safer to lay low here. If our real address gets leaked, we’re in serious trouble.”

“Lastly, no fraternizing with civilians – no getting involved with people outside of your crime-fighting.”

You nodded, taking in each rule. “Got it. No killing, no gangs, no Bats, no school-night patrols, no Catwoman, warehouse first after patrols, and no civilians.”

Selina nodded in approval. “Good. Stick to those rules, and we might just keep you out of trouble. Any small slip-up or any inkling of suspicion from the Bats, and you're out. Got that?”

Her eyes bore into yours, green slits glaring into your soul. You gulped and nodded again, more firmly this time. "Got it. No room for mistakes."

Selina hummed, satisfied, and tossed you a mask. You pulled it up and examined it. The mask was sleek and full-faced, with large, white mesh eye covers bordered in black. Light, almost invisible patterns of webbing were woven across its surface. The mask didn’t cover your hair, leaving it free to flow.

"You know, for someone who doesn't follow the rules, you sure do have a lot for me," you snorted, running your fingers over the webbing, appreciating the craftsmanship before clipping it onto your face.

Selina smirked, leaning in slightly. “That’s because I’m Catwoman and you’re not. I know when to break the rules and play. You’re still learning.”

“Do I at least get a cool name?” you asked, adjusting the mask to fit snugly.

“The press usually decides that, honey. How do you like the sound of Spider-Girl?”

“Spider-Woman,” you corrected with a grin.

“Spidey might be cuter,” she teased.

“Spidey,” you hummed, rolling the name around in your head. “That has a nice ring to it.”

“Spidey it is, then.”

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

10k words setup chapter!!! i swear it escalates real bad next chapter

dududun there's a stark

surely putting this child into vigilante work is a good idea i am very sure spidey will be responsible and not at all destructive like every other peter parker ever

also! you fight like Spider Noir bc both of you use bare-knuckle boxing

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

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: BACK TO OUR REGULARLY SCHEDULED PROGRAMMING

← back to chapter list

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.

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.”

iii. what's up danger?

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

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

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Bruce slowly drops his newspaper, a twist on his face.

"Repeat that."

A round of stunned stares was exchanged around the table. Tim quickly typed something on his laptop before turning it around for everyone to see. The screen displayed an article with the headline:

"WAYNE-STARK RIVALRY REACHES NEW HEIGHTS: DAMIAN WAYNE'S GIRLFRIEND CLAIMS TOP SPOT IN STARK INDUSTRIES YOUNG INNOVATORS PROGRAM."

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jason whistled again, this time in genuine admiration. “Well, damn. She really knocked it out of the park.”

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown.

“I see... Stark must think she's such an accomplished and intelligent young woman. Hn. Of course, I already knew that,” Bruce spoke slowly, scowling.

"Oh my god," Dick grimaced and laughed under his breath. "The adoption senses are tingling."

"Damn, B. He's stealing your kid," Jason snorted, shaking his head. "Who's going to win the custody battle?"

 ༻⊰───⋅

GOTHAM WAS BEAUTIFUL.

The city's lights stretched out below you like a glittering sea, each pinprick of light a mesmerizing dance of color and shadow. The towering, sleek skyscrapers stood tall and proud, their glass facades reflecting a mosaic of neon hues and starlight. Between them, narrow alleys wove like dark veins through the city's heart, their secrets hidden from view. The occasional flicker of a distant billboard or the intermittent flash of police sirens painted the scene with brief, brilliant strokes.

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

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

"All it takes is a leap of fate," Selina’s voice cut through the wind. She knew the weight of the moment, the gravity of the choice you faced.

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

"That's all it takes."

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

A leap of fate.

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

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

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

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

THWIP.

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

You were flying.

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

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

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

What's up, danger?

༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 2:32PM - Chemistry Lab, Gotham Academy. A Few Months Later.

Over the past few months, you had quickly settled into your role as Spidey. The initial buzz of your debut had faded, leaving you working in Gotham's shadows. You were recognized by locals and criminals but had yet to make a significant impact on the city's larger stage. Occasional articles mentioned you, but they often dismissed you compared to Gotham’s major heroes.

The big headlines were reserved for the likes of Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and Robin. 

At first, Robin—Damian—kept a close watch on you. You’d caught him a few times, white slits watching from the shadows as you patrolled. However, as time passed and your activities remained focused on street-level crimes, it became clear you weren’t a major threat. With this understanding, he left you to your own devices, focusing instead on the bigger issues that Gotham had.

And well, it was fine. You played the part of the neighborhood's friendly Spidey with ease, offering smiles and saving the day. But inside, a different story brewed. Beneath the mask, restlessness gnawed at you.

The city’s shadows seemed darker these days. You’d heard the whispers and seen the signs—Black Mask was back, and this time, much more violent than before. 

You couldn’t shake the feeling that no matter how many petty criminals you stopped, the real threat loomed larger than ever. Each new act of violence from Black Mask seemed to mock your efforts.

All the writers keep writing what they write Somewhere another pretty vein just dies I've got the scars from tomorrow and I wish you could see That you're the antidote to everything, except for me A constellation of tears on your lashes Burn everything you love Then burn the ashes In the end everything collides—

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

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

“Hey, give those back!” you protest, reaching for the earbuds.

Morgan just smirks, bending out of reach. “Oh, come on. What’s got you so moody today?”

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan’s eyes narrow, and she gives you a hard stare. “Look, I get it. Shit’s messed up. But wallowing in your own misery isn’t helping.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgan, walking beside you, suddenly reaches out and playfully slaps your rear. You yelp in surprise, catching Damian’s attention. He straightens, his gaze shifting sharply towards Morgan, who grins mischievously.

“Call me if you need anything, alright? And don’t keep me waiting too long!” Morgan says with a cheeky grin, her eyes sparkling with mischief.

Her gaze lingers on you for a moment, then flicks to Damian, who watches her with a mix of irritation and barely masked jealousy. The warmth in the hallway seems to cool as Damian’s jaw tightens, emerald eyes darkening with a stony, almost predatory intensity. Morgan holds his gaze for a beat longer before walking away with a whistle, her hips swaying confidently.

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

Damian’s voice, though low, is edged with a sharpness that cuts through the background noise.

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

“She’s my best friend. She just likes to mess with me,” you snort. Getting on your tip toes, you lean in and press a quick, affectionate kiss against his cheek. “And don’t worry, I’m all yours.”

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

He then pushes himself off your locker. There’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes before he clears his throat and turns his attention fully to you.

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

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

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

Damian’s face falls visibly.

“Oh,” he says. “I see. I suppose I should have expected that,” he adds with a strained attempt at indifference.

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

You shake your head gently. “I really have to go. There’s too much on my plate right now. And mom wants me back early.”

Damian turns his head to the side, the air around him feeling heavier as he lets out a deep, resigned sigh. His broad shoulders roll in a dramatic slump, and he clenches his jaw, trying to hide the sting of rejection. “Very well, then. If you must prioritize other matters over spending time with me, I suppose there’s little I can do.”

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

Damian’s eyes flicker with a hint of something softening as you lean in. You press a gentle, lingering kiss to his lips. His eyes close momentarily as your hands caress up his biceps.

When you pull back, Damian’s emerald gaze meets yours.

“Very well,” he says, his voice softer lower. “I shall await your call tonight.”

You offer a reassuring smile, then turn and walk away, feeling his eyes on you until you disappear into the crowd. Damian watches you go, the tension in his posture slowly easing as he inhales deeply. Reaching for his car keys he stomps his way into the parking lot.

He'll make sure to lift extra hard tonight.

༻⊰───⋅

The gym in Wayne Manor is dimly lit, casting long shadows across the polished floors and sleek equipment. The air is filled with the subtle scent of sweat and the low hum of an air conditioner struggling to keep up with the heat. Damian stands at the deadlift bar, grip firm and steady as he prepares for his lift.

He takes a deep breath, his face set in a scowl, and then he heaves the bar up with a forceful grunt.

The barbell, loaded with an impressive 700 pounds, rises steadily. Damian’s face twists with the effort, doing breathing exercises to keep his breath steady. After a few seconds, he drops the bar with a thunderous crash that reverberates through the gym, the clang of metal echoing off the walls. He tosses his weight belt aside with a snap, scoffing.

In another corner of the gym, Tim is deep into his calisthenics routine, his body moving fluidly as he pulls himself up on the bar. His back muscles ripple with each movement, sweat glistening on his skin. He glances over at Damian, raising an eyebrow at the noise.

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

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

Tim, ignoring the jab, looks at him with wide-eyed disbelief. “Seriously? Is this what you’re doing instead of patrol? Trying to outlift Bruce?”

Damian rolls his eyes, irritation evident. He moves toward the weights, adjusting the bar and adding even more weight to the already formidable load. His goal for the night: 1000 pounds.

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

“It’s like I don’t even know you anymore,” Tim replies, shaking his head.

Damian’s face remains set in a scowl. “It’s a matter of mental clarity. At times, the exertion of physical strain serves to alleviate... other things."

Most of them use working out as a way to release energy and emotions. Damian’s favorites were cardio and weights. Judging by the steadily increasing weight and the volume and force he puts into dropping his weights, something was on his mind.

Tim raises an eyebrow, sensing the deeper layers beneath Damian’s words. “Whatever works, I guess,” he says, watching as Damian adjusts the weights once more.

"Furthermore,” Damian adds. “Past patrols have been a washout. I highly doubt anything of importance is going to happen.”

༻⊰───⋅

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

"WOO!"

The breeze of the night air rushes past you as you spin, Gotham below a blur of lights and shadows. You twist in the air, looking down at the familiar streets and alleyways where you’ve fought, protected, and survived.

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

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

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

You glide through the air, the fabric of your suit rustling softly in the wind. Below, the streets are a patchwork of cobblestones and cracked asphalt, illuminated by the occasional headlights of passing cars and the neon signs of rundown bars and shops.

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

Then you see her. A woman sprinting frantically down the street, her breathless cries piercing the night. Her short-cut hair flies wildly around her face, and her eyes are wide with terror. Behind her, a group of men give chase, their malicious laughter echoing through the alleys as they close the distance.

Your heart skips a beat as recognition hits. 

It’s Morgan.

Hold up—what is she doing here?

Morgan, who has no business being anywhere near this part of town, especially not at this hour. She lives miles away in the heart of the city, far removed from this grim area near Crime Alley. Queens Street is a world apart from her usual haunts. 

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

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

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

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

"Gentlemen," you say, "it appears you’ve chosen the wrong night for your little escapade. Shall we resolve this quickly, or would you prefer to continue your charade?"

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

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

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

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

"Whop!" You deliver a swift kick to his side, sending him sprawling into a nearby alley. He crashes into a heap of garbage with a muffled thud. As he groans and tries to get up, you call out with a chuckle, “Careful! You might hurt someone’s trash."

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

You toss your head back with a groan. “Oh, great. Another volunteer. How kind of you to make my night so... eventful.”

He charges at you with a bull-like roar, and you sidestep, letting him stumble past. As he regains his balance, you shoot a web at his feet, pulling him back and causing him to crash into a nearby stack of wooden pallets. The crates topple over with a loud clatter, and he ends up sprawled on the ground, whining in pain.

Another thug, seizing the moment, lunges at you with a wild swing. You catch his fist in mid-air, twisting his arm. Using his momentum, you deliver a sharp uppercut that sends him reeling backward. As he tries to recover, you weave him up to a nearby wall, where he struggles against the sticky strands of webbing.

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

You smirk and walk over to him with a casual stride. “That’s the best decision you’ve made all night.”

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

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

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

Morgan, catching her breath, chuckles weakly. “W-Well, I was just out for a... walk, and it seems I made a wrong turn. Next thing I know, I’m being chased by a bunch of goons.”

You shake your head, the slits of your mask narrowing at her. “Well, you sure know how to pick your places for a stroll. You do know Queens is a crime district, right? And you are a very well-known figure. One that is very vulnerable to kidnappings, mind you.”

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

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

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

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Teenage angst? Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The city below hums with its usual energy, but for now, the streets of Queens are a bit safer, and Morgan is on her way back home, likely with a story she’ll be telling for a while.

After your patrol, you head to your warehouse to change into civilian clothes. As you walk the streets, you keep your head down, deliberately avoiding drawing any attention. Gotham’s streets are dangerous for a reason, and blending in is often the best way to stay safe.

You pull out your phone and dial Damian’s number. It’s not just a check-in; it’s an extra layer of safety. Even though you’re capable of handling yourself, this is your civilian identity out and about. Better to be cautious.

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na…Batman!

The Batman ringtone echoes softly in the alley, its familiar chime cutting through the muted sounds of the city. Gotham’s restless hum seems distant, almost drowned out by the ringtone's insistence. You can’t help but smile at the stupid thing—the Batman brand (made without Batman's permission) has become so popular that it’s practically a commercial empire, complete with an array of merchandise that Bruce finds more than a little irksome (he's filed like 20 lawsuits.)

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

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

“Hey, Dames,” you say, trying to keep your tone casual. “Just checking in. How’s everything on your end?”

There’s a brief pause, and you can almost hear the faint rustle of paper or fabric as he responds. “Everything is as usual. Why the call at such a late hour?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Whatever you say. Oh! By the way, are you free tomorrow? There's this new comic shop I wanted to check out."

Damian perks up at that. Finally.

It’s been weeks since you’ve both gone on a proper date. He’s missed them—missed you. For unknown reasons, you’ve been busier nowadays, and he’s been hard at work with patrol. The constant chaos of Gotham has kept you both on your toes, leaving little room for the simpler joys.

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

“How about noon?" you hum, swinging your keys in your hand as you reach your apartment building. It’ll give us plenty of time to browse the shop and maybe grab lunch afterward.”

“Perfect. I’ll be there at noon,” he replies.

You reach your apartment building and slip inside, the familiar creak of the door signaling your return. The hallway is dimly lit, and the distant hum of the city seems to fade away as you make your way to your door.

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

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

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

There’s a moment of silence as you let his words settle “Goodnight,” you reply softly, the word hanging in the air as you slowly lower the phone from your ear.

You slip your phone into your pocket and step into your living room, where the soft glow of the television fills the room. A sitcom is playing, but the rest of the lights are off, leaving the space in a dim, subdued light.

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

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

You pour yourself a glass of water, settling into a chair across from her. “Yeah. Did some patrol. And had a bit of an adventure. Ran into some trouble, but nothing too serious. Oh, and guess who I bumped into?”

Selina raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Who?”

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

Selina’s eyes widen slightly. “Morgan Stark? That’s interesting. What’s she doing here?”

“She was looking for some unique tech—apparently, even having access to the best tech isn’t always enough. She wanted to see if she could find something a bit different.”

Selina laughs softly, shaking her head. “Typical Stark. Always in pursuit of the next big thing. Did you know her dad's been trying to get involved with the Batfamily lately?”

You shake your head, intrigued. “Really? How so?”

Selina takes a sip of her coffee, her expression thoughtful. “He’s been making efforts to fund their operations. He’s got this obsession with superhero tech. But Batman has been turning him down. I think his ego got hurt. Must have been what started the press drama.”

You laugh and chug down your glass of water. “Sounds like a recipe for chaos. Can you imagine Tony Stark trying to ‘help’ Batman?”

Selina grins, her eyes twinkling with amusement. “It would be a circus. But to be fair, Bruce’s civilian front and Tony’s personality are practically the same thing—rich, eccentric, and always in the spotlight. If they could find common ground, it’d be a miracle.”

"Speaking of which," you begin as you dump your sore body on the couch. "On a scale of one to ten, how hard do you think Damian or Bruce will take it if I accept Morgan’s invitation for a Stark internship?"

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

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

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

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

Selina’s gaze softens, and she murmurs, “He sees you as a daughter. Considering how you’re going to marry Damian, I think he’s preparing.”

With a groan, you push yourself up from the couch and head towards your room. “Why does everyone keep saying that?”

“Because it’s true!” Selina calls after you, her voice echoing with laughter.

You shake your head, a smile tugging at your lips as you close the door behind you, leaving Selina’s laughter to fade away. The apartment is quiet now, the city’s hum a distant backdrop to your thoughts.

༻⊰───⋅

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

The bell above the door jingles as you and Damian step into the bustling comic shop. The aroma of ink, paper, and coffee fills the air, mingling with the excited murmur of customers.

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

The walls are lined with shelves packed full of colorful comic books and graphic novels. A few display cases highlight rare editions and collector’s items. You scan the rows of comics, eyes gleaming with excitement as you pick up one of your favorite series.

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

You nod enthusiastically, unable to hide your excitement. “Definitely. It’s one of the limited editions I’ve been wanting for ages.” You turn the comic over, your fingers lightly brushing the cover as you check the price. The numbers make your heart race, not just because of the cost, but because of how long you’ve been hoping to add this piece to your collection.

Damian’s reaction is immediate. Without a moment’s hesitation, he reaches for his wallet. “Let me take care of it.”

A protest rises in your throat, but he cuts you off with a swift glance and a raised eyebrow. His scowl deepens. “No arguments. It’s a treat for today.”

You start to argue, but Damian’s expression turns more serious, his tone taking on a threatening edge. “If you keep insisting on paying, I’ll take back my jacket.”

“What?!” you hiss, instinctively tugging your (his) jacket closer around you. “No way! You don’t even wear this.”

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

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

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

“SPIDEY FOILS ATTACK ON MORGAN STARK: HERO SWINGS IN TO SAVE THE DAY”   Damian returns shortly after, handing you the paper bag with a triumphant smirk. You beam at him, a surge of gratitude and affection prompting you to lean in and press a kiss on his cheek.

Damian hums at your affection, wrapping an arm around you to keep you close. Emerald eyes flick to the newspaper on the rack, his expression shifting slightly. 

“Stark was in an altercation?” he asks, glancing at the headline.

You chuckle softly, still smiling from the kiss. “Looks like it. It’s been a while since I saw a headline like this. Spidey doesn't get as much press as you guys do.”

“Speaking of Morgan,” you start, deciding it’s time to rip off the bandage. “I was actually thinking about applying for an internship at Stark Industries. It could be a great opportunity, you know? She’s offered me a spot.”

The moment the words leave your lips, Damian’s expression shifts from casual interest to a full-blown scowl. “Wayne Industries is far superior.”

You lean against his chest, a hint of amusement in your voice. “Oh. I know. But Morgan is offering me a spot. And honestly, it could be a huge opportunity.”

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

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

Damian’s scowl deepens, a mix of hurt and annoyance in his expression. “So you think Stark’s offer is somehow more legitimate?”

It’s not about legitimacy," you scold and slap his arm lightly. "It’s about the opportunity and experience. Stark Industries has its own set of advantages, and I want to explore them.”

Damian’s gaze softens, though his frustration remains. “Just remember, you’re valued and capable. Don’t let anyone undermine that. Wayne Industries is always an option if you change your mind.”

He moves to pick up the newspaper, his eyes narrowing at the photo of your vigilante form, a hint of disdain crossing his face. The image of you swinging through the city is not something he seems to appreciate.

You clear your throat, trying to shift the conversation.

“So,” you begin, shifting on your feet and causing your Converse to squeak against the floor, “have you ever encountered Spidey on the job?”

Damian’s expression hardens at the mention of the codename, a look of disapproval settling in.

“The Spider?” he asks with a scoff. “From what I’ve observed, they’re nothing more than an amateur. Their methods are clumsy and lack the finesse required for real work.”

You feel a pang of offense but manage to keep your composure. “Really? I’ve heard they’ve done some impressive things.”

Damian’s emerald eyes meet yours, frustration flickering behind their gaze. “Impressive? If you call reckless behavior and a lack of precision impressive, then perhaps. But to me, it’s far from professional. They don’t have the discipline required for serious work.”

Ouch. That was expected, but it still stung.

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “Everyone has their own style. What might seem clumsy to one person might be effective for another.”

“Effective?" Damian’s eyes narrow, and he shifts uncomfortably, his fingers gripping the edge of the newspaper as if it might steady him. The paper crumples under his grip "Their approach is more about spectacle than substance. They swing around like a circus act, with no real strategy. It’s a wonder they manage to accomplish anything at all.”

Frowning, your gaze flicks between Damian’s rigid posture and the comics scattered around, each one now a reminder of how small and petty the argument seems. “Maybe their methods look unorthodox, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t effective. They’ve managed to help a lot of people.”

In the corner of your eye, he straightens, his shoulders taut. “Helping people isn’t just about flashy moves and headlines," Damian’s voice rises slightly, a trace of irritation slipping through. "It’s about precision, planning, and execution. The arachnid's antics don’t measure up to those standards.”

You feel a surge of anger at his words. As much as you loved Damian, sometimes he could be insufferably egotistical. 

You cross your arms tightly over your chest, trying to steady the anger that flares within you. Your eyes fixate on the comic book display, the colorful covers burning into your retinas.

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

“What exactly are you trying to say?” Damian hisses, his brows furrowing. He hadn’t intended to sound so harsh, but the sting of your criticism and his own bruised ego have clouded his judgment. 

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

The irony is that he seeks your approval and validation more than he does from anyone else. Your opinion matters to him, and your criticism hits harder than any public scrutiny ever could.

“I’m saying that they’re trying to help!” you retort, your voice rising to meet his volume. From behind the counter, the cashier gives you a look. “Something that you guys can’t always do.”

Damian’s expression hardens, and he tosses the newspaper back onto the shelf. “What can’t we do?”

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

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

You shake your head, trying to calm yourself amidst the rising tension. “I’m not saying Spidey is perfect, but they’re out there trying. That counts for something.”

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

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

Damian watches as you slip out of the shop. The argument has left a bitter taste in his mouth, but as he sees the hurt in your expression, his anger starts to dissolve into regret.

Without a second thought, Damian follows you, his footsteps quickening as he catches up. He reaches you quickly, his hand gently gripping your shoulder to stop you. 

“Beloved,” he calls for you, his tone softening as he looks at you with an earnest expression. Regret is pooling in his eyes. “I apologize.”

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

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

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

Damian’s expression tightens, but he doesn’t let go. “At least let me drive you home, habibti.”

You shake your head, the tension still evident in your posture. “No. I need to walk and blow off some steam.”

With a final, apologetic look, Damian steps back, giving you the space you need. You start to walk away, the hot sun just intensifying your heated emotions. The city, bustling with activity, seems to close in around you as you move deeper into its more congested parts. The shops and crowds become denser, the noise louder, and the streets feel narrower with every step you take.

Lost in thought and simmering with frustration, you’re jolted back to reality by a sudden, alarming noise—a commotion coming from a narrow alleyway nearby. The sounds of muffled voices and the scuffle of footsteps reach your ears, cutting through the noise of the busy street.

A group of masked individuals are cornering a lone person. The victim is pinned against the wall, desperately trying to fend off the assailants. The attackers are demanding valuables and threatening violence. Despite the bustling city around them, no one seems willing to step in and help. The crowd seems to have distanced itself from the situation, unwilling to get involved.

You glance down at your civilian attire—a simple shirt and jeans, not suited for the kind of intervention you’re about to undertake. But seeing the victim’s fear and the attackers' aggression ignites a sense of responsibility in you. 

Someone has to step in, and if you’re the only one who will, then so be it.

Taking a deep breath, you step into the alley.

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

The muggers shift their attention towards you, allowing you a clearer view of the woman they were attacking. Your heart drops as you realize who it is.

Holy shit, it’s Morgan.

What is it with this girl and getting assaulted?

Morgan’s eyes widen in disbelief, her eyes boring into you. Her gaze seems to ask, Are you out of your mind? You offer a reassuring smile and a calming hand gesture, hoping to ease her worries.

Shaking your head, you turn your attention back to the muggers. There are ten of them in total. Your goal is to keep their focus off Morgan and buy time until help arrives—if help arrives.

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

The muggers burst into laughter, clearly amused by the sight of an unathletic-looking eighteen-year-old in a Batman shirt, standing up to them with such bravado. You just smile, acknowledging their amusement.

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

The laughter dies down as the muggers size you up, their expressions shifting from amusement to determination. One of them, a lanky guy with a scruffy beard, steps forward, cracking his knuckles and sneering at you.

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

Before he can make a move, you swing your arm back, concentrating on the momentum. You drive a punch straight into his jaw, your knuckles connecting with a solid thud. The force of the blow sends him sprawling backward, his head snapping to the side as he crashes into the alley wall.

One.

The other muggers stare in shock. They exchange uncertain glances, their laughter dying in their throats. Morgan's jaw drops.

You take a deep breath, your fists still clenched, ready for whatever comes next. 

“So,” you say, a grim smile playing on your lips, “who’s next?”

The second mugger, a burly man with a scar running down his cheek, tries to step in but is met with a brutal left hook. The punch connects with his cheekbone, and he staggers back, his nose bursting into a crimson spray. He collapses to the ground, clutching his face in pain.

Two.

Another mugger, this one with a wild, frizzy mop of hair, attempts to charge at you with a menacing snarl. You dodge his clumsy swing, pivoting to land a powerful uppercut. His head snaps back, and he crashes into the trash cans with a loud clang, blood streaming from his split lip and nose.

Three.

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

Four.

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

One of them, a lanky guy with a snake tattoo on his arm, makes a desperate rush at you, his fists swinging wildly. You sidestep and deliver a sharp kick to his ribs. He crumples with a pained gasp, clutching his side.

Five.

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

“Last chance,” you growl. “Either you leave now or join your buddies in the hospital.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

Suddenly, your spider-sense flares with alarm. Out of the corner of your eye, you catch movement from one of the muggers who’s begun to stir. He’s reaching into his jacket, his fingers moving toward something hidden. Morgan, still caught up in her surprise and relief, is too busy chatting to notice.

Without a second thought, you react instinctively. “Morgan, get down!” you shout, pushing her aside.

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

The sharp crack of the gunshot echoes through the alley, and you feel a searing pain in your ribs. A hot, burning sensation spreads through your side. Morgan’s scream pierces the air as she watches in horror.

You stagger back, clutching your side. 

Well... shit.

Gritting your teeth, you turn your attention to the mugger who’s scrambling to flee, his gun now ensnared in your webbing. With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot another web line, pulling him toward you. As he nears, you slam his head against the wall beside you, knocking him unconscious.

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

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

“You’re—”

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

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

“Listen,” you say softly but firmly, removing your hand once you’re sure she’s calmed down, “we need to keep our voices down. I’m hurt, and we need to get out of here before more trouble shows up.”

Morgan nods, her face a mix of shock and concern. “But you’re hurt, and the police—”

“I’ll be fine,” you interrupt, though the pain in your side is making it harder to sound convincing. “We don’t need the police right now. Just help me get out of here.”

Morgan takes a deep breath and nods. “I know where to go.”

Both of you are soon swinging through the dark alleys. You grit your teeth and focus on the task at hand. Ignoring the burning pain in your ribs, you move faster, swinging through the city with Morgan clinging to your side. You choose the longer route, weaving through the shadows to avoid detection. 

Finally, you drop down into an alley beside her penthouse building. Morgan’s eyes widen as she sees the blood seeping through the fabric of your shirt, a stark contrast against the white.

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

Without waiting for a response, she yanks you towards the back door of her building. The heavy steel door creaks open, and she nearly shatters the elevator buttons with the force of her pressing.

You lean heavily against her as she steps into the elevator with you. The elevator’s harsh fluorescent lights are annoyingly bright, offering a sterile, clinical glare that makes the pain in your ribs feel even more intense. The metal doors of the elevator finally close with a soft, echoing thud, cutting off the outside world. For a brief moment, you feel a semblance of relief as the lift begins its ascent, the vibration of the machinery barely masking the ache in your side.

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

You manage a shrug. In all honesty, the pain wasn’t as overwhelming as it might have been. Thanks to your spider abilities, you were handling it better than most would. It was the identity reveal that truly rattled you.

"Do I at least look badass?"

"Oh my god. I literally hate you."

When the elevator finally dings open, Morgan practically pulls you out, guiding you swiftly down the hall to her penthouse. The door swings open, and she ushers you inside with a hurried but careful touch.

You collapse onto the plush couch, wincing as you settle into its cushions. The pain in your ribs is a dull throb now, but the adrenaline is starting to wear off, leaving you feeling every ache.

Morgan doesn’t waste any time. She strides across the room and shouts into the air, her voice echoing off the sleek, modern walls. 

“Pepper, I need you!”

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

One of the arms reaches toward you, its end equipped with a gentle, flexible grip. It tugs at your shirt, and you hesitantly slip it off, revealing the wound on your side. The arm begins its scan, its sensors glowing faintly as it moves over your injury.

The room fills with a soft, synthesized voice. “Initiating scan of gunshot wound. Wound located in the left lower rib area. Penetration depth approximately four centimeters. Severe tissue damage detected. High risk of infection. Immediate medical attention required. Blood loss estimated at 150 milliliters. No signs of internal bleeding detected at this time. Administering localized anesthesia to minimize discomfort. Cleaning and debridement of the wound will commence shortly.”

You can see tiny robotic tools emerging from compartments within the arm—sterilizing swabs, a precision scalpel, and a fine, retractable syringe. The anesthetic solution is applied gently, causing a cooling sensation that gradually numbs the pain.

“Uh, what the fuck is happening?” you blurt out.

Morgan watches over the procedure with a stony look. she has a tablet in her hands now and is tracking your vitals intensely.

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

With a soft beep, the robotic arm begins the delicate process of removing the bullet. You can feel a sharp, tugging sensation as the bullet is extracted.

“Isn’t... Isn’t Pepper your mom’s name? Damn, you coded this?” you ask, awe mingling with disbelief.

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

“I am the heir to Stark Industries, after all,” she says. “Of course, I’d know how to make this kind of tech. And yes, Pepper is named after my mom. It seemed fitting. Before she passed, she always took care of my dad whenever he got into fights.”

A wistful look crosses her face, but she quickly shakes it off. “Pepper stands for ‘Personal Emergency Protocol and Protective Emergency Response.’ It’s a bit of a tribute, and it’s meant to help in everyday stuff and emergencies like this.”

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

“Just hang tight,” Morgan says, her voice softening as she looks at you with genuine concern. “We’re almost done here.”

"This is insane," you lean back as the machine begins to bandage you. "Is this what rich people do? Make AI robots that can do fucking surgery?!"

Morgan chuckles softly, her eyes still focused on the tablet as she adjusts the settings. “You could say it’s a bit of a luxury, but it’s also practical. When you have the resources, why not make the best use of them?”

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

You take a deep breath as the hand finally retreats.

“Well, thanks for the help. I guess I owe you one... or maybe a lot.”

Morgan’s smile is faint but warm. “You saved me today. And... that night. We’re even.”

Suddenly, a new chime interrupts the moment, and Morgan’s brows furrow as she looks at the tablet with a mix of confusion and curiosity.

“Woah,” she gasps. “You’re healing at a really fast rate... Your tissues are already regenerating. This is... unusual. I’ve never seen a recovery like this before.”

You wince slightly as the last of the bandages is applied, but you manage a tired smile. “It’s the spider stuff,” you explain. “Enhanced abilities. Which includes healing and pain tolerance.”

Morgan’s expression shifts from shock to a wry smile. “No shit. You treated that gunshot wound like it was a scratch. You’re not just some hero—you’re a whole different level.” 

With a sigh, you lean back, wincing slightly as the bandages settle. “Yeah, well, it’s not exactly something I advertise. But since you’ve seen it firsthand...”

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

You rub your eyes, the weight of the day catching up to you. “A while. It’s... it’s been a lot. Sometimes it feels like the more I do, the bigger the threats get.”

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

"Woah," you laugh and hold a hand up. "No. No. I know where this is going. I've read too many comics. I know what you're going to say."

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

You lean back with a smirk, your head tossing back against the sofa. Morgan’s eyes drift to the sweat glistening on your chest and her face heats up.

“I know where this is headed. I’ve seen the trope before. The whole ‘I’m in this now too’ speech. And trust me, it’s usually followed by—”

“‘I want to help,’” she finishes for you, a grin spreading across her face. “And before you say anything, I’m not just looking to tag along for the excitement. I genuinely want to contribute. I’ve got resources, skills, and—”

She gestures to the high-tech surroundings of her penthouse, her voice firm yet earnest. “—I can do more than just sit on the sidelines.”

You sigh, leaning back with a tired smile. “See, this is the part where I’m going to give you the ‘I can’t put you in danger’ speech. The whole ‘this is too dangerous’ line. Usually, you’d be the love interest in a story like this, but honestly, I’m just relieved Damian doesn’t know.”

Morgan’s expression softens, her gaze steady. “I appreciate that, really. But I’m not just some bystander here.”

“Morga—”

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

“Welcome home, Tony.”

Both of you freeze.

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

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

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

“Uh, hey, Dad,” Morgan says, her voice unusually high-pitched. She awkwardly tries to smooth her hair and straighten her clothes.

Tony’s eyes narrow in bemusement. “Well, this is... unexpected. I didn’t realize I was interrupting... whatever this is.”

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

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

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

“Yeah, him.” Tony squints. “Did my daughter just steal you from him? Or do we have a mistress thing going on?”

Morgan’s face flushes a deeper shade of red, clearly mortified by the situation. “Dad!"

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

“Sh-she’s not—!” you start to protest, but Morgan cuts in, her voice coming out in a high-pitched rush of nervous energy.

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

Tony squints at Morgan, then at you, and back to Morgan with a raised eyebrow. “An intern, huh? Well, if you think she’s that skilled, I guess I can’t complain about her being here. But Morgan, next time you want to give your intern a hands-on demonstration, maybe keep it... less hands-on?”

With that, Tony turns on his heel and struts out of the room, his departure accompanied by a loud chuckle. The door closes behind him with a soft thud, leaving you and Morgan in a stunned, awkward silence.

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

Morgan raises an eyebrow, crossing her arms with a smirk. “Oh, really? And why not? I’m perfectly capable of handling the tech side of things. I think I can handle a little tech support. And! I just showed you how I can help with your injuries.”

You sigh dramatically. “Fine, fine. But if you’re going to be the guy in the chair, I better get cool tech." 

Morgan smirks, her arms crossed confidently. “Oh, so you’re on board with the whole ‘guy in the chair’ idea now? Perfect. I’ll make sure to hook you up with the latest tech from Stark Industries. And don’t worry, I’m not planning on getting into any alleyway brawls.”

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

"Ass!"

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

The moon casts long shadows across the grimy streets of Crime Alley. You swing effortlessly between the towering buildings, Morgan clinging tightly to your back, her grin widening with every swing. The excitement in her voice is barely contained as the city blurs past.

“This is incredible!” she shouts over the rush of the wind. “I had no idea you were so... so agile! I’m practically flying!”

You chuckle, adjusting your grip on her. “Glad you’re enjoying the ride. Just remember, we’re heading to my warehouse where we’ll be setting up your new tech. And let’s keep this between us, alright? I already texted mom. Told her I’m on internship work for the night. She might have a fit if she knew the whole story... I wasn't supposed to tell anyone.”

Morgan’s eyes widen, and she nods enthusiastically. “Got it. Your secret’s safe with me. Besides, this is way cooler than any boring internship!”

As you approach the warehouse, you expertly land on the rooftop and quickly make your way down to a side entrance, the creaking of the metal door barely audible over the city noise.

You push open the door and lead Morgan inside.

Over the past few months, you’ve transformed the warehouse from a forgotten relic of Gotham’s industrial age into a functional hideout.

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

“It’s a bit scrappy, but it gets the job done,” you explain, glancing around the space. “I’ve done a lot of work here over the past few months. I figured it’d be better to have a base of operations rather than working out of the apartment. Too dangerous.”

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

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

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

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

You stare at her blankly.

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

Morgan shrugs, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’m really into heroes, okay?! Stark Industries has special... projects.” She coughs lightly as she sets the equipment down, arranging it on one of the tables. “Just wait until you see what else I’ve got in store. But first, I’m going to get everything set up and running. I’ve got a lot of work to do.”

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

Spreading the mat out on the floor, you begin a series of stretches and exercises to ease the tension in your body. Just as you’re getting into the rhythm, your ringtone starts blaring through the speakers.

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na… Batman!

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

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

You squint at her, then glance at your phone, which is sitting a few inches away on the table.

“Did you just hack my phone?”

“Hacked,” she corrects with a smirk, clearly enjoying the moment. “You’d be surprised at what Stark Industries’ tech can do.”

You roll your eyes but can’t help a chuckle. “You know, I thought I was the one who was supposed to be the tech expert here.”

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

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

“Not going to answer?”

You wince. “We had an argument.”

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

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

“Yikes.”

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

With a scoff, Damian ends the call on the screen of his bike’s console. 

If you didn’t want to answer the call, so be it. He had better things to deal with.

The bike roars to life, weaving effortlessly through Gotham’s chaotic traffic, its engine growling like a beast unleashed. He skillfully maneuvers around obstacles, dodging cars and pedestrians. The bike’s tires grip the slick asphalt as he bypasses yet another red light.

Tonight’s patrol is unusually hectic. High-profile cases and urgent calls keep piling up, making it evident that he’ll be buried in work for the foreseeable future, possibly well into the next week. Gotham’s underbelly is particularly restless tonight.

Just as he begins to find a rhythm, his comm link buzzes to life, cutting through the relentless hum of the bike’s engine. The sudden crackle pulls Damian from his focused concentration, and he glances at the small screen embedded in the bike’s console.

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

A digital map materializes on the dashboard, highlighting a narrow alleyway in one of Gotham’s more neglected and decrepit districts. Oracle’s voice crackles through the earpiece, calm but edged with urgency.

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

Without hesitation, Damian adjusts his course, the bike’s engine growling as he speeds towards the indicated location. 

“Understood. I’ll check it out,” he replies curtly. 

It only takes a few minutes before Damian pulls up to the alleyway. He slows the bike to a stop and parks it in a shadowed corner, keeping it well out of sight. The engine fades to a low rumble before falling silent.

Damian dismounts and approaches the entrance to the alley with deliberate stealth. He moves cautiously, each step measured and silent. The alleyway ahead is cloaked in darkness, the only sources of light being the occasional flicker of a faulty streetlamp and the dim glow from the scattered neon signs on nearby buildings.

As he slips into the alley, the muffled sounds of voices become clearer. The faint, sporadic bursts of laughter and shouting cut through the silence. The air is thick with the smell of smoke, mixed with an acrid tang that hints at something burning, and the less pleasant scents of old beer and rotting food.

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

"Did you hear about the latest shipment? It's stolen Starktech," one voice says, a deep, gravelly tone that cuts through the murky air. "Black Mask’s been making some serious moves. Got some tech deals going down soon."

Another voice, sharper and more impatient, chimes in. "Yeah, I heard. Seems like he’s trying to offload some high-end stuff. Something to do with the Octavius project."

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

"Apparently," the deep voice explains, "Black Mask is using his connections to push these deals forward. Octavius might be in prison, but his influence isn’t entirely gone. And if we get in on this... well, let’s just say the payout could be huge."

Damian’s eyes narrow as he senses something off. He glances over his shoulder and freezes when he notices a webbed strand clinging to the edge of his cape. It’s barely visible in the dim light of the alley, but unmistakable against the fabric of his cape.

Spidersilk.

Without a doubt, it was a remnant from a certain vigilante. Queens was your territory and known for its tangled web of strands, and they had a habit of sticking around long after the spider hero had moved on. 

Scowling, Damian tugs at his cape, trying to peel away the webbing. However, it’s stuck like glue, resisting his efforts with an unnerving tenacity. His frustration mounts as he yanks harder, inadvertently revealing his position with a scraping noise against the nearby wall.

The voices in the alley grow more alert. The murmurs stop, replaced by the shuffling of feet and the sound of hushed, urgent conversations.

His position is compromised.

Damian curses under his breath. He quickly snaps off the cape, leaving it behind in the shadows, and just as he does, a gang member swings a crude metal pipe toward him. Damian reacts instinctively, raising his forearm to block the attack with a sharp clang. He yanks the pipe from the thug’s grasp and jabs it into the man’s ribs with a brutal force. The thug lets out a sharp wail of agony, crumpling to the ground as Damian knocks him away with a powerful shove.

Standing tall, Damian glares at the remaining men with a cold gaze. Slowly, he draws his katana, the blade gleaming ominously in the dim light. He spins the weapon in his hand, the sharp edge slicing through the darkness.

“Here’s a piece of advice,” Damian says, his voice a low, dangerous growl. “You’re all out of your league. I suggest you leave now, before you make this any worse for yourselves. Otherwise, you’ll find out what happens when you cross paths with someone who doesn’t hold back.”

One of the gang members, too emboldened or too foolish to back down, lunges at Damian with a rusty knife. The blade glints in the dim light as it swings towards Damian’s side.

With a swift, practiced movement, Damian sidesteps the attack, grabbing the thug’s wrist and twisting it sharply. The knife clatters to the ground as the thug cries out in pain. Without missing a beat, Damian lands a powerful punch to the thug’s gut, doubling him over.

Damian follows up with a flurry of punches, each blow landing with precise force. He strikes the thug’s face, ribs, and kidneys, driving him back against the alley wall. Blood spatters the ground as the thug’s face becomes a bruised mess.

“Had enough?” Damian growls, his voice dripping with venom. The thug, dazed and barely able to stand, attempts a weak swing at Damian. But Damian easily blocks it, delivering a final, punishing blow to the thug’s jaw, sending him sprawling to the ground.

“Let this be a lesson,” he scoffs. “Next time, you won’t be so lucky.”

The remaining thugs, now thoroughly terrified, back away slowly, not daring to challenge Robin further. The leader of the gang, a burly man with a scar across his face, steps forward hesitantly.

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

Damian’s eyes narrow, his grip tightening on the katana. “Smart choice. Now get out of here, before I change my mind.”

The men scramble to their feet, hurriedly retreating down the alley and disappearing into the shadows. The echo of their hurried footsteps fades away, leaving Damian alone in the quiet aftermath.

He sheaths his katana, his breathing steady but his body still tingling with the adrenaline of the fight. He glances around the alley, taking in the damage and the scattered remnants of the confrontation.

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

Damian scowls and turns his attention back to the damned web. “I have recorded the conversation for you. You may review it at your leisure. Additionally, I am starting a personal case,” he says as he moves to examine the webbing.

“Personal case?”

“Yes. I'm going on a hunt."

༻⊰───⋅

Rubbing the sleep out of your eyes, you trudge up the creaky, worn stairs of your apartment building, your footsteps pounding against the wood. Your muscles protest with every step, your body aching from the lack of sleep. Both you and Morgan were up all night setting up communication devices and sketching out possible upgrades for weapons and gadgets. Your mind is a foggy mess of blueprints and circuitry, making it hard to focus on anything but the thought of finally collapsing into bed.

Finally, you reach your apartment door. You fumble with the keys, your vision slightly blurred from exhaustion, and push the door open. The familiar scent of home—a mix of Selina's favorite lavender incense and the lingering aroma of last night's takeout—hits you, momentarily soothing your tired mind.

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

You peek in further and gape.

Tony Stark, in the flesh, is lounging on your couch, his presence as imposing and charismatic as ever. He looks entirely at ease, as if he owns the place.

“Uh, Mom?” you manage to stammer, still trying to process the sight before you.

Selina turns and smiles, her eyes twinkling with mischief. “Well, look who decided to finally show up. Honey, it seems Mr. Stark here has taken a special interest in your talents. You didn’t tell me you topped the rankings for their program!”

You... did?

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

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

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

"I've got big plans," Tony grins at Selina and claps a hand on your back. "and I think Kyles here will fit right in. I’ve seen their potential, and I’m excited to see what they can do with the resources at Stark Industries.”

Something feels off. Your spider senses are burning up like crazy. You force a smile, trying to mask your confusion. The room feels too small, the air too thick. The sunlight streaming in from the window seems too bright, almost blinding, as if the whole scene is a surreal dream.

“Mom, would it be alright if I talked to Mr. Stark outside? We’ll be back.”

Without waiting for a response, you pull Tony outside. The door shuts behind you with a soft click, and you drag him to the corner of the apartment hallway. The corridor is narrow and dimly lit, the walls adorned with faded, peeling wallpaper. You keep your head down, the tension building inside you like a coiled spring.

Once you're out of earshot, you turn to him. “Okay, what’s really going on?” you ask, your voice a low whisper.

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

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

Tony’s expression shifts, becoming more serious. He pulls out his phone, a sleek device that hums lowly with advanced technology. In awe, you watch as it produces a holographic screen. A video begins to play, and your heart sinks as you recognize the scene. 

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

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

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

Tony's gaze remains fixed on you, his expression unreadable. "Come on, kid. Don't try to play me. I know it's you. Holy shit. What a catch! 4,100 pounds at 50 miles an hour?"

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

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

It's detailed data on your injury from yesterday—the gunshot wound where you miraculously healed up really quickly. The medical records display the severity of the wound and the inexplicably rapid healing process. Tony's finger traces the timeline, emphasizing the abnormal speed of recovery.

"Damn," Tony raises an eyebrow, clearly enjoying your discomfort. "Not exactly a normal recovery rate for a regular teenager, wouldn't you say? What the hell does your mom feed you, kid? Magic beans? And this—"

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

"Wowee," Tony continues, crossing his arms. "You got some Spider DNA on you, kid. This is some next-level genetic crossover."

You sigh and raise a hand to massage your temples, trying to suppress the mounting anxiety. "Did Morgan tell you?"

Tony shakes his head, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Nope. I have access to the records and all data from the bot. Guess she forgot to clear it." He tucks his phone back into his pocket, his gaze shifting to a more serious tone. "And before you ask, I don't just peek at people's private stuff for kicks. I’m a lot of things, but I’m not a voyeur."

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

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

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

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

"Second," Tony continues, his tone shifting to business, "I’m here with a proposition. I’ve seen what you can do, and let’s just say I’ve got some big plans that could use a spider-shaped wrench in the works. How about you join forces with me? Hey, you’d get access to some seriously cool tech. Plus, no more dodging bullets for a while—unless you’re into that, in which case, we can talk."

You wince, shaking your head. "Mr. Stark, I’m not looking to upgrade."

Tony raises an eyebrow, a hint of incredulity in his expression. "Well, you’re in dire need of an upgrade," he scoffs. "Systemic. Top to bottom. But before we get to that, I’ve got to know. Why do you do this? Why play the hero?”

Tony continues, his tone more contemplative now. "I get it—everyone’s got their reasons. But I want to understand yours. Is it guilt? A sense of responsibility? Or just a really bad habit? What's your emo backstory, kid?"

You shift uncomfortably against the wall, the cool, rough surface pressing against your back. "It’s... complicated," you finally say, your voice low. "I guess I just want to make a difference. Help people. These powers only appeared a few months ago. And... when you can do the things that I can, but you don't, and then the bad things happen, they happen because of you. I can’t just stand by and watch."

"So, you wanna help out the little guys?" Tony hums and claps his hands. "Who else knows?"

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

Tony nods slowly, his fingers idly peeling back a section of wallpaper. "How would you feel about spending a month at Stark Industries, kid?"

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

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

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

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

THWIP.

Tony freezes, his foot lodged in place as the sharp sound of the web echoes through the corridor. He turns, eyes widening slightly as the webbing neatly wraps around his ankle.

You stand with your hand outstretched, the web retracting back into your hand. “Don’t tell Mom.”

Tony’s eyes widen in mock surprise. “Wow. I didn’t think you were going to get this dramatic... So, what’s it going to be? Are you going to make a decision, or do I need to start spilling secrets to get your attention?”

With a groan, you slam your head back into the wall. 

Taking a deep breath, you push aside your doubts and focus on the immediate reality. “Alright, Mr. Stark. I’ll take you up on your offer. But if we’re doing this, I need to be in the loop on everything. No surprises.”

Tony’s smirk widens as he extends his hand. 

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

"..."

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

༻⊰───⋅

The dining room at Wayne Manor was unusually bustling this morning, an uncommon but welcome sight. Bruce sat at the head of the long, polished mahogany table, absorbed in the day’s newspaper. Alfred moved around his chair, refilling Bruce’s coffee cup with a fresh, steaming brew.

To Bruce’s right, Dick and Jason were engaged in a lively conversation, their voices blending with the soft clink of cutlery. Tim sat on the other side, his laptop balanced precariously on his plate, the glow of the screen reflecting off the food he barely touched. Cass, on the far end of the table, sipped delicately from her matcha latte, her gaze occasionally drifting over to the gardens outside.

Damian, however, took up the most attention. His face was scrunched in a scowl as he cut up his vegetarian burger. He was cutting into it with such force that the knife scraped harshly against the plate, leaving scratches. Each slice seemed to take more effort than the last, and the faint sounds of the metal digging into porcelain were almost painful to hear.

"Are you trying to eat your plate?"

"Die."

Bruce peered over the top of his newspaper, a brow raised at his son. "Is something the matter, son?"

Damian’s grip tightened around his knife, his jaw set in a grim line. "The burger is insufficiently cut," he replied tersely, as if the issue was a matter of grave importance.

Tim, fingers flying across his laptop keyboard, rolled his eyes without looking up. "He’s mad because Y/N hasn’t been replying to his messages."

Damian shot a sharp glare at Tim, but it was clear from the way his eyes softened slightly that Tim had hit the mark. Bruce raised another eyebrow.

"Damn," Jason whistled as he bit into his eggs. "What did you do? She finally got sick of you?"

"Don’t start, Todd," Damian snapped. "My relationship status is none of your concern."

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

"Well, she might just be busy," Tim said as he sipped from his coffee cup. He raised his head and met Dick's eyes with a knowing look. "Did you know she topped the Stark Industries Young Innovators Program?"

The table fell silent for a moment.

Bruce slowly drops his newspaper, a twist on his face.

"Repeat that."

A round of stunned stares was exchanged around the table. Tim quickly typed something on his laptop before turning it around for everyone to see. The screen displayed an article with the headline:

“WAYNE-STARK RIVALRY REACHES NEW HEIGHTS: DAMIAN WAYNE'S GIRLFRIEND CLAIMS TOP SPOT IN STARK INDUSTRIES YOUNG INNOVATORS PROGRAM."

Dick’s eyes widened in surprise, and Jason whistled again, this time in genuine admiration. “Well, damn. She really knocked it out of the park.”

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown. 

“I see... Stark must think she's such an accomplished and intelligent young woman. Hn. Of course, I already knew that,” Bruce spoke slowly, scowling.

"Oh my god," Dick grimaced and laughed under his breath. "The adoption senses are tingling."

"Damn, B. He's stealing your kid," Jason snorted, shaking his head. "Who's going to win the custody battle?"

"Looks like Tony is," Tim retorted, scrolling through the article. "She accepted. She's going to be spending a month in Stark Tower's living quarters. All expenses paid."

Damian just scowled at that, his irritation now focused entirely on the offending burger. He resumed his aggressive cutting, the knife digging into the porcelain with renewed fervor.

Bruce’s expression darkened, a scowl forming as he slammed his coffee cup down on the table with a clink. 

“Stark,” he muttered under his breath. “Of course, Stark.”

Dick and Tim exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.

“Can’t believe I’m being outmaneuvered by that billionaire showboat,” Bruce grumbled.

“You’re taking this a bit personally,” Alfred spoke up, his tone calm yet pointed. “If I were you, I would be congratulating the young miss for her accomplishment. It’s a remarkable achievement, and it reflects well on her character.”

Bruce’s demeanor shifted slightly, a thoughtful expression replacing his earlier irritation before he perked up. “We can invite them for dinner.”

A sudden, explosive smash shattered the calm of the room, followed by a harsh metallic scrape. Damian's knife came down with a violent force, its blade plunging into his plate with a grating screech. 

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

“Hope you enjoy cereal, Master Damian."

༻⊰───⋅

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im a hoe for comments/reblogs/asks/kudos

it fuels me <3 pls send more

A/N: I think you guys liked this blurb so I’ll make you another. But also please check out my fanbook, the art is so pretty.

You can see the options here!

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

Anyway, thinking about Ex-wife bat mom who wanted to leave her marriage behind but never wanted to leave the kids, and wanted to stay involved, but she couldn’t because Bruce didn’t really want her around his family and so she resigns herself to watching them from the tabloids and social media posts, and is only able to reconnect with her oldest children when they turn 18.

You’re smiling as you enters the elevator at your apartment building, there’s a paper bag in your hand from the grocery store with some new cereal brand you think Dick might like, and a Times magazine Barbara would want.

“What floor?” your elevator companion asks, and taking a glance at him for the first time you’re taken aback.

He looks so much like Jason.

Noticing you’ve been quiet for too long, you clearly your throat, and feign contemplation. “Um, 12 please.”

“Penthouse, nice.” The stranger remarks.

“It’s overrated.” The penthouse suite Bruce let you have in the divorce is little consolation for all the weekends you could have seen your kids.

You both stand in silence, and you try not to make your long glances too obvious. If Jason was still here he’d probably be just as old as the boy standing next to you. You can’t imagine practical Jason Todd with a tattoo wrapped around his neck like that though, maybe one of those hearts with ‘Mom’ written inside them if he was trying to stick it to Bruce.

“Is there something on my face?” the stranger asks. You feel heat rise to your face, you can’t believe he caught you staring.

“Oh it’s nothing, you just um, you look like my son.” You give an awkward laugh, and the universe must feel pity for you because the elevator doors slide open. There’s an awkward laugh on the tip of your tongue, a farewell, but a large hand stops the elevator door at the last minute. The stranger’s gaze flickers from you to the ground, his mouth trembling.

“Ma, it’s me,” your heart stops in your chest. “It’s Jason.”

The paper bag crashes to the ground, and before you can even doubt what he’s said, before you can consider that this man is a con artist or a grifter who’s stalked you, you wrap your arms around him.

Your face is in his neck, he’s so much taller than you now, and when you lean up to press a kiss to his cheek your lips graze against a spot on his tattoo where the word ‘Mom’ can be seen hidden in the design.

You usher him into the apartment, scooping the bag with the creased magazine and center cereal box, plucking tea and cookies from the cabinet.

“I wasn’t going to approach you, and I don’t want anything from you,” he promises. “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

You have to turn away from him to hide the tears from forming in your eyes. It’s really Jason. Your Jason.

“It’s okay Jason, I know you’re a good boy.” Even dressed in a leather jacket with a suspicious bulge on the bag of his trousers at the waist band, you know his hearts always been in the right place.

“You divorced Bruce?” He asks, and you nod. Pouring tea into two matching cups.

“Was it because of me?”

It’s a question you’ve never anticipated, or thought to ask yourself.

“No,” you decide. “We had the same problems before you…before you went away.” Jason dying just made them more apparent. The way Bruce would never let you in, not even in your grief. The way you or your children would always be second to the city he devoted his life to bettering.

The way he hated himself for being the way he is, and the way you being near him made it worse.

Jason nods, thanking you for the glass of tea. There’s a lopsided smile arched on his mouth as he takes a deep breath in.

“This is my favorite,” he tells you.

You smile back. All these years later and he still loves earl grey, he even adds a generous amount of milk and sugar, and for a second it feels like he’s still that 12 year old boy and nothing has changed at all.

“I’m glad you’re back.”

- Probably being Bruce’s Spouse, or S/O

- Damian not allowing you to touch him at first.

-So he would crawl over to your room at three in the morning, and just is sleep by your bed on the floor.

- “We have twelve bedrooms, and you choose to sleep on the floor….”

-If you happened to wake up you would scoot over so he could sleep on the other side of the bed without touching you.

- “It’s okay, I won’t move.”

- When he finally warms up to you he won’t stop touching you.

-Him literally hanging onto you as you walk around the house.

- He almost looks like a baby koala, his arms are around your neck, and his legs wrap around your mid section while your arms support the bottom of his legs and his head is snuggled into the crook of your neck. 

-”Damian hang on a little tighter I don’t want to drop you.”

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