- Probably Being Bruces Spouse, Or S/O

- 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.”

Keep reading

Hello my dears! I, Asmaa, are asking you to support my campaign to help me reach my goal.🙏 I am now in desperate need of your support to help me stay alive and safe. Gaza is a very dangerous place, both in terms of living standards and souls. I need your financial support so that I can obtain the basic needs of my family until the Rafah crossing is reopened to transport my family to safety and peace. Please help a family survive through your small donations or through your shares to others. Thank you very much for standing by those in need. The campaign is going very slowly. Campaign link: 🙏🍉💔https://www.gofundme.com/f/8wewmz-help-asmaa-to-continue-school-outside-of-gaza

Please everyone who has the ability to help please do!

---

Hello 👋🌸,

I hope you're well. Dr. Farhat's family urgently needs our help due to the ongoing violence. Please share and support the "Save Dr. Farhat's family from genocide in Gaza" campaign. Every share makes a difference.

Link: https://gofund.me/e9f9ce20

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Verified campaign #248 by @el-shab-hussein @nabulsi.

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---

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.”

---

v. what's up danger?

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

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

"Oh my god, stop! I do not want to see my own fucking thirst trap!" you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You looked away, face burning and eyes glaring into the graffiti on the wall across you.

Morgan, still laughing, seemed undeterred. She scrolled through the comments, her grin cut wide across the apples of her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to hear these,” she said, reading aloud with a laugh.

harry 🐾☕️ @ blehhidc ・1hr going to become a villain rn. pls choke slam me into Arkham.

ji ─ nightcrawlers #1 fan @ nightcrawler_updates・1hr i want nightcrawler to smash that helicopter on my tits

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 9:40 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

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

"What. The. Fuck."

“Language, kid.”

You turn, seeing Tony standing at the door. He taps on the metal frame with his knuckles, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious lab. 

“That is suit A1. I call it the Crawler.”

He strides across the room, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor, and reaches a nearby table. The table is lined with various prototypes and gadgets, each more advanced than the last. He picks up a pair of gloves, black with red fingers and claws at the end, and hands them to you.

“Test the gloves out,” Tony instructs. “All the features are going to be introduced to you.”

You slip on the gloves and flex your fingers, feeling the suit respond instantly. As you activate the helmet's AI, a pleasant, slightly robotic voice greets you.

"Welcome, user. I am your integrated AI assistant. Please provide a designation."

Tony leans against a workbench, arms crossed, watching you with an expectant look. 

“You gotta name 'em,” he says. “Any ideas?”

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at Morgan, who raises an eyebrow, curious about your choice. Memories of your mother flood your mind. She didn't get to see you grow up, but she shaped so much of who you are—the very reason you continue this vigilante shtick.

"Uh... how about Maggie?" you suggest, the name rolling off your tongue with a mix of fondness and sorrow.

The AI responds, "Designation accepted. I am Maggie."

Morgan sends you a soft look, understanding the significance of the name. Tony nods approvingly, clapping his hands as he approaches.

“I’ll give you the basic rundown,” Tony begins, gesturing to the suit. “Night vision, live communication with Morgana here, medical and vital scans, contacts to emergency numbers, a heater, and a hood. The gloves have claws for fights, and the suit also connects to web-shooters.”

You twist your wrist and notice small rectangular devices resting on your palms. 

Tony points to them. “Those web-shooters make your organic webs shoot better, farther, stronger, and faster.”

"Nice," you mutter, flexing your fingers.

Then the helmet's display shifts, showing the various features Tony mentioned. Tony waves a hand around as he circles you. “Then there’s a cape feature to blend into the environment and an advanced GPS system with real-time tracking.”

You whistle and take in all the information. “That is a whole hell of a lot. The media wasn’t joking when they said you were crazy about vigilante tech.”

“Crazy? I prefer ‘innovatively obsessed.’ Someone’s got to push the boundaries of what’s possible—might as well be the guy who’s not afraid to get a little nuts."

You smile and focus back on the suit. “Activate night vision,” you command. Instantly, the room is bathed in a green hue, every detail sharp and clear.

“Switch to live communication,” you say next. Morgan’s face appears on the display, giving you a thumbs up.

“Medical scan,” you instruct. The display shows your vitals: heart rate, oxygen levels, and other crucial data, all in real time.

Finally, you pull the hood over your head, feeling it snap into place with a satisfying click. The advanced GPS system blinks on, displaying a detailed map of Gotham. The soft hum of the suit’s electronics is almost comforting, and you catch a faint scent.

“Smells like a new car in here, Mr. Stark,” you grin, taking a deep breath.

"Happy to help, kid. Are we good to go?" Tony asks.

You nod, feeling the suit's snug fit as it conforms to your movements. Tony smirks, grabbing Morgan by the shoulders and beginning to push her toward the door. Her sneakers drag across the polished tiles.

"Alright! Let’s go!"

Confused, you make the suit decloak, watching as it transforms back into the inconspicuous glasses and belt. The process feels smooth, almost seamless. “Go where?”

“The safehouse!” Tony replies with a shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 1:06 PM - ???, Gotham City.

"What is wrong with you people?"

You step out of Tony's car, staring up at a decrepit, rotting building with a "Sold" sign plastered right in front. The place looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades, its windows boarded up and the paint peeling away in large chunks. Morgan and Tony step out behind you, both wearing hoodies and glasses to avoid being seen or identified.

Morgan gives you a sheepish smile, her expression a mix of embarrassment and resignation. Tony, on the other hand, claps a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and unapologetic.

“Welcome to the new safehouse,” Tony announces with a dramatic flourish. “Sometimes, you’ve got to go a little off the beaten path to find the perfect spot. It’s got character, right?”

Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Dad insisted it was perfect for our needs. I guess we’ll see how well it lives up to that promise.”

Tony shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, it’s got the essentials: privacy, space, and with a little TLC, it’ll be great. Besides, it’s just a base of operations. You won’t be living here full-time.”

You glance at the rundown building, still skeptical. “I hope you’re right about this.”

Tony slaps your back with a scoff. “Please, you’re killing me, kid. I’ve seen your old warehouse. This place? It’s a palace compared to that dump. I’ve already done some work on it—this will be better than anything you’ve had.”

You all walk past a broken, torn-up gate, and Tony rounds the corner to a set of rusty metal doors. He unlocks them with a key, and you follow him inside.

The interior is a stark contrast to the exterior’s dilapidation. The walls were covered with graffiti. Books are scattered haphazardly in one corner, and some tech equipment is piled up in organized chaos.

Large screens line the room, with a computer at the center, displaying a dizzying array of data streams, security feeds, and holographic schematics.

Holographic displays float above the desks, showing real-time analytics and project statuses. A central 3D map of Gotham rotates slowly, highlighting key locations and active missions with a soft glow.

Mechanical robotic arms are scattered throughout the space—some hanging from the ceiling, others mounted on the walls. They buzz and whir softly as they perform routine maintenance on your equipment, their movements precise and methodical.

Your jaw drops and your shoulders slump as you take in the scene. Morgan steps in behind you, her eyes widening with recognition. She whistles and turns to Tony with a smirk.

“So that’s where some of my old tech went.”

“Old?!” you exclaim, your disbelief evident. “This looks like a high-tech haven compared to what I we were using before!”

“High-tech? If this is ‘high-tech,’ I’d hate to see what you were working with before,” Tony snarks as he closes the door to the warehouse, the sound of the rusted hinges groaning slightly. He then moves to the center of the room, where a large, cluttered table stands surrounded by stacks of gadgets and tools.

Morgan rolls her eyes and nudges you. “Dad likes to think anything not cutting-edge is ancient history. Welcome to the museum of yesterday’s innovations.”

“Yeah, I bet you had a rotary dial phone in there too, didn’t you, kid?”

You roll your eyes. “Mr. Stark, you’re a riot. But seriously, this setup is actually impressive.”

Tony crosses his arms with a self-satisfied air. “Naturally. Who else but me would think to include a coffee maker in a multi-million-dollar, high-tech spider suit?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow at Tony. “You’re kidding, right? There isn’t really a coffee maker in there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Tony replies, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

Smiling, you toss your backpack onto the table and pull out your old suit. It’s practically obsolete now with the upgrades you’ve received, but you’re considering framing it for nostalgia’s sake. Tony’s gaze sharpens as he inspects the material.

“Wayne Tech? Is that Kevlar, kid?” Tony says, his expression souring. “Low blow.”

“Lower than you think,” you snort, shrugging.

“Alright, whatever,” Tony grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. “Get that thing out of my sight before I projectile vomit all over it.”

“Wouldn’t want to make you hurl before your next upgrade,” you murmur.

“I’m going to do you a solid, kid,” Tony says with a mock-serious tone, “and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”

Turning back to the central table, Tony snaps his fingers. Holograms flicker to life, projecting a variety of case files and news reports.

“Now, let’s get down to business.”

The holograms display a series of high-profile incidents, with the central image featuring Black Mask, his grim visage glaring out from multiple angles.

You frown and step closer, your eyes scanning the floating holograms. Articles about Oscorp Industries, research papers on spiders, and other related documents whir around, each highlighted with a soft, glowing outline. 

Among the swirling articles and data, one catches your eye: an Octavius Burton article from your prom night.

Tony glances at you, noting your focus. “Everything here ties into what we’re dealing with.”

Humming, you step closer and presses on the Octavius Burton file. Morgan shifts beside you, her expression unreadable.

"That was the guy who attacked us at prom..." you murmur lowly.

Morgan nods, her gaze shifting to another hologram. She taps it, revealing a new file marked as “Confidential.” It’s clearly from a government source, its contents obscured by digital encryption.

Your eyes widen as the file opens, revealing classified documents and high-security footage. 

"He died a week ago. And for whatever reason, Blackgate officials are trying to keep it under wraps." Morgan says.  She scuffs her shoes against the floor, the sound echoing slightly in the room. “And for whatever reason, Blackgate officials are trying to keep it under wraps. He died after injecting himself with serum.”

She pauses, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity. “Lizard serum.”

Tony taps a few commands, and more files materialize in the holographic display. The new set of documents focuses on genetic research conducted by Octavius. You see various charts, graphs, and notes detailing experiments aimed at enhancing human abilities.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Tony says, pointing to a particularly dense document. “Octavius was obsessed with improving human potential. He was working on genetic modifications to enhance physical and mental capabilities. Looks like he was trying to push the boundaries of what humans can do.”

Morgan’s expression is tense as she continues. “He was trying to create a new kind of metahuman. The robotic arms were his first success, but his research on spider serum was supposed to be the next big leap. When the board rejected it as unethical and refused to fund his work, he turned to other, more dangerous means.”

Tony nods, adding, “And from what we know, it seems like he might have been successful with his spider serum research in some way,” he says, his gaze shifting to you. “But that serum was lost after his arrest. This lizard serum, however, is a completely different story. It’s not connected to him.”

You study the files closely. Sections detail attempts at enhancing strength, agility, and cognitive functions. Some of these enhancements, you've already read about in your own research with Selina.

"He's... um... I think he used to work with my dad. My late biological dad," you say, a finger scratching at your cheek.

Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. "Your dad?"

Morgan looks at you intently. "What do you mean? Did he collaborate with Octavius on this research?"

You nod, trying to find the right words as your tongue stumbles. "Yeah, my dad worked at Oscorp. When I first got my powers, I found some of his old research on spiders. It’s almost identical to what Octavius was working on. He even thanked Octavius in one of his papers."

"Freaky..." Morgan murmurs, her face scrunching into a grimace. "And now you’re—"

"I have the same powers after being bitten by a spider the night of Octavius' attack," you sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Freaky indeed."

The room falls into a heavy silence before Morgan speaks up.

"Stark Industries, uh... also used to do genetic research."

Tony tenses but doesn’t interrupt her.

"For medical purposes, we studied various serums based on animal genetics," Morgan says, her gaze distant. "My mom was seriously ill, and we were exploring genetic modifications to help with her condition. There was one serum that showed promise, but it ended up being a failure."

Tony's expression darkens as he speaks.

"It amplified her sickness," Tony says, raising his head slowly, pain evident in his eyes. "Even though the risks were clear and the consequences devastating, I administered the serum because I was desperate. Desperate people make dangerous decisions. And... she wasn’t the only one affected."

Your eyes widen. "I didn’t know... I’m sorry."

Tony’s face hardens, a shadow of regret passing over his features. "I thought I could make a difference, that I could save lives. But instead, I unleashed more suffering. I’ve watched as my research led to deaths—people who were betrayed by the very hope I offered them. I shut down that department the very next day, but the damage was already done."

His voice fellt flat as he turned to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. "You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be alive. But you are. And there’s a reason for that. I need you to understand that. I need you to believe that what you’ve been given isn’t a curse—it’s a chance."

"I know," you murmur. "And I believe in that chance."

"That’s why I want to help you, kid," he says. "I owe it to everyone who was affected by these experiments. If I can do anything to make up for the past or assist you in this fight, then I will. Because it’s the least I can do."

Tony steps back and taps a button on the console. A hologram flickers to life.

“This is Curt Connors,” Tony says, gesturing toward the hologram. The image reveals a man with rugged features: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and short-cut brown hair. He wears glasses and a lab coat, but what catches your eye is his prosthetic arm.

Tony continues, “Connors is currently researching lizard genetics. He’s got the Sionis family bankrolling him, so you know he’s not working with spare change. From what we’ve gathered, he’s delving into enhancements similar to those Octavius was exploring. There’s a solid chance he’s cooked up the serum that led to Octavius’s demise.”

Morgan steps closer, her fingers brushing the screen to bring up more data. “Which is why we need to track down his research location and determine exactly what he’s working on. If he’s utilizing Black Mask's resources, he could be far more dangerous than we initially thought.”

You study the photo of Dr. Connors intently, zooming in on the details. 

“So, that’s the mission then,” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the image.

Tony looks between you and Morgan.“Once we have a lead on Connors, we can devise our next steps."

“I’ll dig into any leads I can find on Connors. But, be prepared for some dead ends. This guy doesn’t exactly advertise his work.” tony says as he waves a phone around.

You consider the situation, glancing between Tony and Morgan. “Do you want me to start searching for information tonight?”

Tony raises a hand, his tone taking on a cautionary edge.

“Slow your roll, kid,” he says, gesturing toward you. “Don’t think I’m not aware of your ‘fuck around and find out’ track record. PEPPER’s medical reports on you tell me enough.”

You scowl at him.

“Keep getting beat up like this, and you’re going to end up dead in no time,” he warns. “My wealth, connections, and ridiculous amount of power can only do so much to pull public opinion in my favor. I’m not exactly Bruce Wayne, you know.”

Tony had seen footage of you in action and read the headlines. 

Who hasn’t? 

Gotham was crawling with spandex-wearing vigilantes darting across rooftops, each with a name more outlandish than the last. He hadn’t paid much attention to them—aside from their tech, they weren’t his concern. Then there was you. The serum, the connections. Once he uncovered those, despite himself, Tony became determined to keep you alive.

“Seriously? Enhanced healing and super strength here,” you blink, crossing your arms. “I’m not exactly made of glass.”

Morgan shoots you a look, pushing her glasses up. “Look, if we want to get to the bottom of this lizard guy, we need you in one piece. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

As she says that, Morgan moves toward a sleek machine in the corner, gesturing for you to follow. You raise an eyebrow but comply. Her hands slide up your arm, rolling up your sleeve with surprising gentleness.

"Starting with this step," she says. Morgan swiftly pricks a needle into your arm, and you wince at the sudden sting and the cold sensation spreading from the needle. You can feel the slight pressure as your blood is drawn.

“Dude! What the hell?” you exclaim.

"Blood sample," she replies matter-of-factly, her focus entirely on the task. She extracts the sample with precision, ensuring there's no unnecessary discomfort. "Have you actually thought about how your powers work? Or how modified you really are?"

You watch as she moves toward an analysis machine that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. The device hums to life, its surface lighting up with a soft blue glow. A series of holographic displays flicker into existence, showing intricate scans and streams of data.

Morgan inserts the vial of your blood into a slot on the machine, and the device immediately begins processing the sample. The holograms shift and change, displaying molecular structures and DNA sequences.

Morgan studies the readouts, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Your DNA is... fascinating. The spider venom bonded with your cells.”

“You see this?" Morgan points to a particular segment of the hologram. "This is where the venom altered your genetic structure.”

You nod, stepping closer to the display. "Yeah, I've seen this before. I did some research on my own. The venom contains a unique enzyme that acts as a catalyst, enabling it to integrate seamlessly with human DNA. The spider’s genetic material introduces new protein structures that enhance cellular regeneration and muscle density. Essentially, it's rewriting my genetic code on a fundamental level. The integration is so thorough that my cells now produce the same enzymes, perpetuating the changes."

Tony blinks at you from his spot, and Morgan raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback.

“Sometimes I forget you’re actually smart,” Morgan says, narrowing her eyes. “Every time you show a hint of intelligence, it’s like a miracle.”

“Yeah, and sometimes you actually manage to be useful,” you shoot back.

Morgan snorts, not missing a beat, and turns her attention back to the analysis, her eyes narrowing as she examines the readouts. “Basic stuff. Super strength, enhanced healing... standard Spidey powers we’ve seen.”

As she delves deeper into the data, her brow furrows in concentration. “Pain tolerance when you’re adrenaline-fueled is off the charts,” she murmurs. “If you ever needed surgery, the amount of anesthetic required to put you under would be dangerously high.”

Tony whistles lowly. “The dosage you'd need could drop an elephant—twice over.”

Morgan glances up, her gaze meeting yours with a serious edge. “And that’s not all. Your reflexes and agility are even more pronounced than the typical spider mutations. You’re faster and more responsive. But that also means your body burns through energy at a rapid rate. You’ll need to keep up with a high-calorie diet to sustain your metabolism.”

"I do," you shrug. "I burn through like six meals a day. Our grocery bills have NEVER been higher."

“Well, did you know you need over 5,000 calories a day?” Morgan snarks. “I doubt a measly six meals can cover that.”

You flush. "How was I supposed to know that?"

“You figured out the scientific explanation of your powers on a genetic level, but can’t figure out how much food you need to sustain it?” Tony quips.

"...yes?"

Tony sighs, raising an eyebrow as he pulls out his phone. "Great. I’ll make a note to increase your stipend for groceries. Feeding you might bankrupt me faster than any supervillain ever could."

"Hey! I'm worth it."

"Sure, kid. Just make sure you save the city enough times to cover the grocery bill."

Tony steps out to take a call from his secretary, leaving you and Morgan alone in the lab. She remains absorbed in analyzing your results, her brow deeply furrowed in concentration. You let out a sigh, reactivating your suit and running your fingers along the edges of the emblem on your chest.

Spiders, lizards, bats, and cats... What’s with all these animals?

At least you’re not up against dinosaurs.

...

Yet.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 8:03 PM - Downtown, Gotham City.

This was a whole new experience. Swinging from the skyscrapers, you feel an adrenaline rush unlike anything you've experienced back in Queens. The swings are higher, the speed is faster, and the thrill is almost overwhelming. Every leap and dive fills you with a sense of freedom and power, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as you soar through the night.

Gotham’s downtown is a far cry from Queens. 

Where once you swung past modest streetlamps and low-rise buildings, now you’re darting off glassy skyscrapers that pierce the sky. The towering structures and crowded streets of Gotham create a backdrop that feels almost alien—a dazzling, high-octane contrast to the familiar neighborhood you left behind. It’s like stepping into an entirely new world, and the exhilaration of it all is intoxicating.

"You know, after that big pep talk, I figured you'd want to take a breather," Morgan’s face appears on the screen of your helmet. She’s lounging in a chair at your new safehouse, clad in a dark tank top with her hair tousled and square glasses perched on her nose.

She looks every bit the quintessential “guy in the chair.”

"We’ve been poring over case files for hours! Cut me some slack for wanting to get some fresh air!" you retort, flipping through the air and executing a sharp swing around a skyscraper.

Morgan shakes her head, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. "You still have, like... two broken ribs."

“Healed now,” you point out, glancing out at the sprawling cityscape.

You swing and roll onto a rooftop, the rough concrete biting into the soles of your boots as you land with a skid. You straighten up, hands on your hips, the city lights glinting off the sleek lines of your suit. You brush yourself off, flicking away the dust and debris that clings to your suit.

“Maggie,” Morgan’s voice carries a hint of pleading. “Run their vitals.”

A moment of silence follows, with only the distant hum of the city below. Then Maggie’s voice, calm and measured, comes through the earpiece, her data flashing across your visor. “Vitals are stable. No immediate signs of distress, but the injuries are still recent. Overexertion could lead to complications.”

Morgan’s face reappears on your helmet’s screen, her glasses glinting in the dim light of the safehouse. “See? Even Maggie agrees. Maybe it’s time to take it easy for a while.”

You let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. But come on, fresh air’s good for the soul, right?”

Morgan’s voice comes through the earpiece, her tone still tinged with concern. “I get it, but you should still be careful. Gotham’s not exactly known for being forgiving.”

You chuckle, stretching your arms above your head. “I’ll keep that in mind. Crime doesn't sleep. But for now, I’m enjoying the view.”

The adrenaline from your earlier swings starts to mellow, leaving a calm satisfaction in its wake. The distant sounds of Gotham—the occasional siren, the hum of traffic, the soft rustle of wind—create a backdrop that feels oddly serene. For a moment, it’s just you and the city, connected in a way.

Morgan's voice returns to your earpiece, lighter now. "You know, I’ve been thinking about something while you were out there."

You raise an eyebrow, glancing out over the city. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well,” she begins, a hint of hesitation in her tone, “since I’m always in the thick of things with you, I’ve been thinking I might need a codename or alias. Something that fits my role.”

You chuckle, turning to look at the glowing city below. “True. I have to call my guy in the chair something. What are you leaning toward?”

“Morgana,” she replies, a touch of pride in her voice.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Really? Just adding a letter to your name? That’s what you’ve got?”

Morgan’s tone turns playful. “Hey, it’s better than nothing.”

“Alright, Morgana,” you snort, giving one last look at the cityscape before preparing to head back into the night. “You up for some monitoring? I’m heading back out. This city needs me.”

“Oh, so cool,” she laughs at your last line. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Guilty as charged,” you reply, stepping to the edge of the building. The cold wind ruffles your suit and tugs at your hood. You pull it up, squinting as you survey the sprawling city below.

“Think you can get me a gig?”

“Sure. Give me a moment.”

On your visor, the map highlights various irregularities in bright, pulsing colors. Patterns of activity pulse in vivid reds and oranges, tracing a trail of anomalies through the city's grid. 

Then, a prominent prompt flashes onto the screen, breaking through the overlay of data. It’s a high-priority alert, marked by a flashing icon and an urgent red border.

Morgan’s fingers fly over her laptop keyboard, her focus intense as she processes the new information. “Ready for your first big debut?” she asks.

You check the readout, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What’ve you got for me tonight, Gotham?”

Immediately, the visor's display shifts to show a live news feed. The screen splits, revealing a scene unfolding at Wayne Industries. The news anchor's voice cuts through the rush of wind and the hum of your suit’s systems.

"—reporting live from Wayne Industries. A helicopter has been hijacked and has stolen sensitive technology. The situation is escalating, and authorities are struggling to regain control. We have reports of the helicopter on a collision course with the city’s power grid."

The live feed is a frenzied mix of flashing lights and dark, ominous smoke. The camera, amateur and shaky, captures the scene with screams and frantic commentary. The helicopter’s movements are growing increasingly unstable as it flies dangerously close to the towering buildings.

“Alright, Morgana, give me a location on that chopper. I’m heading in.”

“On it. I’ll track its trajectory and keep you updated. Be careful out there.”

With a flip, you launch yourself off the rooftop, the sensation of free-fall exhilarating. The city lights blur into streaks of color as you swing through the air. Each swing propels you higher and faster, allowing you to cover vast distances in mere seconds. 

Finally, the helicopter’s silhouette emerges through the thick, smoky haze, its dark form cutting a menacing shape against the illuminated skyline.

With a powerful swing, you fire a web at the tail of the helicopter, the line snapping tight as it anchors you securely. You pull with all your strength, and the helicopter lurches violently, its spinning blades blurring dangerously. 

Quickly, you web one side of the helicopter to a nearby building. Using the momentum, you swing to the opposite side and fire another web, anchoring it firmly. The helicopter’s erratic spinning slows as the webs pull it into a more stable position, though its engines continue to roar defiantly.

“Alright, you glorified bucket of bolts,” you mutter, “let’s see how you like a little traffic jam!”

You take a deep breath and launch yourself toward the helicopter’s spinning blades, weaving through the deafening roar.

With a burst of adrenaline, you fire multiple webs at the blades, encasing them in thick, sticky layers. The helicopter’s rotation slows dramatically, the blades grinding to a halt as the craft shudders and wobbles.

Your web lines hold firm, and you can see the hijackers through the cockpit, frantic and disoriented. As the helicopter finally comes to a stop, dangling precariously but safely anchored, you let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s one way to put a lid on things. Now, let’s see if these guys know how to behave.”

You swing and stick to the side of the chopper, your feet landing firmly on the fuselage. The hijackers, realizing they’re not alone, panic and start fumbling with their weapons, cursing at you.

One of them lunges at you with a knife, but you effortlessly snatch it away, webbing it to the helicopter’s side. “Whoa, careful there! You might poke an eye out with that thing.”

The hijackers scramble, their attempts to regain control clumsy and chaotic. D-grade criminals, you think, as you swiftly fire webs to disarm them, yanking their guns and knives away.

“This is just sad… Was hoping for some real action,” you quip, grabbing one hijacker by the collar and tossing him out of the cockpit. He flails as he’s launched into the air, but you’re quick to web him to a nearby rooftop. His face turns a ghostly white as he dangles above the city.

The second hijacker tries to take advantage of your distraction, but you’re ready. You spin, catching him in a web mid-swing. With a firm shove, you slam him against the helicopter’s side. He grunts in pain as you yank him off and toss him out, webbing him to the same rooftop as his partner.

With a final, satisfied look at the hijackers’ predicament and the now-stable helicopter, you swing back to the rooftop where you left the criminals. “Time for you guys to have a chat with the authorities. Hope you’ve enjoyed your flight!”

Before you can take another step, a violent shudder erupts from the helicopter. A plume of black smoke bursts from the engine compartment, followed by a sharp, bright explosion that momentarily illuminates the night sky. The helicopter's frame buckles, and a series of smaller explosions ripple through it, sending debris scattering into the air.

“Fuck,” you curse as you watch the craft, now emitting thick, dark smoke, begin a slow, uncontrolled descent. Without hesitation, you dive after it. The wind roars past you as you freefall, your eyes locked on the rapidly descending helicopter.

Civilians scatter in panic, their screams piercing through the noise of the helicopter’s sputtering engines and the distant wail of sirens. Amidst the fleeing crowd, one woman—clearly a journalist from her uniform and ID—remains frozen in place, clutching her phone tightly and snapping photos frantically.

"WATCH OUT!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 8:34 PM - Downtown, Gotham City.

A few moments earlier.

“Mister Ryder, I assure you, I am not insane!” Vicki Vale’s voice cuts through the din of the bustling Gotham streets, her frustration evident as she grips her phone tightly. Her manicured fingers dig into the device. “I was there! The spider vigilante is real! I was nearly robbed, and they intervened directly!”

Her boss’s tone on the other end is dismissive. “Vicki, I understand your enthusiasm, but our focus needs to be on what the people are interested in. The city’s biggest headlines right now are about Wayne Industries and Stark Tower. Why not go interview that Kyle girl? Typical rags-to-riches story if you ask me. The public loves that sort of thing!”

“Who cares about some civilian?!” Vicki snaps, her frustration boiling over. She steps out into the crowded Gotham streets, her eyes darting around as people glance at her briefly before returning to their own business. “This vigilante could be a major story!”

“Vicki, we’re on a tight deadline,” her boss interrupts firmly. “Unless you can provide solid proof and concrete details about this Spider, I don’t know what to tell you. Stick to the Wayne-Stark developments. We’ll revisit the vigilante story if it becomes more relevant.”

Vicki opens her mouth to argue but is abruptly silenced by a series of shrill screams. Her gaze snaps upwards, and her eyes widen in disbelief. The helicopter, now a chaotic blur of spinning metal and billowing smoke, careens through the sky, its erratic path trailing destruction.

In the midst of the chaos, the familiar figure of a vigilante swings through the air, pursuing the runaway vehicle. The red and black suit cuts through the smoke like a streak of lightning, the emblem unmistakable: a bold, black spider, its legs splayed wide.

Bingo.

Without a second thought, she sprints towards the heart of the commotion. The crowd around her is a whirlwind of panicked faces and hasty retreats, but Vicki is single-minded. Her fingers fumble with her phone as she raises it, the camera’s lens zeroing in on the unfolding chaos.

The camera’s viewfinder shakes slightly in her trembling hands, but she forces herself to keep it steady, determined to capture the disaster in detail. Flashes and snaps erupt from her camera as it shoots away, documenting every moment. Each frame she captures is a piece of the story she’s been chasing, and nothing will deter her from this.

Suddenly, the helicopter begins a swift, uncontrollable descent. The once-menacing blur of spinning metal and thick, black smoke now tumbles towards her. Vicki’s eyes widen in sheer horror, her breath catching in her throat as the scene unfolds in slow motion.

“WATCH OUT!”

The warning is almost too late.

A powerful gust of wind sweeps through, lifting Vicki off the ground. She screams, desperately clutching onto the nearest figure for dear life. The vigilante, in their red and black suit, has swooped in and pulled her into the air. Vicki’s hands instinctively wrap around your neck, her grip frantic and tight.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go!” you shout over the roar of the wind.

You swing into action, firing a web at a nearby rooftop to secure yourself. With one hand gripping the web line anchored to the building, you stabilize both yourself and Vicki, who is clinging to you with white-knuckled fear. Your other hand reaches out, shooting another web directly at the falling helicopter. The web snaps into place, and with a mighty effort, you hold up the entire 6,000-pound craft, straining against the weight and tension.

Biting your lip, you throw your head back, a grimace of pain etched on your face. The strain is excruciating, with every muscle in your arm and back screaming in protest. You’re certain you’ve torn something, and that ominous crack you heard earlier doesn’t help. 

The helicopter’s weight is far beyond your usual limit, but with adrenaline coursing through your veins, you grit your teeth and somehow manage to keep it suspended.

Vicki’s eyes widen as she slowly calms down. It doesn’t take long before she unwraps one arm from your shoulder and starts scrambling for her phone. You grunt at the sudden movement.

“Hey! Hey! Lady! Stop moving!” you scold, but she’s too absorbed in her task to hear you. Her focus is entirely on her camera as she fumbles to activate the video function.

Clinging precariously to you with one hand wrapped around your neck, she manages to keep the lens trained on your helmet. The sheer bravery and stupidity surprises you—she’s holding on for dear life, but her drive to capture the moment is even stronger.

“My name is Vicki Vale, and I’m a reporter for Gotham Gazette!” she shouts, her voice slightly distorted by the adrenaline. “I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Vigilante—”

Before she can continue, you shoot a quick, exasperated look at her. “Not the time for an interview!”

But Vicki is undeterred. She adjusts her grip on her phone and leans in closer, her face set with determination. “We’re live, so if you could just—”

“Seriously?” you interrupt, trying to keep your focus on the helicopter. “Can we save the interview for after I don’t have to hold up a helicopter?”

Vicki’s eyes sparkle with unyielding resolve. “This is a moment of history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

As you grit your teeth, straining against the weight of the helicopter, you let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. One question only. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?” Vicki’s voice is full of eagerness as her camera rolls.

You grit your teeth, straining under the weight of the helicopter, and let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Vicki’s eyes light up with excitement as she continues to film. “Powerful words. People need to hear this!”

You shake your head. “Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

With a slow, controlled motion, you begin to lower the helicopter, guiding it down with careful precision. The craft descends steadily and, with a gentle thud, it finally lands on the rooftop. The immense weight lifts from your muscles, easing some of the strain. You let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling a sharp sting in your back—a problem for later.

With a swift swing, you move away from the scene, landing a safe distance from the helicopter and gently setting Vicki down. The streets around you buzz with activity as emergency responders rush to the scene, and the chaos begins to settle into a semblance of order.

Vicki stops filming and tucks her phone back into her pocket. As the danger recedes, you freeze, realizing who she is: Vicki Vale. Columnist, gadfly, and troublemaker—exactly the kind of trouble people both want and fear.

She flashes a pretty smile, perfect teeth shining as she trails her nails up your bicep. You wince at the touch, trying to maintain your composure. “You’ve given me one heck of a story.”

Her voice drops an octave, taking on a flirtatious edge. “So, what’s your deal? Secret identity? Hidden agenda? Or just a really bad habit of rescuing people?”

You glance at her, keeping your tone professional. “Not interested in sharing more than I already have. Just doing my job.”

Vicki smirks, clearly intrigued. “Well, I’ll keep digging. Heroes like you always have interesting stories.”

You let out a dry chuckle. “Glad to be of service. Just remember to stay safe out there.”

With a final nod, you shoot a web into the night and swing away, the cityscape unfolding beneath you as you disappear into the darkness.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 10:41 PM - Batcave, Wayne Manor.

The Batcave is bathed in the soft, eerie blue light from the Batcomputer's numerous screens, each casting a cold glow that contrasts starkly with the surrounding shadows. The room hums with the steady rhythm of machinery.

On one of the central screens, a news report plays.

"Good evening, Gotham! In a dramatic turn of events, a dangerous situation was defused earlier tonight thanks to the intervention of a mysterious new hero. We have exclusive footage of the incident, which unfolded just moments ago."

[The screen cuts to live footage, showing the helicopter gently lowered to the ground. Emergency personnel are seen approaching the craft, and the crowd is starting to disperse.]

"What we’ve witnessed tonight is nothing short of extraordinary. A helicopter, which was hijacked and rigged to explode, was on a collision course with the city’s power grid. The situation seemed dire, but then, out of nowhere, a hero arrived."

[The screen cuts to another footage of the vigilante in action—swinging through the air, holding up the helicopter with one hand, and saving Vicki Vale.]

"The vigilante, dressed in a striking red and black suit with a spider emblem, swung into action with incredible agility and strength. With a remarkable display of heroism, the vigilante managed to stop the helicopter from crashing, stabilizing it by webbing themselves to a nearby rooftop and holding it up with one hand while ensuring the safety of those around."

[The scene cuts to the video shot by Vicki Vale on her phone. Despite the shaky camerawork, the footage captures the exchange clearly.]

"My name is Vicki Vale, and I’m a reporter for Gotham News! I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Spider Vigilante—"

"Not the time for an interview!"

“This is a moment of history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

“Fine. One question only. What do you want to know?”

“First, why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?”

“I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

[The broadcast returns to the news anchors.]

"The footage from journalist Vicki Vale offers an unprecedented glimpse into the actions of this mysterious figure. It’s clear that Gotham has a new guardian, and their bravery hasn’t gone unnoticed. Though it’s only been a matter of hours since the incident, social media has already dubbed the vigilante 'the Nightcrawler.'"

[The broadcast flashes a still image of Nightcrawler mid-swing through the skyline, one hand outstretched toward the helicopter.]

"While their true identity remains a mystery, it’s evident that Nightcrawler’s heroics tonight have made a significant impact! Move over, bats, there’s a new hero in town—"

Before the news anchor can finish, a Batarang embeds itself into the Batcomputer’s screen. The sudden impact causes the screen to sputter and glitch, sparks crackling around the jagged edge of the blade. The monitor flickers erratically before plunging into darkness, leaving the room in tense silence.

Bruce, standing at the Batcomputer, whirls around in irritation. “Damian!”

"I'm going to kill them!"

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

“You know what? I’m not even—” Bruce, pulling off his cowl with a heavy sigh, reveals his exhausted and frustrated expression. Strands of his salt-and-pepper hair fall over his forehead as he exhales sharply. “Damian, start from the top. What’s going on with this Spider?”

Damian, leaning against his bike with arms crossed and a fierce glare, snaps, “Oh, I don’t know, Father. Maybe it’s the fact that just as we’re geared up for our routine patrol, we find out that the hijacking we were prepped for has been handled by this so-called minor vigilante.”

He jabs a finger at the damaged screen, his frustration palpable. “And as if that’s not enough, this ‘hero’ has decided to make a personal mission out of targeting my beloved.”

Bruce’s expression tightens into one of alarm. His eyes narrow, and his entire posture goes rigid with tension. He casts a worried glance toward Tim, Dick, and Jason, his gaze shifting from one to the other, seeking their reactions.

Dick steps away from the control panel, his brow furrowing deeply. “Alright, Damian,” he says, his voice steady but edged with concern. “That’s a pretty big bombshell you’ve dropped. We need details. What do we know about this Spider?”

“They’ve been making headlines with their so-called heroics,” Damian scoffs, rolling his neck. “When I was assigned to trail them—”

“No one assigned you,” Jason interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been on a one-man mission to follow every suspicious figure in Gotham. It’s practically your hobby.”

Damian narrows his eyes at Jason. “As I was about to say before this your interruption, I initially thought they were just a minor hero. I was mistaken. Under my own nose, I’ve discovered they’re a direct threat to my beloved. Y/N told me themselves—remember the night of the dinner when they showed up covered in injuries? It’s all connected to this Spider.”

Everyone’s faces harden with concern.

Jason’s eyes blaze. “Targeting Y/N? What’s their angle? Why the hell are they zeroing in on 'em all of a sudden?”

Damian’s face flickers through a myriad of emotions—anger, worry, frustration. His voice is strained as he responds, “I’m trying to piece it all together...”

Tim narrows his eyes as he slides his laptop off the table, setting it up on his lap. He opens a new folder and starts typing furiously. “We need to find a pattern or a motive behind their fixation. If we compile recent events and analyze every detail—every incident, every sighting—we might uncover something crucial.”

Bruce nods slowly, a deep-rooted fear gripping his heart. The threads of panic pull at him, a sensation all too familiar. It’s a feeling that surfaces whenever his insane, traumatized, highly trained, rebellious sons sneak out—something that’s happened more times than he can count—and it never leads to anything good.

This feeling, this gnawing dread, is like a well-worn path in his soul. It’s the hundredth time he’s been caught in the same agonizing tune. He can already hear the adoption jokes in his mind, but he can’t help it.

Selina and him were always on and off. When they were younger, the chase was a thrill, the romance intense. But when things got serious, they couldn’t make it work. Bruce was too immersed in his work as Batman, burning himself down to ash to save his city. Selina loved her freedom as Catwoman and couldn’t bear to watch him destroy himself.

Then one stormy night, she appeared at his doorstep, drenched in rain, a child bundled in her arms. A baby wrapped in a blanket, crying with red chubby cheeks. Selina was sobbing—a sight Bruce had never seen before. 

It had been years since they last met, and he asked if you were his. She just shook her head, sobbing something about lacking money for medicine. You were sick.

Not his, he mourned, but he couldn’t help but keep tabs on you over the years. How could he not? You echoed so much of his own younger self—the same tragic backstory, the same deep sadness. During those quiet, lonely nights, Bruce would find himself searching for information about you, his mind drifting to what might have been. His child—if not truly, then almost.

Selina was a great mother. Bruce could never decide if that made him feel better or worse. Part of him felt relief knowing you were cared for, loved. Another part of him felt an unbearable ache, a longing to be the one to protect you, to guide you. He wanted to be there for you, but he knew he had no right. God knows Bruce has wanted to do it since that very first night. Instead, he was an outsider looking in, a ghost in the shadows of your life.

“A solid approach,” he murmurs, coming back to his senses. “Her safety is our top priority. We need to find ways to protect her from this threat.”

Dick’s brow furrows deeply. “Protected from what exactly? We still don’t have a clear understanding of what this vigilante wants or why they’re fixating on Y/N.”

Tim, absentmindedly typing into the document, speaks thoughtfully. “Does Selina know about this? Y/N’s been looking increasingly sullen and thinner lately. They’ve gained some muscle, but they seem to be neglecting their well-being. We might have overlooked other signs.”

Bruce made a strangled sound in his throat. He mentally noted to call Selina later that afternoon. Catwoman hadn't been on any heists recently—good for Gotham and Batman, but bad for Bruce. 

Had they been struggling financially? He could easily arrange for groceries or some form of support—after all, it was the least he could do.

Jason grunts, his voice low and bitter. “Kid came in with a black eye. That’s not a minor injury. And from the looks of it, they’ve been holding back. We should have known something was wrong.”

Damian, his face shadowed with exhaustion and guilt, rubs his eyes in frustration. “There was a cut on their ribs. A knife wound, from what I observed. The precision of the injury—deliberate. I could tell because the wound was too precise for it to be an accident or a stray attack. It was meant to hurt them, to make a point."

The room goes deathly silent. Everyone’s head whips toward Damian in horror.

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath, his face reflecting a deep sense of frustration and helplessness. He glances at Damian, shaking his head in disbelief. “They didn’t tell until after that night?”

Damian’s face tightens, sadness glimmered in his eyes. “They’ve been hiding things. I… I should have noticed earlier. I’ve been obsessing over every encounter with them, trying to piece together what’s been happening. There’s something we’re missing, and I—”

He pauses, his voice breaking slightly. “They must have been intimidated into silence. I should have seen it sooner. It took them revealing it to me before I finally understood.”

Bruce steps forward, his voice firm yet calming. “Son, now isn’t the time to blame yourself.”

Damian glares at Bruce, his eyes blazing with frustration. “How can you say that? They’re in danger because I didn’t see it coming!”

Bruce’s expression softens as he meets Damian’s gaze. “It’s not about assigning blame. We’re all in this together. What matters now is taking action. I’ll pull up all known associates of Y/N and Selina as Catwoman. Tim, cross-reference Spidey’s common associates and recent movements with the places Y/N has been seen. Look for any patterns.”

Tim nods, already tapping away at his tablet. “Got it. I’ll compile a list and see if there’s a clear link.”

Jason, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, interjects. “Alright, let’s say we find a connection. What’s the plan? Confront Y/N directly or set a trap for the Spider?”

Bruce shakes his head, his tone resolute. “We can’t jump to conclusions. We need to gather evidence first. If we confront Y/N without proof, we risk endangering her and compromising our position. For now, Damian, you’ll keep a close watch on her. Protect her if necessary.”

His gaze locks with Damian’s, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. 

Damian, now eighteen and on the brink of graduation, is a striking reflection of Bruce—his eyes, sharp as shards of glass; his shoulders, broad and strong; his expression, as icy and resolute; and his stature, nearly as imposing.

They both carry a profound sense of duty, though it manifests in different ways. Bruce’s devotion is a relentless tide, crashing against Gotham’s shores, demanding every ounce of his strength. Damian’s commitment, however, is a fierce, personal flame, burning brightly for those he loves and feels responsible for.

“I intend to,” Damian says sharply, moving toward the Batcomputer. He dislodges his Batarang with a practiced flick, his expression set in stone. 

“I won’t let this go unchallenged.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 12:35 AM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

The safehouse door groaned loudly as you pushed it open, its hinges protesting against the late hour. The dim light from the single lamp in the corner flickered as you stepped inside, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. 

With a weary sigh, you uncloaked, and your suit shimmered as it retracted back into the form of your glasses. Sweat clung to your forehead, and you ruffled your damp hair, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline. The glasses were removed with a swift motion and tossed onto a nearby table cluttered with papers and gadgets.

Morgan looked up from her workstation, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of multiple screens. Various tabs and data streams flickered across her monitors. She flashed a bright, knowing smile as she turned to face you.

"Sup. Doing research?" you asked, your voice hoarse from the night’s exertions.

Morgan’s grin widened, though she tried to hide it behind a bite of her lip. "You... could say that."

You slumped into a nearby chair, raising a brow at her. Morgan leaned back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "That was one hell of a debut. The media is already all over it. They’re calling you the Nightcrawler."

"‘Nightcrawler’?” you murmured with a grimace. “Not exactly... friendly. I preferred Spidey.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s badass!” Morgan grinned, her excitement palpable. She wheeled back to her desk, grabbing a remote and pointing it at the large screen mounted on the wall. The screen flickered to life, and news footage of your debut night flashed across it.

As the video played, Morgan leaned closer to the screen, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “See? They’re eating it up. ‘Nightcrawler’ has a nice ring to it. It’s got mystery, it’s got edge—”

"Oh my god. I’ve turned into the stereotype."

“What stereotype?” Morgan asked, puzzled.

“The emo Gotham hero stereotype,” you explained, slouching further into the chair. “Dark, brooding, with a name like Nightcrawler. It’s like I’m fitting into every cliché.”

"Clichés are just classic for a reason!"

Morgan flashed a screen, and an image appeared: you perched high on a Gotham rooftop. The scene was dark and gritty, shadows cloaking most of your figure. The red of your suit bled into the night, making you appear as a menacing silhouette against the cityscape. Your hood was pulled low, hiding your helmet.

"Gotham’s got a new legend," Morgan grinned.

You squinted at the screen, the image was both intimidating and oddly flattering. "Well... I guess if villains are scared, they’re paying attention. Strike fear into their hearts and all.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said with a nod. “Hell. There are even edits of you on TikTok now!”

"..."

"..."

"...You cannot be serious," you paused, trying to wrap your head around it. “TikTok? Really?”

“Yup!” Morgan’s grin widened as she glanced down at her phone, swiped through her feed, and tapped on the tag #NightcrawlerEdits. She then turned the screen toward you, excitement evident in her eyes.

Clips of your rooftop swings, dramatic landings, and quick takedowns played in a loop, accompanied by upbeat music and flashy edits.

You watched in shock and slight embarrassment. "Oh.my.god."

Morgan’s excitement only grew as she pulled up another video. This time, the video was a velocity edit, showing you in action earlier. The Tiktok highlighted you throwing your head back, straining against the helicopter's weight, with Vicki clinging to your neck. Your biceps were prominently flexed, and the background was a blur of motion and color.

The accompanying song blasted, with the lyrics:

“… Baby, you're the baddest, uh Baby, you're the baddest girl, and, uh Nobody else matters Nobody else matters girl, and, uh”

Morgan burst into laughter, clearly enjoying the video’s over-the-top treatment of your heroics. “This is my favorite one,” she said, her eyes sparkling with tears.

"Oh my god, stop! I do not want to see my own fucking thirst trap!" you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You looked away, face burning and eyes burning into the graffiti on the wall across you.

Morgan, still laughing, seemed undeterred. She scrolled through the comments, her grin cut wide across the apples of her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to hear these,” she said, reading aloud with a laugh.

estellea @ abcdfuckyou・1hr

vicki lucky af. I’d be clinging on too if I were her

jennyjay @ metroboomingpolis・30m

someone give me a ticket to Gotham so I can throw myself off a building and let Nightcrawler save me. no cap 🧢

harry 🐾☕️ @ blehhidc ・1hr

going to become a villain rn. pls choke slam me into Arkham.

ji ─ nightcrawlers #1 fan @ nightcrawler_updates・1hr

i want nightcrawler to smash that helicopter on my tits

The comments were a chaotic mix of wild emojis, desperate pleas, and hashtags like #TakeMeNightcrawler and #WebMeUp. Some fans professed their undying love, while others begged for personal meet-ups or even just a chance to be webbed up by you. 

Of course, there were the occasional snarky remarks, but they were drowned out by the sheer volume of over-the-top reactions and fervent enthusiasm. The intensity of it all left you feeling utterly overwhelmed. You buried your face in your hands, struggling to process the flood of attention.

“Hooooly shit!” Morgan howled with laughter. “This one called you mommy long legs─!”

"Morgan!" You cringed, peeking through your fingers. “Alright, alright. Enough! Enough with the thirst trap comments! Let’s get back to work!”

Morgan snickered. “Sure thing. But you have to admit, Gotham’s reaction is pretty epic.”

You shook your head, trying to refocus. The whirlwind of comments and fan frenzy was a lot to take in, but you knew you needed to stay grounded. “Yeah, well, let’s see if we can keep the city talking for the right reasons.”

Morgan rolled her eyes as she moved back to her spot at the computer, still grinning. “Whatever you say, Mommy Long Legs.” 

You rolled your eyes and began to slowly pull off your undershirt. Morgan glanced up, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she maneuvered a robotic arm from the workstation to scan you.

Pepper’s voice crackled through the speaker, her tone calm and clinical as the AI assessed your injuries. “Injuries detected: dislocated shoulder, torn muscles in back and bicep.”

The AI continued in its methodical manner. “Additional injuries detected: a cut on the cheek, numerous minor abrasions, and lacerations from debris.”

The robotic arm paused for a moment, its sensors analyzing every detail. “Recommendations: immediate treatment needed for dislocated shoulder and muscle tears; minor cuts and abrasions should be cleaned and treated to avoid infection. Rest and recovery are essential.”

Morgan’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise. “More injuries?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair with mock enthusiasm. She gave your forehead a tap with her knuckles. “What’s going on in that head of yours? It’s like you’re a magnet for trouble.”

“It’s not my fault!” you shot back, gesturing wildly. “You know how my luck is. Seriously, try catching a helicopter with one hand while some shitty reporter tries to interview you midair!”

“Alright, enough with the excuses. Let’s get you patched up,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.

Quick on her feet, she approached the medical cabinet, efficiently gathering supplies. The room filled with a soft hum as a series of robotic arms whirred to life, their sleek forms extending and positioning themselves around you.

One of the robotic arms gently secured your dislocated shoulder. Morgan adjusted its settings on a nearby console, her fingers dancing over the controls.

“You really need to stop making my job so interesting,” she muttered.

“You’d die of boredom otherwise,” you retorted, wincing as the arm held your shoulder in place. The sensation of your bone realigning brought a sharp, fleeting pain that quickly subsided as the shoulder was set back into position. 

The remaining robotic arms were now programmed to address your muscle tears. They applied a therapeutic gel and began a methodical massage, their movements soothing the inflamed muscles. 

Morgan glanced up from the control panel, her hands still adjusting the final settings. “I don't get paid enough for this.”

 “You don’t get paid,” you smiled dryly.

“True,” she replied with a smirk, “but keeping you in one piece is its own reward.”

As she wrapped up, Morgan asked, “So, any plans for the rest of the day?”

“Probably just going to sleep,” you said, stifling a yawn. “Handling helicopters really takes it out of you.”

Morgan’s eyes brightened with an idea. “How about coming to Gotham Academy with me?”

“Why?” you asked, intrigued. “Ugh. Please don’t tell me you want to attend class.”

Morgan shook her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “No, no. I know the internship has both of us excused for the month, and I need to check out some files on Octavius Burton. He used to be faculty there, and I figured it’d be a good chance for us to see the beautiful halls of our beloved school.”

You cringed. “Oh my god, I do not miss that place at all.”

Morgan’s grin widened. “You might run into Damian, though.”

You pause.

You thought about it for one second, then nodded. Morgan laughed.

“Gotham Academy it is.”

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voomba sorry for the long ass paragraphs i write shit lore

ur like a redhead magnet girlypop

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iv. what's up danger?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, a typical dinner at the Waynes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Morgana:

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

You could infiltrate. They have valuable info.

It's… Black Mask.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yeesh. Going rebellious already?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Perfect," you hum.

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

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

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

Time to get to work.

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

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

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

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

"The tracker is set," you inform Morgan.

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

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

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

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

“Hey, did you hear something?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Someone’s here! Find them!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit, you missed one guard.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

JAB!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yeah, you’re definitely in trouble.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You were dead meat.

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

“H—Hey, Al.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, a typical dinner at the Waynes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Everyone waiting for the storm that is sure to follow.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

SHINK!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Prove it."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

“Something like that,” you say, nodding.

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

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

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

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

Selina pauses, studying you intently.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stay silent, fiddling with your fingers.

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

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

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

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

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

“Backup? What do you mean?”

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

“Contingency plan?”

There was a pause.

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

“Backup? What do you mean?”

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

Damian freezes.

"Metropolis? Really?"

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

Damian remains frozen in place.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Was he what Selina was protecting you from?

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

He was forged into something terrifying.

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

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

You stumble in, and he freezes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You know it’s time to reveal the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Tell it to go on,” Morgan instructs.

Confused, you turn to her. “Huh?”

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

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

“Suit, activate,” you command softly.

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

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

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

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

"What. The. Fuck."

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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