Hello My Dears! I, Asmaa, Are Asking You To Support My Campaign To Help Me Reach My Goal. I Am Now In

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!

CARBON COPY | Miguel O'Hara

☆ premise: trying to find miles morales in earth-42, he encounters you. or at least, a version of you.

☆ pairing: miguel o'hara x fem!alt universe!reader

☆ warnings: across the spiderverse spoilers, pregnant!reader, clueless!reader, angst, hurt no comfort, miguel's pov, some swearing

☆ a/n: oh my god. across the spiderverse is literally a masterpiece. into the spiderverse already is, but the spiderverse team said, "we can do better." they didn't have to, but they did.

"Do you really think this is a good idea?" Jessica asked through the commlink. "This is risky, even by your standards."

"It doesn't matter. The quicker we find Miles, the quicker we get out of here." Miguel muttered into his earpiece as he walked through the busy streets of Earth-42's New York.

"Yes, but blending in? For all we know, a version of us exists here."

"Which is why you need to stop talking and start looking, Jess." Miguel hissed a little too loud, earning looks from a few passerbys. He winced. Jessica had a point. If a version of them did exist in this universe, it would be best not to bring attention to themselves.

"Miguel!"

And... that was now thrown out of the window. Cursing under his breath, he turned around reluctantly to face the person who called him—only to find that it was you.

His eyes widened, and his lips parted at the sight of you. Never in a million years did he expect to see her again. But here you were, the absolute spitting image of her. Your clothes were exactly the same things she would wear, your hair and makeup done the same way.

Finding different versions of people in different universes was not uncommon. There's literally a society uniting the different universes' own Spider-people, for God's sake. But Miguel didn't expect this. He didn't expect a carbon copy of his dead wife on a universe where Spider-Man did not exist.

He should've said he wasn't Miguel, that you were mistaking him for someone else. Hell, he shouldn't have stopped and turned around in the first place. He didn't know what came over him, but in a second, he had his arms wrapped around your body.

"Miguel, hon, are you okay?" You asked, your voice laced with surprise and concern. You had no clue that the man who was hugging you was not your husband. At least, not your husband in this universe.

Miguel grunted in response, his ability to string words together to form a sentence rendered broken by your presence. He squeezed you tighter. He couldn't believe he was holding you in his arms.

You weren't the same woman he fell in love with. He knows this. But he couldn't help himself. You looked exactly like her. Felt exactly like her. Sounded exactly like her. Shit, you even smelled like her.

"Damn it, Miguel, keep it together! She's not your wife!"

Hearing Jess' voice snapped Miguel out of his stupor. Remembering his mission, why he was there in the first place, he pulled away from you. He didn't want to. He wanted to hold you longer. But he knew that if he did, he wouldn't have been able to stop.

"Honey, what's wrong?" You asked, cupping his face in your hands. God, how he missed feeling the warmth of your palms. "You're acting weird."

"I'm fine, sweetheart." He gave you a small smile, his hands wrapping around yours and his lips pressing a kiss on each of your wrists. "I just missed you, that's all."

You laughed. "What are you talking about? You saw me this morning."

Miguel could only chuckle in an attempt to hide his sadness. What was only hours for you was months for him. "Right. I did."

"Are you sure you're okay, though?" You asked again, eyebrows furrowing and the corners of your lips downturned.

"Don't worry about it, darling. I am."

He wasn't. But you didn't need to know that. You didn't need to know that in another universe, the two of you were married. You didn't need to know that you had a daughter together. You didn't need to know that he loved you and your daughter more than life itself, only for him to lose you both.

"Listen, I have to go. I'm having lunch with a friend. But I'll see you later at Doctor Nguyen's, okay?" You placed your hands on your stomach, a smile forming on your face. "I can't wait to see her again."

Miguel swallowed the lump in his throat before forcing himself to smile. Only now he noticed the bump on your stomach, carrying a different Miguel's Gabriella. "Yeah, me too."

With a kiss goodbye on his cheek, you walked away, blissfully unaware that he was not your Miguel. He watched as you disappeared around the corner, knowing it was the first and last time he was ever going to see you again.

But that didn't matter. He'll find Miles. He'll make sure the canon isn't destroyed. He'll make sure another version of himself wouldn't have to suffer the loss of his family the same way he did. He'll make sure you and your kid were safe.

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

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: AND THE WORLD KEPT SPINNING

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SUMMARY ↳ Jealousy, jealousy! "I thought you weren't dating anyone?" You blink. "I'm. Not. I told you, we agreed to be better off as friends." Jon furrows his brows. "But she kissed you? And you guys facetime?" pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: jealousy? wc: 3.7k

You wake up to barking in your face.

Blinking away sleep, the first thing you see this morning is Titus. The cute little guy is barking right at you. You smile under the blanket and reach out to pet him. It quiets him down, thankfully.

“Tt. Finally, you’re awake.”

Damian standing behind Titus with his arms crossed, looking down on you. He has this look of this disdain, but you’ve been around him long enough to know it’s not genuine. You sit up slowly, giving Titus one last gentle pat on the head before focusing on Damian. "Good morning, Damian," you say, your voice still slightly husky from sleep. "What's got you up so early?"

He shifts slightly, his arms still crossed, but you notice a faint twitch at the corner of his lips, almost a suppressed smile. "It’s not early. You overslept," he remarks dryly.

You stretch lazily under the blanket, feeling the warmth of the morning sun filtering through the window. "I guess I did," you admit with a sheepish grin. "What time is it?"

"Almost mid-morning," Damian replies, unfolding his arms and stepping closer. "Jon and I were starting to wonder if you'd decided to sleep through the entire day."

“Jon’s here?”

“He stayed the night.” Oh. Hm. “Pennyworth has food for you downstairs.”

You nod, processing the information. It wasn't entirely surprising given how tight-knit Damian and Jon are. Really tight-knit. "Thanks, Damian. I'll head down soon."

Damian nods once, eyes assessing your figure  before he turns to leave the room, Titus following obediently at his heels. You swing your legs out of bed, stretching again before grabbing some clothes and heading downstairs.

Alfred is already in the kitchen when you arrive, setting out a simple but hearty breakfast (brunch?) spread. "Good morning," he greets you warmly, his eyes knowing, always knowing.

"Morning, Alfred," you greet back with a trying smile. You settle into your seat at the table, feeling more awake as you take in the delicious smells wafting from the food. As you settle at the table, you notice Jon standing off to the side, his eyes glued to his phone. He looks up, eyes widening when he sees you. He quickly makes his way over to you. “[Name]! Hi.”

You chuckle. “Hi, Jon.”

Jon grins, his eyes lighting up with a warmth that makes you feel instantly more awake. “I was starting to think you’d never wake up,” he teases, sliding into the seat across from you.

“Well I’m here now,” you hum, taking a sip of tea. “Did you sleep well?”

"Yep," Jon says, stretching. "Damian and I stayed up talking for a while. You know how he gets." You only hum, taking a longer sip of your tea.

Damian walks into the kitchen just then, having changed into his usual training gear. He gives Jon a quick nod before turning his attention to you. “I see you made it downstairs without collapsing,” he remarks.

"Yeah, well, I figured I’d save Alfred the trouble of finding my body," you reply with a smirk, taking a bite of the warm, fluffy pancakes Alfred has prepared.

"Smart decision," Damian says, grabbing an apple from the counter. "Jon and I have training planned for this morning. Care to join us?"

You glance at Jon, who looks equally enthusiastic about the idea, then back at Damian. "Uh, sure. Why not?"

"Don't take too long," Damian replies, already heading out of the kitchen with Jon following closely behind him.

You finish your breakfast, savoring the last bites of Alfred's delicious cooking. With a satisfied sigh, you head back to your room and change into your training gear—a simple tank top and sweats will do. 

When you make your way to the training area, you find Damian already warming up, his movements precise and controlled. The sound of fists hitting the punching bag and occasional grunts bounce around the room. Jon is next to him, stretching and chatting animatedly. They both pause when they see you enter.

Jon grins widely. "There you are.”

Damian nods in acknowledgment, his expression serious but his eyes holding a hint of amusement. "Took you long enough," he remarks, a touch of teasing in his tone.

You roll your eyes playfully. "I had to savor Alfred's cooking while I could."

Jon laughs, clapping you on the shoulder. "Can't blame you there. Alfred's food is the best."

Damian gestures towards the sparring mats. "Enough chatter. Let's begin."

You join them on the mats, stretching briefly to loosen up. Jon takes his position opposite you, while Damian circles around, observing with a critical eye. "We'll start with some basic drills," Damian instructs, his voice firm. "Jon, you remember the routine?"

Jon nods eagerly. "Of course.”

You shift, widening your stance like Natasha showed you. To normal people, you don’t look ready for a fight at all, but a trained eye can see the way your shoulders are squared, the way your arms are tense. A trained eye like Damian’s.

Speaking of, he is making his way over to you. His hand lays on your back, forcing you to straighten your posture. His touch roams your body as he makes small little adjustments. His touch lingers for a moment longer than strictly necessary, a silent communication. Jon, meanwhile, waits patiently, his focus shifting between you and Damian, gaze intense.

You pray that he lets go soon, because his kind-of boyfriend (the one that can split you in half, and not in a good way) is looking really hard at you both right now. Damian nods once he’s satisfied with your form, hand sliding off of you. He steps back, arms folded and ready to assess.

“We’ll start with some basic striking drills,” Damian suggests, stepping back to give you space. His demeanor is focused, precise, as he guides both you and Jon through the movements. The air in the training room fills with the rhythmic sounds of punches and kicks, each movement honed through years of practice and discipline.

Jon moves with an infectious energy, his enthusiasm palpable as he encourages you and offers pointers. Damian, ever the perfectionist, corrects your form with a sharp eye and occasional terse comments that carry more encouragement than criticism.

After what feels like hours, Damian calls for a break. You sit down onto the mat, breathing out of your nose but feeling exhilarated. Jon flops down next to you, not looking tired at all and grinning. "You’re getting faster," he remarks, wiping sweat from his brow.

"You too," you jest, giving him a friendly nudge. "Though I still think I could take you in a real fight."

Jon laughs, the sound light and infectious. "We’ll see about that."

Damian and Jon exchange a look, their expressions softening as they glance at each other and then back at you. Jon leans in closer, his voice low but playful. "Careful, [Name]. Damian might get jealous if you start favoring me over him."

Damian scoffs. “[Name] would be a fool to not recognize the superior combatant.”

“Yeah, that’s me, right?”

You smile at their banter, eyes bouncing between them. They bounce off of each other so seamlessly, effortlessly. They know each other. What’s that one saying? To be known is to be loved. Suddenly you feel suffocated.

“Well.” You get up and pull your arms up, stretching. It’s a good stretch, one that makes you groan. You feel their eyes on you. “I should go back to the Den. I really gotta start calibrating the badassium,” you pause just outside of the door, thinking, “and make more, actually.”

Damian and Jon exchange a quick glance, their banter trailing off as you mention leaving. Jon's playful demeanor softens into a more earnest expression, and Damian watches you with a hint of curiosity.

"Already?" Jon asks, sitting up slightly as if to keep you from leaving just yet.

You hesitate, feeling the weight of their attention on you. Jon's expression shifts slightly, almost as if he's disappointed by your decision to leave. Damian, ever composed, watches you with that familiar intensity, his gaze unreadable but observant.

"Yeah," you reply with a small smile, trying to lighten the mood. "Work doesn’t get done itself, you know."

Jon looks over at Damian, who is watching you carefully. "Well, if you need any help, just let us know," Jon offers warmly, his tone genuine.

Damian nods in agreement, though his expression remains somewhat guarded. "Indeed. Our resources are at your disposal."

With a final nod and smile, you leave the room. Your hearing picks up and bickering as you walk. Back to their regularly scheduled programming that fast, huh. You shake your head, quickly making your way outside the manor. You won’t bother Alfred, so you’ll catch the subway.

“[Name]!” Or not.

Jon jogs over to you, who is just steps outside of the manor’s grounds. “Let me take you there.”

You shake your head. “Jon, it’s fine–”

Jon decides that it is not fine, apparently, because he wastes no time in scooping you up into his arms and taking off. What the hell, not even a warning?

You wrap your arms around his neck so as to not fall out of his grip (not that he’d ever let you go). “You’re in civvies–”

“No one will see.” You scoff at his assuredness. The wind whips past you, biting at your arms. Ah shit, you should’ve changed before going out. Jon notices your miniscule shiver, tightening his grip around you.

"You know, you didn't have to do this," you remark, raising your voice slightly over the wind.

Jon grins, his expression playful. "Maybe I just wanted an excuse to carry you," he teases, his tone light but sincere.

You sigh, letting the conversation die. You arrive at the Den in record time thanks to his super speed. Jon sets you down gently, touch lingering. "There you go," he says with a smile, stepping back to let you stand on your own.

“Thank you,” you say, despite yourself. You smooth down your clothes, batting away his hand (gently and with a smile so as to not hurt his feelings) when it reaches out to help. “You should start charging for your services.”

“Nah. You’re my only customer anyway,” he hums. God, can he not do that? “Well, you and Damian.” Right. Right right right.

You chuckle softly. "I feel so special." You turn and enter the Den, Jon having moved the rocks already.

With a nod, Jon watches you for a moment longer before turning to leave. "Take care, [Name]. See you soon."

"Yeah, see you," you reply, waving as he heads back towards Wayne Manor. You stand there for a moment, watching him go wistfully before turning to your work station.

You make three more duplicates of the badassium, just for now. The first one will power your nanite chamber, which you can now start building, finally. The sound of metal bending under your hands fills the space.

“Wait, so, does that make you a Bat?” You lied, Victoria’s voice also fills the space. It had been a while since you two had talked, so you thought a facetime would be nice. She’s in a lavish lounge dress, surrounded by even more lavish decor.

“Nah, I still got my own thing going on. We just work together. Like co-workers.” You’re not sure if you’re supposed to tell her these things, but if Bruce has a problem with it he can kiss your ass. Victoria is the reason you were able to make the badassium so fast. Besides, it’s not like you’ll tell her the identities of everyone or anything.

“Well, any juicy details about your ‘co-workers’ you can share?”

“Ha ha.” You roll your eyes. “I’ll leave the ‘figuring out their identities’ part to you, since you’re so good at that.” She gives a small innocent smile at that.

You focus back on your work, hands moving with practiced efficiency. Victoria's image on your screen watches with mild curiosity as you assemble the components of the nanite chamber.

"You've always seemed good with your hands," she remarks, a hint of admiration in her tone. "What exactly are you building now?"

"It’s like a big charger," you explain, pausing to scratch your brow. "It’s to charge my suit.”

She hums. “Still can’t believe you just casually made a new element that fast.”

"Well, you did provide most of the materials," you remind her, smiling. "Couldn't have done it without you, hun.”

Victoria chuckles, a hint of pride in her eyes. "Well, of course.”

You continue working on the nanite chamber, the rhythmic sound of metal being molded and fitted together creating a soothing background hum. Victoria's voice keeps you company, her questions and comments providing a pleasant distraction from the intense focus required for your task.

"So, any new developments on the romantic front?" Victoria asks, her tone teasing.

You roll your eyes, even though you can't help but smile. "Ugh, Tori.”

"Just curious," she replies, feigning innocence.

“Well sorry to disappoint,” you huff, punch a piece of metal into place. “This spider is single and not ready to mingle.”

“I’m just saying, you’re probably the only person Damian pays any attention to.”

“Well, other people outside of our school exist.”

She leans forward. “So, there’s someone else?”

You groan as she laughs. “Well, what about Robin then? The news says you guys are pretty chummy.”

You snort, because who’s gonna tell her? “No, Tori. I don’t have time for relationships, hun. I’m busy with… heroing and stuff.” You turn to face the phone. “But if anything happens, I promise you’ll be the first to know.”

"Uh-huh," she replies, clearly unconvinced. "You should just go after what you want.” Oh, Tori, if only it was that simple.

The conversation continues, shifting to lighter topics as you work. Victoria updates you on the latest gossip, her voice a comforting presence as you focus on assembling the nanite chamber. The hours pass quickly, the steady rhythm of your work and Victoria's chatter creating a comfortable routine.

You take the phone, opening your messages with Victoria. “Can you get me these things? It should be simple.”

Her face gets closer to the camera as she picks up her phone to look at the list you sent her. “Of course. Same place?” You nod.

“[Name]? Is there someone here?”

You look to the side, seeing Jon standing at the entrance, rubble around his feet. Oh, what the fu–

“I thought I hear–”

You reach out a hand, motioning for him to zip it. He shuts up, thankfully, eyeing your phone.

Victoria snorts. “Who is that?”

“A dumbass,” you answer dryly. “I gotta go, Tori.” Jon’s identity is vulnerable, so she shouldn’t be around right now. Probably.

She rolls her eyes but blows a kiss. You blow one back and end the call, putting down your phone and sighing. You put a hand on your hip and turn to look at Jon. You gesture for him to speak. “Well?”

Jon’s eyes stay on your phone for a bit, before looking into yours. “What?”

“Jon, I was on a facetime. You could’ve leaked yourself or something.”

“Who was that?” he asks, stepping closer. “Does she know who you are?”

“Oh please, not you too. I would’ve thought Damian would care about that.” You step around him, looking for a wrench. “But yeah, she does. She’s the friend that helped me get all of this,” you smile, arms spreading to gesture to the whole workshop.

“She’s also the person that was kissing me when Damian walked in.” You’re not sure why exactly you said that, but the way his eyes almost blow out of his head is pretty funny.

“Oh, wait, I can tell you the whole story now! Long story short, I accidentally called her ‘Vicky’ as Spinnerette—I call her Tori now, though—so she figured out it was me because I was the only person that called her that. Rookie move, I know, but in my defense I would’ve never guessed she would be able to put together the pieces. Anyway–”

You find the wrench you’re looking for, yay, “–Fast forward a little. She confronts me about it. I thought she was gonna, like, try to blackmail me, but no. She just wants to help. Shocker, right? She grabs my wrist to check out my web-shooter bracelets, and Karen shoots out a web. Just because she felt like it. It sticks onto Tori and before I can get it off the door opens.”

You tighten a screw. “I found out Tori’s a bit of a quick thinker that day, because she quickly jumps into my arms and kisses me. Kisses me! Since, you know, the web was stuck on her and since she was on me you couldn’t see it.”

You smile once you’re satisfied with how tight the screw is. Turning back to Jon, you furrow your brow. He looks… constipated. Like he just ate something sour. He steps closer, closer and closer until you’re back up against the desk. He invades your senses with his presence, his eyes wide and searching yours.

“I thought you weren’t dating anyone?”

You blink. “I’m. Not. I told you, we agreed to be better off as friends.”

Jon furrows his brows. "But she kissed you? And you guys facetime?”

You narrow your eyes. “She kissed me once, and then we agreed to be friends. Only. And friends facetime.”

He looks away, his jaw tightening as he processes your words. Then, it seems like he remembers himself. "Right, sorry. I just... misunderstood."

“Are you okay, Jon?” Did he and Damian get in a fight or something?

Jon's expression softens, and he sighs, running a hand through his hair. "Yeah, I'm fine. Just…” He bites his lip, gaze meeting yours for a second before turning away. “I don’t know. Thinking too much, I guess.”

You nod, not having anything to say. “Well, what did you come here for?” You hope he’ll appreciate the subject change.

He scratches his neck. “Nothing, really. I just wanted to…” he glances at your phone, “...bother you I guess.”

“Well, you’re always welcome here. Just, call ahead, or something,” you chuckle, turning back to the nanite chamber.

He shoves his hands into his pockets. “Well, I don’t wanna bother you anymore. So. Bye.” And then he’s off. Wow, one moment he’s here and one moment he’s not. You shrug, deciding that for your own peace of mind you won’t dwell on the interaction.

Jon Kent has control over his emotions. He has to, given the power he has. However, the teenage experience might just kill him.

He’s never felt quite like this before. He can feel his hormones all over the place. And it doesn’t feel nice. Whatever Jon feels is amplified by ten. Jon flies back to the Manor, his mind racing with conflicting emotions. He lands softly on the grounds, his thoughts still tangled with the image of you… kissing her.

He wishes you kissed him.

Damian looks up, noticing Jon's arrival. "Took you long enough," he remarks, his voice steady and cool.

Jon doesn't respond immediately, his thoughts still swirling. “Did you know?” he asks.

Damian doesn’t know what he’s talking about, because why would he? He tilts his head and Jon elaborates, “About… Tori?”

Damian pauses, thinking. “Victoria?”

“She’s who you… walked in on. With [Name].”

Jon watches as Damian’s eyes narrow before he scoffs. “Yes, I remember. What about her?”

Jon comes to sit next to Damian, seeking out his comfort. “She’s, well. Apparently she knows that [Name] is Spinnerette.” Damian’s brows furrow. “She’s the one who helped get them all their materials and stuff. They were facetiming when I went over there and…”

Damian’s eyes darken, but he says nothing, letting Jon continue.

Jon sighs, leaning back. “It just threw me off, I guess. I thought… I don’t know what I thought.”

Damian's expression remains unreadable for a moment before he speaks again. "Did [Name] say anything else about her?"

Jon shakes his head. "Not really. Just that they're friends and that she's been helpful."

Damian nods, his gaze distant as he considers this new piece of information. "I see."

Jon sighs deeply, running a hand through his hair as he tries to sort out his thoughts. "It's just... weird, you know? I didn't expect [Name] to have someone like that in their life."

Damian raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"

Jon shrugs, his frustration evident. "I guess I just thought I knew them better."

Damian studies Jon for a moment before speaking. "People have layers, Jon. We can't expect to know everything about them, no matter how close we are." Damian would know..

Jon huffs, still not entirely satisfied with that answer. "Yeah, I know. It's just... I don't know. Maybe I'm…” he purses his lips, half-amused with himself, “...jealous.”

Damian's eyes narrow slightly, but he keeps his tone measured. "Jealousy is a useless emotion, Jon. It clouds judgment and makes you act irrationally."

Jon shoots Damian a wry smile. "Yeah, I know. You've mentioned that before."

Damian nods, his expression softening marginally. "Just focus on what matters.”

Jon nods slowly, taking in Damian's advice. Silence settles between them for a moment before Damian speaks again, his voice quieter. "If you need to talk... about anything, Jon, I'm here."

Jon smiles at him, eyes flicking to his lips before returning to Damian’s. Damian meets Jon's gaze steadily, his expression unreadable but his intent clear. Jon's heart skips a beat, the intensity of Damian's presence washing over him. There's something unspoken between them, a bond that goes beyond words. Jon swallows, trying to find the right words, but Damian speaks first.

"Come, let's head inside," Damian says, standing up and gesturing towards the manor. Jon follows silently, still grappling with his thoughts.

Jon takes a deep breath, finally breaking the silence. "Damian, I..." He pauses, trying to find the right words. "I don't know what I'm feeling. It's just... confusing."

Damian says nothing, but Jon has known him long enough that Damian isn’t condemning him or anything. He’s chosen to stand with him, wholeheartedly. Jon grasps Damian’s arm as he leads him deeper inside the manor.

Damian Wayne and Jon Kent kissed on New Years, right as the clock turned midnight. Jon Kent really hopes he can kiss you too.

notes:

reader to jon: you’re the most jealous guy i know

jon: you know other guys

-

jon, hearing reader talking to somebody and immediately booking it to the den: im not jealous how preposterous

i. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Mild sexual jokes, Making out, Blood, Explosions, Mentions of Child Abuse, Good Aunt-Mom Selina Kyle AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

 ༻⊰───⋅

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

༻⊰───⋅

SELINA'S DEFT FINGERS SLID over the fabric of the dress, adjusting and smoothing it until it hugged your figure perfectly. The elegant emerald gown shimmered under the dim lights of the apartment, the material soft and luxurious against your skin.

"You didn’t steal this, did you?" you murmur, adjusting the necklace resting delicately around your neck. "I’d rather not end up in jail tonight."

"The dress? No, it's one of my old ones," Selina scoffed, turning away. She handed you a pair of black heels. "But if anyone asks about the necklace, just say it's a family heirloom. Which, technically, it is."

You shot her a pointed look, and she rolled her eyes with a smirk.

"Oh, hush. I haven’t stolen anything in… at least a month," she drawled.

"A month, wow! That’s a new record," you teased, slipping into the heels.

Selina laughed, shaking her head. "Don’t get too comfortable. Just because I’m on a hiatus doesn’t mean I’ve gone straight."

"Well, let’s hope your hiatus lasts at least through tonight," you winced. 

She smirked, giving you a once-over. "Trust me, darling, tonight is all about you."

"Oh! Before I forget…" Selina brightened, moving swiftly to one of her drawers. She retrieved a thigh strap and fastened it securely onto your leg. With nimble hands, she slid a blade into the strap. You rolled your eyes but accepted the gesture with a resigned nod. It was Gotham, after all—being prepared was always a need.

“Damian will be with me the whole night,” you said, trying to reassure her. “You don’t have to worry that much.”

Selina paused, her hands on the thigh strap, and gave you a serious look. “Sweetheart, I worry about you every single second of the day. It’s not that I don’t trust Damian—he’s capable. But it’s Gotham I don’t trust. And wherever those Bats go, trouble tends to follow.”

"Okay, Mom," you said, offering a reassuring smile as you squeezed her hand. "I get it. Thanks for looking out."

Selina Kyle might not be your biological mother, but she’s never cared about that. She’s been your mom since she found you that day by her door, carried by a social worker, alone so many years ago. 

To her, you’re her kid.

And to you, Selina was more than just your biological aunt; she was the person who had stepped in when your world fell apart.

Selina and her sister, Maggie, had been born into a troubled family. Their father was an abusive alcoholic, and their mother, Maria, was emotionally distant. After their mother’s death, the sisters were separated. Maggie was adopted by a loving family and built a stable, happy life. Selina, however, was thrown into the harsh hands of Gotham’s orphanage system. Those dark streets and hard knocks eventually shaped her into Catwoman.

But the past has a way of catching up. Maggie, living a seemingly charmed life, was targeted by Catwoman's enemies. Black Mask, in a ruthless bid for revenge, orchestrated a brutal attack. Maggie was kidnapped, tortured, and left for dead. Her husband didn’t survive the onslaught either.

Maggie had a daughter—barely a toddler. Too young, too innocent to be left on her own in such a cruel world. With no other family to turn to, Selina took you in, vowing to protect you from a world that had already taken so much from both of you.

Her life wasn’t easy. She was young, barely in her twenties, struggling to make ends meet in one of Gotham’s most unforgiving neighborhoods. The jobs she managed to get were barely enough to cover rent, let alone the needs of a growing child. Selina’s nights were spent planning heists and navigating the criminal underworld—not out of greed, but out of necessity. She used her skills as Catwoman not just to survive, but to provide for you, making sure you had a roof over your head and food on the table.

You eventually discovered the truth about her double life. As a child, you had been so smart and perceptive, piecing together clues about the mysterious disappearances and the high-end items that seemed to show up around the house. When you confronted her, your heartbroken tears and questions about right and wrong were met with a mix of regret and sorrow in her eyes. It wasn’t easy for either of you.

But through it all, she provided a sense of stability and love that helped you turn out alright.

Selina's hand slid across her vanity as she reached for a sleek black clutch resting on a nearby table. With a theatrical flourish, she presented it to you. You took the clutch with a smile and stepped back, a playful twirl sending the emerald fabric of your gown into a graceful dance.

“How do I look?” you asked, a hint of nervousness in your voice as you posed.

Selina’s serious expression softened instantly. Her eyes roamed over your outfit, from the delicate neckline of the dress to the perfect fit around your waist and the way the gown flowed gracefully to the floor.

“You look amazing, sweetheart,” she purred, her voice full of warmth and approval. “You’re going to knock the whole school off their feet. Damian’s going to need a crowbar to keep the other guys away.”

Selina reached out to adjust the straps on your dress, ensuring everything was perfectly in place. Her fingers then moved to a stray strand of hair, brushing lightly against your cheek with a gentle touch.

“Just remember, darling,” she spoke slowly, “it never hurts to stay safe.”

Your eyes widened as you caught the hint of her meaning. “You’re not suggesting I—”

"I was at that age," She cut you off with a mock-serious tone, a mischievous glint in her eye. “I’m just saying you should be prepared. Especially with the way that boy looks at you like you’re the only person in the room. You’ve got him wrapped around your finger. Make sure he wraps something else too.”

You felt a flush of embarrassment rising to your cheeks. You fumbled with the clutch in your hand, trying to divert your attention from her teasing. “Mom! What the hell?! I think that’s enough advice for one night!”

Just as Selina was about to respond, a sharp car horn beeped from outside. Both of you turned towards the window. A sleek black sports car, glistening in the dim streetlight, stood out starkly against the gritty backdrop of your neighborhood. It looked painfully out of place among the surrounding dilapidated buildings.

Selina’s smirk returned as she looked back at you.

“Looks like your chariot awaits,” she said, hands sliding up your shoulders as she pushed you to the door. “Remember, have fun, but stay sharp. Gotham’s never as quiet as it seems.”

You nodded, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. “Got it. Thanks.”

With a final reassuring smile, you stepped out of the apartment and made your way down the stairs. As you reached the bottom, you saw Damian waiting by his Porsche, his posture relaxed but his eyes sharp. He was dressed impeccably in a deep black suit with an emerald button-up shirt underneath, which perfectly matched the striking color of his eyes and your dress. A sleek black tie completed the ensemble, matching his fitted gloves. His hair was slicked back with gel, each strand perfectly in place, emphasizing his sharp features.

Damian's gaze softened as he saw you approaching, a small, approving smile tugging at his lips. 

“Beloved,” he greeted, extending a hand to you. “You look stunning.”

“Hi, handsome,” you replied, taking his hand and moving forward to press a gentle kiss against his lips. Damian responded with a soft hum, tilting his head slightly, deepening the kiss just enough to make the moment linger.

Just as you were about to lose yourself completely, Selina’s voice rang out, cutting through the night air. “Save some of that romance for later! We don’t want you to be late!”

Damian pulled away from you so abruptly that it almost seemed like he’d suffered whiplash. His face turned an uneven shade of red, a mix of embarrassment and irritation evident. He shot a sidelong glance at Selina before his eyes darted back to you.

Damian cleared his throat, his usual composure momentarily slipping. “Right,” he said, his voice strained. “Let’s… get going.”

He moved swiftly to open the car door for you, his lips twitching into a grimace. As you slid into the passenger seat, you couldn’t help but chuckle at the abrupt change in his demeanor. Damian was always somewhat awkward around Selina. His feelings about Catwoman were conflicted, yet he maintained a deep respect for her as your mother.

Once he settled into the driver’s seat and started the engine, the car roared to life with a smooth, powerful purr. The sleek vehicle glided down the streets with impressive speed, Damian navigating through traffic with a confidence that bordered on recklessness. You couldn't help but recall the first time he’d taken you for a drive, when his aggressive maneuvering had left you clutching at the seat, your heart racing like you were in an ambulance on a high-speed chase. This time, though, you've long gotten used to the feeling.

The ride was brief but exhilarating, and soon the car pulled into the school’s parking lot. Sleek cars and limousines lined the lot, each more extravagant than the last. Students and their dates, dressed in formal wear, were mingling and laughing as they headed towards the entrance. As you stepped out of the Porsche, the cool night air greeted you, carrying the scent of fresh flowers and the faint strains of classical music drifting from inside. Damian drew you close, wrapping an arm around your waist as you walked toward the entrance together.

The sprawling campus was illuminated by an array of twinkling lights, casting a warm, golden glow over the manicured lawns and historic stone buildings. The ballroom was stunningly elegant. Crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceiling, casting colorful reflections onto the polished marble floor. Tables dressed in white linens, adorned with fresh roses and flickering candles, lined the room. The dance floor gleamed with couples already swaying to the soft music of a live orchestra.

The atmosphere was just screaming old money, a stark contrast to the gritty streets of Gotham. 

Gotham Academy was one hell of a school, and you already knew that. It was a breeding ground for rich fucks, each one more insufferable than the last. The halls echoed with the chatter of kids who had everything handed to them, their lives a far cry from yours. The only reason you’d managed to slip through those gilded gates was thanks to the Martha-Wayne scholarship. Without it, you’d still be stuck in the middle of nowhere with your mother, scraping by on whatever scraps you could find.

“Habibti, are you going to keep staring at the floor? Or may I have the honor of requesting a dance?”

You looked up, meeting Damian’s eyes with a playful glare. “I don’t know… this is a really interesting floor.”

Damian raised an eyebrow, feigning surprise. “Oh, really? I didn’t realize the floor had such a captivating allure.”

You crossed your arms, a mischievous smile tugging at your lips. “Well, it’s not every day you get to appreciate the fine craftsmanship of marble. Plus… we gotta keep our thing going, you know? I can't give in that easily.”

“Our thing? What thing?”

“The thing where we act like we hate each other but want each other carnally?”

"What?" Damian snapped, cheeks flushed a deep crimson, his brows furrowing at you. "What nonsense—"

His hands, typically so composed, were now slightly tense as he pulled you along and guided you onto the dance floor. The music around you pulsed with an upbeat rhythm, couples spinning in slow dances.

“You never miss an opportunity to mortify me, do you?” Damian scolded.

You laughed softly, your body swaying gracefully with his as the music surrounded you. “I think I just enjoy keeping you on your toes. It adds a touch of excitement.”

Damian’s lips curved into a wry smile despite his grumbling. “Indeed, you’ve inherited Catwoman's knack for keeping things lively.”

You grin. The rich, velvety fabric of your dress brushed against Damian’s suit as you moved together. “Yeah. Once she retires, I could always take up the mantle of the next Catwoman.”

Damian’s smile faded slightly, replaced by a look of mild exasperation. “Please do not. I fear what will become of you then."

“Why not?” you batted your lashes at him coyly. "Does the thought of me in a skin-tight suit not delight you, beloved?"

Damian made a noncommittal sound, his ears tinged with red as he averted his gaze.

“I would not… be entirely opposed to that idea,” he muttered.

Grinning, you purred, your hand gliding gently up his jaw, letting your touch linger just enough to be felt. A glimmer of mischief sparkled in the crystalline depths of his jade-green eyes. Damian’s grip on your waist tightened ever so slightly, his eyes narrowing into a mock glare that barely masked the warmth in his gaze.

He guided you into a slow dance, his movements smooth and assured, reminiscent of that one late night in the kitchen of his manor. The memory of swaying together in the dark, with only the soft glow of the moon from the windows and music playing from the speakers of his phone, flashed in your mind.

It was moments like these that peeled away his usual brooding demeanor. In the soft glow of the ballroom lights, the tender, affectionate side of him came out—a side that offered you a special kind of attention, one that made every shared glance and touch feel uniquely intimate.

“This profound, almost maddening attraction I have for you makes me want to stab myself,” Damian confessed, his voice a low murmur that cut through the ambient hum of the party. As he spun you both gracefully, the fabric of your dress flared out around his ankles. 

He held you closer, his fingers pressing into your waist as you moved together in perfect harmony

“Yet, despite it all,” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper as he leaned in closer, his breath warm against your ear, “I find myself yearning for more.”

“Wow, you certainly have a way with words,” you said, your smile radiant and your eyes gleaming with a playful spark. “Admit it—you love every moment of it, don’t you?”

Damian’s lips curled into a mischievous grin. “Perhaps,” he conceded, his tone light but laced with an undeniable charm. He pulled you back into his embrace with practiced ease. As he guided you across the floor, the world around you seemed to dissolve into a haze of soft music and swirling colors.

Damian’s gaze, however, was sharp and vigilant. “I don’t like how they’re staring at you,” he murmured, his green eyes narrowing as they scanned the crowd. His voice held a familiar edge. “Perhaps they need a reminder of whom you belong to.”

"Damian, no—"

Before you could protest, Damian leaned in, closing the distance between you with a smooth turn of his head. The kiss was tender yet heated, his teeth gently tugging at your bottom lip. 

Anyone who glanced your way could see Damian Wayne with his lips pressed against yours. It wasn’t the first time he’d done this—there was that incident when you both landed in detention because he couldn’t keep his hands off you by your locker.

You whined softly, trying to pull away, a thin strand of saliva connecting your lips in a delicate, glistening thread. “We’re in public—”

“Shut up,” he murmured against your lips, his voice rough yet tender, before diving back in. The breath you had been holding escaped in a slow, shuddering sigh, mingling with his as he drew you closer, his hands firmly cupping your hips.

His kiss deepened, a passionate exploration that left no room for hesitation. His tongue slid into your mouth, wet and hot, as if he were trying to devour every last sweet sound you made. Damian’s hands trembled slightly, betraying the depth of his own emotions as you clung tightly to his tie. Finally, you both parted, breathless and flushed.

Damian and you locked eyes, his expression unreadable until a shit-eating grin slowly spread across his face.

"I hate you so much," you scowled. "In public?! Again?!"

"Beloved, just look around," he scoffed, motioning toward the prom scene.

Teenagers were kissing without a second thought, and none of the teachers seemed inclined to intervene—after all, they'd been paid enough to turn a blind eye. You wouldn't be surprised if that was why some of the teachers even went to the effort of chaperoning.

"No one's paying us any mind. Besides," he added, his voice dropping to a low murmur, "I like reminding everyone that you're mine."

“The day we made it official, every paper seemed to be all about me,” you said, rolling your eyes. “I think they’ve figured it out.” You couldn't help but let a small, playful smile tug at your lips. “You’re impossible, Damian Wayne.”

“Perhaps,” he murmured, his voice low and teasing as he used your own words against you. “And you love every moment of it, don’t you?”

Before you could respond, he tilted your chin up, his lips brushing against yours as he whispered, “Let them see. They’ll just have to get used to the sight.”

The kiss was softer this time, more tender and deliberate as you swayed against him, savoring the moment.

Then, without warning, the serenity was shattered by a deafening explosion. The sound of shattering glass and a violent burst of energy ripped through the ballroom. The room was plunged into chaos. Crystal chandeliers swayed violently from the ceiling, their light flickering erratically as debris rained down. Guests screamed, their frantic movements a blur as they scrambled for cover.

Damian’s reflexes kicked in instantly. He broke away and yanked you closer, shielding you with his body. You gasped, your arms instinctively wrapping tightly around his torso as you buried your face into his neck. His eyes darted across the room, scanning for the source of the threat, every muscle tensed and alert.

From the smoke emerged a middle-aged man, suspended in the air by his mechanical arms—sleek, metallic, and bristling with a variety of intimidating gadgets. The arms whirred and slashed through the air with deadly force, carving through the walls and sending more chunks of debris down.

“You think you can just throw away everything I’ve built?” the man roared. “This school, this place, it’s all been a mockery of my work, my life! I’ve sacrificed everything for this and you’ve repaid me with nothing but scorn!”

Damian cursed under his breath, his eyes narrowing as he tapped an emergency button on his wrist. The signal to the Batcomputer blazed through the network, alerting Batman to the crisis unfolding in the ballroom. Without missing a beat, Damian enveloped you in his arms, lifting you effortlessly as he maneuvered through the chaos.

The two of you darted out of the ballroom, the once-grand entrance now marred by the chaos. Damian carried you swiftly through the building's hallways, the sound of distant alarms and the echoes of your hurried footsteps reverberating through the empty corridors. The moment you reached a safer location, he paused briefly, his eyes scanning the surroundings for any further threats, his grip on you firm but reassuring.

“I’ll be okay,” you said as he put you down. Panting, you gripped his gloved hands in yours, squeezing them lightly. “Do—do you have your suit?”

“It’s in the car,” Damian grumbled, frustration evident in his voice as he ran his thumb over your knuckles.

“I’ll stay here and start helping with evacuations,” you said swiftly, already moving to slip out of your heels, the shoes clacking against the floor.

Damian opened his mouth to protest, but you cut him off, shaking your head firmly.

“No,” you said firmly, your scowl sharpening. “None of this again. I make my own decisions.”

Damian’s expression hardened, his concern evident despite his frustration. “You’re not a trained fighter. You’re not supposed to be in harm’s way.”

"It's just evacuations. I’m not going to be fighting," you met his gaze as you stood up straight again. “And I’m not going to stand by while others are in danger.”

Damian hesitated, clearly torn. “Fine,” he said begrudgingly, “but stay hidden and keep away from the villain.”

With a nod and a quick, reassuring kiss, you turned and plunged back into the chaos. The corridors were now a frenzy of frantic students and faculty, desperately trying to evacuate.

Damian shot you one last, intense look before sprinting back toward the parking lot.

You slipped back into the ballroom, your heart pounding. Through the swirling smoke and shattered remnants of the once-elegant room, you spotted a girl pinned beneath a toppled table, her muffled cries barely audible. Bundling your dress in your hands, you rushed over.

“Come on! We need to get out of here!” you urged, pushing through the debris and wrestling with the heavy wood. Once she was free, you helped her to her feet. She stumbled slightly, but you steadied her with a firm, reassuring grip.

“Where’s everyone else?” she asked, her voice trembling.

“Everyone’s heading for the exits. We need to move quickly,” you replied, guiding her toward the nearest emergency exit. The sounds of the villain’s rampage echoed through the room, punctuated by the distant wail of sirens.

Once the girl was able to get back on her feet and run on her own, you rushed to assist another group, directing them towards the exits and making sure they stayed calm.

There was a sudden, sharp slice, and you turned your gaze back toward the ballroom. Damian had reappeared, now clad in his Robin suit. The clash of his sword against the villain’s mechanical arms echoed through the room, each strike a precise blur of red and black.

As you watched, a figure huddled in the far corner caught your eye. The student, paralyzed with fear, was frozen in place, eyes wide and fixed on the chaos.

Without a second thought, you sprinted back into the fray, deftly weaving through debris and toppled tables. Reaching the student, you crouched beside them and placed a reassuring hand on their shoulder.

“Hey, it’s going to be okay. Alright? We’re going to get through this, but you need to move—now!” you urged, your voice firm yet reassuring.

The student’s terrified eyes flickered with a glimmer of hope as they slowly began to rise with your help. You grunted, slipping your arms beneath their shoulders and lifting them to their feet.

"Keep moving!" you urged, guiding them toward the doors. As you pulled them along, you felt a peculiar tingling sensation creeping up your leg.

Unbeknownst to you, the prickling came from a small spider, glowing an eerie green. Its tiny, pulsating body was nearly hidden against your emerald dress. Oblivious to its presence, you continued leading the student toward the safer part of the ballroom, focused on ensuring their escape.

The spider’s glow grew more intense as it crawled up your arm. Just as you pushed the student to safety, it sank its fangs deep into your skin. A piercing scream escaped your lips as searing pain surged through your body. You instinctively slapped at your bicep, nails digging into the skin.

Damian’s head snapped in your direction, his eyes widening in alarm. In his distraction, the villain took advantage of the moment, slamming a mechanical arm into Damian’s side and flinging him into the air. The impact sent Damian crashing into the wall with a grunt, the force of the blow causing him to crumple momentarily.

The spider’s venom surged through your veins, bringing with it a searing, unbearable pain. Your vision swirled, dark spots dancing at the edges as you collapsed to the floor. Struggling to stay conscious, you crawled toward a nearby pillar, clutching your arm where the spider had bitten you. 

Through the haze of pain and fog, you saw the villain's figure looming closer, advancing with a menacing snarl. His mechanical arms whirred ominously, their sharp edges glinting in the dim light as they reached for you. It was the last thing you saw before darkness claimed you.

"Get away from her!"

Damian's head snapped up, his eyes blazing with fierce anger. Ignoring the throbbing in his side, he propelled himself forward with a roar, his sword cutting through the air with lethal precision. The blade met the villain's mechanical arm with a thunderous clang, a spray of electricity erupting from the impact. The force of the blow staggered the villain momentarily, his mechanical limbs jerking erratically as sparks flew from the damaged joint.

Damian slid across the debris-strewn floor, coming to a stop with a practiced skid on his knees. He positioned himself between you and the threat, his katana poised in a defensive stance. 

“Is this all you’ve got?” Damian spat, his voice dripping with contempt. “A pathetic tantrum because your grandiose plans fell apart? You’re nothing more than a washed-up has-been clinging to your failures.”

“You think you know what it’s like to sacrifice everything? To watch your life's work crumble? You have no idea what I’ve lost! My research was going to change the world!”

The villain’s mechanical arms flared up in response, their whirring growing louder as he prepared to strike again. Just as an arm was about to land, the piercing whir of a batarang sliced through the air. It struck the villain’s mechanical arm with precision, a bright explosion erupting from the impact. Damian grunted as he braced himself, holding firm against the shockwave. The villain recoiled in surprise, momentarily disoriented by the sudden blast.

Suddenly, the room was engulfed in darkness. The lights flickered and died, plunging the space into a pitch-black void. Shadows danced along the walls, punctuated by loud bangs and the crackling of debris.

Through the darkness, Batman emerged, his imposing figure cutting through the shadows. The sound of his cape rustling was almost like a herald of doom as he got into a fighting stance.

“Robin,” Batman’s voice was a low, commanding growl, “take the girl. I’ll handle it from here.”

Damian wasted no time, swiftly scooping you into his arms. The icy chill of your skin against his own drove a spear of terror through him. He pushed aside the panic clawing at him, focusing instead on keeping you as stable as possible despite how limp you felt in his arms.

He sprinted out of the ballroom, skidding into the hallway with pants. 

He ran. Faster and faster. His breath came in ragged gasps. The entrance was ahead. He could see it.

Slamming through the doors, he barreled into the open air. The parking lot sprawled before him. Parents were screaming. Kids were crying. Ambulances flashed, their lights a blur.

Outside, he spotted a group of paramedics. Without hesitation, Damian handed you over to them, his hands trembling slightly as he gently laid you down on a gurney.

“She’s unresponsive,” he said urgently. “Pale skin, cold to the touch. Vital signs are unknown. She needs immediate attention.”

As he spoke, Selina rushed over, her fur coat billowing around her with each rapid step. 

She bent down to your level, her breath visible in the cool night air as she placed a trembling hand on your forehead. Her fingers were warm against your icy skin, and she winced at the clammy coldness that met her touch. Her brow furrowed deeply, her eyes narrowing as she assessed your pallor.

“What happened?” she asked. The usual confidence in her gaze was replaced by a deep, unsettling worry.

"We think she's in shock," one paramedic concluded after a quick assessment. "We’ll get her stabilized and see if there’s anything more to address."

Selina gave a brief nod to the paramedics, then turned to Damian. “Go,” she urged him. “I’ve got this under control. Go take down that bastard and make him pay for what he did.”

Damian hesitated for a heartbeat, his gaze lingering on you. Every muscle in his body screamed to stay, but there was still a threat that left no room for hesitation. He nodded and without another word, turned and sprinted back toward the building. His cape flared out behind him, a dark streak against the night sky.

Selina's eyes followed Damian's retreating figure momentarily before refocusing on the paramedics. She watched them with sharp eyes, taking in every action and every word. Her hand never left your forehead, each pass of her thumb trying to provide comfort that her heart couldn’t.

As you began to regain your bearings, the haze of unconsciousness lifting, you slowly became aware of your surroundings. Wincing, you raised a hand to your arm. The pain from the bite had receded and there was no scar, leaving only a dull ache. Was that just a dream?

Before you could think about it anymore, your aunt's face was already in your peripheral. 

Selina's voice caught in her throat as your eyes began to flutter open. Her grip on your hand tightened involuntarily, a mix of relief and worry playing across her features.

"Hey, there," she said softly. "You gave us quite a scare, sweetheart."

You stared at her in confusion, shivering from the biting cold. Selina’s eyes softened and she quickly moved to remove her coat. With a flick of her hands, she draped the fur around your shoulders, its warmth a stark relief against the icy chill of your skin.

“You’re going to be okay,” she whispered, the words more for her own reassurance than yours. 

The night was supposed to be a celebration, a rite of passage, a milestone to cherish. Instead, it had turned into yet another harsh lesson about the brutal nature of Gotham’s streets. God, this city was shit. She pushed those feelings aside for the moment, knowing that the priority was to get you home and into dry clothes.

"How are you feeling?" Selina asked softly, her fingers tracing a path along your cheek as if trying to reassure herself that you were truly okay. Her brow furrowed deeply as she took in your still-pale complexion and shaky breaths.

You groaned softly, your eyes fluttering shut for a moment before snapping open again.

“Dizzy,” you mumbled, your voice weak and wavering. As you attempted to sit up, a wave of disorientation washed over you, and hands quickly pressed you back down. “Damian—where—”

“Whoa, easy there,” Selina said with a calming urgency. Her hands were firm but gentle on your shoulders, guiding you back onto the gurney. “Don’t strain yourself. The paramedics said you’re in shock. You need to stay still for now.”

“And Damian is… with his father,” Selina said, her voice trailing off as she glanced at you, making her meaning clear. She turned to the paramedics with a decisive nod.

“Is there a chance I could take her home?” she asked.

The paramedic, a no-nonsense woman named Helen, gave Selina a critical once-over before looking down at you.

"Well, she's stable enough for transport, and we've done the basic stabilizing procedures. But she's still in shock, and it could be risky to move her too quickly. Are you sure you can handle her?" Helen asked.

"She's my kid. I’ve dealt with worse, believe me," Selina replied, a hint of her usual confident tone seeping in once again.

Helen nodded, accepting Selina's assurance, but her voice remained stern. "She'll need monitoring for the next 24-48 hours. Light meals, plenty of rest. And no strenuous activity. She should see a doctor as soon as possible, though."

Selina's fingers idly traced patterns on the back of your hand as she listened intently to Helen's instructions, her eyes never leaving yours, silently reassuring you.

"I'll make sure all of that’s taken care of. Thank you," Selina said, her voice sincere for once. Helen gave a nod, seemingly satisfied with Selina's response. She handed Selina a card with basic instructions and a phone number to call if any complications flared up.

Despite your reluctance to leave while Damian was still knee-deep in the battle, your hazy mind and Selina's insistence eventually led to you being pushed into the back of your aunt's sleek convertible.

The drive was a blur of city lights and concerned glances from Selina. You leaned back, your head resting against the cool leather of the seat, feeling the gentle hum of the engine beneath you. 

"Don't worry," Selina murmured, her eyes flicking to the rearview mirror to check on you. "Damian can handle himself. And the Bat will make sure he's safe. You rest. I'll tell you if anything happens to him."

You nodded weakly, closing your eyes and trusting her words as the city sped by, a blur of neon and shadow. Despite the dull ache at your neck, the exhaustion finally took over, and you slipped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

You woke up the next day to a persistent, dull throbbing in your arm. The pain was sharp, a relentless pulsing that seemed to echo through your entire body. It jolted you from sleep, your eyelids fluttering open to the soft, golden glow of early morning light filtering through the curtains. The room was quiet, the only sound the distant hum of the city waking up outside.

You tried to shake off the fog of sleep, but the pain in your arm was impossible to ignore. With a groan, you reached out to silence the blaring alarm clock, but as you swung your arm towards it, something unexpected happened.

The clock, along with the wooden table it rested on, broke beneath your touch. Your hand slammed through the table, splintering the wood into fragments that scattered across the floor. Startled, you yanked your arm back, staring in disbelief at the destruction.

“What the—?” you muttered, your voice trailing off as you inspected your hand. It appeared normal, but the sensations were far from ordinary. The pain in your arm had faded, replaced by an unsettling, unfamiliar tingling that radiated from within.

Carefully, you climbed out of bed, your gaze sweeping over the debris that littered the floor. The unexpected surge of energy was disorienting, but before you could process it further, a sudden, sharp tingle ran through your arm. Instinctively, you snapped your head to the side, your hand darting out to catch a fly that had buzzed too close.

To your shock, your fingers closed around the tiny insect with a reflex you didn’t know you possessed. You stared at the fly, trapped gently between your fingers. Carefully, you opened your hand and let the fly go. 

It darted away, disappearing into the room. 

“Okay… That was new,” you muttered, shaking your head as if trying to clear away the confusion.

The tingling in your arm surged back, sharper and more insistent this time. You winced, the sensation both foreign and unsettling. Instinctively, you extended your hand, watching with growing confusion.

Your fingers curled involuntarily and suddenly, a web shot out from your wrist. It glistened with a strange sheen as it snaked through the air, before firmly anchoring itself to the wall in front of you. The webbing glistened in the morning light, stretching and sticking with a consistency that seemed almost organic.

“Holly shit,” you muttered, your voice barely more than a whisper. You approached the wall, eyes fixed on the webbing with a mix of awe and confusion. Hesitantly, you reached out and tugged on it, testing its strength. The webbing held firm.

You tried to pull it away, but it stayed stubbornly in place. Grunting, you pressed a foot against the wall for leverage and yanked harder. The webbing resisted with surprising strength, and a series of warning cracks echoed before a chunk of concrete broke away, crumbling under the strain.

The sudden release sent you stumbling backward. You lost your balance and fell hard onto the floor with a sharp gasp. For a moment, you lay sprawled across the hardwood, catching your breath.

When you finally moved to stand, you continued experimenting. Aiming your hand at different parts of the room, you sent out another web. This time, it shot out with precision, latching onto a nearby lamp. You pulled the web back, drawing the lamp toward you.

Taking a deep breath to calm your racing thoughts, you slowly retracted the web. As it drew back, the strands dissolved into nothing, leaving no trace of their presence.

There was a sudden tingle, and you perked up. The sensation was almost electric, a ripple of anticipation that seemed to focus on your bedroom door. As you turned toward it, the door swung open and Selina stepped in, dressed in her pajamas.

"What's with the noise…?"

She trailed off and froze in the doorway, her eyes widening as they took in the chaos of the room. Broken wood and scattered debris covered the floor, interspersed with strands of glistening webbing clinging to the walls and lamp.

“Oh,” Selina murmured in surprise. She stepped cautiously over a particularly large piece of broken wood, her eyes darting around the room. Her gaze lingered on the webs, her brow furrowing as she raised an eyebrow at you. 

“Uh, good morning?” you offered weakly, trying to give a casual shrug despite the mess around you. “Mom, this might sound insane. But, I think I might have accidentally discovered superpowers.”

Selina stared at you, blinking slowly as she processed the scene before her. Her lips twitched as if she were trying to hold back a laugh or perhaps some form of disbelief.

“Accidentally discovered superpowers?” she echoed. “I think you've been around your boyfriend and his family too much. Baby—”

Before she could finish, your hand instinctively reached out. With a flick of your wrist, a web shot from your fingers and latched onto the door behind her. In a heartbeat, the door was yanked from its hinges, splintering as it flew across the room and crashed into the wall with a resounding thud.

Selina’s eyes widened in shock as she turned to face the now doorless doorway. She blinked at the empty space where the door had once been.

“Well,” she said, “I guess that’s one way to explain things.”

You stood there, face heating up as you tried to pull your hand back. “Y-Yeah, I think I need to work on my control.”

Selina shook her head, a frown on her lips. “Okay. First… Let’s get this mess cleaned up before the landlord starts asking questions. And maybe—just maybe—try not to redecorate the whole apartment with your… spider silk.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

A warm mug of coffee was placed in your hands as Selina settled beside you. You took a sip, but your knee continued to bounce in an anxious rhythm. She had called the school earlier to inform them that you would be taking it easy for the week, citing sickness as the reason.

You cast a glance at the puncture marks on your wrists with a mix of disgust and unease.

Oh, you felt sick alright.

"Alright," Selina said, taking a sip from her own coffee mug and setting it down with a clink. "We need to figure out what’s going on and how to handle it. The sooner we get a grasp on this, the better."

You nodded absentmindedly, flexing your fingers around your mug.

Selina sat with a laptop positioned between the two of you, its screen a chaotic mosaic of open newspaper articles and news websites. Humming softly to herself, she clicked through the pages, her eyes darting across headlines and images. The rhythmic clatter of her clicks was punctuated by occasional pauses as she focused on key details.

“Am I a meta?” you blurted out, staring at your reflection in the dark liquid of your coffee.

"Well," Selina began, her tone measured, "based on what we've seen so far, you're likely displaying meta-human traits. Though," she added with a wry smile, "I'm pretty sure I’m human despite the whole cat shtick. Same goes for your mother. Your father…well, that’s a different story."

You raised an eyebrow, curiosity piqued. "What do you mean by that?"

"Secretive guy. Kind of insane," Selina murmured to herself. "He did genetics research—"

She paused.

"Wait a minute," she said, her voice trailing off as she seemed to piece together something significant. "Your father was involved in genetics research…"

Selina licked her lips before grumbling and typing into the laptop. The screen flickered, and she pulled up a dense academic paper with your father's name prominently displayed. The title read: "Genetic Enhancement through Arachnid DNA Integration: Potential and Pitfalls."

She stared at the screen for a moment, a mix of disbelief and concern crossing her face. "Total nutjob," she muttered, shaking her head.

You squinted at the screen, trying to make sense of the technical jargon. "So… what’s it say?"

Selina’s fingers danced over the keyboard, scrolling through the dense paragraphs. "It describes experiments involving spider DNA to enhance human traits—strength, agility, and reflexes. Medical use too."

You stared at the screen, your mouth agape, until the sharp ring of your phone cut through the silence. Startled, you fumbled, nearly dropping the mug. Instinctively, your foot shot out, catching it just before it hit the floor. Selina’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she quickly grabbed a notepad, scribbling furiously.

“Fast reflexes,” she muttered.

You scrambled to set the mug back on the table, your hands slick with sweat as you snatched your phone off the couch.

"Hello?" you answered, trying to steady your voice despite the tremor in it. "W-Who’s this?"

"Are you well?" Damian’s voice cracked through your speakers, sharp and tinged with worry. Arabic curses followed his words, adding an edge to his tone. “I am sorry for the delay. I did not mean to call you so late. I was rendered unconscious after the confrontation."

Your heart skipped a beat. “You got knocked out? What happened?”

"Just a minor inconvenience for someone of my skillset," he said, his tone dismissive yet reassuring. "I’m alright now. However, what of your situation? Father mentioned that Selina had told him of your impending absences from school."

You hesitated, glancing at Selina, who shook her head vehemently. She pressed a finger to her lips, urging you to stay silent about what you just discovered.

"Fine!" you squeaked. "Totally fine. Just… family matters."

"Family matters?" Damian repeated, clearly skeptical. "Are you sure you’re alright?"

"Yep," you replied, your voice a bit too high-pitched. "Absolutely. Just… You know, the explosion rattled me a bit. Paramedics said I had to rest for a few."

"I can head over to care for you—"

Selina rolled her eyes and reached her hand out for your phone. You hesitated, then handed it over.

"Damian," she said, her tone firm and tinged with annoyance, "this is Selina. Everything is under control here. There’s no need for you to come breaking into my apartment."

There was a grunt before Damian responded, "Miss Kyle, I insist. It’s no trouble. I should be there to assist. As any partner would."

Selina sighed, her patience wearing thin. "Damian, I appreciate your concern, but it’s really not necessary. She’s fine."

"I think I should be there," Damian persisted. "Recovery after such an incident can be complicated."

Selina’s patience snapped. "Damian," she cut in sharply, "do you doubt my abilities as a guardian?"

There was a pause.

"With all due respect, Miss Kyle…I do—"

"I've got this!" Selina hissed. "She's safe, she's resting, and you're not needed here right now. Understood?"

There was another pause before Damian reluctantly agreed. "Understood. But if anything changes—"

"You'll be the first to know," Selina assured him, her tone softening slightly. "Now, go take care of yourself. I have got this handled."

"Fine," Damian said, still sounding begrudging. "Take care."

Selina handed the phone back to you, her expression exasperated. “He’s persistent, I’ll give him that.”

“He’s very overprotective,” you snorted as you pressed the phone back to your ear. “Hi, baby.”

"Hello," Damian grumbled, his voice carrying a hint of irritation. You couldn’t help but snicker.

“Don’t be mad,” you sighed. “I’ll only be gone for a week. You’ll survive. Mom's right—I’m in good hands. You need to focus on recovering too.”

“Please, let me know if you require anything," Damian's voice came through, slightly strained but softened by concern. "Anything at all. Father and Alfred have confined me to my bed, but the window to my bedroom remains open. The sheer ignorance of their restraint measures astounds me—they have failed to account for my capabilities in evading such confinement.”

"Please, do not attempt to escape through your window on my behalf. I do not need Bruce lecturing us again,” you groaned, your tone warm despite the circumstances. “Rest for now. I’ll talk to you soon.”

“Very well,” Damian said with a hint of a pout, “but do remember, I am at your disposal if you should require anything.”

You chuckled softly, shaking your head. “I’ll keep that in mind. Just make sure you’re resting and not causing any more trouble.”

“Of course,” he replied, his tone slightly resigned. “I will attempt to abide by the constraints placed upon me, though it seems a rather cruel jest on their part.”

“Good,” you said, a hint of amusement in your voice. “I’ll see you soon. Take care of yourself, Dami.”

“And you, my beloved,” he said, his voice softening. “Until then.”

There was a beep, and the call ended. You sighed, letting your hand drop.

Selina smirked, shaking her head with a knowing look. “He’s just like his father—equally obsessive and protective. Must run in the genes. That or we just have a knack for ensnaring emotionally constipated men.”

You laughed, a light, nervous sound that filled the room. As you tried to drop your phone back on the couch, you were met with an unexpected resistance. The phone stubbornly adhered to your hand, as if it had decided to become a permanent accessory.

“Uh…”

Squinting, you wriggled your fingers, hoping it would simply detach, but the phone remained firmly in place.

Selina raised an eyebrow, her smirk widening as she glanced down at the notepad in her hand, now filled with scribbled notes and observations. “Sticky hands?” she suggested, jotting it down with a touch of amusement.

Grumbling under your breath, you made a few more attempts to pry the phone off your hand. “Looks like it. Just another thing to add to the list of weird,” you huffed.

Determined, you took your other hand and grasped the phone, trying to twist it away. However, in your distracted state, you forgot about your newfound strength. The device crumbled under your grip, shards of plastic and glass scattering across the couch.

Selina’s eyes widened in surprise. Without missing a beat, she quickly scribbled down “Enhanced strength” on her notepad.

You grumbled as the remnants of your phone fell to the floor, a mix of frustration and embarrassment washing over you.

"Can't we—can't we call Batman for this?" you asked, tangling a hand in your hair. "Why'd you stop me from telling Damian anyway?"

Selina’s expression turned severe. Her hands gripped your shoulders firmly, guiding you to face her.

"Listen to me. Batman, Damian, or anyone else cannot know about this right now."

"What—Mom—"

"Not a word," she cut in sharply. "This is meta-level stuff we're dealing with. The Bats don’t handle metas well. We need to keep this under wraps until we fully understand it. The last thing I need is Bruce doing something to hurt my daughter."

Your face crumpled at her words, the actual weight of the situation now pressing heavily on you.

Selina’s gaze softened just a fraction, her voice taking on a gentler tone. "Power frightens people. When they encounter something they don’t understand, especially something as extraordinary as this, their confusion quickly turns into fear. And fear often leads to seeing it as a threat."

She took a deep breath, her expression grim. "Batman, in particular, has contingency plans for every potential threat, even for his closest allies. We—I can't risk him viewing you as one." Her fingers tightened on your shoulders, a silent plea for understanding.

"Alright," you said quietly, trying to steady your voice. Lying to Bruce was one thing. But Damian… Damian was different. The thought of deceiving him felt like a weight pressing heavily on your chest.

Selina seemed to sense your hesitation. Her gaze softened, and she placed a hand gently on your shoulder. “I know it’s not easy,” she said, her tone soothing. “Damian is—”

“Different,” you finished for her, the word catching in your throat. “He’s always been there for me, and now… I’m just lying to him.”

Selina nodded. “I understand. But you know, that boy looks up to his father. There’s no telling he won’t spill something. I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

"I get it,” your lips pursed. “But… what do we do now?"

Selina’s expression shifted from intense to thoughtful as she took a step back, her grip loosening. She glanced at the scattered remnants of your phone, then at the notepad filled with her hastily scribbled notes.

"Well," she sighed, "we need to find another space. I think you've done enough damage in our apartment."

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

CHAPTER TWELVE: PICTURE PERFECT

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SUMMARY ↳ You think you understand why people say "Happy Holidays." You are happy. A busy household during Christmas is something you’re familiar with. You distinctly remember waking up in the tower on Christmas morning to find Thor standing above you with a big stupid grin, not even having changed from his asgardian armor. This time, however, it’s Jon floating above you, a silly Santa hat on his head. “Merry Christmas.” You roll over, pulling your pillow over your head. “Nothing merry about waking me up so damn early.” pairing: jon kent x gn!reader x damian wayne warnings: none, none at all wc: 4.3k

sorry for the late-ish post! totally forgot it was upload day woopsie

The next day, you're awakened by the sound of Alfred entering the room with a tray of food. You sit up, feeling much better already, and gratefully accept the meal. "Thank you, Alfred," you say with a smile.

"You're quite welcome," he replies, his tone warm. "Master Bruce and the others will be here shortly. They have a few more questions for you."

You nod, taking a bite of the food and feeling your energy start to return. True to Alfred's word, Bruce, Damian, and Jon enter the room a few minutes later.

Bruce starts. "We've been discussing your situation. We’d like to better understand your abilities. You've explained your origins, but we need to see what you can do."

You nod, setting the tray aside and standing up. "Fair enough. What do you need to see?"

"We'll start with a simple demonstration of your web abilities," Bruce says. "Show us what you can do with and without the bracelets."

“Not inside the room. Go downstairs,” Alfred cuts in firmly. You all nod and scurry downstairs. Bruce shows you how to access the Batcave via the clock. You pretend to pay attention, as if you didn’t already know. Once inside, he takes you all aside into a quaint little training room, where all the other batkids are waiting. The mat feels like home under your feet. He prompts you to show them what you can do.

You nod and raise your wrist, shooting a web towards a nearby wall. The organic webbing shoots out with precision, sticking to the wall firmly. It’s a simple web, straight and true. Equipping the bracelets, you decide to send out a web-net. The size of it covers a great deal of the wall.

“My organic webs are really only good for swinging and grabbing stuff,” you explain.

“[Name] has 576 possible web-shooter combinations,” Karen pipes up helpfully from the computer. Bruce’s slight frown suggests he’s not used to her yet, and probably won’t be for a while. “Much more versatile than their organic webs, of course.”

Tim looks impressed as he glances at Bruce. "576 combinations? That's... a lot."

You grin and nod. "Yeah, my dad loves over-engineering things. The web-net is just one of the many tricks up my sleeve."

Damian steps forward, eyes narrowed in thought. "What about your strength and agility? We need to see how you compare to us."

You nod, understanding the need to prove yourself. "Sure thing. What do you want me to do?"

Bruce gestures to a nearby set of weights. "Lift that."

You walk over to the weights, easily lifting a barbell that looks like it should be far too heavy for your frame. You then set it down and leap onto a nearby platform with a single bound, showcasing your agility.

"Not bad," Damian admits, though his tone is still cautious. "But can you fight?"

You smirk. "Why don't we find out?"

Damian raises an eyebrow, clearly intrigued by the challenge. He steps onto the mat, and you both take your stances. The others  watch closely as you and Damian circle each other.

Damian strikes first, his movements quick and precise. You dodge and counter, your enhanced reflexes allowing you to keep up with his speed. The two of you exchange blows, each testing the other's limits. Damian's skill is evident, but your enhanced strength and agility give you an edge.

He’s got all the tells of a trained assassin. His eyes dart around your figure, looking for openings and weaknesses. He adapts seamlessly, each of his movements controlled and calculated. He aims to control the flow with every jab, kick and punch. Unfortunately for him, you’ve been trained by one of the deadliest assassin of your world, Natasha Romanoff.

You decide it’s time to up the ante. You feint to the left, then quickly spin and sweep his legs out from under him. Damian lands on the mat but rolls back up to his feet instantly, eyes blazing with determination. He’s not used to being bested so easily, but he respects the challenge.

“You’re good,” Damian admits grudgingly, adjusting his stance. “But let’s see how you handle this.”

He lunges at you with a series of rapid strikes, forcing you to focus entirely on defense. You block and parry, your reflexes barely keeping up with his speed. You notice an opening and take it, landing a solid punch that sends him skidding back.

Before he can recover, you shoot a web at his feet, sticking him to the mat. He struggles for a moment before smirking and cutting himself free with a small blade.

“Me! Me next!” exclaims Stephanie, waving her hand around in the air. You take turns sparring everyone—save for Jon, who has just been watching a bit stiffly—, winning every time (not to brag or anything). You get a few hearty laughs when you manage to lift Jason with one hand and gently slam him to the mat. 

Then your final opponent steps up, Cassandra Cain. You gulp slightly. She’s written off as one of the best fighters in the Batfamily, and probably the DCverse. You’re supposed to be holding your strength back to show your skill, so it’s a matter of being smart, not strong.

You start cautiously, circling each other as you assess her fighting style. Cassandra doesn't waste any movements, each strike calculated to test your defenses. You rely on your agility and strength to keep up, blocking and countering her attacks with equal precision.

As the spar intensifies, you find yourself impressed by Cassandra's skill and adaptability. She adjusts her tactics based on your responses, probing for weaknesses in your defense. You're forced to rely on more than just brute strength, using strategy and technique to gain an advantage. Damn, she’s really good. It’s a blessing you’ve been trained by the goddam Avengers.

Your fighting styles are similar, fluid and dance-like. You’re impressed but not surprised by her ability to read your movements and react almost instantaneously. Natasha’s words replay in your mind.

“Predict every possible movement of theirs.”

You huff, arms hanging by your side, tired. “What, like Garou?”

Natasha raises a perfect eyebrow, her expression a mix of curiosity and slight amusement. You wave your hands in dismissal. “Forget it.”

Natasha steps forward, her movements fluid and controlled. “It’s not just about predicting every move, it’s about understanding your opponent’s rhythm and intent. You need to see the fight a couple of steps ahead. Every slight movement can give away their intentions."

She demonstrates, moving with a fluid grace that you've come to admire. "You have the strength and agility. Now you need precision and awareness to make them truly effective."

In front of Cassandra now, you truly do feel like Garou. Your mind paints images of every way she could go, every move she could make. You feint to the right, then shift your weight and spin to the left, aiming a kick at her midsection. Cassandra blocks it effortlessly, but you expected that. Using the momentum from your spin, you drop low and sweep her legs.

Cassandra jumps, avoiding your sweep with an almost inhuman agility. But you're ready. As she comes back down, you grab her wrist and twist, using her own momentum against her to flip her onto the mat. She lands softly, rolling to her feet with a small smile.

"You're very good," Cassandra says quietly, her tone filled with genuine admiration.

"You're incredible," you reply, equally impressed.

Dick claps to be dramatic, initiating a round of applause from everyone else (except Damian, the stinker). You grin and bow dramatically. “Kicked our asses,” mumbled Jason, rubbing his jaw.

After the applause dies down, Bruce steps forward, a thoughtful look on his face. "You've shown us your abilities, and it's clear you have the skill and strength to be a valuable asset. Now we need to focus on integrating you into our ways."

Alfred clears his throat politely. "Perhaps, Master Bruce, our guest would benefit from a proper rest before diving into further training and mission planning."

Bruce nods. "Of course. We'll take a break for now. You've done well today."

As the group disperses, Jon approaches you with a friendly smile. "Hey, that was awesome. I can't wait to see what else you can do."

“Well thank you… Superboy,” you grin as he rolls his eyes playfully. Hooking your arm in his, you begin to walk out the cave. “Seriously thought, I bet if I was a normal person I still could’ve figured you out.” He raises a brow in challenge. “I mean, the Ferris wheel thing? Seriously?”

He groans. “I was trying to get you to safety!”

“My hero,” you smirk.

He drops you off at your room, exiting from your window with a wave. Nari is happily cuddling with Alfred on your bed, the sight making you coo. You gently sit by them and run your hand down Nari’s back.

Your door opens without as much as a knock or warning. Damian pauses when he sees you on the bed.

“Now, what would you have done if I was naked?” you ask sarcastically, rolling your eyes.

“Tt,” he scoffs, eyes looking away. “I was merely looking for Alfred.”

“Might have to get in line somewhere, Nari’s holding her hostage,” you hum, looking down at the pair. The sounds of purring cats fills you with calm. You see him still standing in the doorway. “Well? Come on, come sit.”

He hesitates to move, before stepping forward and shutting your door. He sits on the other side of the cat pile. “What’s up with you?”

“What do you mean?” he asked.

You shrug nonchalantly. “I just mean you’ve been weird since I revealed my totally awesome alter ego.”

“I have not.”

You roll your eyes. "Oh please, Damian. You practically scowled through our entire spar. You mad ‘cause I kicked your ass or something?”

He crosses his arms defensively. "I am not upset."

"Right," you say skeptically. "Then what is it?"

Damian looks away, his expression unreadable for a moment. "It's nothing."

You raise an eyebrow. "You don't usually act like this. Come on, out with it."

“You…” he grumbles, clearly annoyed at being pushed, “...everytime I think I have you figured out, you surprise me.” He leans back, lying down on your mattress. “I don’t know anyone like you. And now, to find out you have been parading around as the new vigilante we’ve been so preoccupied with…”

You lean back as well, listening as Damian tries to articulate his thoughts. His demeanor shifts from guarded to contemplative, and you sense a rare vulnerability in his words.

“Not to mention you’ve known who we were since then…” he muttered, eyes on the ceiling. “

You listen attentively, sensing Damian's struggle with his thoughts. His words reveal a complexity you hadn't fully anticipated. "It must be strange," you offer quietly, "to have someone come into your world who knows so much and yet is still a mystery to you." 

“Are you mad because I kept it a secret from you…? Technically, you kept Robin a secret from me,” you offer.

Damian shifts slightly, his gaze flickering to meet yours briefly before returning to the ceiling. "It's not just that," he admits quietly. "You're skilled, strong, and you fit into our world seamlessly. It's..."

He shifts closer, his expression unreadable but his eyes holding a mix of curiosity and something deeper. "I want to understand you better," he says, his voice low.

You reach out, cupping his face with your hand. His eyes bore into yours, earnest. "I want you to understand me better too, Damian," you say softly, meeting his gaze with sincerity. "I know I've come into your life in a pretty unconventional way, but I'm here now. And I'm not going anywhere."

Then, you add shyly, “if you’d have me.”

Damian's lips quirk in a small, almost imperceptible smile. "You've certainly managed to keep me on my toes."

You chuckle softly. "Likewise. But hey, that's part of the fun, right?"

He nods, a thoughtful expression crossing his features as his eyes grow half lidded. "Fun... yes, I suppose it is."

Your heart slows in its beats, relaxing. You take in the mattress against your cheek, taking in the calm and gentle atmosphere. You feel a rush of warmth as Damian's hand finds yours, his touch surprisingly tender. The air around you feels charged with a mix of uncertainty and possibility. You squeeze his hand gently, a silent reassurance that you're here, you're present, and you want this.

"I didn't expect this," Damian admits quietly, his voice barely above a whisper.

You turn your head to look at him, meeting his gaze. "Neither did I, to be honest. But sometimes unexpected things turn out to be the best."

He nods slowly, his expression softening as he looks at you. "You're not like anyone I've ever known."

"And you're not like anyone I've ever known either," you reply with a small smile. "But I think that's a good thing."

Damian leans closer, his face now just inches from yours. "Perhaps..."

Before either of you can say anything more, the door creaks open slightly. You both turn to see Bruce standing there, a faint hint of concern in his eyes.

"Ahem," Bruce clears his throat. "I hope I'm not interrupting anything important."

Damian sits up abruptly, his demeanor shifting to a more guarded stance. "Father, what is it?"

Bruce steps into the room, his eyes briefly scanning the scene before focusing on Damian. "I need to speak with you about something. Come down to the cave."

Damian nods, the serious look returning to his face. "Understood. I'll be there shortly."

Bruce glances at you, his expression softening slightly. "Thank you for your cooperation today. Your skills are impressive, and we look forward to working with you." Ever the most formal guy in the room.

You nod, feeling a mixture of pride and nervousness. "Thank you.”

Bruce gives a curt nod and leaves, the door closing softly behind him. Damian turns to you, his expression thoughtful.

"I should go," he says, his tone reluctant.

You nod, understanding the demands of their work. "Of course. Duty calls."

As Damian stands, he hesitates for a moment before grabbing your hand and pressing a light kiss on your pulse. "We'll talk more later," he promises. You can say anything, so you nod.

Damian leaves the room, and you find yourself alone with your thoughts. Nari, sensing the shift in mood, nuzzles closer to you, offering silent comfort. You stroke his fur absently, your mind replaying the events of the day.

A busy household during Christmas is something you’re familiar with. You distinctly remember waking up in the tower on Christmas morning to find Thor standing above you with a big stupid grin, not even having changed from his Asgardian armor.

This time, however, it’s Jon floating above you, a silly Santa hat on his head. “Merry Christmas.”

You roll over, pulling your pillow over your head. “Nothing merry about waking me up so damn early.”

Jon chuckles, his laughter light and carefree. "Come on, Scrooge. Get up and go downstairs." When you don’t move, he pounces on you. His fingers wiggle across your stomach as you shriek and fight to get free.

“Okay, okay! Jeez,” you concede. He rolls off of you, not without placing a hard kiss on your head. 

Damian pokes his head into your room with an annoyed expression. "What’s all this nonsense?"

Jon turns to him with a bright smile, "Just spreading some holiday cheer. Get in the spirit, Dami!"

You stretch and sit up, rubbing your eyes. "Yeah, Dami. It’s Christmas. Let’s be cheerful and merry."

He scowls slightly but steps into the room. "Tt. Christmas is just another day."

You and Jon share a knowing look before you hop out of bed and tackle Damian in a hug. "Oh, come on. Even you can't be grumpy on Christmas!" Damian sighs but doesn't push you away. 

The three of you head downstairs to the living room where the rest of the Batfamily is already gathered. The faint scent of Alfred's cooking wafts through the air, and you can hear laughter and chatter echoing through the halls. The tree is beautifully decorated, and presents are piled high underneath it. Bruce is sitting on the couch with a cup of coffee, looking surprisingly relaxed.

Alfred hands you a steaming mug of hot cocoa as you join the group. "Merry Christmas," he says with a warm smile.

"Merry Christmas, Alfred," you reply, taking a sip of the rich, delicious drink. You glance around the room, your gaze landing on Damian, who is sitting quietly by the tree, watching the proceedings with a thoughtful expression.

You join the rest of the Batfamily in the living room, enjoying the festive atmosphere. Jon is already diving into his presents, enthusiastically tearing off the wrapping paper. Dick and Barbara are sitting together, exchanging gifts and laughing. Tim is deep in conversation with Stephanie, who is trying to guess what he got her. Even Jason seems to be in good spirits, joking around with Duke and Cass.

You decide to approach Damian, holding your mug of hot cocoa. You sit down beside him, the warm and festive atmosphere contrasting with his contemplative demeanor.

He glances at you as you settle beside him, his expression softening slightly at your presence. "Enjoying yourself?" he asks, his tone carefully neutral.

You take a sip of your cocoa, letting the warmth spread through you before answering. "Yeah, it's nice. Reminds me of home," you admit softly, thinking back to the holidays you spent with your family and the Avengers. Damian watches you quietly, seeming to consider your words.

"Your family must be... different," he finally remarks, his tone almost curious.

You nod, a faint smile playing on your lips. "Yeah, definitely different. But they're good people. Just like yours." You gesture subtly towards the rest of the Batfamily, who are now engaged in lively conversation and laughter.

Damian follows your gesture with a small nod, his gaze lingering on his family for a moment. "They're... unique," he admits quietly, a hint of something warmer in his voice.

Finally you sigh, “Well.” You dig into your pocket and pull out a box, handing it to him.

“Merry Christmas.”

He takes the box, opening it gingerly. Inside lies a sleek looking ring. Damian raises an eyebrow, his expression shifting from surprise to intrigue as he takes the ring in his hand.

"What is it?" he asks, turning the ring over to examine it.

“A ring,” you smile. He rolls his eyes so you elaborate. “It’s something I made. Karen is built into it, so she can help you personally.” You tap it twice, pulling up a hologram. “Here’s all the stuff she can do.”

The hologram reflects in Damian’s eyes as they flutter left to right, reading. “Happy to help, Damian,” Karen says.

“It also works as a communicator, so if you’re ever in need of me to save you from getting your ass-kicked, she’ll let me know,” you grin.

Damian ignores your little comment in favor of sliding the ring over his finger. He examines the way it shines under the light, nodding. “It’s adequate.”

You roll your eyes good-naturedly. “You’re welcome.

He gets up abruptly then. “Stay there,” he commands, walking off into another room. He’s gone before you can blink, so you clasp your hands together awkwardly and observe the room. Jon has gone and went to his parents (which, oh my god, Superman and Lois Lane are here, holy shit. You wonder if Bruce told them about you.) and is talking animatedly to them. In his hands is a small canvas in his hands, you can barely make out the portrait of Jon on there. Must be Damian’s gift to him.

Speaking of, you hear his footsteps come back. You turn to see Damian returning with a small, elegantly wrapped box in his hand. He sits back down beside you, his expression more relaxed than before. He holds out the box towards you.

"Here," he says simply, his voice quieter than usual.

You take the box, carefully unwrapping it to reveal a.. camera! It’s a nice one, definitely expensive. It fits perfectly in your hands, just the right size for travel.

"You said you like photography," Damian explains quietly, his gaze flickering to meet yours. "You also said you’d like a memory. Now, you can capture them.”

You feel a rush of warmth in your chest as you realize the significance of the gift. "You remembered.” It comes out as a whisper. “Thank you, Damian," you say softly, touched by his gesture. You attach the strap of the camera and hook it around your neck.

He nods, seeming satisfied with your reaction. "It suits you," he remarks, his tone almost approving.

You smile, reaching out to gently touch the lens. "I love it."

“[Name]!” Jon exclaims, crossing the room to get to you. His hands grasp yours and pull you off the couch. “Come meet my parents.

Oh dear. You send a look to Damian for help but the bastard just smirks at you. You chuckle softly at Damian's smirk before allowing Jon to lead you over to where Clark Kent and Lois Lane are standing. They both turn to you with warm smiles, Clark's eyes twinkling with curiosity.

"Hello, [Name]," Clark greets you warmly, extending a hand. "It's good to finally meet you. Jon has told us a lot about you."

Lois nods in agreement, her expression friendly yet keen. "Yes, Jon's been quite excited to introduce you to us."

You shake Clark's hand with a smile, feeling a mix of nerves and excitement at meeting such iconic figures. Shit, you thought you would’ve had the fan behavior under control by now. "It's a pleasure to meet you both, Mr. and Mrs. Kent. Jon has been wonderful to be around.”

Jon beams proudly, standing beside you. "They're really nice, right?"

Clark chuckles warmly, his gaze flickering briefly towards Jon before returning to you. "He speaks very highly of you, [Name].” He pointedly looks at Jon as he says this.

Lois’ eyes flick down to your camera. “Interested in photography?”

You nod eagerly, feeling a little more at ease with their friendly demeanor. "Oh, yeah. I like capturing moments. It’s a small passion of mine.”

“Well if you ever get tired of superheroing call me. I’m sure we could use an excellent photojournalist,” she winks.

“Mom,” Jon complains. Lois shrugs innocently.

You laugh warmly, feeling more comfortable with Lois' playful banter. "I'll keep that in mind, Miss. Thank you." In another universe, maybe.

Jon tugs at your hand. "Come on, I want to show you something." He drags you towards the Christmas tree where a beautifully wrapped gift waits for you. You hear the chuckles of his parents as you’re pulled away.

You smile at Jon's enthusiasm, kneeling down to unwrap the present. Inside a bracelet. The beads make up a beautiful image of green and blue. There’s a spider charm hanging from it. Jon beams up at you, clearly proud of the gift he chose.

“I saw a video online about making bracelets for each other's eyes,” he mutters shyly. “I made one for you out of me and Damian’s eyes.”

The bracelet feels like gold in your hands. "It's perfect, Jon," you say genuinely, feeling touched by his thoughtfulness.

Clark and Lois watch the exchange with warm smiles, clearly pleased by Jon's happiness and your appreciation.

You thank Jon again with a hug, feeling a surge of warmth at the bond you've formed with him and his family, hearing his heartbeat speed up before his arms wrap around you. “Oh, before I forget.”

You pull out another box, handing it to Jon. “I know you were listening to me and Dames earlier, stinker.” It’s cute to see how his face turns red after being caught. “It’s the same thing I got him. Connects to this–” you tap the nano-earpiece where Karen speaks to you. “–and his. Our own little channel.” Jon's eyes widen with excitement as he takes the box from you, eager to see what's inside. He opens it carefully, revealing a similar looking ring. His grin widens as he realizes what it is.

He slips the ring onto his finger, marveling at how it fits perfectly. "This is so cool. I can't wait to try it out!"

The rest of the Batfamily gathers around, curious about the new gadgets and gifts being exchanged. Dick claps Jon on the back. "Nice one, Jon! Now you can bug them anytime."

Jason chuckles. "Or maybe they'll bug you."

Duke eyes the camera around your neck. “Ooh, family photo time?”

Groans echo the room as your hands come up to grip the camera. With everyone gathered around the Christmas tree, you snap a few photos, capturing moments of laughter and camaraderie. Jon is grinning widely, Damian is trying to look nonchalant but can't hide a small smile, and even Bruce cracks a rare smile at the camera. The rest of the Batfamily, along with Clark and Lois, join in the festive spirit, making silly faces or posing dramatically.

“Now you,” Cass says, waving you over. You huff good-naturedly and set the camera up, scurrying to squeeze between Damian and Jon. You hold up your hands in the ‘spidey’ pose, grinning. Jon squeezes you and Damian to him, cheeks mushing with each others.

The pictures turn out perfect.

notes: jon watching reader and damian spar: am i into this

yeah damian felt a little thrown finding out he doesn’t know you as well as he thought. i figured he’s the type to not like knowing things, and well, reader being spinnerette? and knowing he was robin before he could ever think to tell them? yeesh. its okay now though :)

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

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"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