Damian Wayne Al Ghul - Tumblr Posts

DP X DC PROMPT: DANNY'S AN ASSASSIN?!

So Danny gets adopted by the Waynes somehow.

Now, he's a teenage vigilante, he knows all the signs. And he can clearly tell that Damian and Tim are sneaking out under the cover of night to fight crime as Robin and Red Robin.

While ordinarily this would lead to the connection between the Waynes being Batman, Nightwing, Red Hood, and various other assorted vigilantes, that's not what we're here for, so instead, what happens is that Danny thinks that his two absolutely normal little brothers are sneaking out, meeting strange people dressed in spandex and Kevlar on rooftops, and punching criminals.

He has no issue with this.

The only issue he has is that Tim and Damian are inexperienced, I mean, Damian's twelve or something like that, he can't have been Robin for long. He's not particularly willing to get back into heroism himself, though, so this leads to him casually dropping random tidbits of information that only an ex-vigilante/hero/assassin/other part of the caped community, would know into regular conversation.

Like, if Tim's using bandages on his hand, Danny will suddenly drop the fact that that particular brand is very absorbent and works really well to take care of large, bloody wounds, like bullet holes in important places.

If Damian's reading a book about different knives, and their creation processes (because be real, he totally would) Danny will read over his shoulder a bit and then just point out a knife that would particularly good for stabbing someone in the stomach, or slitting someone's throat. (he knows this because of a. his rogues trying to kill him and b. Dan likes sharp things.)

The three of them are watching some superhero movie or something, and Danny goes on a twelve-minute rant about how the fight scenes would never work that way.

Tim and Damian come to the conclusion that their new brother has been trained by the League of Assassins or something.

Here's the issue. Danny hasn't.

So Damian starts dropping little hints that he knows that Danny was part of the League, for example a reference to a technique that only a League member would know. Danny, who has been trained in hand-to-hand by Dan, who was trained by dead League assassins in the alternate timeline, knows the moves.

Danny is just happy that his baby brothers are taking his advice, and opening up to him too. Damian is even starting to talk about fighting with him, and he thinks that they might actually tell him about their nighttime activities soon.

Finally, the two confront him on it. And by that, I mean that like the emotionally constipated bats they are, they utterly fail in their interrogation because they can't just come out and say it out in the open.

Tim: so Danny, I noticed how you know a lot about fighting. and first aid, and stuff.

Damian: I have noticed this as well. Might I inquire as to where you gained these skills?

Danny just thinks that they have figured out his past as a vigilante and that they are worried about him being hurt.

Danny: Don't worry about it. I don't do that type of thing anymore.

Now that's a deflection if Tim's ever heard it.

Damian, digging for more information: I wish to know. Maybe I can learn from whoever it was that taught you?

Danny grimaces slightly before answering.

Danny: Trust me, kiddo, you don't wanna learn from the people who taught me this stuff. They squash you like a bug.

Tim and Damian take this as confirmation that Danny was involve in the League. Danny just means that pitting his rogue gallery, which consists of exclusively ghosts, against living boys would be unfair.

Another de aged Dan and Ellie story or otherwise known as Crack

Pt 1 Pt2

If only Clark hadn't been busy tracking Luthor, he would have been able to save his nephew, his sons best friend.

Once again, Lex Luthor has sabotaged him. He didn't even need kryptonite to do it this time. After Lexs mental breakdown, he had apparently gone off the grid, and unsurprisingly, he wasn't able to hear anything from him. According to the snippets from Lexs staff he had apparently refused to answer to his name, started to hate it, and called his board a " bunch of idiotic bimbos who only appear to work so they could buy expensive cars and whores".

It's definitely a mental breakdown or a possession. Lex doing something to damage his image? Unheard of. Possession didn't seem likely. What kind of person posseses a ceo just to insult his board and completely change their personality? They'd be immediately noticed.

He had been investigating Lex's disappearance for the past month and a half and had only succeeded in not being around to stop his nephew from committing suicide.

Bruce had called out for him, but being halfway across the world he couldn't make it in time, and consequently Damian made it over the bridge and he had been searching for his body for the past 3 hours and he still couldn't find him.

He had never seen Dick so shaken before. Jason had barely been able to stop him from following his brother over the bridge. After he arrived on the scene, Jason started to take his brother home.

"Find his body." He had told him before turning and wrangling Dick onto his own bike

"Stop, Jay. I have to find him. Please... Uncle Clark, please. You have to bring him home. I have to... " He could hear Dick plead with them the whole way back to the cave.

He could only bring their bikes home.

They had now all retired to the cave. He was ignoring Alfred calling Steph and Cass in the other room. Ignoring their desperate denials and begging to be told it was just a cruel prank. Ignoring Dick's full body sobs into Jason's arms, shaking them both. Ignoring Bruce's absent look and ignoring how similar Bruce and Jason's grief was.

Tim, luckily, hadn't broken his leg like what they originally had thought, only popped his knee out at such an angle it looked like it. Alfred had already reset it and listed his usual recovery despite Tim not even pretending to listen to it this time. Duke had already helped him upstairs, eyes red and swollen.

Finally the the tense silence came to an end.

"Did you find anything?" Bruce, one of his oldest and closest friends, asked, his voice calm and steady, his heart unwavering as ever but he knew better.

"I'm sorry."

"Search again."

Just as he was about to fly out again, the elevator opened.

"I found this in Damian's room." Tim hurriedly spoke he was already rushing past him on his crutches to the evidence processing, not even explaining what "this" even is.

"Tim. Explain." Bruce rushing and limped past him following quickly.

Like father, like son.

"What is it?" He turned to look at Dick, he had tear stains but his eyes were dryer his mouth was set in a firm line but he was leaning heavily on his younger brother.

"Tim found something." He responded quietly, and he continued on following his friend.

They sat silently together while Tim and Bruce worked together without speaking like a well-oiled machine firm in it's objective.

He'd say Jason was as still as a corpse with his eyes glazed over unseeing, but that observation was far from appropriate,considering everything.

99% Match found. Partial fingerprints detected unknown. The computer had finally accounted after 15 minutes of silence.

He and Jason waited for Bruce and Tim to tell them instead of jumping like Dick did to get the first look. He doubted Jason could get up, Jason was strong so strong, but he was still so young.

They all were.

Especially Damian, despite all his headstrong confidence and borderline arrogance, he will still only fourteen.

Only fourteen years old and dead by suicide.

He still needed to tell Jon he was buying time by the well-timed expedition of him and Kon already off planet and galaxy on whatever Kon called "brotherly bonding with a little bit of interplanetary fighting and toppling monarchies splashed in and maybe we'll catch a movie on the way home" they had joined some green lanterns to help rescue some new green lanterns who got in between a revolution on accident. He remembers researching for days before letting Jon go, but even just the name of the planet now escapes him.

It all seemed so trivial now.

He had seen what became of Dick and Bruce when Jason had died when Dick had been off-planet, and Bruce hadn't reached out to tell him. He just hoped Jon could forgive him.

"Clark. Where is Lex Luthor." Bruce demanded turning to finally look him in the eyes.

"I'm not sure. Lex went underground a month and half ago. Why? What does he have to do with this?" Clark asked carefully. He had to be careful not to set Bruce off.

" AND YOU DIDN'T EVEN BOTHER TELLING ME? Bruce's voice rose exponentially.

Too late, he couldn't help but think.

"His fingerprints are all over this goddamn envelope. Whatever was inside made Damian kill himself, and you're asking what does it matter!"

"How do we know?" Dick spoke softly, his eyes still glued to the results.

Everybody turned at the same time. Jason's head snapping so fast he winced.

"Know... Know what?" Tim asks him just as softly.

" How do we know Damian is.. is dead?" He spoke again, looking up to glance at them all.

" I know Damian. He's my.. my...He wouldn't just kill himself. He couldn't have. He showed no signs of ever even contemplating it. Not even... Damian would have told me.. Would have trusted me to help him. Lex must have taken him or.. or somehow lured him away." Dick spoke hurriedly or desperate but still completely convinced.

"Chum.."

"FUCK!" Jason exclaimed standing up and kicking his chair sending into the wall hard enough to crack the plastic. His hands shook like they were itching to wrap around someone's throat. They twitched and he ran his hands through his hair, his eyes were greener than ever and glowed so strong there seemed to be a small headlight in front of him almost.

"He could be out there being tortured or worse! And we are just sitting here twiddling our thumbs like FUCKING BABIES!" His voice grew louder and louder until he was screaming into their faces.

"Jaylad-" Bruce started just by hearing that name he knew whatever Bruce was going to say was going to be the complete wrong thing.

"We are going to find him. No matter what it takes. I never gave up on Bruce, and i can't give up in my baby brother either." Tim spoke up, his voice unwavering his heartbeat never stuttering, not even once.

He risked a glance at Bruce. His old friends face was softer, looking at his sons, but his frown was determined, and he tilted his head in the way he always did when he wasn't going to give up.

They were going to bring him home. They just had too.

---------

Crack

Boy, was Damian glad about this storm. He quickly realized that he couldn't use more than one of his powers at one time. He was able to make it to the coordinates of the apparent luxurious island Vlad was hiding out on.

He was expecting actual underground, not just some shell company bought island decked in lead and man-made waterfall galore.

He was absolutely soaking wet and shivering by the time he crashed onto the island. The storm just kept on thundering down on him, plastering his clothes and hair to his face in clumps. He better not get sick from this.

Cold fog escaped his throat, and he shivered even more.

"Daniel! Is that really you?" Lex fucking Luthor called out after he'd been laying exhausted and chilled to the bone in the grimy muddy sand for a few minutes.

"Hey, fruitloop." Was the first and last thing that he said before promptly passing out.

Like a lamb led to slaughter (my heart held in your hands)

carry me slowly, my sunlight (these colours, they fade for you only) - series masterlist here

pairing: damian wayne x reader (gender neutral)

length: 1.7k

genre: fluff? angst? kinda hurt/comfort?

warnings: this is the enemies part of the enemies to lovers so they're kinda mean and hateful, reader pulls a knife on damian at the beginning but it's pretty chill, also angsty ending in this but future parts where they're together and in love are already up and in my masterlist <3

a/n: enjoy xoxo

Damian pauses, holding his breath as the knife that's been suddenly pressed against his throat gets pressed a little harder. The wind blows the sand around his feet gently and he listens, straining for a hint as to who his attacker is.

"Damian Al Ghul, caught by surprise… you're getting slow," your voice makes him relax - much to his annoyance, his jaw clenching as he exhales slowly. You pull the knife away from him, ignoring the small trickle of blood that runs down his neck as you stand in front of him. 

"You shouldn't be here," he snaps harshly.

"Neither should you," you quip back.

"This is my -"

"For now," you interrupt, your grin wicked. "This war of ours isn't over yet, Al Ghul. I wouldn't claim the winning prize for yourself just yet - not when you're the one who's been caught off guard." Damian's fists clench, his eyes hard as he stares at you through the darkness of night, the stars dripping pinpricks of light onto the two of you.

"This is League territory. You are outcast. You're not welcome here, and neither are any of the others who follow you," he says viciously. You smile.

"So sure I won't beat you still," you say, a mocking edge in your voice that makes him huff. "So sure it'll be you leading the League one day, and not me."

Damian doesn't bite back, though. He opens his mouth to, but then seems to think better of it, opting instead to step away from you and plant himself on the sandy ground while the clouds part, the moon shining through. You think you hear him muttering, "why don't you just kill me and get it over with, then?"

You blink at his behaviour, following him cautiously and standing in front of him, blocking the light of the moon and shrouding him in darkness where he's sitting, knees pulled up to his chest.

"What's wrong with you?" You ask, toeing at his side with your shoe, jostling him slightly. He just clenches his fists tighter.

"You're blocking out the sky," he says bitterly. "And you stabbed me." You arch a brow.

"You're stargazing now? How novel. And I didn't stab you - don't be dramatic. It was just a little cut… you've given me worse," you point out.

"You deserve worse," he snaps. You straighten back and away from him, moving to let the light of the moon shine down on him as you sit next to him.

"You know I'd never kill you on a night like this," you say, a softness in your voice that makes you both queasy. You feel the weight of the knife in its sheath against your leg and press your hand to it. You could try to kill him - you probably should. God knows there are enough people waiting for you to.

"Not enough of an audience?" Damian says dryly. You kick a pile of sand near your foot.

"Why didn't you fight back? You could just as easily try to kill me tonight. But you wouldn't because we've been at this far too long to let it end in private… just the two of us." The end of your sentence is murmured, your eyes trained on his face while he stares up at the night sky. It takes him longer than you'd like for him to tear his gaze away from the full moon and look back at you, the light shining on one half of his face while the other now sits in shadow. You imagine you look much the same, half bathed in light, half shrouded. 

"What do you think will happen?" His question finally cuts through the silence. "When one of us finally kills the other." You pull your hand away from your knife like it's burned you. 

"When I kill you?" You say haughtily. "The League will be mine."

"And when I kill you?" Damian snaps back. You seem to mull over your answer for a moment too long, Damian huffing and turning back up to the sky.

"Then you win," you say quietly. "And you're rid of me." Something in your heart twinges at that and you grit your teeth.

"What would I do?" He says it so softly you're sure you wouldn't hear him if you hadn't spent so many years learning him. You fix him with a hard look, but he keeps his eyes pointedly on the stars and not at you. "What would I do without you?"

"What would I do without you?" Your response is so wavering and hushed that you think he must have missed it. It must have simply been caught in the wind and carried away to somewhere where the two of you could be anything other than what you are now. The way Damian turns to look at you, eyes wide and vulnerable and hurting, tells you he heard you just fine. 

"I don't want to kill you," he says it like kindness is a crime.

"You have to," you respond, like a lamb led to slaughter. "It's what we're made for, you and me. To be each other's end - each other's undoing. Only one of us is making it out of this alive." There's a weight in your words that goes unsaid. A part of me will die with you. Neither one of us will make it out of this and stay whole. A part of me belongs to you.

Damian stands suddenly, sand flying at where you sit as he shoots to his feet. You brush it off of you with a sigh and crane your neck to look up at him where he's standing tall, fists clenched and shoulders back, his feet planted firmly and holding him steady. You assume there's a determination in his eyes that you're intimately familiar with to go with his stance. He's blocked out the moon with his figure, leaving the two of you in shadow with a blinding halo around his silhouette, but you don't need to see his face to know what look he's wearing - you haven't needed to for a long time.

"There's a way around this, I'm sure," he says. You sigh and a breeze floats by, ruffling through him and into you. Your nose burns when you pick up the faintest whiff of his scent and you wonder, just for a moment, if he can detect the same from you… if he knows you the way you know him.

"You don't want that," you say flatly.

"Don't tell me what I want," he snaps back, voice hard. "You don't get to decide how this ends." You shoot up at his words, standing chest to chest with him, so close that you bump into each other.

"I decide just as much as you do." Your voice mimics the steel in his own. "This is about us, not you, and… and," whatever you were saying dies out as you look at Damian, his eyes staring back at you intensely. You hadn't really realized, in your anger and haste, how close to him you'd shoved yourself, but you can feel his breath on your skin and see the flecks of colour in his deep brown eyes.

"And… what?" He prompts, scowl still on his face. He seems to take no notice of the way his nose brushes against yours. That is, until your eyes flick down to his lips for a split second too long.

He lurches away from you, stepping back to create distance and holding a hand out in surrender, as if the close proximity to you just then had been more threatening than all the times you'd pointed a sword to his chest. The way your heart thumps behind your ribs and your breath catches, you're inclined to agree.

"I'm going to fix this," he says breathlessly.

"Fix what? There's nothing to fix, Damian." His name burns your tongue, like it's an intimacy you shouldn't indulge in. "There's nothing to fix. This is the way it's supposed to go."

"I won't kill you," he's all but yelling at you now. "And I won't let you kill me." You make the mistake of closing your eyes, hanging your head slightly and sighing as you prepare yourself for another fight. It's a moment of weakness that you would never allow in front of any enemy other than him - a moment of vulnerability that could cost you your life. But you hear it, ever so slightly, the whisper of him moving with a stealth that only the two of you know. By the time you open your eyes, he's gone.

You realize, in the days following the incident, that you'd never gone so long without seeing Damian before. At first, you were shoved against each other by your respective sides in never-ending fights to see who would triumph. Then, as time passed and the two of you grew, your skills matched and fights ending in draws over and over, you started seeking each other out on your own. To know your enemy, you'd always told yourself. You're sure he'd always tried to convince himself of the same. 

But now? Now days have gone by without a whisper, without a flickering shadow or a hushed breath. Eventually, you go looking, silent and hidden and so desperately hopeful. But that's when you hear it - the rumours.

Damian Al Ghul is gone - gone to live with his father and train with him. He'll be back, you promise yourself. He'll come back to me. 

But he doesn't. Time passes and he remains gone, the rumours spreading.

Damian Al Ghul has found a home beyond this war, beyond you. You're sure that only makes you so nauseous because now you'll never get the chance to kill him.

Damian Al Ghul has no interest in fighting a war that isn't his anymore, you hear. Damian Al Ghul has no need for a vicious prophecy or a never-ending rivalry.  Damian Al Ghul has found a home, apparently, and it's somewhere far… far away from you.

ii. what's up danger?

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

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 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're beautiful."

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

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

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

Oh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

THWIP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Learning yet?” she replied with a smirk. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selina froze. “I’m sorry, what?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

3:43 AM.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Are you... judging my punch?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Shit. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

SUGAR DAMI:

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

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

With a huff, you typed a quick response:

YOU:

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

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

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

One headline caught your eye:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nodded solemnly.

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

You deflated a bit but nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Spidey might be cuter,” she teased.

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

“Spidey it is, then.”

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

dududun there's a stark

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

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

iii. what's up danger?

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

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

"Repeat that."

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

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

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

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown.

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

GOTHAM WAS BEAUTIFUL.

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

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

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

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

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

"That's all it takes."

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

A leap of fate.

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

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

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

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

THWIP.

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

You were flying.

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

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

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

What's up, danger?

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian’s face falls visibly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'll make sure to lift extra hard tonight.

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

"WOO!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat as recognition hits. 

It’s Morgan.

Hold up—what is she doing here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Teenage angst? Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na…Batman!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian perks up at that. Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selina raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat, trying to shift the conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch. That was expected, but it still stung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking a deep breath, you step into the alley.

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

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

Holy shit, it’s Morgan.

What is it with this girl and getting assaulted?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One.

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

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

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

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

Five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stagger back, clutching your side. 

Well... shit.

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

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

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

“You’re—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do I at least look badass?"

"Oh my god. I literally hate you."

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

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

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

“Pepper, I need you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take a deep breath as the hand finally retreats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morga—”

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

“Welcome home, Tony.”

Both of you freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ass!"

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push open the door and lead Morgan inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at her blankly.

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

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

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

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

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na… Batman!

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

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

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

“Did you just hack my phone?”

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

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

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

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

“Not going to answer?”

You wince. “We had an argument.”

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

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

“Yikes.”

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spidersilk.

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

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

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

His position is compromised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Personal case?”

“Yes. I'm going on a hunt."

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

You peek in further and gape.

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

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

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

You... did?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THWIP.

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s smirk widens as he extends his hand. 

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

"..."

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

"Are you trying to eat your plate?"

"Die."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table fell silent for a moment.

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

"Repeat that."

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

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

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

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick and Tim exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hope you enjoy cereal, Master Damian."

༻⊰───⋅

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im a hoe for comments/reblogs/asks/kudos

it fuels me <3 pls send more

iv. what's up danger?

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

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

Ah, a typical dinner at the Waynes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Wednesday, 6:54 PM - Catwoman’s Apartment, Gotham City. Three Days Later

THE ROOM IS QUIET except for the occasional rustle of clothing as you pack your things. You carefully fold your favorite hoodie, tucking it neatly into the suitcase. Next, you grab a few pairs of jeans, some t-shirts, and your worn-out sneakers. You pause, fingers lingering on a framed photo of you and Damian at a carnival, his arm slung over your shoulder, his lips pressed against your head.

Both of you haven't spoken since the argument. It's been three days of radio silence on both ends. But you couldn’t prevent the inevitable. Bruce invited you and Selina for dinner tonight—a congratulatory party, he says.

With a sigh, you place the photo gently on top of your clothes. You move to your desk, picking up a stack of notebooks filled with sketches and half-finished plans, tucking them into the side pocket of your bag.

The door creaks open, and you see Selina standing there, her arms crossed and a proud smile playing on her lips.

“Hey, hon. Packing up for your big adventure?” she asks, stepping into the room.

You smile, nodding. “Yeah. It’s only for a month, but it feels like I’m leaving for a year.”

Selina walks over, picking up a small figurine from your desk and inspecting it. “I’m proud of you, you know. This is a huge opportunity.”

“Thanks.” You smile and turn back to your packing, reaching for your suit. The sleek, black material glistens in the light. As you fold it, Selina raises a brow.

“You’re not seriously thinking of bringing the suit, are you?” she asks.

You hesitate, looking down at the suit. “I thought I might need it. Just in case.”

Selina sighs, her hands finding her hips as she gives you a look. “You always think you might need it. But this internship is a chance for you to have a life outside the vigilante shtick. It’s good for your future. A chance to live a normal life.”

You snort, shaking your head. “Normal? Mom, I stopped being normal the day I got these powers. There's no going back to that.”

“Maybe not,” Selina concedes, running gentle fingers through your hair. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t have something close to it. You deserve to have options, to see what else is out there for you. What happens if you don’t want to do this forever?”

You roll your eyes, frustration bubbling to the surface. “And what if I do? What if this is who I am? This internship is a great opportunity, I get that, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m not like everyone else.”

Selina kneels down, her eyes locking onto yours. “I’m not asking you to change who you are. I’m asking you to give yourself a chance to be more than just the suit. You’re smart, talented, and capable of so much more than this double life.”

“Yeah, well, having a double life seems to be the family business, doesn’t it?” you retort, a bit more sharply than you intended.

Selina’s expression twists. “And maybe that’s why I want more for you. I want you to have the choice I never did. To find out who you are without the mask, without the mission.”

You take a deep breath, feeling the weight of her words but also the pull of your own truth. “I hear you. But I think I need to bring it. Just in case something goes wrong.”

“God. You are just as stubborn as me,” Selina sighs, her shoulders slumping slightly. Shaking her head, she rises to her feet. “Just promise me you’ll keep an open mind about this internship. It’s a chance to see what else is out there for you.”

“Promise,” you hum. Just as you’re about to pack it, your phone buzzes. Quickly, you glance at the text.

Morgana:

Busy tonight? There’s a shipment near the docks. Tech equipment from what I see.

You could infiltrate. They have valuable info.

It's… Black Mask.

For a while, you stare at the phone, biting down on your bottom lip. Finally, with an exhale, you place the phone face down on the floor, deliberately ignoring the message for now.

You turn your attention back to the task at hand, refocusing on packing your suitcase. Selina gives you a look but doesn’t press further.

“Ready for tonight?” she asks, changing the subject.

You nod, though you feel a knot in your stomach. Bruce’s congratulatory dinner feels more like a test than a celebration, especially with the tension between you and Damian still unresolved. You zip up the suitcase and glance around your room, making sure you haven't forgotten anything essential.

“Yeah, ready as I'll ever be,” you reply, attempting to sound confident.

Selina nods approvingly, then steps closer, bending to pull you into a hug. “I’ll go get dressed. You do too, alright?”

You nod as Selina leaves the room, her footsteps fading into the distance. Turning back to your suitcase, you rummage through the clothes, pulling out a pair of well-worn jeans and a red jacket. After slipping on some socks and sneakers, you reach for a black shirt. But as your hand hovers over the fabric, your gaze is drawn to your suit laid out on the bed.

The spider logo on its back glares at you, its eight-legged emblem almost seeming to reach out with an imperceptible pull, as if urging you to embrace your other self.

After a moment of inner conflict, you give in. You carefully pull on the suit beneath your clothes, feeling the snug fit of the material wrapping around you. With the suit in place, you slip on the black shirt, followed by the jacket and jeans. Finally, you tuck your mask into the pocket of your jacket.

With everything packed and ready, you head downstairs. Selina is still in her room, and you catch sight of her as she steps into view, looking a touch more formal than you in a sleek, off-shoulder black dress that hugs her curves. It’s short, tight, and effortlessly elegant.

“Done already?” she hums, moving to her vanity and starting on her hair and makeup.

You nod, leaning against the doorframe and giving your hair a casual tousle. “Yeah, figured I’d keep it simple. Not sure I’m in the mood for fancy.”

Selina glances at you through the mirror, a small, reassuring smile curling her lips. “You look great. And don’t worry too much about tonight. It’ll be fine.”

“I hope so,” you murmur, more to yourself than to her.

The clock on the wall reads 7:00. You have three hours before the dinner, and Selina, always the early planner, will be occupied with her preparations for a while.

Pulling out your phone, you check Morgan’s message again. If you played your cards right, you could handle the shipment bust quickly and still make it to the dinner on time.

Clearing your throat, you push yourself off the doorframe and tug your hood back on. You head downstairs, making sure to keep your movements casual and unhurried, as if nothing out of the ordinary is about to happen.

“I’ll be heading out for a bit. I want to get some flowers for Alfred,” you call out, your voice carrying through the house.

Selina glances up from her vanity, an eyebrow arching in curiosity. “Alright, but don’t be too long. We need to leave once the driver arrives.”

“Got it,” you reply with a quick nod, turning and heading out of the room. You make your way downstairs, slipping out the front door and into the crisp evening air.

Once you’re in the privacy of a nearby alleyway, you waste no time. Tugging off your shirt, you shove it into the pocket of your jacket, feeling a rush of adrenaline. You slip on your mask, adjusting it carefully until it fits snugly, the familiar material settling comfortably against your skin. Your jeans, jacket, and sneakers stay on for practicality, and you plan to put the black shirt back on later.

With everything in place, you secure your earpiece and gadgets, pressing the earpiece into position and activating it. The familiar hum of your tech springs to life, and you’re ready to move. The city’s sounds fade as you slip into the shadows.

“Morgz? You there?” you call out, already scaling up the side of a building.

A crackle of static precedes Morgan’s voice. “Yeah, I’m here. You on your way?”

“Just about to leave,” you reply, grabbing onto a ledge and pulling yourself up. “Any updates on the shipment?”

“It’s scheduled to arrive in about 30 minutes. The tech equipment is being unloaded from a truck into a warehouse. Security’s decent, but nothing you can’t handle. You’re only 15 minutes away from your spot right now.”

“Got it,” you confirm, reaching the rooftop and taking a moment to scan the area below. “I’ll keep you posted. Thanks for the heads-up.”

You launch into action, web-slinging towards the docks with a focus on speed. Normally, you’d be showboating and performing flips, but tonight, every second counts. The journey takes a bit longer than expected—20 minutes instead of 15.

As you approach the docks, you spot a boat pulling up to the edge, its silhouette cutting through the darkness.

“Surprised you even took this up,” Morgan’s voice murmurs through your earpiece. “Thought you weren't allowed to patrol on school nights.”

“Technically… I’m not,” you reply, weaving between buildings and adjusting your trajectory for a swift descent.

“Yeesh. Going rebellious already?”

“Teenage angst, remember?” you quip, a grin forming beneath your mask as you prepare to intercept the shipment

Landing on a rooftop adjacent to the warehouse, you take a moment to plan your entry. The warehouse is a large, industrial building with a few tall windows and a side door that looks like it’s used for deliveries.

Security cameras are mounted on the corners of the building, rotating every now and then. You quickly survey the area, noting the guards' position.

There are a couple of guards patrolling the perimeter, walking in predictable patterns. One guard is stationed near the side door, checking his watch occasionally. The other two are more mobile, taking turns walking around the exterior and scanning the area.

Beyond the security, you see five workers moving boxes from the boat to the warehouse. The open doors at the far end reveal crates of tech equipment being unloaded.

You activate your earpiece. "Update. Three guards outside. Five active workers. They've got cameras. Can you get those down for me?"

Morgan's voice crackles through your earpiece. "On it. Give me a sec."

You watch the cameras, waiting for them to go offline. The guard near the side door looks at his watch again, oblivious to what's about to happen. After a tense moment, Morgan's voice comes back. "Cameras are down. You've got about an hour before the system kicks in again. Oh. That and there are about 5 more guards inside."

"Perfect," you hum.

You time your movements with the guards' patrols, slipping through the shadows. You approach the side door, keeping low and quiet.

Inside, the warehouse is dimly lit, with stacks of crates creating narrow pathways. The workers are busy unloading the truck, their focus on the task at hand. You crawl up the walls swiftly and silently.

You spot a terminal near the back of the warehouse, its blinking lights indicating it’s connected to the inventory system.

Time to get to work.

“I'm at the terminal. What’s next?” you whisper into the earpiece.

Morgan’s voice comes through with a steady tone. “First, plug in the flash drive I gave you. It should start copying the inventory data automatically. While that’s running, you’ll need to locate the main control panel for the security system and plant the tracker I sent you. This will let us keep tabs on future shipments.”

You nod, even though she can't see you. "Got it. Flash drive first, then tracker."

You slip down to the terminal, plugging in the flash drive. It hums quietly as it begins copying the data. You glance around, ensuring no one is watching, then make your way to the security control panel, hidden behind a stack of crates. You plant the tracker quickly, securing it in place.

"The tracker is set," you inform Morgan.

"Great job. The data copy should be done soon. Once it’s finished, you can pull the flash drive and get out of there."

You make your way back to the terminal, keeping an eye on the workers and guards. The flash drive's light blinks, indicating it’s nearly done. You wait a few more tense moments until it goes solid.

"Data copied," Morgan confirms. "You’re clear to go."

You pull the flash drive and tuck it safely into your pocket, then start making your way back towards the exit, sticking to the shadows. Just as you reach the door, you hear voices nearby.

“Hey, did you hear something?”

Your heart stops as the guard’s flashlight beam sweeps dangerously close to your hiding spot. You freeze, pressing yourself against the cold metal wall, barely breathing.

“Probably just a rat. Let's check it out just in case.”

You curse silently under your breath, watching as the guards start moving in your direction.

The first guard steps closer, his flashlight scanning the area. You silently crawl up the wall, positioning yourself above him. With a swift flick of your wrist, you shoot a web at the flashlight, yanking it out of his hand and into the darkness.

“What the—” the guard starts, but you quickly web his mouth shut and pull him up towards the ceiling, wrapping him tightly in webbing and securing him to the roof. You knock his head against the metal, and he passes out.

The second guard, alarmed by the sudden commotion, turns his back to you as he draws his weapon. The rifle fires, but your spider sense helps you dodge the shots. Cursing, you shoot a web at his feet, yanking his legs out from under him and sending him crashing to the ground. Before he can react, you web his hands to the floor and sling his weapon away.

Dropping from the ceiling, you slow your landing with a web and slam your foot down onto his head, knocking him out.

Despite the relatively quiet disposal of the two guards, the earlier rifle shot already alerted the other workers and guards in the warehouse. You hear shouts and hurried footsteps approaching.

“Someone’s here! Find them!”

Guards scramble, their flashlights slicing through the darkness, casting erratic beams that dance across the warehouse walls. You sprint and flip away, weaving between crates and machinery, but a new threat emerges from the shadows—a massive, burly man, easily twice your size. He’s built like a brick wall, his muscles straining against his uniform, and his face looks like it’s been chiseled out of stone, etched with a permanent scowl.

“Who’s messing around in 'ere?” the giant roars, his voice reverberating through the cavernous space. He brandishes a rifle, and from the looks of it, he seems to be their leader.

You glance at your watch—damn, it’s been two hours already. Only an hour left.

Still… you could probably get one fight in before leaving.

Swinging out of the shadows, you land in front of the giant, hands on your hips.

“Hi there, Mr. Villain!” you call out, catching a punch he sends your way and giving his hand a playful shake. “I’m Spidey, your friendly neighborhood nuisance. Always nice to meet someone who’s got a real ‘heavy’ presence. Looks like you’ve got a security problem here. That is totally my bad.”

The giant snarls at you. He fires his rifle, but you deftly dodge the bullets. With a swift move, you fire a web at his feet and arms, pinning him momentarily to the ground. The rifle is knocked from his hands, clattering out of reach.

The guards scramble to regroup, and you spring into action. Flipping back into the air, you disarm the remaining guards—quick web blasts here, a roundhouse kick there, an uppercut thrown. Each guard crumples under the assault, slamming against the walls one by one, webbed together in a tangled heap.

There’s a snap as the leader breaks free, roaring in fury and charging at you like a battering ram. You duck under his swinging arm and fire a web at a stack of crates. The crates topple and crash into his path, heavy wood and metal smashing together. He stumbles, cursing and flailing wildly.

“Careful there! You might just crush your own merchandise,” you taunt, sidestepping his erratic swings.

In that moment of distraction, you web his gun away. But as you turn back to face him, a sharp, urgent jolt of danger spikes through your veins, a warning so intense it feels like an electric shock. Your instincts scream at you to move, and you leap to the side in a desperate maneuver. But it’s too late.

A figure emerges from the shadows, their knife gleaming menacingly under the harsh warehouse lights.

Shit, you missed one guard.

The blade slices through your suit, leaving a burning, agonizing wound in its wake. You stagger, clutching your side as blood seeps through the torn fabric, pooling on the cold concrete floor. With a grimace of pain, you quickly shoot a web at the guard, slamming them against the wall with a forceful swing and pulling their knife away.

“Spidey?! Come in. Shit. What happened to staying stealthy?” Morgan's voice crackles through the earpiece. “PEPPER, run back their vitals on me.”

A mechanical voice responds through your earpiece. “Vitals are stable. The wound is a deep laceration on the left side, approximately six inches long and half an inch deep. Blood loss is moderate but under control due to the suit’s padding. The injury narrowly missed major organs and arteries. Immediate first aid is recommended, followed by stitches.”

“Looks like I’ve got a new scar to show for tonight,” you heave, trying to ignore the throbbing pain as the giant stalks toward you. “But I’m not done yet.”

The man's roar shakes the warehouse. His eyes blaze with fury as he stares you down. “You think you can take me, you puny spider?”

You lift your chin, forcing a grin despite the pain. “Puny? That’s funny. I’ve taken down bigger."

The giant lunges at you, grabbing a heavy metal rod and swinging it like a battering ram. You barely manage to dodge, feeling the rush of air as it whooshes past you. You retaliate with a web shot aimed at his face, but he swats it away with a roar, his massive arms smashing through your webbing.

“Careful there, big guy,” you quip, “I’m not into heavy metal, but thanks for the offer!”

Suddenly, his hand connects with your chest, grabbing the front of your suit and lifting you off your feet. He hurls you against a stack of crates, the impact knocking you into the wall. You slide down to the floor, disoriented, blood running down your split lip.

While you're down, the giant strides toward you, his heavy footsteps shaking the ground like a mini earthquake. You push yourself up, struggling to stay upright as he launches a flying knee at you. Your senses blare like a siren, urging you to move. Instinctively, you roll to the side, narrowly avoiding the crushing blow that lands where you had just been.

“Hey, watch it! I’ve got places to be after this!” you yell.

Before you can react, a powerful punch crashes into your face, sending you reeling.

“That one’s definitely gonna leave a mark,” you groan, pain radiating through your skull. Desperately, you fire a web at his legs, hoping to slow him down. The webbing sticks momentarily, but he tears through it with sheer brute force.

Groaning, you shake off the dizziness, rolling your shoulders to loosen them before pushing yourself back to your feet.

“Alright,” you mutter, taking a deep breath. “Clearly, the webs aren’t working. Guess we’re sticking to fists. Put ’em up, big guy.”

Laughing with a guttural, mocking tone, the giant charges at you. As he lunges, you brace yourself and bring your fist up to guard your face. With a burst of power, you jab forward. Your knuckles connect with his face with a sickening crunch, the sound of bone shattering and flesh splitting echoing through the warehouse like a thunderclap.

JAB!

The man staggers back, his head snapping violently to the side, blood spraying from his jaw. Before he can regain his footing, you launch into a spinning kick. Your leg swings with explosive force, crashing into his chest and slamming him into the wall with a resounding crash.

You follow up with a powerful jump, driving a kick into his ribs. The impact produces a sickening crack. He lets out a pained roar and collapses, slumped against the wall.

Quickly, you flick your wrist and shoot a web at a pipe high above, the webbing coiling tightly around it. With a determined grunt, you spin and yank the pipe down with all your strength. The metal pipe crashes down onto the giant with a resounding clang, the force of the impact knocking him out cold.

You take a couple of deep breaths, blood and sweat mingling on your clothes and face as you survey the wreckage. The giant groans weakly—alive, but definitely out of commission for the moment.

“Looks like the big guy’s all out of steam,” you murmur, wiping the blood from your brow with a grim smile. “Now, time to find that exit before my own steam runs out.”

With a final glance at the chaos you've left behind, you swing toward the exit. The cut on your side throbs with each movement—though it's slowly healing, the pain and blood are still very much present.

"Spidey? You alright? What the fuck, you just beat that guy within an inch of his life."

“He’ll live,” you huff as you swing through the streets. After fumbling around for a while, you pull your phone from your jacket and curse at the time. Only ten minutes before the car arrives. “Uh, Morgz, do me a favor. Where’s the nearest flower shop?”

"Christ. You just busted down an illegal tech deal and now you're out for flowers?" Morgan’s response comes through the earpiece before you hear some typing. “There’s a florist two blocks from your current location. I’m sending you the address. But—You really need to take care of that wound.”

“Nothing I can’t handle,” you reply. There's a ping as the location pops up on your phone. “Just need to pick up some flowers. Trust me, it’s important.”

You adjust your swing to head toward the florist, landing quietly in the alley outside. With quick movements, you slip off your mask and start changing. You discard your jacket, revealing the bloodied suit underneath. The suit’s dark color masks most of the stains, but it's still a grim sight.

You pull on your shirt over the suit, trying to conceal the worst of the mess. The sticky, wet feeling of blood against your skin is unpleasant, and you grimace as you adjust the shirt. Finally, you slip the jacket back on, hoping it will help you blend in and give you a semblance of normalcy.

Taking a deep breath, you straighten up and glance at your reflection in the nearby puddle. The image staring back at you is a disheveled mess: hair tousled, face bruised and bloodied, jeans stained with grime and blood, and a jacket barely concealing it all.

“Not my best look,” you bite your lip. “But it’ll have to do.”

With a sigh, you step into the flower shop. The bell above the door jingles softly, and the warm, floral scent is a welcome relief from the warehouse’s stench.

The florist looks up from behind the counter with a curious glance. His eyes narrow slightly as he takes in your disheveled appearance but he doesn’t seem particularly fazed. In Gotham, a bloodied teenager is probably just another Wednesday.

“Evening,” the florist says, his voice carrying the neutrality of someone accustomed to the oddities of city life. “What can I do for you?”

You give a quick nod, trying to keep your tone casual despite the blood still seeping through your shirt. “Need something nice. Simple. No need for anything flashy.”

The florist nods and starts arranging a bouquet of flowers. You drift over to a corner and find yourself looking at some daisies, their bright, cheerful colors a stark contrast to your current state.

“Spidey? How’s it going?” Morgan’s voice crackles through your earpiece.

“Alright,” you shrug, though she can’t see it. “Can I get a rundown on my vitals?”

Morgan’s voice hums and there’s the sound of clicking keys. “Vitals are stable. The cut is slowly healing, but you’ll need to properly bandage and get some of that stitched later Happy to say you're not going to die bleeding out.” She pauses, and then adds, “You’ve got a couple of broken ribs though.”

You blink in surprise and pat at your sides, feeling nothing. “Really? Guess that’s my pain tolerance working overtime. Didn’t even notice.”

“Please tell me you’re getting that treated first,” Morgan says, a hint of concern in her voice.

“Nope,” you reply, moving to pay for the flowers. “Already running late. Mom will kill me if she finds out.”

Morgan’s voice is laced with skepticism. “She’s going to find out anyway.”

You sigh, trying to ignore the twinge in your side. “I’ll just say it was a mugging.”

“Do you really think she’ll believe that?” Morgan asks, her tone dry.

You let out a small, pained chuckle. “In Gotham, maybe. But realistically…no. I’m just hoping to buy myself a little time before it all catches up to me.”

With the bouquet in hand, you head back out into the night. You tuck the flowers into your free pocket and swing off into the darkness. As you soar through the city, you reach for your earpiece and say a quick, “Goodnight, Morgz,” before shoving it into the pocket of your jeans.

Just as you near the bridge, your phone rings. You glance at the screen and curse under your breath—Selina’s calling, and from the look of it, she’s been trying to reach you multiple times over the past hour.

Yeah, you’re definitely in trouble.

You answer the call, forcing a casual tone. “Hey, Mom. What’s up?”

Selina’s voice comes through, clearly agitated. You can hear her huffing as she closes the apartment door, the background noise of a car engine rumbling outside. “Where the hell are you? I’ve been waiting forever. We’re all set to head out.”

You quickly scan the streets below as you swing past, trying to gauge your location. “Uh, I’m on 2nd Broadway… actually, make that 3rd Broadway. And… 4th of Broadway! I’ll be there in… twenty minutes tops. Almost there, Mom!”

Selina’s frustration is evident as she hears the wind rushing past you. “Are you swinging?”

“Nope,” you lie smoothly, trying to keep your voice steady. “Just a bit of a detour. You know how it is.”

“Honey,” Selina’s tone softens slightly but remains firm, “I can hear the wind. Are you really swinging around? It’s a school night. You know the rules—”

You wince, knowing you’ve been caught. “Just… had a few things to take care of. I’m on my way. Promise. Actually, why don’t I meet you at Wayne Manor instead? I’m near the bridge. Ya know, the one by the docks.”

There’s a brief, incredulous pause on her end. “Why are you near the docks?!”

You avoid the question, trying to keep the conversation moving. “Long story. Look, I’m running late. Can we just meet at Wayne Manor? I’ll explain everything after dinner.”

Selina’s frustration doesn’t ease, but she sighs. “Fine. Wayne Manor it is. But don’t think for a second you’re off the hook, young lady.”

You nod, even though she can’t see it. “Understood. See you soon. Love you, Mom.”

Selina scowls as she ends the call and heads down to meet Alfred. Stepping out of her apartment building, the bustling, gritty streets of Gotham greet her. The distant sounds of sirens and the chatter of pedestrians fill the air.

Alfred, noticing her irritated state, opens the door for her with a raised eyebrow. "Good to see you Miss Kyle. May I inquire where the young miss is?"

Selina forces a smile, trying to mask her frustration. “She’s… handling something that came up last minute. She’ll meet us at the manor.”

Alfred nods, a hint of concern in his eyes, but he says nothing more. He closes the door behind her as she slips into the car, adjusting her coat and glancing at her reflection in the rearview mirror.

The engine starts, the low hum blending with the city’s background noise. As the vehicle pulls away, Selina leans back against the cool leather seat, her fingers drumming lightly on the armrest, her mind already racing through the conversation she knows is coming.

You were dead meat.

 ༻⊰───⋅

After nearly an hour of high-speed swings through the city, you finally arrive at Wayne Manor, breathless and disheveled. You drop down to a nearby clearing, carefully checking to ensure the cameras don’t catch your arrival.

Taking a moment to catch your breath, you press the doorbell. The chime resonates through the grand entrance, a reminder of the time ticking away. You glance at your phone and curse under your breath when you see the time—an hour and thirty minutes late.

The swinging took longer than expected, and to make matters worse, you had to intervene when this ginger reporter was being robbed. You couldn’t just stand by and do nothing.

You hear footsteps approaching from inside. The door swings open, and Alfred stands there, his eyes widening as he takes in your bruised and bloodied appearance. You lean against the gate, your fingers curling around the metal.

“H—Hey, Al.”

“Goodness me!” Alfred exclaims, hurrying over to the gate and pulling it open wide. He ushers you inside, his gaze sweeping over your injuries with clear concern. “Miss Kyle, you’re in quite a state!”

You manage a tired smile, carefully pulling out the bouquet from your jacket. The bouquet is a sorry sight—torn petals, crushed blooms, and snapped stems, looking like it’s on the verge of dying.

“Sorry, I’m late,” you say, wincing at the state of the flowers. “These… are for you. Sorry. I… uh—ran all the way here. I hope I’m not too late for dinner.”

Alfred takes the flowers with a gentle smile, his concern momentarily overshadowed by a touch of warmth. “Thank you, Miss Kyle. However, I assure you it’s fine. The others have already started eating. They won’t mind if you—”

“It’s fine! This is just…,” you pause, pursing your lips as you scramble for a plausible excuse. You force a smile, shaking your head and pulling your jacket hood further over your face to hide the swelling bruise around one of your eyes. “Hah, you know how Gotham can be.”

Alfred gives you a sad look but doesn’t press further. “Very well… If you’ll follow me, I’ll show you to the dining room.”

He leads you through the grand hallways, the echo of your footsteps blending with the soft hum of conversation. As you reach the dining room, the door swings open, revealing a table already set and bustling with activity. Selina, Bruce, and the others are seated, their conversations halting as they turn to see you.

The room falls into a stunned silence as everyone’s eyes widen at your disheveled state.

Selina’s gaze narrows, her irritation barely masked by a tight-lipped smile. Bruce’s face pales, his eyes darting between you and Selina, clearly alarmed. He shoots her a panicked, questioning look. Selina responds with a weary sigh, her hands momentarily covering her face as if trying to shield herself from the scene. She looks utterly drained.

You attempt a casual wave, though it comes off as weak. Blood drips down your bruised knuckles, cascading down your palm. “Hey, everyone. Sorry, I’m late.”

Jason’s eyebrows shoot up, his eyes stormy with shock and something akin to anger.

“What the hell happened to you?” he demands.

Ah, a typical dinner at the Waynes.

Tim’s eyes widen, his mouth slightly ajar as he takes in your battered appearance. He looks you up and down, clearly at a loss for words.

Cassandra’s expression is tense, her fingers fiddling with her utensils. Her eyes dart between you and Selina, trying to read your body language.

Bruce, who had been quietly observing, stands up and approaches you with slow, measured steps.

“You’re hurt,” Bruce murmurs softly, his hands gently resting on your shoulders. His eyes search yours for an explanation. Despite the intimidating presence he exudes, there’s something about his touch that makes you feel a surprising warmth. “What happened, kiddo?”

You wince slightly at the barrage of questions, but before you can respond, Damian’s intense gaze locks onto yours. His eyes are a mixture of anger and deep concern, and the weight of his stare makes your voice catch in your throat. Although he says nothing, his intense look speaks volumes.

“Just… a rough night. Got into a fight.” The words come out more uncertain than you intended, offering little comfort.

Bruce’s eyes narrow slightly, and a deep sense of fury radiates from him. You try to ignore it. “And who was this?”

The memory of junior high flickers in your mind. Back then, Gotham Academy, being an elite school, made you an easy target for bullies. When Selina found out, she was furious, but Bruce’s reaction was even more intense. For reasons you didn’t fully understand at the time, he had every single kid who bullied you suspended. People learned to steer clear of you after that.

“It ended up alright,” you try to reassure Bruce, seeing the look on his face. “Really, it’s not as bad as it looks. It was just a run in with some rando on the street.”

Everyone’s reactions vary, but it’s the look in your aunt’s eyes that strikes you the hardest. Selina’s weary gaze peeks out from behind her hands, and the sight makes your face crumple.

“Pull off your hood,” Selina commands, her voice icy and devoid of warmth. The room falls into a heavy silence, everyone’s eyes locked on you as she straightens in her chair, nails digging deep into the mahogany table.

You remain silent, your gaze fixed on your shoes as you scuff the dried mud across the luxurious marble floor.

“Take off the damn hood and show me your face!”

The silence stretches, filled only by the heavy breaths of the onlookers.

With a sharp exhale, you throw your head back, scowling as you clench your jaw tightly. You yank the hood off in one swift motion. The hood falls away, and the full extent of your injuries is revealed. Selina’s gaze locks onto the black eye, the bruises, and the cuts that mar your face. Her expression shifts from shock to a deepening scowl, her lips trembling as she fights to control her rising anger.

Everyone waiting for the storm that is sure to follow.

Instead, Selina’s hands fly to cover her face, and she looks as though she might faint at any moment.

Bruce stares at you with something akin to horror, frozen in place.

Before anyone can react further, Damian abruptly stands, his chair scraping against the floor. Without a word, he strides over to you, wrapping an arm around your waist and guiding you out of the room. His muttered words are barely audible, “I’ll take care of their injuries.”

Bruce moves back to Selina’s side, gently wrapping an arm around her shoulder as he tries to offer comfort. You can hear his soft, reassuring whisper as you walk away, “You can stay for the night. It’s too late to head out now. Give her some time.”

Selina, still visibly shaken, nods gratefully, her eyes following Damian as he helps you toward the manor’s second floor.

Damian leads you into his room and shuts the door behind you. He gestures for you to sit on his bed, and you plop down with a heavy sigh. You watch him retreat to the bathroom, your eyes lingering on the raw, bloodied skin of your knuckles with a tinge of guilt.

Damian returns moments later with a first aid kit, his jaw clenched tight in concern. He kneels down before you, reaching out to tug off your jacket, but you shake your head, not wanting him to discover the suit underneath.

“I’m going to change in the bathroom,” you rasp. Damian silently nods, moving to his closet and pulling out one of his cotton shirts and boxers. He hands them to you with a resigned sigh and leans against the wall beside the bathroom door, giving you the privacy you need.

You take the clothes and make your way to the bathroom, avoiding your reflection in the mirror as much as possible. Inside, you drop your jacket, shirt, and pants to the ground, peeling off your suit slowly. You wince as the bloodied cut on your side comes into full view.

You quickly change into Damian’s boxers, deciding to stay in your bra and keep the shirt off for now. You bundle your suit and hide it under your jacket and pants, folding it as neatly as you can. Steeling yourself, you step back into the room.

Damian’s eyes harden as he examines the cut, which has partially healed over time due to your enhanced abilities. It’s now only about four inches long. If Damian had seen the cut in its original state, you would have been in for the lecture of your life.

“Sit down,” Damian finally speaks, his voice firm. He begins to open the first aid kit, movements precise and methodical. You drop your ruined clothes in a far corner and plop back down on his bed, rubbing your hands together nervously.

A beat passes as Damian finishes cleaning the wound and reaches for the anesthesia, preparing to start stitching you up. You shake your head and push his hand away. “I can take it.”

“No,” Damian scowls and continues his work. He applies the anesthesia despite your protests, injecting it around the wound to numb the area. The needle pierces your skin with a sharp sting, followed by a dull, throbbing sensation as the anesthetic begins to take effect.

He sets the syringe aside and picks up a pair of sterilized tweezers and needle and thread. You watch as he carefully makes the first stitch, his hands steady and precise. The thread pulls tight, closing the wound with a series of tight, even stitches.

His long lashes flutter over his hooded eyes with each focused blink, his emerald gaze intense and filled with concern. The warm ambient light of the room casts a gentle glow on his deep tan skin, accentuating the chiseled contours of his face in a soft, almost ethereal light.

The beam of light highlights the light almost invisible scar that stretches from his cheekbone to his crooked nose, tracing the elegant curve of his cheekbone and the strong, defined line of his jaw. Your gaze drifts to his full lips, noting the perfect cupid’s bow of his upper lip.

His hair is meticulously styled, with longer strands on top falling in inky, sleek waves across his forehead, remnants of gel catching the light. Damian’s thick, well-kept hair frames his face like brush strokes, adding to his strikingly handsome appearance.

Unable to hold yourself back, you raise a hand to cup his cheek. Damian hums, a low, soothing sound that rumbles in his chest. He keeps his eyes focused on your wound but tilts his head slightly to press a soft, tender kiss to your wrist.

With the stitches complete, Damian shifts his attention to bandaging the wound. He secures the bandage, his fingers lingering a moment longer than necessary as he smooths out the edges. Finally, he raises his head and meets your gaze, eyes conveying everything he can’t say aloud.

Exhausted and overwhelmed, you slump into Damian’s embrace, dropping your hands onto his shoulders. He responds instinctively, taking your hands in his. Large, calloused fingers gently lift yours, pressing a tender kiss to each of them before moving to softly kiss your bruised knuckles.

With a whisper of your name, Damian draws your hands over his shoulders. You smile, sinking deeper into his embrace, arms draped over his strong back. Damian holds you close, lifting you off the bed as he pulls you into a hug. His arms wound up around your waist, pulling you tighter against him, his warmth and strength enveloping you in a secure, reassuring hold.

“You know, trying to keep secrets from me is pointless,” Damian murmurs. “I am the son of the greatest detective in the world. I will find out what happened.”

You chuckle softly, feeling the tension ease a bit. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just let me hold you, you insufferable know-it-all.”

Damian’s grip tightens slightly, his tone softening. His forehead rests against yours, hearts swimming in his emerald eyes. “You’re lucky I tolerate your nonsense. But seriously, you need to start talking.”

“Maybe later,” you reply, smiling against his shoulder. “Right now, I just need you.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

An hour later, it’s already 1 AM, but you and Damian are still awake, watching a show on his television. You’re curled up together on his bed, the soft glow of the screen casting gentle shadows around the room. The quiet hum of the show is the only sound, blending seamlessly with the rhythm of the night.

You rest your head against Damian’s chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your cheek. His arm is wrapped around your shoulders, holding you close. Despite the late hour, the warmth and comfort of his embrace keep you from drifting off.

“This show is surprisingly bearable,” Damian murmurs, his voice a soothing rumble in the otherwise quiet room.

You smile, nuzzling closer. “Told you it was worth a watch. Thanks for staying up with me.”

Damian’s fingers gently stroke your hair. “I would never dream of abandoning you, even if it means enduring your rather questionable taste in television, beloved.”

You chuckle softly. “Questionable taste? This show is a gem. You’re just reluctant to admit I’ve expanded your horizons.”

“Expanded my horizons?” Damian arches an eyebrow, squeezing your shoulder. “More like subjected me to a marathon of pedestrian entertainment.”

You roll your eyes, a smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. As the episode continues, you both settle into a comfortable silence. The earlier tension seems like a distant memory now.

Damian’s hand moves slowly, slipping beneath the hem of your shirt. His thumb begins to trace gentle, deliberate patterns on your back. You shiver slightly at the unexpected sensation, a delicate ripple of warmth spreading through you. His touch is soft yet firm, spelling out something with careful precision.

Though you don’t fully realize what he’s doing, Damian continues writing out the words to Talia’s favorite Arabic love poem onto your skin. Each stroke feels precise and intentional, like a caress that’s both soothing and reassuring, yet intriguing in its deliberate slowness.

“My life shall be sacrificed for her beauty,” his thumb whispers across your skin, “my blood shall be spilled freely for her, and though I burn for her painfully, like a candle, none of my days shall ever be free of this pain. Let me love, oh my God, love for love’s sake, and make my love a hundred times as great as it was and is.”

The gentle pressure of his touch, the rhythmic way his thumb moves, slowly eases you into sleep. As each verse of the poem is imprinted on your skin, you find yourself drifting off, nestled against his chest. Damian tenderly presses his lips to your temple, wishing you sweet dreams.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 3:02 AM - Damian's Room, Wayne Manor.

Dick walks toward Damian’s room and pushes the door open as quietly as possible. Despite his efforts, the hinges creak sharply, breaking the stillness of the night and immediately rousing Damian from his sleep. The sound, persistent and jarring, triggers a reflex honed by years of training.

Damian’s eyes snap open, his muscles tensing as his protective grip around you tightens. You’re nestled securely in his arms, both of you cocooned under the blankets.

Damian’s gaze narrows as he locks onto Dick. In one fluid motion, he reaches beneath his bed, retrieves a katana, and throws it.

SHINK!

With a roll and a practiced twist, his older brother effortlessly dodges the blade, a smirk tugging at his lips.

"Such a dramatic wake-up call… Good morning to you too," Dick grins, clearly used to this routine. “Alright. I know it’s late, but Selina is still up. I think she wants to talk to Y/N.”

Damian’s snarl is a low, dangerous rumble. “If you wake her, I will cut your hands off,” he growls.

Dick raises an eyebrow, clearly unfazed by the threat. “Come on, Dames. It’s not that big of a deal. Just let her know she’s needed.”

Damian’s glare remains fixed, but he eventually nods, the tension in his body easing slightly. With care, he untangles himself from you, mindful not to disturb your sleep. However, as he attempts to get out of bed, you startle awake, your hand darting out instinctively to grab his wrist.

Confusion and concern flash across your face as you murmur, “Damian?”

He pauses, his expression softening as he looks down at you. “It’s okay, love. I apologize for waking you, but Miss Kyle is calling for you.”

You tense immediately, and Damian feels a pang of guilt unfurl in his gut for disrupting your rest.

You sigh softly and rise slowly, wincing slightly as though the wound still bothers you. Although your injury has healed, you’re determined to keep up the act, unwilling to make it too obvious that you’re fine. You know you’re on thin ice, and the last thing you want is to make things more suspicious.

Damian instinctively moves to support you, his hand steadying your back as you get up. Dick, watching from the doorway, offers you an apologetic look, his expression softening with pity.

Damian helps you to your feet with gentle, reassuring care. As you step out of the room, he retrieves a jacket from a nearby chair and drapes it around your shoulders. You smile as you recognize it as his varsity soccer jacket. The fabric feels warm and comforting against your skin.

As you and Damian approach the door to his room, you hesitate and turn to him.

“I think I need to handle this alone,” you say quietly. “Can you wait here?”

Damian's eyes narrow slightly, and he hesitates, his protective instincts flaring.

“Are you sure?” he asks, running a hand up your back.

You give him a reassuring smile. “Yes, it’s better this way. I’ll be fine.”

Damian’s expression softens reluctantly. “Alright. I will be right here if you need me, beloved.”

You watch as Damian retreats to his room, his hand sliding around the katana lodged in the doorframe. He pulls it out before the door closes softly behind him. Dick, meanwhile, falls into step beside you and guides you down the corridor. His presence is steady and reassuring, a calming force in the tense atmosphere.

As you walk, Dick leans in slightly, his voice a low murmur. “Your mom’s been on edge all night. I’m… not sure what’s going on, but she made it clear she wanted to talk to you immediately.”

You nod, feeling a knot of anxiety tighten in your stomach. “I figured as much,” you reply, trying to keep your tone steady.

Dick’s expression turns serious, but a wry smile tugs at the corner of his mouth. “You gave us quite a scare there. Just remember, as a future Mrs. Wayne, we’re all here for you, no matter what.”

You chuckle softly, the warmth of his words providing a small measure of comfort. As you reach the door to Selina’s room, you take a deep breath, steeling yourself for the conversation ahead.

The room is dimly lit, with the tall windows open to the balcony, the curtains fluttering gently in the Gotham breeze. Selina stands by the window, her back to you, still dressed in the elegant outfit she wore to dinner.

The door clicks shut behind you, and she turns her head slightly, her gaze cool and unreadable.

"Are you going to start talking, or am I going to have to drag it out of you?”

You bite your lip, feeling a rush of anxiety. “I was. I was just—” You hesitate, struggling to find the right words. “I passed by, okay? I saw it and I had to intervene—”

Selina cuts you off, her tone sharp and unyielding. “I have eyes. I know what happened. I was told there was a shipment—an underground technological shipment by the docks. It was infiltrated. They found all the men webbed. Webbed. To the walls and floors. Don’t lie to me, honey.”

You sigh, realizing there's no point in hiding the truth.

“Yeah. Okay,” you admit, struggling to keep your voice steady. “It… was planned.”

Selina’s eyes narrow dangerously as she strides towards you, her heels clicking sharply against the hardwood floor. Her silhouette is imposing, framed by the muted glow of the city lights filtering through the window. “Did you have any clue whose men those were?” she demands, her voice like a whip crack in the silence.

“Yeah, I did. I knew exactly who,” you snap, your frustration boiling over. “Look, I get that you don’t want me involved, but you don’t get to decide that for me. I did what I had to do.”

Selina’s eyes flash. “Do you have any idea what you’ve gotten yourself into?! This isn’t some petty criminal we’re talking about. This is serious.”

“I know it’s serious, mom!” you shout, unable to contain your anger any longer.

Selina’s eyes flash with anger, her expression hardening. “Really? I don't think you do. Black Mask is a dangerous man, and you’re walking right into a mess that’s bigger than you can handle.”

“Dangerous player?” You retort, voice rising. “Black Mask is a monster. He’s the reason my parents are dead. And don’t forget, he’s the reason your sister is gone too.”

Selina’s face pales, a flicker of guilt crossing her features. “I do not want this for you. I want to keep you safe. The fact that you’re diving headfirst into this mess—”

“Excuse me?” you snap, stepping closer. “You think you’re the only one who’s ever lost something? I need to do this. I need to find out what happened.”

“You may have your reasons for wanting to keep me out, but I can’t just be a bystander. Not anymore,” you continue. “Especially since every time I bring my mother up all you do is give me the bare minimum.”

Selina’s eyes widen, a mix of hurt and frustration flashing across her face. “You think I’m holding back information from you? I’m trying to protect you! When your mother died, I promised myself I wouldn’t let anyone else I cared about get hurt."

“We’re so past that,” you say desperately, your voice rising. “Mom, look at me! Just look! I have Spider DNA in my veins. My boyfriend is a vigilante. I’ve faced kidnappings and attempts on my life ever since I was born! You can’t keep treating me like a child who needs to be sheltered from reality.”

Selina’s face falls. “I know. I know you’ve been through so much. It’s just—I don't want you to be a target for Black Mask. He’s a ruthless predator, and I didn’t want you to be in his crosshairs.”

“I’m already in his crosshairs,” you assert, bending down and reaching into your sock where you’ve hidden the flash drive containing the information you retrieved from the warehouse. You had tucked it in earlier while changing in the bathroom.

“This,” you continue, holding up the small device, “contains information on all his future activities. This was the mission I had earlier. I did this on my own because clearly, you wouldn’t help me.”

Selina’s eyes widen in alarm. “Have you put no thought into the rules I set?! Putting yourself in that kind of danger—”

“Danger I’m already in,” you cut her off. “Danger I’m about to face.”

"Brat," Selina hisses, her eyes flashing dangerously, fangs glinting in the moonlight like a cornered cat.

“What? You think you can stop me?” you scowl and hiss back, venom lacing your tongue. “I’m about to spend a month at Stark Industries, where you won’t be able to monitor my every move. I’ll have access to resources and allies who aren’t trying to keep me in the dark. I’m done playing by your rules. And if you get in my way, I won’t hesitate to take you down.”

Selina’s eyes narrow, a storm brewing within them. Without a word, she darts forward, her hand slicing through the air like a blade. With a swift, decisive move, she sends you crashing onto the small balcony. The cold night air hits your face, and the city lights below seem a distant blur.

"Prove it."

Before you can fully recover, Selina is already on you again. You flip away from her claws, landing deftly on the railings, using them as a springboard. The metal is cold against your feet, but you use its rigidity to your advantage.

“I’m not a child, Selina,” you call out, flipping again to avoid another swipe. “I’m your daughter, and I’m stronger than you think!” You dodge a kick, weaving and flipping around on the railing.

Selina’s eyes flash with anger as she leaps onto the railing beside you, both of you grappling in a struggle. “And I don’t want to see you dead, fighting battles you’re not ready for!” she shouts.

She sweeps low, trying to knock your legs out from under you. You barely manage to react in time, webbing the railing to swing back up and regain your balance.

You drive a foot into her chest, the impact sending her sprawling back to the ground. She lands with a controlled roll, quickly getting back on her feet.

Selina’s eyes flash as she springs back into action, using the balcony’s ledge for a high, spinning kick. You dodge, twisting in mid-air and grabbing onto the edge of the balcony to swing around it, evading her strike.

“You think you can control me with fear?” you shout, flipping back onto the railing. “I’ve been fighting my own battles since before I could walk.”

Selina’s expression hardens as she uses her agility to scale the wall, trying to get above you. “And that’s exactly why I’m trying to protect you,” she quips back, leaping down with a clawed swipe aimed at your shoulder.

You duck and roll, webbing the railing to pull yourself up and avoid her attack.

“If you truly care about me, you’ll let me go,” you retort, landing in a defensive stance. “If you try to stop me, if you try to control me, you’ll only push me further away. And I promise, I’ll fight back with everything I’ve got.”

Selina scowls, her eyes blazing as she moves to swing again. You work fast, intercepting her attack and grabbing her wrist. In a swift, calculated move, you use her own claws against her, drawing a line of angry red across her shoulder.

Selina hisses sharply. The sight of her blood stops you cold, a wave of shock and guilt washing over you. You freeze, staring at the crimson lines marring her otherwise perfect skin.

She starts to smile, a small, almost reluctant grin that slowly grows wider. The sight is so unexpected that it momentarily takes you aback. Then, much to your surprise, she begins to laugh—a rich, genuine sound filled with a mix of relief, amusement, and something deeper you can’t quite place.

“You think this is funny?!” you exclaim, confused and teetering on the edge of anger.

Selina looks at you with a bitter smile, her laughter fading.

Selina meets your gaze with a bitter smile, her laughter fading. “This must be what Batman feels like talking to me,” she murmurs. “Stubborn, headstrong, and impossible to keep out of trouble.”

You slowly ease from your defensive stance, confusion furrowing your brows.

“You really are my daughter,” Selina says, her voice tinged with admiration and resignation. “Alright, fine. Point proven. Trying to cage you would only make you fight harder to claw your way out. Literally. I should know better than anyone how that feels.”

“O… kay?” you mutter. “I guess we’ve I've proven my point. So… what now?”

Selina takes a deep breath, clutching her bleeding shoulder. “Now, we talk. Like sane adults. No more clawing each other’s faces off.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

A few minutes later both of you are sitting on the bed, warm tea in hand from the tea set in your room (because of course, each guest room in the Wayne Manor is equipped with one.) The jasmine tea steams gently, warming your fingers and providing a comforting contrast to the cool air. Selina sits across from you, her shoulder wrapped in bandages.

You’ve been recounting the events to Selina: from the mugging with Morgan to the shooting when you saved her, the help from PEPPER and the robots in your recovery, and how Morgan has taken on the role of your personal Oracle. Despite the openness, you’ve chosen not to reveal that Tony Stark is aware of your secret identity, keeping that detail to yourself for now.

Selina stares at you blankly, her eyes wide. The distant ticking of a clock fills the silence, marking the passing moments of her stunned reaction.

“So, you’ve been pulling all the strings?” she asks. "Orchestrating all of this?"

You lick your lips, choosing your words carefully. Orchestrating is a strong word. More like everything is falling into place. But that does sound better.

“Something like that,” you say, nodding.

Selina blinks, taking a slow sip of her tea. “Well, I suppose trying to rein you in would be a lost cause at this point. So, what exactly is the plan from here?”

You set your cup down with a soft clink, the porcelain meets the saucer with a delicate sound that momentarily punctuates the silence. Taking a deep breath, you continue, “I need to dive deeper into Black Mask’s operations. With Morgan’s help, I’ve got the tech and the intel, but there’s still a lot we don’t know.”

Selina nods, tracing a finger along the rim of her cup, her gaze distant. “I hate to sound like a broken record, but what about your safety?”

You sigh, leaning back slightly. “I’ll take every precaution I can. And Morgan will keep me updated. But I can’t just wait for answers. The internship will give me access to the materials I need, and I… plan to build a new suit.”

Selina pauses, studying you intently.

“But,” you continue, leaning forward, “I know I can’t do this alone. I need allies. And, well, I was thinking of a re-debut. You know how Catwoman has been doing more good lately? They’re calling you the protector of Crime Alley.”

Selina rolls her eyes, though a smile tugs at her lips. “Continue.”

You lean in closer, your hands fiddling with your shirt. “If you’re willing, I could really use your support.”

Selina sets her teacup down, her fingers lightly tracing the rim as she considers your request. “A partner?” she muses. “You realize that if I publicly ally myself with you, Batman will find out immediately. It won’t be long before they connect the dots.”

You nod, acknowledging her point. “True, but I’m sure they’ll find out sooner or later. It’s only a matter of time. Why not get ahead of it?”

Selina shakes her head slowly. “I don’t want you as my partner, honey. I’m not here to keep you in the shadows or under my wing. If you’re going to run with the big cats, you’ve got to learn to pounce on your own.”

She pauses, her expression turning serious. “But let’s not kid ourselves—Batman will notice. The moment you step out into the city proper, you’re going to be a target. And once you’re on his radar, a contingency plan will be set.”

You stay silent, fiddling with your fingers.

Selina’s gaze hardens. “And that’s what worries me. Bruce is just a man—no powers, no special DNA. But if he sets his mind to something, he can take anyone down. I don’t want you caught in that crossfire.”

You open your mouth to respond, but Selina cuts you off.

“Which is why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

You look at her, curiosity piqued. “Contingency plan?”

Selina nods, her tone heavy. “When I first took you in, my plan was to leave the city as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. However, I did make sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

Selina’s expression softens slightly. “I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was meant to be another safehouse—a place to go if things ever got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for both of us, just in case we needed to disappear quickly.”

You blink, processing this new information. “Metropolis? Really?”

Selina nods, her voice tinged with a mix of regret and determination. “Yes. It was meant to be a last resort. If the situation ever got out of hand, if people discovered our secrets, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want you to be hunted down. I wanted to make sure we had somewhere safe to go.”

You stare at her, processing the gravity of her words.

Selina’s eyes soften slightly. “It’s still an option if things get too messy. But for now, I’ll help you as much as I can here."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Damian walks up the stairs, his steps muted against the polished wood. In his hand, he clutches a thick blanket he’s taken from the storeroom. The absence of your presence has made his room feel uncomfortably cold, and he's hesitant to go back to sleep without you there.

As he approaches the guest room where you and Selina are deep in conversation, he slows his pace, the soft hum of your voices drifting through the slightly ajar door. The gentle glow of the hallway light casts elongated shadows on the walls. He hopes the extra layer will provide some comfort and help him stay awake until you come back.

He knows he should respect your privacy—a lesson he’s learned the hard way after being caught tailing you during patrols more than once. But his curiosity tugs at him. He hesitates outside the room, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, straining to catch snippets of the conversation drifting through the slightly ajar door.

“Which is why I’ve had my own contingency plan in case Gotham ever fell apart.”

The voices are muffled, but Damian can detect the guilt in Selina’s tone.

“Contingency plan?”

There was a pause.

“When I first took you in, my plan was to leave the city as soon as possible. But then the Catwoman thing happened, and I got sentimental. I couldn’t bring myself to leave. However, I did make sure we had a backup.”

“Backup? What do you mean?”

“I bought an apartment in Metropolis. It was meant to be another safehouse—a place to go if things ever got too dangerous here. I even set up fake identities for both of us, just in case we needed to disappear quickly.”

Damian freezes.

"Metropolis? Really?"

Selina’s voice carries a note of sorrow. “Yes. It was meant to be a last resort. If the situation ever got out of hand, if people discovered our secrets, it was our escape plan. I didn’t want you to be hunted down. I wanted to make sure we had somewhere safe to go.”

Damian remains frozen in place.

Hunt? Who was hunting you down that made Selina think it was necessary to relocate rather than seek help from his father? Did she not trust Batman's abilities? Did she not trust his?

His grip on the blanket tightens, the fabric biting into his palms. A bitter, sour taste rises in his throat. Had he not shown her enough of his dedication? Had he not proven that he was willing to lay down his own life for you? Did she truly believe he wasn’t capable of protecting you, of stepping up when it mattered most?

The rage inside him swells, seething at the thought that she would undermine his commitment. How could she think that running away was the answer? How could she believe that abandoning Gotham and leaving him and Bruce out of the fight was a better choice? Did she think her secretive plans were a better solution? Her decision to keep you from his father, to keep you from him, felt like an insult to everything he had fought for, everything he had sacrificed.

Panic starts to claw at him, twisting his insides into a tight knot. Or maybe it was because he wasn't enough? Gods, he knew you were too good for him, but was he so inadequate that she thought hiding you away was the only option? The thought gnaws at him, making his breath come faster and his heartbeat pound in his ears.

He remembers the first day he was left with Bruce, the way his own father looked at him, the way his brothers looked at him—like he was wrong. Damian's insecurities flood his mind. He was always the outsider, the boy who had to prove his worth to a family he barely understood.

Every time he made a mistake, every time he let his temper get the best of him, it was another mark against his name. He was the son of Batman, but he wasn’t like Dick, or Tim, or even Jason. He was different, and that difference often felt like a curse.

Sometimes, it feels like no matter how much good he does, it’s never enough. The ghosts of his actions, the blood on his hands, they’re always there, reminding him of what he’s done, of what he’s capable of.

And now, Selina’s confession feels like another blow to his fragile sense of self-worth. If even she doesn’t trust him, if even she thinks he’s not enough to protect you, what does that say about him?

Panic surges through him, making his legs feel numb and his head spin. His vision blurs at the edges, and his breaths come in shallow, rapid gasps. He stumbles forward, needing to escape, needing to find a safe place. His body moves almost on its own, carrying him towards his room.

Was he what Selina was protecting you from?

The thought strikes him like a physical blow, leaving him reeling. The blood, the violence, the cold efficiency with which he was taught to kill—it all comes rushing back. Damian was trained to be an assassin, raised by the League of Shadows to be a weapon, a tool of destruction.

He was forged into something terrifying.

He feels numb as he stumbles into his room, the familiar surroundings doing little to comfort him. Sinking to his knees, he clutches the blanket to his chest, seeking some semblance of warmth. But the cold, hollow feeling inside him only grows.

The voices of doubt and self-loathing grow louder, echoing in his mind. Damian doesn't know how long he's been sitting on the floor, trying to control his breathing. Time seems to blur, each second stretching into an eternity. His thoughts spiral, a maelstrom of fear and insecurity, until he hears the soft creak of the door opening.

You stumble in, and he freezes.

Your eyes widen as you take in his disheveled state, the blanket clutched tightly in his hands, his face pale and eyes wide with panic. You rush to his side, dropping to your knees beside him.

"Dami," you whisper, concern etched in your voice. "What happened? Are you okay?"

He tries to speak, but the words catch in his throat. Instead, he shakes his head, unable to meet your gaze. He doesn't deserve to.

You hush gently, raising your hands to his face. "Can I touch you? You’re having a panic attack, baby."

He nods, his breath still coming in shallow gasps. Your hands are warm and steady as you cup his face, your thumbs brushing lightly against his cheeks.

"Look at me," you murmur softly. "Focus on me. Breathe with me."

He struggles to follow your instructions, his eyes locking onto yours. You take a deep breath in, exaggerating the motion, and slowly exhale. He tries to mimic you, his breaths hitching but gradually evening out.

"That's it," you encourage. "In and out, nice and slow. You're doing great."

Damian's grip on the blanket loosens slightly as he continues to focus on your breathing, finding a semblance of calm in the steady rhythm. Your presence anchors him, drawing him away from the chaotic storm in his mind.

"You’re safe," you whisper. "I’m here with you. Just keep breathing."

Gradually, the tension in his body begins to ease. He leans into your touch, his forehead resting against yours. The panic that had gripped him so fiercely started to ebb away, replaced by a fragile sense of security.

"Are you scared of me?" he says suddenly, his voice rough but vulnerable.

The question hangs in the air. He doesn’t mention what he overheard, but the question reveals the depth of his doubt.

You gently brush a strand of hair from his face, your eyes soft with understanding. "Scared of you? Damian, I’m not scared of you. I’m worried about you. You’re pushing yourself too hard."

He clenches his fists, the blanket still wrapped around his hands. "I… I can’t seem to do anything right. It’s like I’m always falling short."

"You’re not falling short," you reassure him softly. "You’re human, and you’re trying your best. That’s more than enough."

You lean in, your lips pressing against his in a tender, reassuring kiss. As you pull back, your eyes are filled with a deep sorrow.

"Can I ask what brought this on?" you whisper.

Damian takes a deep breath, his gaze shifting to the floor as he gathers his thoughts.

“I overheard part of a conversation between you and Selina,” Damian begins, his voice sharp and dripping with bitter resentment. “She spoke of a contingency plan involving an apartment in Metropolis and expressed concerns about someone hunting you down. If… If she felt the need to protect you from something by leaving, does that imply I’m not… enough? That I’m not seen as capable of protecting you?”

His words come out with an edge, each one reflecting his feelings. He meets your gaze with eyes darkened by hurt and anger. “I wanted to be someone you could rely on, someone who could safeguard you, not merely another liability. But now it seems I’m just… inadequate. As if my dedication and efforts amount to nothing.”

You start to speak, but Damian interrupts, his tone harsh and demanding. “Who’s hunting you? What’s going on? Beloved, I’ve let you into my life—please, let me into yours.”

You take a deep breath, struggling to steady your racing heart and calm the storm of emotions churning within you. Damian’s words linger heavily in the air, his frustration and hurt palpable in every sharp syllable.

You know it’s time to reveal the truth.

With a measured breath, you begin, your voice soft yet firm. “Damian, I understand why you’re feeling this way. I really do. This is difficult for me to say, but… there’s something you need to know.”

You take a deep breath, trying to keep your voice steady. “Damian, it’s really not what you think. There’s a lot more going on than you realize. I’m investigating Black Mask. He’s got some operation threatening Gotham, and it’s connected to everything that’s been happening lately. I’m trying to figure out what he’s up to, and…”

You pause, struggling to find the right words. “And I might have something to do with that vigilante spider you’ve seen around.”

Damian’s eyes widen in surprise, a flicker of confusion crossing his face. He stands there, his mind racing as he pieces together the implications of your confession.

The increased absences, the unexplained injuries—suddenly, everything starts to make sense. He can’t believe he didn’t see it sooner. How did he not connect the dots? The vigilance, the secrecy—it all makes sense now.

You’re being hunted by Spidey, he concludes with a scornful look.

With a dramatic sigh, Damian steps closer and clasps your hands in his.

“I understand,” he says with a grave tone. “I suspected as much. You don’t need to explain yourself, beloved.”

You grin with relief, misinterpreting his seriousness for support of your dual life as Spidey.

“I was going to tell you,” you say, your tone warm and reassuring. “Just… couldn’t find the right moment.”

Damian’s eyes soften, but a steely resolve glimmer in them as he gently presses a kiss to your knuckles.

If the spider is the threat, then it’s the spider he’ll take down. He’ll deal with this new enemy no matter what.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 7:53 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

Damian pulls up to the sleek, glass-fronted Stark Industries building, its modern architecture gleaming in the morning light. The structure towers above, its façade a mesmerizing expanse of reflective glass panels that catch and scatter the sunlight, creating a dazzling play of colors. A polished steel entrance welcomes visitors, a bustling crowd already walking in and out.

As the car comes to a smooth stop, he turns to you with a soft, reassuring smile. You reach over, pressing an affectionate kiss to his lips.

His fingers gently brush your cheek as he murmurs against your lips, “Be careful.”

His words are barely a whisper before he tilts his head, deepening the kiss. The moment stretches, filled with the warmth of his touch and the electricity of the connection between you. You giggle softly, your lips trailing up his jaw, leaving a flurry of tender kisses.

“I will,” you beam, pulling back just enough to meet his eyes. “Promise.”

With a final, lingering glance, Damian pulls away, giving you a last wave before driving off towards Gotham Academy. The sleek sports car glides smoothly down the street, leaving you standing in front of the imposing building. As part of your internship program, you’ve been given a whole month off of school to settle into Stark Tower.

You clutch your bags tightly in your hands. Exhaustion pulls at your every muscle—patrol, the fight, and the travel have left you feeling like you're on the edge of collapse.

Bags under your eyes betray the sleepless night, while the oversized shirt and sweatpants you’ve borrowed from Damian make you look more like you’ve just rolled out of bed than a professional intern.

Technically, you did roll out of bed, having snagged only about three hours of sleep.

How the hell did Batman and the Robins manage to juggle this kind of life week in and week out? Right now, you feel like death is just a breath away, waiting to claim you.

“Hey, kiddo!” Tony Stark’s voice calls out from a distance, cutting through your fog of exhaustion. “You planning to stand there and stare at the building all day, or should I start looking for a tow truck to drag you inside?”

He steps out of his sleek sports car, tossing his keys to the valet with a flick of his wrist that’s more showmanship than necessity. As he strides towards you, his eyes do a quick, amused sweep over your disheveled state.

“If this is how you show up for an internship, I might need to start charging for comedy, too,” Tony says, giving you a light shove on the shoulder. “Seriously, you look like you’re auditioning for a zombie movie. I hope the rest of your day doesn’t involve roaming the halls groaning for brains.”

You give a weary sigh and shuffle alongside him into the building. “Good to see you too, Mr. Stark.”

Tony continues with a smirk, “Don’t worry, you’re not the first intern to look like they’ve been dragged through a war zone. If you’re lucky, I might even let you keep your sanity after a few weeks.”

He leads you into the sleek, glass-walled elevator, pressing the button for the upper floors. The elevator hums softly as it ascends.

You turn to him, trying to muster the energy to keep up with his banter. “So, where’s Morgan?”

“Working on your new tech stuff,” Tony replies. “She’s buried under a mountain of circuits and cables. If you’re lucky, you might get to see her emerge from her tech fortress.”

The elevator doors slide open, revealing the upper floors of Stark Tower. Tony guides you down a pristine, modern hallway. The glossy surfaces reflect the ambient light, adding to the tower’s futuristic ambiance. He stops in front of a door adorned with a sleek plaque bearing your name.

You gawk at it, eyes widening. “Damn.”

Tony pushes open the door, revealing a spacious, elegantly furnished room. Floor-to-ceiling windows offer a breathtaking view of the cityscape, and the room is equipped with a large, comfortable bed, a sleek desk, and a cozy seating area.

“Welcome to your new digs,” Tony says, gesturing grandly. “I’d say it’s a bit of a step up from your old place. Given your current state, though, I’d suggest you take it easy for now. Rest up, and maybe try to look less like you’ve just walked off a horror set, okay?”

Despite your exhaustion, a small but genuine smile tugs at your lips as you take in the luxurious surroundings. “Thanks, Tony. It’s really… nice.”

With a casual salute, Tony heads towards the door. “Anytime. Now, go on and get some rest. I’ll let Morgan know you’re here. If she manages to claw her way out from under her tech mountain, she might swing by to say hi.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

A few hours later, you’re well rested and dressed in a much more presentable outfit: a crisp white button-up shirt tucked neatly into flared slacks, paired with white sneakers that give you a polished yet casual look. You rub the last remnants of sleep from your eyes as you head toward the elevator.

As the doors slide open with a smooth, hydraulic hiss, you step inside and swipe your ID card against the scanner. The elevator's high-tech screen lights up, revealing a list of floor options that seem almost endless. You whistle, taking in the array of possibilities before selecting the tech room.

Just as the elevator begins its ascent, a voice suddenly speaks up, making you jump with a startled yelp.

“Good morning!” the voice says cheerfully. “Welcome to Stark Tower. How can I assist you today?”

The voice belongs to FRIDAY, the building’s AI system. The holographic interface on the screen displays a friendly, animated avatar of FRIDAY, who greets you with a warm, digital smile.

“Hello!” you respond, still a bit taken aback. “I’m, uh, just heading to the tech room.”

“Understood,” FRIDAY replies smoothly. “I’ve already noted your arrival. The tech room is on your left once you exit the elevator. Please let me know if there’s anything else I can help with, sexiest vigilante.”

You blink at the nickname, a small smirk tugging at your lips.

“That’s definitely Morgan’s touch,” you mutter.

The elevator doors slide open to reveal the tech room, a chaotic hub of high-tech equipment and tangled wires. In the middle of the room, wires are bundled haphazardly, and remnants of a fire extinguisher are scattered around. Morgan is crouched amidst the mess, her hair tousled and her face smeared with a bit of grease and soot.

She looks up, freezing. “Let’s be honest,” she says, a wry smile on her lips, “you’ve seen me worse.”

You step into the room, trying to stifle a laugh at the sight of Morgan’s disheveled state.

“Looks like you’ve been busy,” you remark, your eyes scanning the cluttered workbench strewn with components and tools.

Morgan brushes a few stray wires out of her way and stands up, stretching with a groan. “You wouldn’t believe the morning I’ve had. Between the latest tech malfunction and the mini-explosion, it’s been a real circus.”

She then steps over to you, grabbing a case from a nearby workbench and handing it to you with a grin. You raise an eyebrow, intrigued, as you take the case from her and twist it in your hands. With a click, you open it to reveal a pair of sleek, high-tech glasses.

“For you,” Morgan says with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. “They’re equipped with all sorts of features—real-time data, targeting assistance, and even some advanced communication options. Basically, they’re your new best friend in the field.”

You slip the glasses on, adjusting them to fit comfortably. The world immediately sharpens, and a translucent display overlays your vision, showing various readouts and notifications. You gasp in awe, your amazement reflected in Morgan’s fond smile as she watches your reaction.

She then moves to grab another device—a metal-looking belt that covers your entire stomach. At its center is a prominent spider emblem. She clasps the belt around your waist and gives it a reassuring pat.

“Tell it to go on,” Morgan instructs.

Confused, you turn to her. “Huh?”

“Just think of a suit wrapping around you and command it to do so.”

You give her a skeptical look but decide to give it a try. Closing your eyes for a moment, you focus on the idea of your suit materializing.

“Suit, activate,” you command softly.

Immediately, you feel a tingling sensation as nanoparticles begin to stream from the belt, enveloping your body. The sensation is oddly comforting, like being wrapped in a warm, secure embrace. The suit materializes in shimmering panels, stretching and shaping itself around your form. The glasses transform into a sleek helmet, molding to fit your head with a satisfying click.

The entire process takes mere seconds, and when you open your eyes, you’re fully suited up. The suit fits perfectly, a striking blend of red and black. The primary color is a deep, vibrant red that covers the majority of the suit, accentuating your form. Black accents trace intricate web patterns that start from the center of your chest and radiate outwards, adding a sense of movement even when you’re standing still.

The chest emblem is a bold, black spider, its legs extending across your torso and seamlessly merging with the web patterns. The emblem is detailed and striking, drawing immediate attention. The helmet, now a sleek, black mask with a smooth, glossy finish, features white eye lenses that glow faintly. The same high-tech display you saw in your glasses is now visible in the helmet, integrated seamlessly into your field of vision

Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. “Not too shabby, right?"

"What. The. Fuck."

 ༻⊰───⋅

In the next episode, set to air tonight or tomorrow, Robin beats the shit out of Spidey! Next chapter is the big reveal + Where a lot of the more major stuff happens :PPP

v. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

"Oh my god, stop! I do not want to see my own fucking thirst trap!" you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You looked away, face burning and eyes glaring into the graffiti on the wall across you.

Morgan, still laughing, seemed undeterred. She scrolled through the comments, her grin cut wide across the apples of her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to hear these,” she said, reading aloud with a laugh.

harry 🐾☕️ @ blehhidc ・1hr going to become a villain rn. pls choke slam me into Arkham.

ji ─ nightcrawlers #1 fan @ nightcrawler_updates・1hr i want nightcrawler to smash that helicopter on my tits

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 9:40 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. “Not too shabby, right?"

"What. The. Fuck."

“Language, kid.”

You turn, seeing Tony standing at the door. He taps on the metal frame with his knuckles, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious lab. 

“That is suit A1. I call it the Crawler.”

He strides across the room, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor, and reaches a nearby table. The table is lined with various prototypes and gadgets, each more advanced than the last. He picks up a pair of gloves, black with red fingers and claws at the end, and hands them to you.

“Test the gloves out,” Tony instructs. “All the features are going to be introduced to you.”

You slip on the gloves and flex your fingers, feeling the suit respond instantly. As you activate the helmet's AI, a pleasant, slightly robotic voice greets you.

"Welcome, user. I am your integrated AI assistant. Please provide a designation."

Tony leans against a workbench, arms crossed, watching you with an expectant look. 

“You gotta name 'em,” he says. “Any ideas?”

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at Morgan, who raises an eyebrow, curious about your choice. Memories of your mother flood your mind. She didn't get to see you grow up, but she shaped so much of who you are—the very reason you continue this vigilante shtick.

"Uh... how about Maggie?" you suggest, the name rolling off your tongue with a mix of fondness and sorrow.

The AI responds, "Designation accepted. I am Maggie."

Morgan sends you a soft look, understanding the significance of the name. Tony nods approvingly, clapping his hands as he approaches.

“I’ll give you the basic rundown,” Tony begins, gesturing to the suit. “Night vision, live communication with Morgana here, medical and vital scans, contacts to emergency numbers, a heater, and a hood. The gloves have claws for fights, and the suit also connects to web-shooters.”

You twist your wrist and notice small rectangular devices resting on your palms. 

Tony points to them. “Those web-shooters make your organic webs shoot better, farther, stronger, and faster.”

"Nice," you mutter, flexing your fingers.

Then the helmet's display shifts, showing the various features Tony mentioned. Tony waves a hand around as he circles you. “Then there’s a cape feature to blend into the environment and an advanced GPS system with real-time tracking.”

You whistle and take in all the information. “That is a whole hell of a lot. The media wasn’t joking when they said you were crazy about vigilante tech.”

“Crazy? I prefer ‘innovatively obsessed.’ Someone’s got to push the boundaries of what’s possible—might as well be the guy who’s not afraid to get a little nuts."

You smile and focus back on the suit. “Activate night vision,” you command. Instantly, the room is bathed in a green hue, every detail sharp and clear.

“Switch to live communication,” you say next. Morgan’s face appears on the display, giving you a thumbs up.

“Medical scan,” you instruct. The display shows your vitals: heart rate, oxygen levels, and other crucial data, all in real time.

Finally, you pull the hood over your head, feeling it snap into place with a satisfying click. The advanced GPS system blinks on, displaying a detailed map of Gotham. The soft hum of the suit’s electronics is almost comforting, and you catch a faint scent.

“Smells like a new car in here, Mr. Stark,” you grin, taking a deep breath.

"Happy to help, kid. Are we good to go?" Tony asks.

You nod, feeling the suit's snug fit as it conforms to your movements. Tony smirks, grabbing Morgan by the shoulders and beginning to push her toward the door. Her sneakers drag across the polished tiles.

"Alright! Let’s go!"

Confused, you make the suit decloak, watching as it transforms back into the inconspicuous glasses and belt. The process feels smooth, almost seamless. “Go where?”

“The safehouse!” Tony replies with a shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 1:06 PM - ???, Gotham City.

"What is wrong with you people?"

You step out of Tony's car, staring up at a decrepit, rotting building with a "Sold" sign plastered right in front. The place looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades, its windows boarded up and the paint peeling away in large chunks. Morgan and Tony step out behind you, both wearing hoodies and glasses to avoid being seen or identified.

Morgan gives you a sheepish smile, her expression a mix of embarrassment and resignation. Tony, on the other hand, claps a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and unapologetic.

“Welcome to the new safehouse,” Tony announces with a dramatic flourish. “Sometimes, you’ve got to go a little off the beaten path to find the perfect spot. It’s got character, right?”

Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Dad insisted it was perfect for our needs. I guess we’ll see how well it lives up to that promise.”

Tony shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, it’s got the essentials: privacy, space, and with a little TLC, it’ll be great. Besides, it’s just a base of operations. You won’t be living here full-time.”

You glance at the rundown building, still skeptical. “I hope you’re right about this.”

Tony slaps your back with a scoff. “Please, you’re killing me, kid. I’ve seen your old warehouse. This place? It’s a palace compared to that dump. I’ve already done some work on it—this will be better than anything you’ve had.”

You all walk past a broken, torn-up gate, and Tony rounds the corner to a set of rusty metal doors. He unlocks them with a key, and you follow him inside.

The interior is a stark contrast to the exterior’s dilapidation. The walls were covered with graffiti. Books are scattered haphazardly in one corner, and some tech equipment is piled up in organized chaos.

Large screens line the room, with a computer at the center, displaying a dizzying array of data streams, security feeds, and holographic schematics.

Holographic displays float above the desks, showing real-time analytics and project statuses. A central 3D map of Gotham rotates slowly, highlighting key locations and active missions with a soft glow.

Mechanical robotic arms are scattered throughout the space—some hanging from the ceiling, others mounted on the walls. They buzz and whir softly as they perform routine maintenance on your equipment, their movements precise and methodical.

Your jaw drops and your shoulders slump as you take in the scene. Morgan steps in behind you, her eyes widening with recognition. She whistles and turns to Tony with a smirk.

“So that’s where some of my old tech went.”

“Old?!” you exclaim, your disbelief evident. “This looks like a high-tech haven compared to what I we were using before!”

“High-tech? If this is ‘high-tech,’ I’d hate to see what you were working with before,” Tony snarks as he closes the door to the warehouse, the sound of the rusted hinges groaning slightly. He then moves to the center of the room, where a large, cluttered table stands surrounded by stacks of gadgets and tools.

Morgan rolls her eyes and nudges you. “Dad likes to think anything not cutting-edge is ancient history. Welcome to the museum of yesterday’s innovations.”

“Yeah, I bet you had a rotary dial phone in there too, didn’t you, kid?”

You roll your eyes. “Mr. Stark, you’re a riot. But seriously, this setup is actually impressive.”

Tony crosses his arms with a self-satisfied air. “Naturally. Who else but me would think to include a coffee maker in a multi-million-dollar, high-tech spider suit?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow at Tony. “You’re kidding, right? There isn’t really a coffee maker in there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Tony replies, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

Smiling, you toss your backpack onto the table and pull out your old suit. It’s practically obsolete now with the upgrades you’ve received, but you’re considering framing it for nostalgia’s sake. Tony’s gaze sharpens as he inspects the material.

“Wayne Tech? Is that Kevlar, kid?” Tony says, his expression souring. “Low blow.”

“Lower than you think,” you snort, shrugging.

“Alright, whatever,” Tony grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. “Get that thing out of my sight before I projectile vomit all over it.”

“Wouldn’t want to make you hurl before your next upgrade,” you murmur.

“I’m going to do you a solid, kid,” Tony says with a mock-serious tone, “and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”

Turning back to the central table, Tony snaps his fingers. Holograms flicker to life, projecting a variety of case files and news reports.

“Now, let’s get down to business.”

The holograms display a series of high-profile incidents, with the central image featuring Black Mask, his grim visage glaring out from multiple angles.

You frown and step closer, your eyes scanning the floating holograms. Articles about Oscorp Industries, research papers on spiders, and other related documents whir around, each highlighted with a soft, glowing outline. 

Among the swirling articles and data, one catches your eye: an Octavius Burton article from your prom night.

Tony glances at you, noting your focus. “Everything here ties into what we’re dealing with.”

Humming, you step closer and presses on the Octavius Burton file. Morgan shifts beside you, her expression unreadable.

"That was the guy who attacked us at prom..." you murmur lowly.

Morgan nods, her gaze shifting to another hologram. She taps it, revealing a new file marked as “Confidential.” It’s clearly from a government source, its contents obscured by digital encryption.

Your eyes widen as the file opens, revealing classified documents and high-security footage. 

"He died a week ago. And for whatever reason, Blackgate officials are trying to keep it under wraps." Morgan says.  She scuffs her shoes against the floor, the sound echoing slightly in the room. “And for whatever reason, Blackgate officials are trying to keep it under wraps. He died after injecting himself with serum.”

She pauses, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity. “Lizard serum.”

Tony taps a few commands, and more files materialize in the holographic display. The new set of documents focuses on genetic research conducted by Octavius. You see various charts, graphs, and notes detailing experiments aimed at enhancing human abilities.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Tony says, pointing to a particularly dense document. “Octavius was obsessed with improving human potential. He was working on genetic modifications to enhance physical and mental capabilities. Looks like he was trying to push the boundaries of what humans can do.”

Morgan’s expression is tense as she continues. “He was trying to create a new kind of metahuman. The robotic arms were his first success, but his research on spider serum was supposed to be the next big leap. When the board rejected it as unethical and refused to fund his work, he turned to other, more dangerous means.”

Tony nods, adding, “And from what we know, it seems like he might have been successful with his spider serum research in some way,” he says, his gaze shifting to you. “But that serum was lost after his arrest. This lizard serum, however, is a completely different story. It’s not connected to him.”

You study the files closely. Sections detail attempts at enhancing strength, agility, and cognitive functions. Some of these enhancements, you've already read about in your own research with Selina.

"He's... um... I think he used to work with my dad. My late biological dad," you say, a finger scratching at your cheek.

Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. "Your dad?"

Morgan looks at you intently. "What do you mean? Did he collaborate with Octavius on this research?"

You nod, trying to find the right words as your tongue stumbles. "Yeah, my dad worked at Oscorp. When I first got my powers, I found some of his old research on spiders. It’s almost identical to what Octavius was working on. He even thanked Octavius in one of his papers."

"Freaky..." Morgan murmurs, her face scrunching into a grimace. "And now you’re—"

"I have the same powers after being bitten by a spider the night of Octavius' attack," you sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Freaky indeed."

The room falls into a heavy silence before Morgan speaks up.

"Stark Industries, uh... also used to do genetic research."

Tony tenses but doesn’t interrupt her.

"For medical purposes, we studied various serums based on animal genetics," Morgan says, her gaze distant. "My mom was seriously ill, and we were exploring genetic modifications to help with her condition. There was one serum that showed promise, but it ended up being a failure."

Tony's expression darkens as he speaks.

"It amplified her sickness," Tony says, raising his head slowly, pain evident in his eyes. "Even though the risks were clear and the consequences devastating, I administered the serum because I was desperate. Desperate people make dangerous decisions. And... she wasn’t the only one affected."

Your eyes widen. "I didn’t know... I’m sorry."

Tony’s face hardens, a shadow of regret passing over his features. "I thought I could make a difference, that I could save lives. But instead, I unleashed more suffering. I’ve watched as my research led to deaths—people who were betrayed by the very hope I offered them. I shut down that department the very next day, but the damage was already done."

His voice fellt flat as he turned to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. "You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be alive. But you are. And there’s a reason for that. I need you to understand that. I need you to believe that what you’ve been given isn’t a curse—it’s a chance."

"I know," you murmur. "And I believe in that chance."

"That’s why I want to help you, kid," he says. "I owe it to everyone who was affected by these experiments. If I can do anything to make up for the past or assist you in this fight, then I will. Because it’s the least I can do."

Tony steps back and taps a button on the console. A hologram flickers to life.

“This is Curt Connors,” Tony says, gesturing toward the hologram. The image reveals a man with rugged features: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and short-cut brown hair. He wears glasses and a lab coat, but what catches your eye is his prosthetic arm.

Tony continues, “Connors is currently researching lizard genetics. He’s got the Sionis family bankrolling him, so you know he’s not working with spare change. From what we’ve gathered, he’s delving into enhancements similar to those Octavius was exploring. There’s a solid chance he’s cooked up the serum that led to Octavius’s demise.”

Morgan steps closer, her fingers brushing the screen to bring up more data. “Which is why we need to track down his research location and determine exactly what he’s working on. If he’s utilizing Black Mask's resources, he could be far more dangerous than we initially thought.”

You study the photo of Dr. Connors intently, zooming in on the details. 

“So, that’s the mission then,” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the image.

Tony looks between you and Morgan.“Once we have a lead on Connors, we can devise our next steps."

“I’ll dig into any leads I can find on Connors. But, be prepared for some dead ends. This guy doesn’t exactly advertise his work.” tony says as he waves a phone around.

You consider the situation, glancing between Tony and Morgan. “Do you want me to start searching for information tonight?”

Tony raises a hand, his tone taking on a cautionary edge.

“Slow your roll, kid,” he says, gesturing toward you. “Don’t think I’m not aware of your ‘fuck around and find out’ track record. PEPPER’s medical reports on you tell me enough.”

You scowl at him.

“Keep getting beat up like this, and you’re going to end up dead in no time,” he warns. “My wealth, connections, and ridiculous amount of power can only do so much to pull public opinion in my favor. I’m not exactly Bruce Wayne, you know.”

Tony had seen footage of you in action and read the headlines. 

Who hasn’t? 

Gotham was crawling with spandex-wearing vigilantes darting across rooftops, each with a name more outlandish than the last. He hadn’t paid much attention to them—aside from their tech, they weren’t his concern. Then there was you. The serum, the connections. Once he uncovered those, despite himself, Tony became determined to keep you alive.

“Seriously? Enhanced healing and super strength here,” you blink, crossing your arms. “I’m not exactly made of glass.”

Morgan shoots you a look, pushing her glasses up. “Look, if we want to get to the bottom of this lizard guy, we need you in one piece. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

As she says that, Morgan moves toward a sleek machine in the corner, gesturing for you to follow. You raise an eyebrow but comply. Her hands slide up your arm, rolling up your sleeve with surprising gentleness.

"Starting with this step," she says. Morgan swiftly pricks a needle into your arm, and you wince at the sudden sting and the cold sensation spreading from the needle. You can feel the slight pressure as your blood is drawn.

“Dude! What the hell?” you exclaim.

"Blood sample," she replies matter-of-factly, her focus entirely on the task. She extracts the sample with precision, ensuring there's no unnecessary discomfort. "Have you actually thought about how your powers work? Or how modified you really are?"

You watch as she moves toward an analysis machine that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. The device hums to life, its surface lighting up with a soft blue glow. A series of holographic displays flicker into existence, showing intricate scans and streams of data.

Morgan inserts the vial of your blood into a slot on the machine, and the device immediately begins processing the sample. The holograms shift and change, displaying molecular structures and DNA sequences.

Morgan studies the readouts, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Your DNA is... fascinating. The spider venom bonded with your cells.”

“You see this?" Morgan points to a particular segment of the hologram. "This is where the venom altered your genetic structure.”

You nod, stepping closer to the display. "Yeah, I've seen this before. I did some research on my own. The venom contains a unique enzyme that acts as a catalyst, enabling it to integrate seamlessly with human DNA. The spider’s genetic material introduces new protein structures that enhance cellular regeneration and muscle density. Essentially, it's rewriting my genetic code on a fundamental level. The integration is so thorough that my cells now produce the same enzymes, perpetuating the changes."

Tony blinks at you from his spot, and Morgan raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback.

“Sometimes I forget you’re actually smart,” Morgan says, narrowing her eyes. “Every time you show a hint of intelligence, it’s like a miracle.”

“Yeah, and sometimes you actually manage to be useful,” you shoot back.

Morgan snorts, not missing a beat, and turns her attention back to the analysis, her eyes narrowing as she examines the readouts. “Basic stuff. Super strength, enhanced healing... standard Spidey powers we’ve seen.”

As she delves deeper into the data, her brow furrows in concentration. “Pain tolerance when you’re adrenaline-fueled is off the charts,” she murmurs. “If you ever needed surgery, the amount of anesthetic required to put you under would be dangerously high.”

Tony whistles lowly. “The dosage you'd need could drop an elephant—twice over.”

Morgan glances up, her gaze meeting yours with a serious edge. “And that’s not all. Your reflexes and agility are even more pronounced than the typical spider mutations. You’re faster and more responsive. But that also means your body burns through energy at a rapid rate. You’ll need to keep up with a high-calorie diet to sustain your metabolism.”

"I do," you shrug. "I burn through like six meals a day. Our grocery bills have NEVER been higher."

“Well, did you know you need over 5,000 calories a day?” Morgan snarks. “I doubt a measly six meals can cover that.”

You flush. "How was I supposed to know that?"

“You figured out the scientific explanation of your powers on a genetic level, but can’t figure out how much food you need to sustain it?” Tony quips.

"...yes?"

Tony sighs, raising an eyebrow as he pulls out his phone. "Great. I’ll make a note to increase your stipend for groceries. Feeding you might bankrupt me faster than any supervillain ever could."

"Hey! I'm worth it."

"Sure, kid. Just make sure you save the city enough times to cover the grocery bill."

Tony steps out to take a call from his secretary, leaving you and Morgan alone in the lab. She remains absorbed in analyzing your results, her brow deeply furrowed in concentration. You let out a sigh, reactivating your suit and running your fingers along the edges of the emblem on your chest.

Spiders, lizards, bats, and cats... What’s with all these animals?

At least you’re not up against dinosaurs.

...

Yet.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 8:03 PM - Downtown, Gotham City.

This was a whole new experience. Swinging from the skyscrapers, you feel an adrenaline rush unlike anything you've experienced back in Queens. The swings are higher, the speed is faster, and the thrill is almost overwhelming. Every leap and dive fills you with a sense of freedom and power, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as you soar through the night.

Gotham’s downtown is a far cry from Queens. 

Where once you swung past modest streetlamps and low-rise buildings, now you’re darting off glassy skyscrapers that pierce the sky. The towering structures and crowded streets of Gotham create a backdrop that feels almost alien—a dazzling, high-octane contrast to the familiar neighborhood you left behind. It’s like stepping into an entirely new world, and the exhilaration of it all is intoxicating.

"You know, after that big pep talk, I figured you'd want to take a breather," Morgan’s face appears on the screen of your helmet. She’s lounging in a chair at your new safehouse, clad in a dark tank top with her hair tousled and square glasses perched on her nose.

She looks every bit the quintessential “guy in the chair.”

"We’ve been poring over case files for hours! Cut me some slack for wanting to get some fresh air!" you retort, flipping through the air and executing a sharp swing around a skyscraper.

Morgan shakes her head, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. "You still have, like... two broken ribs."

“Healed now,” you point out, glancing out at the sprawling cityscape.

You swing and roll onto a rooftop, the rough concrete biting into the soles of your boots as you land with a skid. You straighten up, hands on your hips, the city lights glinting off the sleek lines of your suit. You brush yourself off, flicking away the dust and debris that clings to your suit.

“Maggie,” Morgan’s voice carries a hint of pleading. “Run their vitals.”

A moment of silence follows, with only the distant hum of the city below. Then Maggie’s voice, calm and measured, comes through the earpiece, her data flashing across your visor. “Vitals are stable. No immediate signs of distress, but the injuries are still recent. Overexertion could lead to complications.”

Morgan’s face reappears on your helmet’s screen, her glasses glinting in the dim light of the safehouse. “See? Even Maggie agrees. Maybe it’s time to take it easy for a while.”

You let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. But come on, fresh air’s good for the soul, right?”

Morgan’s voice comes through the earpiece, her tone still tinged with concern. “I get it, but you should still be careful. Gotham’s not exactly known for being forgiving.”

You chuckle, stretching your arms above your head. “I’ll keep that in mind. Crime doesn't sleep. But for now, I’m enjoying the view.”

The adrenaline from your earlier swings starts to mellow, leaving a calm satisfaction in its wake. The distant sounds of Gotham—the occasional siren, the hum of traffic, the soft rustle of wind—create a backdrop that feels oddly serene. For a moment, it’s just you and the city, connected in a way.

Morgan's voice returns to your earpiece, lighter now. "You know, I’ve been thinking about something while you were out there."

You raise an eyebrow, glancing out over the city. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well,” she begins, a hint of hesitation in her tone, “since I’m always in the thick of things with you, I’ve been thinking I might need a codename or alias. Something that fits my role.”

You chuckle, turning to look at the glowing city below. “True. I have to call my guy in the chair something. What are you leaning toward?”

“Morgana,” she replies, a touch of pride in her voice.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Really? Just adding a letter to your name? That’s what you’ve got?”

Morgan’s tone turns playful. “Hey, it’s better than nothing.”

“Alright, Morgana,” you snort, giving one last look at the cityscape before preparing to head back into the night. “You up for some monitoring? I’m heading back out. This city needs me.”

“Oh, so cool,” she laughs at your last line. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Guilty as charged,” you reply, stepping to the edge of the building. The cold wind ruffles your suit and tugs at your hood. You pull it up, squinting as you survey the sprawling city below.

“Think you can get me a gig?”

“Sure. Give me a moment.”

On your visor, the map highlights various irregularities in bright, pulsing colors. Patterns of activity pulse in vivid reds and oranges, tracing a trail of anomalies through the city's grid. 

Then, a prominent prompt flashes onto the screen, breaking through the overlay of data. It’s a high-priority alert, marked by a flashing icon and an urgent red border.

Morgan’s fingers fly over her laptop keyboard, her focus intense as she processes the new information. “Ready for your first big debut?” she asks.

You check the readout, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What’ve you got for me tonight, Gotham?”

Immediately, the visor's display shifts to show a live news feed. The screen splits, revealing a scene unfolding at Wayne Industries. The news anchor's voice cuts through the rush of wind and the hum of your suit’s systems.

"—reporting live from Wayne Industries. A helicopter has been hijacked and has stolen sensitive technology. The situation is escalating, and authorities are struggling to regain control. We have reports of the helicopter on a collision course with the city’s power grid."

The live feed is a frenzied mix of flashing lights and dark, ominous smoke. The camera, amateur and shaky, captures the scene with screams and frantic commentary. The helicopter’s movements are growing increasingly unstable as it flies dangerously close to the towering buildings.

“Alright, Morgana, give me a location on that chopper. I’m heading in.”

“On it. I’ll track its trajectory and keep you updated. Be careful out there.”

With a flip, you launch yourself off the rooftop, the sensation of free-fall exhilarating. The city lights blur into streaks of color as you swing through the air. Each swing propels you higher and faster, allowing you to cover vast distances in mere seconds. 

Finally, the helicopter’s silhouette emerges through the thick, smoky haze, its dark form cutting a menacing shape against the illuminated skyline.

With a powerful swing, you fire a web at the tail of the helicopter, the line snapping tight as it anchors you securely. You pull with all your strength, and the helicopter lurches violently, its spinning blades blurring dangerously. 

Quickly, you web one side of the helicopter to a nearby building. Using the momentum, you swing to the opposite side and fire another web, anchoring it firmly. The helicopter’s erratic spinning slows as the webs pull it into a more stable position, though its engines continue to roar defiantly.

“Alright, you glorified bucket of bolts,” you mutter, “let’s see how you like a little traffic jam!”

You take a deep breath and launch yourself toward the helicopter’s spinning blades, weaving through the deafening roar.

With a burst of adrenaline, you fire multiple webs at the blades, encasing them in thick, sticky layers. The helicopter’s rotation slows dramatically, the blades grinding to a halt as the craft shudders and wobbles.

Your web lines hold firm, and you can see the hijackers through the cockpit, frantic and disoriented. As the helicopter finally comes to a stop, dangling precariously but safely anchored, you let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s one way to put a lid on things. Now, let’s see if these guys know how to behave.”

You swing and stick to the side of the chopper, your feet landing firmly on the fuselage. The hijackers, realizing they’re not alone, panic and start fumbling with their weapons, cursing at you.

One of them lunges at you with a knife, but you effortlessly snatch it away, webbing it to the helicopter’s side. “Whoa, careful there! You might poke an eye out with that thing.”

The hijackers scramble, their attempts to regain control clumsy and chaotic. D-grade criminals, you think, as you swiftly fire webs to disarm them, yanking their guns and knives away.

“This is just sad… Was hoping for some real action,” you quip, grabbing one hijacker by the collar and tossing him out of the cockpit. He flails as he’s launched into the air, but you’re quick to web him to a nearby rooftop. His face turns a ghostly white as he dangles above the city.

The second hijacker tries to take advantage of your distraction, but you’re ready. You spin, catching him in a web mid-swing. With a firm shove, you slam him against the helicopter’s side. He grunts in pain as you yank him off and toss him out, webbing him to the same rooftop as his partner.

With a final, satisfied look at the hijackers’ predicament and the now-stable helicopter, you swing back to the rooftop where you left the criminals. “Time for you guys to have a chat with the authorities. Hope you’ve enjoyed your flight!”

Before you can take another step, a violent shudder erupts from the helicopter. A plume of black smoke bursts from the engine compartment, followed by a sharp, bright explosion that momentarily illuminates the night sky. The helicopter's frame buckles, and a series of smaller explosions ripple through it, sending debris scattering into the air.

“Fuck,” you curse as you watch the craft, now emitting thick, dark smoke, begin a slow, uncontrolled descent. Without hesitation, you dive after it. The wind roars past you as you freefall, your eyes locked on the rapidly descending helicopter.

Civilians scatter in panic, their screams piercing through the noise of the helicopter’s sputtering engines and the distant wail of sirens. Amidst the fleeing crowd, one woman—clearly a journalist from her uniform and ID—remains frozen in place, clutching her phone tightly and snapping photos frantically.

"WATCH OUT!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 8:34 PM - Downtown, Gotham City.

A few moments earlier.

“Mister Ryder, I assure you, I am not insane!” Vicki Vale’s voice cuts through the din of the bustling Gotham streets, her frustration evident as she grips her phone tightly. Her manicured fingers dig into the device. “I was there! The spider vigilante is real! I was nearly robbed, and they intervened directly!”

Her boss’s tone on the other end is dismissive. “Vicki, I understand your enthusiasm, but our focus needs to be on what the people are interested in. The city’s biggest headlines right now are about Wayne Industries and Stark Tower. Why not go interview that Kyle girl? Typical rags-to-riches story if you ask me. The public loves that sort of thing!”

“Who cares about some civilian?!” Vicki snaps, her frustration boiling over. She steps out into the crowded Gotham streets, her eyes darting around as people glance at her briefly before returning to their own business. “This vigilante could be a major story!”

“Vicki, we’re on a tight deadline,” her boss interrupts firmly. “Unless you can provide solid proof and concrete details about this Spider, I don’t know what to tell you. Stick to the Wayne-Stark developments. We’ll revisit the vigilante story if it becomes more relevant.”

Vicki opens her mouth to argue but is abruptly silenced by a series of shrill screams. Her gaze snaps upwards, and her eyes widen in disbelief. The helicopter, now a chaotic blur of spinning metal and billowing smoke, careens through the sky, its erratic path trailing destruction.

In the midst of the chaos, the familiar figure of a vigilante swings through the air, pursuing the runaway vehicle. The red and black suit cuts through the smoke like a streak of lightning, the emblem unmistakable: a bold, black spider, its legs splayed wide.

Bingo.

Without a second thought, she sprints towards the heart of the commotion. The crowd around her is a whirlwind of panicked faces and hasty retreats, but Vicki is single-minded. Her fingers fumble with her phone as she raises it, the camera’s lens zeroing in on the unfolding chaos.

The camera’s viewfinder shakes slightly in her trembling hands, but she forces herself to keep it steady, determined to capture the disaster in detail. Flashes and snaps erupt from her camera as it shoots away, documenting every moment. Each frame she captures is a piece of the story she’s been chasing, and nothing will deter her from this.

Suddenly, the helicopter begins a swift, uncontrollable descent. The once-menacing blur of spinning metal and thick, black smoke now tumbles towards her. Vicki’s eyes widen in sheer horror, her breath catching in her throat as the scene unfolds in slow motion.

“WATCH OUT!”

The warning is almost too late.

A powerful gust of wind sweeps through, lifting Vicki off the ground. She screams, desperately clutching onto the nearest figure for dear life. The vigilante, in their red and black suit, has swooped in and pulled her into the air. Vicki’s hands instinctively wrap around your neck, her grip frantic and tight.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go!” you shout over the roar of the wind.

You swing into action, firing a web at a nearby rooftop to secure yourself. With one hand gripping the web line anchored to the building, you stabilize both yourself and Vicki, who is clinging to you with white-knuckled fear. Your other hand reaches out, shooting another web directly at the falling helicopter. The web snaps into place, and with a mighty effort, you hold up the entire 6,000-pound craft, straining against the weight and tension.

Biting your lip, you throw your head back, a grimace of pain etched on your face. The strain is excruciating, with every muscle in your arm and back screaming in protest. You’re certain you’ve torn something, and that ominous crack you heard earlier doesn’t help. 

The helicopter’s weight is far beyond your usual limit, but with adrenaline coursing through your veins, you grit your teeth and somehow manage to keep it suspended.

Vicki’s eyes widen as she slowly calms down. It doesn’t take long before she unwraps one arm from your shoulder and starts scrambling for her phone. You grunt at the sudden movement.

“Hey! Hey! Lady! Stop moving!” you scold, but she’s too absorbed in her task to hear you. Her focus is entirely on her camera as she fumbles to activate the video function.

Clinging precariously to you with one hand wrapped around your neck, she manages to keep the lens trained on your helmet. The sheer bravery and stupidity surprises you—she’s holding on for dear life, but her drive to capture the moment is even stronger.

“My name is Vicki Vale, and I’m a reporter for Gotham Gazette!” she shouts, her voice slightly distorted by the adrenaline. “I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Vigilante—”

Before she can continue, you shoot a quick, exasperated look at her. “Not the time for an interview!”

But Vicki is undeterred. She adjusts her grip on her phone and leans in closer, her face set with determination. “We’re live, so if you could just—”

“Seriously?” you interrupt, trying to keep your focus on the helicopter. “Can we save the interview for after I don’t have to hold up a helicopter?”

Vicki’s eyes sparkle with unyielding resolve. “This is a moment of history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

As you grit your teeth, straining against the weight of the helicopter, you let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. One question only. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?” Vicki’s voice is full of eagerness as her camera rolls.

You grit your teeth, straining under the weight of the helicopter, and let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Vicki’s eyes light up with excitement as she continues to film. “Powerful words. People need to hear this!”

You shake your head. “Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

With a slow, controlled motion, you begin to lower the helicopter, guiding it down with careful precision. The craft descends steadily and, with a gentle thud, it finally lands on the rooftop. The immense weight lifts from your muscles, easing some of the strain. You let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling a sharp sting in your back—a problem for later.

With a swift swing, you move away from the scene, landing a safe distance from the helicopter and gently setting Vicki down. The streets around you buzz with activity as emergency responders rush to the scene, and the chaos begins to settle into a semblance of order.

Vicki stops filming and tucks her phone back into her pocket. As the danger recedes, you freeze, realizing who she is: Vicki Vale. Columnist, gadfly, and troublemaker—exactly the kind of trouble people both want and fear.

She flashes a pretty smile, perfect teeth shining as she trails her nails up your bicep. You wince at the touch, trying to maintain your composure. “You’ve given me one heck of a story.”

Her voice drops an octave, taking on a flirtatious edge. “So, what’s your deal? Secret identity? Hidden agenda? Or just a really bad habit of rescuing people?”

You glance at her, keeping your tone professional. “Not interested in sharing more than I already have. Just doing my job.”

Vicki smirks, clearly intrigued. “Well, I’ll keep digging. Heroes like you always have interesting stories.”

You let out a dry chuckle. “Glad to be of service. Just remember to stay safe out there.”

With a final nod, you shoot a web into the night and swing away, the cityscape unfolding beneath you as you disappear into the darkness.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 10:41 PM - Batcave, Wayne Manor.

The Batcave is bathed in the soft, eerie blue light from the Batcomputer's numerous screens, each casting a cold glow that contrasts starkly with the surrounding shadows. The room hums with the steady rhythm of machinery.

On one of the central screens, a news report plays.

"Good evening, Gotham! In a dramatic turn of events, a dangerous situation was defused earlier tonight thanks to the intervention of a mysterious new hero. We have exclusive footage of the incident, which unfolded just moments ago."

[The screen cuts to live footage, showing the helicopter gently lowered to the ground. Emergency personnel are seen approaching the craft, and the crowd is starting to disperse.]

"What we’ve witnessed tonight is nothing short of extraordinary. A helicopter, which was hijacked and rigged to explode, was on a collision course with the city’s power grid. The situation seemed dire, but then, out of nowhere, a hero arrived."

[The screen cuts to another footage of the vigilante in action—swinging through the air, holding up the helicopter with one hand, and saving Vicki Vale.]

"The vigilante, dressed in a striking red and black suit with a spider emblem, swung into action with incredible agility and strength. With a remarkable display of heroism, the vigilante managed to stop the helicopter from crashing, stabilizing it by webbing themselves to a nearby rooftop and holding it up with one hand while ensuring the safety of those around."

[The scene cuts to the video shot by Vicki Vale on her phone. Despite the shaky camerawork, the footage captures the exchange clearly.]

"My name is Vicki Vale, and I’m a reporter for Gotham News! I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Spider Vigilante—"

"Not the time for an interview!"

“This is a moment of history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

“Fine. One question only. What do you want to know?”

“First, why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?”

“I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

[The broadcast returns to the news anchors.]

"The footage from journalist Vicki Vale offers an unprecedented glimpse into the actions of this mysterious figure. It’s clear that Gotham has a new guardian, and their bravery hasn’t gone unnoticed. Though it’s only been a matter of hours since the incident, social media has already dubbed the vigilante 'the Nightcrawler.'"

[The broadcast flashes a still image of Nightcrawler mid-swing through the skyline, one hand outstretched toward the helicopter.]

"While their true identity remains a mystery, it’s evident that Nightcrawler’s heroics tonight have made a significant impact! Move over, bats, there’s a new hero in town—"

Before the news anchor can finish, a Batarang embeds itself into the Batcomputer’s screen. The sudden impact causes the screen to sputter and glitch, sparks crackling around the jagged edge of the blade. The monitor flickers erratically before plunging into darkness, leaving the room in tense silence.

Bruce, standing at the Batcomputer, whirls around in irritation. “Damian!”

"I'm going to kill them!"

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

“You know what? I’m not even—” Bruce, pulling off his cowl with a heavy sigh, reveals his exhausted and frustrated expression. Strands of his salt-and-pepper hair fall over his forehead as he exhales sharply. “Damian, start from the top. What’s going on with this Spider?”

Damian, leaning against his bike with arms crossed and a fierce glare, snaps, “Oh, I don’t know, Father. Maybe it’s the fact that just as we’re geared up for our routine patrol, we find out that the hijacking we were prepped for has been handled by this so-called minor vigilante.”

He jabs a finger at the damaged screen, his frustration palpable. “And as if that’s not enough, this ‘hero’ has decided to make a personal mission out of targeting my beloved.”

Bruce’s expression tightens into one of alarm. His eyes narrow, and his entire posture goes rigid with tension. He casts a worried glance toward Tim, Dick, and Jason, his gaze shifting from one to the other, seeking their reactions.

Dick steps away from the control panel, his brow furrowing deeply. “Alright, Damian,” he says, his voice steady but edged with concern. “That’s a pretty big bombshell you’ve dropped. We need details. What do we know about this Spider?”

“They’ve been making headlines with their so-called heroics,” Damian scoffs, rolling his neck. “When I was assigned to trail them—”

“No one assigned you,” Jason interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been on a one-man mission to follow every suspicious figure in Gotham. It’s practically your hobby.”

Damian narrows his eyes at Jason. “As I was about to say before this your interruption, I initially thought they were just a minor hero. I was mistaken. Under my own nose, I’ve discovered they’re a direct threat to my beloved. Y/N told me themselves—remember the night of the dinner when they showed up covered in injuries? It’s all connected to this Spider.”

Everyone’s faces harden with concern.

Jason’s eyes blaze. “Targeting Y/N? What’s their angle? Why the hell are they zeroing in on 'em all of a sudden?”

Damian’s face flickers through a myriad of emotions—anger, worry, frustration. His voice is strained as he responds, “I’m trying to piece it all together...”

Tim narrows his eyes as he slides his laptop off the table, setting it up on his lap. He opens a new folder and starts typing furiously. “We need to find a pattern or a motive behind their fixation. If we compile recent events and analyze every detail—every incident, every sighting—we might uncover something crucial.”

Bruce nods slowly, a deep-rooted fear gripping his heart. The threads of panic pull at him, a sensation all too familiar. It’s a feeling that surfaces whenever his insane, traumatized, highly trained, rebellious sons sneak out—something that’s happened more times than he can count—and it never leads to anything good.

This feeling, this gnawing dread, is like a well-worn path in his soul. It’s the hundredth time he’s been caught in the same agonizing tune. He can already hear the adoption jokes in his mind, but he can’t help it.

Selina and him were always on and off. When they were younger, the chase was a thrill, the romance intense. But when things got serious, they couldn’t make it work. Bruce was too immersed in his work as Batman, burning himself down to ash to save his city. Selina loved her freedom as Catwoman and couldn’t bear to watch him destroy himself.

Then one stormy night, she appeared at his doorstep, drenched in rain, a child bundled in her arms. A baby wrapped in a blanket, crying with red chubby cheeks. Selina was sobbing—a sight Bruce had never seen before. 

It had been years since they last met, and he asked if you were his. She just shook her head, sobbing something about lacking money for medicine. You were sick.

Not his, he mourned, but he couldn’t help but keep tabs on you over the years. How could he not? You echoed so much of his own younger self—the same tragic backstory, the same deep sadness. During those quiet, lonely nights, Bruce would find himself searching for information about you, his mind drifting to what might have been. His child—if not truly, then almost.

Selina was a great mother. Bruce could never decide if that made him feel better or worse. Part of him felt relief knowing you were cared for, loved. Another part of him felt an unbearable ache, a longing to be the one to protect you, to guide you. He wanted to be there for you, but he knew he had no right. God knows Bruce has wanted to do it since that very first night. Instead, he was an outsider looking in, a ghost in the shadows of your life.

“A solid approach,” he murmurs, coming back to his senses. “Her safety is our top priority. We need to find ways to protect her from this threat.”

Dick’s brow furrows deeply. “Protected from what exactly? We still don’t have a clear understanding of what this vigilante wants or why they’re fixating on Y/N.”

Tim, absentmindedly typing into the document, speaks thoughtfully. “Does Selina know about this? Y/N’s been looking increasingly sullen and thinner lately. They’ve gained some muscle, but they seem to be neglecting their well-being. We might have overlooked other signs.”

Bruce made a strangled sound in his throat. He mentally noted to call Selina later that afternoon. Catwoman hadn't been on any heists recently—good for Gotham and Batman, but bad for Bruce. 

Had they been struggling financially? He could easily arrange for groceries or some form of support—after all, it was the least he could do.

Jason grunts, his voice low and bitter. “Kid came in with a black eye. That’s not a minor injury. And from the looks of it, they’ve been holding back. We should have known something was wrong.”

Damian, his face shadowed with exhaustion and guilt, rubs his eyes in frustration. “There was a cut on their ribs. A knife wound, from what I observed. The precision of the injury—deliberate. I could tell because the wound was too precise for it to be an accident or a stray attack. It was meant to hurt them, to make a point."

The room goes deathly silent. Everyone’s head whips toward Damian in horror.

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath, his face reflecting a deep sense of frustration and helplessness. He glances at Damian, shaking his head in disbelief. “They didn’t tell until after that night?”

Damian’s face tightens, sadness glimmered in his eyes. “They’ve been hiding things. I… I should have noticed earlier. I’ve been obsessing over every encounter with them, trying to piece together what’s been happening. There’s something we’re missing, and I—”

He pauses, his voice breaking slightly. “They must have been intimidated into silence. I should have seen it sooner. It took them revealing it to me before I finally understood.”

Bruce steps forward, his voice firm yet calming. “Son, now isn’t the time to blame yourself.”

Damian glares at Bruce, his eyes blazing with frustration. “How can you say that? They’re in danger because I didn’t see it coming!”

Bruce’s expression softens as he meets Damian’s gaze. “It’s not about assigning blame. We’re all in this together. What matters now is taking action. I’ll pull up all known associates of Y/N and Selina as Catwoman. Tim, cross-reference Spidey’s common associates and recent movements with the places Y/N has been seen. Look for any patterns.”

Tim nods, already tapping away at his tablet. “Got it. I’ll compile a list and see if there’s a clear link.”

Jason, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, interjects. “Alright, let’s say we find a connection. What’s the plan? Confront Y/N directly or set a trap for the Spider?”

Bruce shakes his head, his tone resolute. “We can’t jump to conclusions. We need to gather evidence first. If we confront Y/N without proof, we risk endangering her and compromising our position. For now, Damian, you’ll keep a close watch on her. Protect her if necessary.”

His gaze locks with Damian’s, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. 

Damian, now eighteen and on the brink of graduation, is a striking reflection of Bruce—his eyes, sharp as shards of glass; his shoulders, broad and strong; his expression, as icy and resolute; and his stature, nearly as imposing.

They both carry a profound sense of duty, though it manifests in different ways. Bruce’s devotion is a relentless tide, crashing against Gotham’s shores, demanding every ounce of his strength. Damian’s commitment, however, is a fierce, personal flame, burning brightly for those he loves and feels responsible for.

“I intend to,” Damian says sharply, moving toward the Batcomputer. He dislodges his Batarang with a practiced flick, his expression set in stone. 

“I won’t let this go unchallenged.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 12:35 AM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

The safehouse door groaned loudly as you pushed it open, its hinges protesting against the late hour. The dim light from the single lamp in the corner flickered as you stepped inside, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. 

With a weary sigh, you uncloaked, and your suit shimmered as it retracted back into the form of your glasses. Sweat clung to your forehead, and you ruffled your damp hair, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline. The glasses were removed with a swift motion and tossed onto a nearby table cluttered with papers and gadgets.

Morgan looked up from her workstation, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of multiple screens. Various tabs and data streams flickered across her monitors. She flashed a bright, knowing smile as she turned to face you.

"Sup. Doing research?" you asked, your voice hoarse from the night’s exertions.

Morgan’s grin widened, though she tried to hide it behind a bite of her lip. "You... could say that."

You slumped into a nearby chair, raising a brow at her. Morgan leaned back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "That was one hell of a debut. The media is already all over it. They’re calling you the Nightcrawler."

"‘Nightcrawler’?” you murmured with a grimace. “Not exactly... friendly. I preferred Spidey.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s badass!” Morgan grinned, her excitement palpable. She wheeled back to her desk, grabbing a remote and pointing it at the large screen mounted on the wall. The screen flickered to life, and news footage of your debut night flashed across it.

As the video played, Morgan leaned closer to the screen, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “See? They’re eating it up. ‘Nightcrawler’ has a nice ring to it. It’s got mystery, it’s got edge—”

"Oh my god. I’ve turned into the stereotype."

“What stereotype?” Morgan asked, puzzled.

“The emo Gotham hero stereotype,” you explained, slouching further into the chair. “Dark, brooding, with a name like Nightcrawler. It’s like I’m fitting into every cliché.”

"Clichés are just classic for a reason!"

Morgan flashed a screen, and an image appeared: you perched high on a Gotham rooftop. The scene was dark and gritty, shadows cloaking most of your figure. The red of your suit bled into the night, making you appear as a menacing silhouette against the cityscape. Your hood was pulled low, hiding your helmet.

"Gotham’s got a new legend," Morgan grinned.

You squinted at the screen, the image was both intimidating and oddly flattering. "Well... I guess if villains are scared, they’re paying attention. Strike fear into their hearts and all.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said with a nod. “Hell. There are even edits of you on TikTok now!”

"..."

"..."

"...You cannot be serious," you paused, trying to wrap your head around it. “TikTok? Really?”

“Yup!” Morgan’s grin widened as she glanced down at her phone, swiped through her feed, and tapped on the tag #NightcrawlerEdits. She then turned the screen toward you, excitement evident in her eyes.

Clips of your rooftop swings, dramatic landings, and quick takedowns played in a loop, accompanied by upbeat music and flashy edits.

You watched in shock and slight embarrassment. "Oh.my.god."

Morgan’s excitement only grew as she pulled up another video. This time, the video was a velocity edit, showing you in action earlier. The Tiktok highlighted you throwing your head back, straining against the helicopter's weight, with Vicki clinging to your neck. Your biceps were prominently flexed, and the background was a blur of motion and color.

The accompanying song blasted, with the lyrics:

“… Baby, you're the baddest, uh Baby, you're the baddest girl, and, uh Nobody else matters Nobody else matters girl, and, uh”

Morgan burst into laughter, clearly enjoying the video’s over-the-top treatment of your heroics. “This is my favorite one,” she said, her eyes sparkling with tears.

"Oh my god, stop! I do not want to see my own fucking thirst trap!" you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You looked away, face burning and eyes burning into the graffiti on the wall across you.

Morgan, still laughing, seemed undeterred. She scrolled through the comments, her grin cut wide across the apples of her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to hear these,” she said, reading aloud with a laugh.

estellea @ abcdfuckyou・1hr

vicki lucky af. I’d be clinging on too if I were her

jennyjay @ metroboomingpolis・30m

someone give me a ticket to Gotham so I can throw myself off a building and let Nightcrawler save me. no cap 🧢

harry 🐾☕️ @ blehhidc ・1hr

going to become a villain rn. pls choke slam me into Arkham.

ji ─ nightcrawlers #1 fan @ nightcrawler_updates・1hr

i want nightcrawler to smash that helicopter on my tits

The comments were a chaotic mix of wild emojis, desperate pleas, and hashtags like #TakeMeNightcrawler and #WebMeUp. Some fans professed their undying love, while others begged for personal meet-ups or even just a chance to be webbed up by you. 

Of course, there were the occasional snarky remarks, but they were drowned out by the sheer volume of over-the-top reactions and fervent enthusiasm. The intensity of it all left you feeling utterly overwhelmed. You buried your face in your hands, struggling to process the flood of attention.

“Hooooly shit!” Morgan howled with laughter. “This one called you mommy long legs─!”

"Morgan!" You cringed, peeking through your fingers. “Alright, alright. Enough! Enough with the thirst trap comments! Let’s get back to work!”

Morgan snickered. “Sure thing. But you have to admit, Gotham’s reaction is pretty epic.”

You shook your head, trying to refocus. The whirlwind of comments and fan frenzy was a lot to take in, but you knew you needed to stay grounded. “Yeah, well, let’s see if we can keep the city talking for the right reasons.”

Morgan rolled her eyes as she moved back to her spot at the computer, still grinning. “Whatever you say, Mommy Long Legs.” 

You rolled your eyes and began to slowly pull off your undershirt. Morgan glanced up, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she maneuvered a robotic arm from the workstation to scan you.

Pepper’s voice crackled through the speaker, her tone calm and clinical as the AI assessed your injuries. “Injuries detected: dislocated shoulder, torn muscles in back and bicep.”

The AI continued in its methodical manner. “Additional injuries detected: a cut on the cheek, numerous minor abrasions, and lacerations from debris.”

The robotic arm paused for a moment, its sensors analyzing every detail. “Recommendations: immediate treatment needed for dislocated shoulder and muscle tears; minor cuts and abrasions should be cleaned and treated to avoid infection. Rest and recovery are essential.”

Morgan’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise. “More injuries?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair with mock enthusiasm. She gave your forehead a tap with her knuckles. “What’s going on in that head of yours? It’s like you’re a magnet for trouble.”

“It’s not my fault!” you shot back, gesturing wildly. “You know how my luck is. Seriously, try catching a helicopter with one hand while some shitty reporter tries to interview you midair!”

“Alright, enough with the excuses. Let’s get you patched up,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.

Quick on her feet, she approached the medical cabinet, efficiently gathering supplies. The room filled with a soft hum as a series of robotic arms whirred to life, their sleek forms extending and positioning themselves around you.

One of the robotic arms gently secured your dislocated shoulder. Morgan adjusted its settings on a nearby console, her fingers dancing over the controls.

“You really need to stop making my job so interesting,” she muttered.

“You’d die of boredom otherwise,” you retorted, wincing as the arm held your shoulder in place. The sensation of your bone realigning brought a sharp, fleeting pain that quickly subsided as the shoulder was set back into position. 

The remaining robotic arms were now programmed to address your muscle tears. They applied a therapeutic gel and began a methodical massage, their movements soothing the inflamed muscles. 

Morgan glanced up from the control panel, her hands still adjusting the final settings. “I don't get paid enough for this.”

 “You don’t get paid,” you smiled dryly.

“True,” she replied with a smirk, “but keeping you in one piece is its own reward.”

As she wrapped up, Morgan asked, “So, any plans for the rest of the day?”

“Probably just going to sleep,” you said, stifling a yawn. “Handling helicopters really takes it out of you.”

Morgan’s eyes brightened with an idea. “How about coming to Gotham Academy with me?”

“Why?” you asked, intrigued. “Ugh. Please don’t tell me you want to attend class.”

Morgan shook her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “No, no. I know the internship has both of us excused for the month, and I need to check out some files on Octavius Burton. He used to be faculty there, and I figured it’d be a good chance for us to see the beautiful halls of our beloved school.”

You cringed. “Oh my god, I do not miss that place at all.”

Morgan’s grin widened. “You might run into Damian, though.”

You pause.

You thought about it for one second, then nodded. Morgan laughed.

“Gotham Academy it is.”

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

voomba sorry for the long ass paragraphs i write shit lore

ur like a redhead magnet girlypop

v. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

"Oh my god, stop! I do not want to see my own fucking thirst trap!" you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You looked away, face burning and eyes glaring into the graffiti on the wall across you.

Morgan, still laughing, seemed undeterred. She scrolled through the comments, her grin cut wide across the apples of her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to hear these,” she said, reading aloud with a laugh.

harry 🐾☕️ @ blehhidc ・1hr going to become a villain rn. pls choke slam me into Arkham.

ji ─ nightcrawlers #1 fan @ nightcrawler_updates・1hr i want nightcrawler to smash that helicopter on my tits

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 9:40 AM - Stark Industries, Gotham City.

Morgan grins, clearly pleased with the result. “Not too shabby, right?"

"What. The. Fuck."

“Language, kid.”

You turn, seeing Tony standing at the door. He taps on the metal frame with his knuckles, the sound echoing slightly in the spacious lab. 

“That is suit A1. I call it the Crawler.”

He strides across the room, his footsteps echoing on the polished floor, and reaches a nearby table. The table is lined with various prototypes and gadgets, each more advanced than the last. He picks up a pair of gloves, black with red fingers and claws at the end, and hands them to you.

“Test the gloves out,” Tony instructs. “All the features are going to be introduced to you.”

You slip on the gloves and flex your fingers, feeling the suit respond instantly. As you activate the helmet's AI, a pleasant, slightly robotic voice greets you.

"Welcome, user. I am your integrated AI assistant. Please provide a designation."

Tony leans against a workbench, arms crossed, watching you with an expectant look. 

“You gotta name 'em,” he says. “Any ideas?”

You hesitate for a moment, glancing at Morgan, who raises an eyebrow, curious about your choice. Memories of your mother flood your mind. She didn't get to see you grow up, but she shaped so much of who you are—the very reason you continue this vigilante shtick.

"Uh... how about Maggie?" you suggest, the name rolling off your tongue with a mix of fondness and sorrow.

The AI responds, "Designation accepted. I am Maggie."

Morgan sends you a soft look, understanding the significance of the name. Tony nods approvingly, clapping his hands as he approaches.

“I’ll give you the basic rundown,” Tony begins, gesturing to the suit. “Night vision, live communication with Morgana here, medical and vital scans, contacts to emergency numbers, a heater, and a hood. The gloves have claws for fights, and the suit also connects to web-shooters.”

You twist your wrist and notice small rectangular devices resting on your palms. 

Tony points to them. “Those web-shooters make your organic webs shoot better, farther, stronger, and faster.”

"Nice," you mutter, flexing your fingers.

Then the helmet's display shifts, showing the various features Tony mentioned. Tony waves a hand around as he circles you. “Then there’s a cape feature to blend into the environment and an advanced GPS system with real-time tracking.”

You whistle and take in all the information. “That is a whole hell of a lot. The media wasn’t joking when they said you were crazy about vigilante tech.”

“Crazy? I prefer ‘innovatively obsessed.’ Someone’s got to push the boundaries of what’s possible—might as well be the guy who’s not afraid to get a little nuts."

You smile and focus back on the suit. “Activate night vision,” you command. Instantly, the room is bathed in a green hue, every detail sharp and clear.

“Switch to live communication,” you say next. Morgan’s face appears on the display, giving you a thumbs up.

“Medical scan,” you instruct. The display shows your vitals: heart rate, oxygen levels, and other crucial data, all in real time.

Finally, you pull the hood over your head, feeling it snap into place with a satisfying click. The advanced GPS system blinks on, displaying a detailed map of Gotham. The soft hum of the suit’s electronics is almost comforting, and you catch a faint scent.

“Smells like a new car in here, Mr. Stark,” you grin, taking a deep breath.

"Happy to help, kid. Are we good to go?" Tony asks.

You nod, feeling the suit's snug fit as it conforms to your movements. Tony smirks, grabbing Morgan by the shoulders and beginning to push her toward the door. Her sneakers drag across the polished tiles.

"Alright! Let’s go!"

Confused, you make the suit decloak, watching as it transforms back into the inconspicuous glasses and belt. The process feels smooth, almost seamless. “Go where?”

“The safehouse!” Tony replies with a shrug as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 1:06 PM - ???, Gotham City.

"What is wrong with you people?"

You step out of Tony's car, staring up at a decrepit, rotting building with a "Sold" sign plastered right in front. The place looks like it hasn’t been touched in decades, its windows boarded up and the paint peeling away in large chunks. Morgan and Tony step out behind you, both wearing hoodies and glasses to avoid being seen or identified.

Morgan gives you a sheepish smile, her expression a mix of embarrassment and resignation. Tony, on the other hand, claps a hand on your shoulder, his grin wide and unapologetic.

“Welcome to the new safehouse,” Tony announces with a dramatic flourish. “Sometimes, you’ve got to go a little off the beaten path to find the perfect spot. It’s got character, right?”

Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Dad insisted it was perfect for our needs. I guess we’ll see how well it lives up to that promise.”

Tony shrugs, unbothered. “Hey, it’s got the essentials: privacy, space, and with a little TLC, it’ll be great. Besides, it’s just a base of operations. You won’t be living here full-time.”

You glance at the rundown building, still skeptical. “I hope you’re right about this.”

Tony slaps your back with a scoff. “Please, you’re killing me, kid. I’ve seen your old warehouse. This place? It’s a palace compared to that dump. I’ve already done some work on it—this will be better than anything you’ve had.”

You all walk past a broken, torn-up gate, and Tony rounds the corner to a set of rusty metal doors. He unlocks them with a key, and you follow him inside.

The interior is a stark contrast to the exterior’s dilapidation. The walls were covered with graffiti. Books are scattered haphazardly in one corner, and some tech equipment is piled up in organized chaos.

Large screens line the room, with a computer at the center, displaying a dizzying array of data streams, security feeds, and holographic schematics.

Holographic displays float above the desks, showing real-time analytics and project statuses. A central 3D map of Gotham rotates slowly, highlighting key locations and active missions with a soft glow.

Mechanical robotic arms are scattered throughout the space—some hanging from the ceiling, others mounted on the walls. They buzz and whir softly as they perform routine maintenance on your equipment, their movements precise and methodical.

Your jaw drops and your shoulders slump as you take in the scene. Morgan steps in behind you, her eyes widening with recognition. She whistles and turns to Tony with a smirk.

“So that’s where some of my old tech went.”

“Old?!” you exclaim, your disbelief evident. “This looks like a high-tech haven compared to what I we were using before!”

“High-tech? If this is ‘high-tech,’ I’d hate to see what you were working with before,” Tony snarks as he closes the door to the warehouse, the sound of the rusted hinges groaning slightly. He then moves to the center of the room, where a large, cluttered table stands surrounded by stacks of gadgets and tools.

Morgan rolls her eyes and nudges you. “Dad likes to think anything not cutting-edge is ancient history. Welcome to the museum of yesterday’s innovations.”

“Yeah, I bet you had a rotary dial phone in there too, didn’t you, kid?”

You roll your eyes. “Mr. Stark, you’re a riot. But seriously, this setup is actually impressive.”

Tony crosses his arms with a self-satisfied air. “Naturally. Who else but me would think to include a coffee maker in a multi-million-dollar, high-tech spider suit?”

Morgan raises an eyebrow at Tony. “You’re kidding, right? There isn’t really a coffee maker in there?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” Tony replies, his tone dripping with mock innocence.

Smiling, you toss your backpack onto the table and pull out your old suit. It’s practically obsolete now with the upgrades you’ve received, but you’re considering framing it for nostalgia’s sake. Tony’s gaze sharpens as he inspects the material.

“Wayne Tech? Is that Kevlar, kid?” Tony says, his expression souring. “Low blow.”

“Lower than you think,” you snort, shrugging.

“Alright, whatever,” Tony grumbles, waving a hand dismissively. “Get that thing out of my sight before I projectile vomit all over it.”

“Wouldn’t want to make you hurl before your next upgrade,” you murmur.

“I’m going to do you a solid, kid,” Tony says with a mock-serious tone, “and pretend I didn’t hear any of that.”

Turning back to the central table, Tony snaps his fingers. Holograms flicker to life, projecting a variety of case files and news reports.

“Now, let’s get down to business.”

The holograms display a series of high-profile incidents, with the central image featuring Black Mask, his grim visage glaring out from multiple angles.

You frown and step closer, your eyes scanning the floating holograms. Articles about Oscorp Industries, research papers on spiders, and other related documents whir around, each highlighted with a soft, glowing outline. 

Among the swirling articles and data, one catches your eye: an Octavius Burton article from your prom night.

Tony glances at you, noting your focus. “Everything here ties into what we’re dealing with.”

Humming, you step closer and presses on the Octavius Burton file. Morgan shifts beside you, her expression unreadable.

"That was the guy who attacked us at prom..." you murmur lowly.

Morgan nods, her gaze shifting to another hologram. She taps it, revealing a new file marked as “Confidential.” It’s clearly from a government source, its contents obscured by digital encryption.

Your eyes widen as the file opens, revealing classified documents and high-security footage. 

"He died a week ago. And for whatever reason, Blackgate officials are trying to keep it under wraps." Morgan says.  She scuffs her shoes against the floor, the sound echoing slightly in the room. “And for whatever reason, Blackgate officials are trying to keep it under wraps. He died after injecting himself with serum.”

She pauses, her dark eyes locking onto yours with a piercing intensity. “Lizard serum.”

Tony taps a few commands, and more files materialize in the holographic display. The new set of documents focuses on genetic research conducted by Octavius. You see various charts, graphs, and notes detailing experiments aimed at enhancing human abilities.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Tony says, pointing to a particularly dense document. “Octavius was obsessed with improving human potential. He was working on genetic modifications to enhance physical and mental capabilities. Looks like he was trying to push the boundaries of what humans can do.”

Morgan’s expression is tense as she continues. “He was trying to create a new kind of metahuman. The robotic arms were his first success, but his research on spider serum was supposed to be the next big leap. When the board rejected it as unethical and refused to fund his work, he turned to other, more dangerous means.”

Tony nods, adding, “And from what we know, it seems like he might have been successful with his spider serum research in some way,” he says, his gaze shifting to you. “But that serum was lost after his arrest. This lizard serum, however, is a completely different story. It’s not connected to him.”

You study the files closely. Sections detail attempts at enhancing strength, agility, and cognitive functions. Some of these enhancements, you've already read about in your own research with Selina.

"He's... um... I think he used to work with my dad. My late biological dad," you say, a finger scratching at your cheek.

Tony’s eyes widen in surprise. "Your dad?"

Morgan looks at you intently. "What do you mean? Did he collaborate with Octavius on this research?"

You nod, trying to find the right words as your tongue stumbles. "Yeah, my dad worked at Oscorp. When I first got my powers, I found some of his old research on spiders. It’s almost identical to what Octavius was working on. He even thanked Octavius in one of his papers."

"Freaky..." Morgan murmurs, her face scrunching into a grimace. "And now you’re—"

"I have the same powers after being bitten by a spider the night of Octavius' attack," you sigh, running a hand through your hair. "Freaky indeed."

The room falls into a heavy silence before Morgan speaks up.

"Stark Industries, uh... also used to do genetic research."

Tony tenses but doesn’t interrupt her.

"For medical purposes, we studied various serums based on animal genetics," Morgan says, her gaze distant. "My mom was seriously ill, and we were exploring genetic modifications to help with her condition. There was one serum that showed promise, but it ended up being a failure."

Tony's expression darkens as he speaks.

"It amplified her sickness," Tony says, raising his head slowly, pain evident in his eyes. "Even though the risks were clear and the consequences devastating, I administered the serum because I was desperate. Desperate people make dangerous decisions. And... she wasn’t the only one affected."

Your eyes widen. "I didn’t know... I’m sorry."

Tony’s face hardens, a shadow of regret passing over his features. "I thought I could make a difference, that I could save lives. But instead, I unleashed more suffering. I’ve watched as my research led to deaths—people who were betrayed by the very hope I offered them. I shut down that department the very next day, but the damage was already done."

His voice fellt flat as he turned to you, placing his hands on your shoulders. "You shouldn’t be here. You shouldn’t be alive. But you are. And there’s a reason for that. I need you to understand that. I need you to believe that what you’ve been given isn’t a curse—it’s a chance."

"I know," you murmur. "And I believe in that chance."

"That’s why I want to help you, kid," he says. "I owe it to everyone who was affected by these experiments. If I can do anything to make up for the past or assist you in this fight, then I will. Because it’s the least I can do."

Tony steps back and taps a button on the console. A hologram flickers to life.

“This is Curt Connors,” Tony says, gesturing toward the hologram. The image reveals a man with rugged features: high cheekbones, a strong jawline, and short-cut brown hair. He wears glasses and a lab coat, but what catches your eye is his prosthetic arm.

Tony continues, “Connors is currently researching lizard genetics. He’s got the Sionis family bankrolling him, so you know he’s not working with spare change. From what we’ve gathered, he’s delving into enhancements similar to those Octavius was exploring. There’s a solid chance he’s cooked up the serum that led to Octavius’s demise.”

Morgan steps closer, her fingers brushing the screen to bring up more data. “Which is why we need to track down his research location and determine exactly what he’s working on. If he’s utilizing Black Mask's resources, he could be far more dangerous than we initially thought.”

You study the photo of Dr. Connors intently, zooming in on the details. 

“So, that’s the mission then,” you murmur, your gaze fixed on the image.

Tony looks between you and Morgan.“Once we have a lead on Connors, we can devise our next steps."

“I’ll dig into any leads I can find on Connors. But, be prepared for some dead ends. This guy doesn’t exactly advertise his work.” tony says as he waves a phone around.

You consider the situation, glancing between Tony and Morgan. “Do you want me to start searching for information tonight?”

Tony raises a hand, his tone taking on a cautionary edge.

“Slow your roll, kid,” he says, gesturing toward you. “Don’t think I’m not aware of your ‘fuck around and find out’ track record. PEPPER’s medical reports on you tell me enough.”

You scowl at him.

“Keep getting beat up like this, and you’re going to end up dead in no time,” he warns. “My wealth, connections, and ridiculous amount of power can only do so much to pull public opinion in my favor. I’m not exactly Bruce Wayne, you know.”

Tony had seen footage of you in action and read the headlines. 

Who hasn’t? 

Gotham was crawling with spandex-wearing vigilantes darting across rooftops, each with a name more outlandish than the last. He hadn’t paid much attention to them—aside from their tech, they weren’t his concern. Then there was you. The serum, the connections. Once he uncovered those, despite himself, Tony became determined to keep you alive.

“Seriously? Enhanced healing and super strength here,” you blink, crossing your arms. “I’m not exactly made of glass.”

Morgan shoots you a look, pushing her glasses up. “Look, if we want to get to the bottom of this lizard guy, we need you in one piece. Let’s take this one step at a time.”

As she says that, Morgan moves toward a sleek machine in the corner, gesturing for you to follow. You raise an eyebrow but comply. Her hands slide up your arm, rolling up your sleeve with surprising gentleness.

"Starting with this step," she says. Morgan swiftly pricks a needle into your arm, and you wince at the sudden sting and the cold sensation spreading from the needle. You can feel the slight pressure as your blood is drawn.

“Dude! What the hell?” you exclaim.

"Blood sample," she replies matter-of-factly, her focus entirely on the task. She extracts the sample with precision, ensuring there's no unnecessary discomfort. "Have you actually thought about how your powers work? Or how modified you really are?"

You watch as she moves toward an analysis machine that looks like something straight out of a sci-fi movie. The device hums to life, its surface lighting up with a soft blue glow. A series of holographic displays flicker into existence, showing intricate scans and streams of data.

Morgan inserts the vial of your blood into a slot on the machine, and the device immediately begins processing the sample. The holograms shift and change, displaying molecular structures and DNA sequences.

Morgan studies the readouts, her brow furrowing in concentration. “Your DNA is... fascinating. The spider venom bonded with your cells.”

“You see this?" Morgan points to a particular segment of the hologram. "This is where the venom altered your genetic structure.”

You nod, stepping closer to the display. "Yeah, I've seen this before. I did some research on my own. The venom contains a unique enzyme that acts as a catalyst, enabling it to integrate seamlessly with human DNA. The spider’s genetic material introduces new protein structures that enhance cellular regeneration and muscle density. Essentially, it's rewriting my genetic code on a fundamental level. The integration is so thorough that my cells now produce the same enzymes, perpetuating the changes."

Tony blinks at you from his spot, and Morgan raises an eyebrow, clearly taken aback.

“Sometimes I forget you’re actually smart,” Morgan says, narrowing her eyes. “Every time you show a hint of intelligence, it’s like a miracle.”

“Yeah, and sometimes you actually manage to be useful,” you shoot back.

Morgan snorts, not missing a beat, and turns her attention back to the analysis, her eyes narrowing as she examines the readouts. “Basic stuff. Super strength, enhanced healing... standard Spidey powers we’ve seen.”

As she delves deeper into the data, her brow furrows in concentration. “Pain tolerance when you’re adrenaline-fueled is off the charts,” she murmurs. “If you ever needed surgery, the amount of anesthetic required to put you under would be dangerously high.”

Tony whistles lowly. “The dosage you'd need could drop an elephant—twice over.”

Morgan glances up, her gaze meeting yours with a serious edge. “And that’s not all. Your reflexes and agility are even more pronounced than the typical spider mutations. You’re faster and more responsive. But that also means your body burns through energy at a rapid rate. You’ll need to keep up with a high-calorie diet to sustain your metabolism.”

"I do," you shrug. "I burn through like six meals a day. Our grocery bills have NEVER been higher."

“Well, did you know you need over 5,000 calories a day?” Morgan snarks. “I doubt a measly six meals can cover that.”

You flush. "How was I supposed to know that?"

“You figured out the scientific explanation of your powers on a genetic level, but can’t figure out how much food you need to sustain it?” Tony quips.

"...yes?"

Tony sighs, raising an eyebrow as he pulls out his phone. "Great. I’ll make a note to increase your stipend for groceries. Feeding you might bankrupt me faster than any supervillain ever could."

"Hey! I'm worth it."

"Sure, kid. Just make sure you save the city enough times to cover the grocery bill."

Tony steps out to take a call from his secretary, leaving you and Morgan alone in the lab. She remains absorbed in analyzing your results, her brow deeply furrowed in concentration. You let out a sigh, reactivating your suit and running your fingers along the edges of the emblem on your chest.

Spiders, lizards, bats, and cats... What’s with all these animals?

At least you’re not up against dinosaurs.

...

Yet.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 8:03 PM - Downtown, Gotham City.

This was a whole new experience. Swinging from the skyscrapers, you feel an adrenaline rush unlike anything you've experienced back in Queens. The swings are higher, the speed is faster, and the thrill is almost overwhelming. Every leap and dive fills you with a sense of freedom and power, the city lights blurring into streaks of color as you soar through the night.

Gotham’s downtown is a far cry from Queens. 

Where once you swung past modest streetlamps and low-rise buildings, now you’re darting off glassy skyscrapers that pierce the sky. The towering structures and crowded streets of Gotham create a backdrop that feels almost alien—a dazzling, high-octane contrast to the familiar neighborhood you left behind. It’s like stepping into an entirely new world, and the exhilaration of it all is intoxicating.

"You know, after that big pep talk, I figured you'd want to take a breather," Morgan’s face appears on the screen of your helmet. She’s lounging in a chair at your new safehouse, clad in a dark tank top with her hair tousled and square glasses perched on her nose.

She looks every bit the quintessential “guy in the chair.”

"We’ve been poring over case files for hours! Cut me some slack for wanting to get some fresh air!" you retort, flipping through the air and executing a sharp swing around a skyscraper.

Morgan shakes her head, her expression a mix of concern and frustration. "You still have, like... two broken ribs."

“Healed now,” you point out, glancing out at the sprawling cityscape.

You swing and roll onto a rooftop, the rough concrete biting into the soles of your boots as you land with a skid. You straighten up, hands on your hips, the city lights glinting off the sleek lines of your suit. You brush yourself off, flicking away the dust and debris that clings to your suit.

“Maggie,” Morgan’s voice carries a hint of pleading. “Run their vitals.”

A moment of silence follows, with only the distant hum of the city below. Then Maggie’s voice, calm and measured, comes through the earpiece, her data flashing across your visor. “Vitals are stable. No immediate signs of distress, but the injuries are still recent. Overexertion could lead to complications.”

Morgan’s face reappears on your helmet’s screen, her glasses glinting in the dim light of the safehouse. “See? Even Maggie agrees. Maybe it’s time to take it easy for a while.”

You let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah. But come on, fresh air’s good for the soul, right?”

Morgan’s voice comes through the earpiece, her tone still tinged with concern. “I get it, but you should still be careful. Gotham’s not exactly known for being forgiving.”

You chuckle, stretching your arms above your head. “I’ll keep that in mind. Crime doesn't sleep. But for now, I’m enjoying the view.”

The adrenaline from your earlier swings starts to mellow, leaving a calm satisfaction in its wake. The distant sounds of Gotham—the occasional siren, the hum of traffic, the soft rustle of wind—create a backdrop that feels oddly serene. For a moment, it’s just you and the city, connected in a way.

Morgan's voice returns to your earpiece, lighter now. "You know, I’ve been thinking about something while you were out there."

You raise an eyebrow, glancing out over the city. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”

“Well,” she begins, a hint of hesitation in her tone, “since I’m always in the thick of things with you, I’ve been thinking I might need a codename or alias. Something that fits my role.”

You chuckle, turning to look at the glowing city below. “True. I have to call my guy in the chair something. What are you leaning toward?”

“Morgana,” she replies, a touch of pride in her voice.

You laugh, shaking your head. “Really? Just adding a letter to your name? That’s what you’ve got?”

Morgan’s tone turns playful. “Hey, it’s better than nothing.”

“Alright, Morgana,” you snort, giving one last look at the cityscape before preparing to head back into the night. “You up for some monitoring? I’m heading back out. This city needs me.”

“Oh, so cool,” she laughs at your last line. “You’re such a drama queen.”

“Guilty as charged,” you reply, stepping to the edge of the building. The cold wind ruffles your suit and tugs at your hood. You pull it up, squinting as you survey the sprawling city below.

“Think you can get me a gig?”

“Sure. Give me a moment.”

On your visor, the map highlights various irregularities in bright, pulsing colors. Patterns of activity pulse in vivid reds and oranges, tracing a trail of anomalies through the city's grid. 

Then, a prominent prompt flashes onto the screen, breaking through the overlay of data. It’s a high-priority alert, marked by a flashing icon and an urgent red border.

Morgan’s fingers fly over her laptop keyboard, her focus intense as she processes the new information. “Ready for your first big debut?” she asks.

You check the readout, eyes narrowing with curiosity. “What’ve you got for me tonight, Gotham?”

Immediately, the visor's display shifts to show a live news feed. The screen splits, revealing a scene unfolding at Wayne Industries. The news anchor's voice cuts through the rush of wind and the hum of your suit’s systems.

"—reporting live from Wayne Industries. A helicopter has been hijacked and has stolen sensitive technology. The situation is escalating, and authorities are struggling to regain control. We have reports of the helicopter on a collision course with the city’s power grid."

The live feed is a frenzied mix of flashing lights and dark, ominous smoke. The camera, amateur and shaky, captures the scene with screams and frantic commentary. The helicopter’s movements are growing increasingly unstable as it flies dangerously close to the towering buildings.

“Alright, Morgana, give me a location on that chopper. I’m heading in.”

“On it. I’ll track its trajectory and keep you updated. Be careful out there.”

With a flip, you launch yourself off the rooftop, the sensation of free-fall exhilarating. The city lights blur into streaks of color as you swing through the air. Each swing propels you higher and faster, allowing you to cover vast distances in mere seconds. 

Finally, the helicopter’s silhouette emerges through the thick, smoky haze, its dark form cutting a menacing shape against the illuminated skyline.

With a powerful swing, you fire a web at the tail of the helicopter, the line snapping tight as it anchors you securely. You pull with all your strength, and the helicopter lurches violently, its spinning blades blurring dangerously. 

Quickly, you web one side of the helicopter to a nearby building. Using the momentum, you swing to the opposite side and fire another web, anchoring it firmly. The helicopter’s erratic spinning slows as the webs pull it into a more stable position, though its engines continue to roar defiantly.

“Alright, you glorified bucket of bolts,” you mutter, “let’s see how you like a little traffic jam!”

You take a deep breath and launch yourself toward the helicopter’s spinning blades, weaving through the deafening roar.

With a burst of adrenaline, you fire multiple webs at the blades, encasing them in thick, sticky layers. The helicopter’s rotation slows dramatically, the blades grinding to a halt as the craft shudders and wobbles.

Your web lines hold firm, and you can see the hijackers through the cockpit, frantic and disoriented. As the helicopter finally comes to a stop, dangling precariously but safely anchored, you let out a relieved sigh. “Well, that’s one way to put a lid on things. Now, let’s see if these guys know how to behave.”

You swing and stick to the side of the chopper, your feet landing firmly on the fuselage. The hijackers, realizing they’re not alone, panic and start fumbling with their weapons, cursing at you.

One of them lunges at you with a knife, but you effortlessly snatch it away, webbing it to the helicopter’s side. “Whoa, careful there! You might poke an eye out with that thing.”

The hijackers scramble, their attempts to regain control clumsy and chaotic. D-grade criminals, you think, as you swiftly fire webs to disarm them, yanking their guns and knives away.

“This is just sad… Was hoping for some real action,” you quip, grabbing one hijacker by the collar and tossing him out of the cockpit. He flails as he’s launched into the air, but you’re quick to web him to a nearby rooftop. His face turns a ghostly white as he dangles above the city.

The second hijacker tries to take advantage of your distraction, but you’re ready. You spin, catching him in a web mid-swing. With a firm shove, you slam him against the helicopter’s side. He grunts in pain as you yank him off and toss him out, webbing him to the same rooftop as his partner.

With a final, satisfied look at the hijackers’ predicament and the now-stable helicopter, you swing back to the rooftop where you left the criminals. “Time for you guys to have a chat with the authorities. Hope you’ve enjoyed your flight!”

Before you can take another step, a violent shudder erupts from the helicopter. A plume of black smoke bursts from the engine compartment, followed by a sharp, bright explosion that momentarily illuminates the night sky. The helicopter's frame buckles, and a series of smaller explosions ripple through it, sending debris scattering into the air.

“Fuck,” you curse as you watch the craft, now emitting thick, dark smoke, begin a slow, uncontrolled descent. Without hesitation, you dive after it. The wind roars past you as you freefall, your eyes locked on the rapidly descending helicopter.

Civilians scatter in panic, their screams piercing through the noise of the helicopter’s sputtering engines and the distant wail of sirens. Amidst the fleeing crowd, one woman—clearly a journalist from her uniform and ID—remains frozen in place, clutching her phone tightly and snapping photos frantically.

"WATCH OUT!"

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 8:34 PM - Downtown, Gotham City.

A few moments earlier.

“Mister Ryder, I assure you, I am not insane!” Vicki Vale’s voice cuts through the din of the bustling Gotham streets, her frustration evident as she grips her phone tightly. Her manicured fingers dig into the device. “I was there! The spider vigilante is real! I was nearly robbed, and they intervened directly!”

Her boss’s tone on the other end is dismissive. “Vicki, I understand your enthusiasm, but our focus needs to be on what the people are interested in. The city’s biggest headlines right now are about Wayne Industries and Stark Tower. Why not go interview that Kyle girl? Typical rags-to-riches story if you ask me. The public loves that sort of thing!”

“Who cares about some civilian?!” Vicki snaps, her frustration boiling over. She steps out into the crowded Gotham streets, her eyes darting around as people glance at her briefly before returning to their own business. “This vigilante could be a major story!”

“Vicki, we’re on a tight deadline,” her boss interrupts firmly. “Unless you can provide solid proof and concrete details about this Spider, I don’t know what to tell you. Stick to the Wayne-Stark developments. We’ll revisit the vigilante story if it becomes more relevant.”

Vicki opens her mouth to argue but is abruptly silenced by a series of shrill screams. Her gaze snaps upwards, and her eyes widen in disbelief. The helicopter, now a chaotic blur of spinning metal and billowing smoke, careens through the sky, its erratic path trailing destruction.

In the midst of the chaos, the familiar figure of a vigilante swings through the air, pursuing the runaway vehicle. The red and black suit cuts through the smoke like a streak of lightning, the emblem unmistakable: a bold, black spider, its legs splayed wide.

Bingo.

Without a second thought, she sprints towards the heart of the commotion. The crowd around her is a whirlwind of panicked faces and hasty retreats, but Vicki is single-minded. Her fingers fumble with her phone as she raises it, the camera’s lens zeroing in on the unfolding chaos.

The camera’s viewfinder shakes slightly in her trembling hands, but she forces herself to keep it steady, determined to capture the disaster in detail. Flashes and snaps erupt from her camera as it shoots away, documenting every moment. Each frame she captures is a piece of the story she’s been chasing, and nothing will deter her from this.

Suddenly, the helicopter begins a swift, uncontrollable descent. The once-menacing blur of spinning metal and thick, black smoke now tumbles towards her. Vicki’s eyes widen in sheer horror, her breath catching in her throat as the scene unfolds in slow motion.

“WATCH OUT!”

The warning is almost too late.

A powerful gust of wind sweeps through, lifting Vicki off the ground. She screams, desperately clutching onto the nearest figure for dear life. The vigilante, in their red and black suit, has swooped in and pulled her into the air. Vicki’s hands instinctively wrap around your neck, her grip frantic and tight.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go!” you shout over the roar of the wind.

You swing into action, firing a web at a nearby rooftop to secure yourself. With one hand gripping the web line anchored to the building, you stabilize both yourself and Vicki, who is clinging to you with white-knuckled fear. Your other hand reaches out, shooting another web directly at the falling helicopter. The web snaps into place, and with a mighty effort, you hold up the entire 6,000-pound craft, straining against the weight and tension.

Biting your lip, you throw your head back, a grimace of pain etched on your face. The strain is excruciating, with every muscle in your arm and back screaming in protest. You’re certain you’ve torn something, and that ominous crack you heard earlier doesn’t help. 

The helicopter’s weight is far beyond your usual limit, but with adrenaline coursing through your veins, you grit your teeth and somehow manage to keep it suspended.

Vicki’s eyes widen as she slowly calms down. It doesn’t take long before she unwraps one arm from your shoulder and starts scrambling for her phone. You grunt at the sudden movement.

“Hey! Hey! Lady! Stop moving!” you scold, but she’s too absorbed in her task to hear you. Her focus is entirely on her camera as she fumbles to activate the video function.

Clinging precariously to you with one hand wrapped around your neck, she manages to keep the lens trained on your helmet. The sheer bravery and stupidity surprises you—she’s holding on for dear life, but her drive to capture the moment is even stronger.

“My name is Vicki Vale, and I’m a reporter for Gotham Gazette!” she shouts, her voice slightly distorted by the adrenaline. “I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Vigilante—”

Before she can continue, you shoot a quick, exasperated look at her. “Not the time for an interview!”

But Vicki is undeterred. She adjusts her grip on her phone and leans in closer, her face set with determination. “We’re live, so if you could just—”

“Seriously?” you interrupt, trying to keep your focus on the helicopter. “Can we save the interview for after I don’t have to hold up a helicopter?”

Vicki’s eyes sparkle with unyielding resolve. “This is a moment of history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

As you grit your teeth, straining against the weight of the helicopter, you let out a frustrated sigh. “Fine. One question only. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?” Vicki’s voice is full of eagerness as her camera rolls.

You grit your teeth, straining under the weight of the helicopter, and let out a frustrated sigh. “I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

Vicki’s eyes light up with excitement as she continues to film. “Powerful words. People need to hear this!”

You shake your head. “Thanks. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

With a slow, controlled motion, you begin to lower the helicopter, guiding it down with careful precision. The craft descends steadily and, with a gentle thud, it finally lands on the rooftop. The immense weight lifts from your muscles, easing some of the strain. You let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling a sharp sting in your back—a problem for later.

With a swift swing, you move away from the scene, landing a safe distance from the helicopter and gently setting Vicki down. The streets around you buzz with activity as emergency responders rush to the scene, and the chaos begins to settle into a semblance of order.

Vicki stops filming and tucks her phone back into her pocket. As the danger recedes, you freeze, realizing who she is: Vicki Vale. Columnist, gadfly, and troublemaker—exactly the kind of trouble people both want and fear.

She flashes a pretty smile, perfect teeth shining as she trails her nails up your bicep. You wince at the touch, trying to maintain your composure. “You’ve given me one heck of a story.”

Her voice drops an octave, taking on a flirtatious edge. “So, what’s your deal? Secret identity? Hidden agenda? Or just a really bad habit of rescuing people?”

You glance at her, keeping your tone professional. “Not interested in sharing more than I already have. Just doing my job.”

Vicki smirks, clearly intrigued. “Well, I’ll keep digging. Heroes like you always have interesting stories.”

You let out a dry chuckle. “Glad to be of service. Just remember to stay safe out there.”

With a final nod, you shoot a web into the night and swing away, the cityscape unfolding beneath you as you disappear into the darkness.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Thursday, 10:41 PM - Batcave, Wayne Manor.

The Batcave is bathed in the soft, eerie blue light from the Batcomputer's numerous screens, each casting a cold glow that contrasts starkly with the surrounding shadows. The room hums with the steady rhythm of machinery.

On one of the central screens, a news report plays.

"Good evening, Gotham! In a dramatic turn of events, a dangerous situation was defused earlier tonight thanks to the intervention of a mysterious new hero. We have exclusive footage of the incident, which unfolded just moments ago."

[The screen cuts to live footage, showing the helicopter gently lowered to the ground. Emergency personnel are seen approaching the craft, and the crowd is starting to disperse.]

"What we’ve witnessed tonight is nothing short of extraordinary. A helicopter, which was hijacked and rigged to explode, was on a collision course with the city’s power grid. The situation seemed dire, but then, out of nowhere, a hero arrived."

[The screen cuts to another footage of the vigilante in action—swinging through the air, holding up the helicopter with one hand, and saving Vicki Vale.]

"The vigilante, dressed in a striking red and black suit with a spider emblem, swung into action with incredible agility and strength. With a remarkable display of heroism, the vigilante managed to stop the helicopter from crashing, stabilizing it by webbing themselves to a nearby rooftop and holding it up with one hand while ensuring the safety of those around."

[The scene cuts to the video shot by Vicki Vale on her phone. Despite the shaky camerawork, the footage captures the exchange clearly.]

"My name is Vicki Vale, and I’m a reporter for Gotham News! I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Spider Vigilante—"

"Not the time for an interview!"

“This is a moment of history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

“Fine. One question only. What do you want to know?”

“First, why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?”

“I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then that’s what I’ll do.”

[The broadcast returns to the news anchors.]

"The footage from journalist Vicki Vale offers an unprecedented glimpse into the actions of this mysterious figure. It’s clear that Gotham has a new guardian, and their bravery hasn’t gone unnoticed. Though it’s only been a matter of hours since the incident, social media has already dubbed the vigilante 'the Nightcrawler.'"

[The broadcast flashes a still image of Nightcrawler mid-swing through the skyline, one hand outstretched toward the helicopter.]

"While their true identity remains a mystery, it’s evident that Nightcrawler’s heroics tonight have made a significant impact! Move over, bats, there’s a new hero in town—"

Before the news anchor can finish, a Batarang embeds itself into the Batcomputer’s screen. The sudden impact causes the screen to sputter and glitch, sparks crackling around the jagged edge of the blade. The monitor flickers erratically before plunging into darkness, leaving the room in tense silence.

Bruce, standing at the Batcomputer, whirls around in irritation. “Damian!”

"I'm going to kill them!"

Bruce pinches the bridge of his nose, clearly exasperated. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, trying to regain his composure.

“You know what? I’m not even—” Bruce, pulling off his cowl with a heavy sigh, reveals his exhausted and frustrated expression. Strands of his salt-and-pepper hair fall over his forehead as he exhales sharply. “Damian, start from the top. What’s going on with this Spider?”

Damian, leaning against his bike with arms crossed and a fierce glare, snaps, “Oh, I don’t know, Father. Maybe it’s the fact that just as we’re geared up for our routine patrol, we find out that the hijacking we were prepped for has been handled by this so-called minor vigilante.”

He jabs a finger at the damaged screen, his frustration palpable. “And as if that’s not enough, this ‘hero’ has decided to make a personal mission out of targeting my beloved.”

Bruce’s expression tightens into one of alarm. His eyes narrow, and his entire posture goes rigid with tension. He casts a worried glance toward Tim, Dick, and Jason, his gaze shifting from one to the other, seeking their reactions.

Dick steps away from the control panel, his brow furrowing deeply. “Alright, Damian,” he says, his voice steady but edged with concern. “That’s a pretty big bombshell you’ve dropped. We need details. What do we know about this Spider?”

“They’ve been making headlines with their so-called heroics,” Damian scoffs, rolling his neck. “When I was assigned to trail them—”

“No one assigned you,” Jason interrupts, raising an eyebrow. “You’ve been on a one-man mission to follow every suspicious figure in Gotham. It’s practically your hobby.”

Damian narrows his eyes at Jason. “As I was about to say before this your interruption, I initially thought they were just a minor hero. I was mistaken. Under my own nose, I’ve discovered they’re a direct threat to my beloved. Y/N told me themselves—remember the night of the dinner when they showed up covered in injuries? It’s all connected to this Spider.”

Everyone’s faces harden with concern.

Jason’s eyes blaze. “Targeting Y/N? What’s their angle? Why the hell are they zeroing in on 'em all of a sudden?”

Damian’s face flickers through a myriad of emotions—anger, worry, frustration. His voice is strained as he responds, “I’m trying to piece it all together...”

Tim narrows his eyes as he slides his laptop off the table, setting it up on his lap. He opens a new folder and starts typing furiously. “We need to find a pattern or a motive behind their fixation. If we compile recent events and analyze every detail—every incident, every sighting—we might uncover something crucial.”

Bruce nods slowly, a deep-rooted fear gripping his heart. The threads of panic pull at him, a sensation all too familiar. It’s a feeling that surfaces whenever his insane, traumatized, highly trained, rebellious sons sneak out—something that’s happened more times than he can count—and it never leads to anything good.

This feeling, this gnawing dread, is like a well-worn path in his soul. It’s the hundredth time he’s been caught in the same agonizing tune. He can already hear the adoption jokes in his mind, but he can’t help it.

Selina and him were always on and off. When they were younger, the chase was a thrill, the romance intense. But when things got serious, they couldn’t make it work. Bruce was too immersed in his work as Batman, burning himself down to ash to save his city. Selina loved her freedom as Catwoman and couldn’t bear to watch him destroy himself.

Then one stormy night, she appeared at his doorstep, drenched in rain, a child bundled in her arms. A baby wrapped in a blanket, crying with red chubby cheeks. Selina was sobbing—a sight Bruce had never seen before. 

It had been years since they last met, and he asked if you were his. She just shook her head, sobbing something about lacking money for medicine. You were sick.

Not his, he mourned, but he couldn’t help but keep tabs on you over the years. How could he not? You echoed so much of his own younger self—the same tragic backstory, the same deep sadness. During those quiet, lonely nights, Bruce would find himself searching for information about you, his mind drifting to what might have been. His child—if not truly, then almost.

Selina was a great mother. Bruce could never decide if that made him feel better or worse. Part of him felt relief knowing you were cared for, loved. Another part of him felt an unbearable ache, a longing to be the one to protect you, to guide you. He wanted to be there for you, but he knew he had no right. God knows Bruce has wanted to do it since that very first night. Instead, he was an outsider looking in, a ghost in the shadows of your life.

“A solid approach,” he murmurs, coming back to his senses. “Her safety is our top priority. We need to find ways to protect her from this threat.”

Dick’s brow furrows deeply. “Protected from what exactly? We still don’t have a clear understanding of what this vigilante wants or why they’re fixating on Y/N.”

Tim, absentmindedly typing into the document, speaks thoughtfully. “Does Selina know about this? Y/N’s been looking increasingly sullen and thinner lately. They’ve gained some muscle, but they seem to be neglecting their well-being. We might have overlooked other signs.”

Bruce made a strangled sound in his throat. He mentally noted to call Selina later that afternoon. Catwoman hadn't been on any heists recently—good for Gotham and Batman, but bad for Bruce. 

Had they been struggling financially? He could easily arrange for groceries or some form of support—after all, it was the least he could do.

Jason grunts, his voice low and bitter. “Kid came in with a black eye. That’s not a minor injury. And from the looks of it, they’ve been holding back. We should have known something was wrong.”

Damian, his face shadowed with exhaustion and guilt, rubs his eyes in frustration. “There was a cut on their ribs. A knife wound, from what I observed. The precision of the injury—deliberate. I could tell because the wound was too precise for it to be an accident or a stray attack. It was meant to hurt them, to make a point."

The room goes deathly silent. Everyone’s head whips toward Damian in horror.

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath, his face reflecting a deep sense of frustration and helplessness. He glances at Damian, shaking his head in disbelief. “They didn’t tell until after that night?”

Damian’s face tightens, sadness glimmered in his eyes. “They’ve been hiding things. I… I should have noticed earlier. I’ve been obsessing over every encounter with them, trying to piece together what’s been happening. There’s something we’re missing, and I—”

He pauses, his voice breaking slightly. “They must have been intimidated into silence. I should have seen it sooner. It took them revealing it to me before I finally understood.”

Bruce steps forward, his voice firm yet calming. “Son, now isn’t the time to blame yourself.”

Damian glares at Bruce, his eyes blazing with frustration. “How can you say that? They’re in danger because I didn’t see it coming!”

Bruce’s expression softens as he meets Damian’s gaze. “It’s not about assigning blame. We’re all in this together. What matters now is taking action. I’ll pull up all known associates of Y/N and Selina as Catwoman. Tim, cross-reference Spidey’s common associates and recent movements with the places Y/N has been seen. Look for any patterns.”

Tim nods, already tapping away at his tablet. “Got it. I’ll compile a list and see if there’s a clear link.”

Jason, still leaning against the wall with his arms crossed, interjects. “Alright, let’s say we find a connection. What’s the plan? Confront Y/N directly or set a trap for the Spider?”

Bruce shakes his head, his tone resolute. “We can’t jump to conclusions. We need to gather evidence first. If we confront Y/N without proof, we risk endangering her and compromising our position. For now, Damian, you’ll keep a close watch on her. Protect her if necessary.”

His gaze locks with Damian’s, a silent exchange of understanding passing between them. 

Damian, now eighteen and on the brink of graduation, is a striking reflection of Bruce—his eyes, sharp as shards of glass; his shoulders, broad and strong; his expression, as icy and resolute; and his stature, nearly as imposing.

They both carry a profound sense of duty, though it manifests in different ways. Bruce’s devotion is a relentless tide, crashing against Gotham’s shores, demanding every ounce of his strength. Damian’s commitment, however, is a fierce, personal flame, burning brightly for those he loves and feels responsible for.

“I intend to,” Damian says sharply, moving toward the Batcomputer. He dislodges his Batarang with a practiced flick, his expression set in stone. 

“I won’t let this go unchallenged.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 12:35 AM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

The safehouse door groaned loudly as you pushed it open, its hinges protesting against the late hour. The dim light from the single lamp in the corner flickered as you stepped inside, casting long shadows across the cluttered room. 

With a weary sigh, you uncloaked, and your suit shimmered as it retracted back into the form of your glasses. Sweat clung to your forehead, and you ruffled your damp hair, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline. The glasses were removed with a swift motion and tossed onto a nearby table cluttered with papers and gadgets.

Morgan looked up from her workstation, her eyes reflecting the soft glow of multiple screens. Various tabs and data streams flickered across her monitors. She flashed a bright, knowing smile as she turned to face you.

"Sup. Doing research?" you asked, your voice hoarse from the night’s exertions.

Morgan’s grin widened, though she tried to hide it behind a bite of her lip. "You... could say that."

You slumped into a nearby chair, raising a brow at her. Morgan leaned back, her eyes twinkling with mischief. "That was one hell of a debut. The media is already all over it. They’re calling you the Nightcrawler."

"‘Nightcrawler’?” you murmured with a grimace. “Not exactly... friendly. I preferred Spidey.”

“Are you kidding me? That’s badass!” Morgan grinned, her excitement palpable. She wheeled back to her desk, grabbing a remote and pointing it at the large screen mounted on the wall. The screen flickered to life, and news footage of your debut night flashed across it.

As the video played, Morgan leaned closer to the screen, clearly enjoying the spectacle. “See? They’re eating it up. ‘Nightcrawler’ has a nice ring to it. It’s got mystery, it’s got edge—”

"Oh my god. I’ve turned into the stereotype."

“What stereotype?” Morgan asked, puzzled.

“The emo Gotham hero stereotype,” you explained, slouching further into the chair. “Dark, brooding, with a name like Nightcrawler. It’s like I’m fitting into every cliché.”

"Clichés are just classic for a reason!"

Morgan flashed a screen, and an image appeared: you perched high on a Gotham rooftop. The scene was dark and gritty, shadows cloaking most of your figure. The red of your suit bled into the night, making you appear as a menacing silhouette against the cityscape. Your hood was pulled low, hiding your helmet.

"Gotham’s got a new legend," Morgan grinned.

You squinted at the screen, the image was both intimidating and oddly flattering. "Well... I guess if villains are scared, they’re paying attention. Strike fear into their hearts and all.”

“Exactly,” Morgan said with a nod. “Hell. There are even edits of you on TikTok now!”

"..."

"..."

"...You cannot be serious," you paused, trying to wrap your head around it. “TikTok? Really?”

“Yup!” Morgan’s grin widened as she glanced down at her phone, swiped through her feed, and tapped on the tag #NightcrawlerEdits. She then turned the screen toward you, excitement evident in her eyes.

Clips of your rooftop swings, dramatic landings, and quick takedowns played in a loop, accompanied by upbeat music and flashy edits.

You watched in shock and slight embarrassment. "Oh.my.god."

Morgan’s excitement only grew as she pulled up another video. This time, the video was a velocity edit, showing you in action earlier. The Tiktok highlighted you throwing your head back, straining against the helicopter's weight, with Vicki clinging to your neck. Your biceps were prominently flexed, and the background was a blur of motion and color.

The accompanying song blasted, with the lyrics:

“… Baby, you're the baddest, uh Baby, you're the baddest girl, and, uh Nobody else matters Nobody else matters girl, and, uh”

Morgan burst into laughter, clearly enjoying the video’s over-the-top treatment of your heroics. “This is my favorite one,” she said, her eyes sparkling with tears.

"Oh my god, stop! I do not want to see my own fucking thirst trap!" you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You looked away, face burning and eyes burning into the graffiti on the wall across you.

Morgan, still laughing, seemed undeterred. She scrolled through the comments, her grin cut wide across the apples of her cheeks. 

“You’ve got to hear these,” she said, reading aloud with a laugh.

estellea @ abcdfuckyou・1hr

vicki lucky af. I’d be clinging on too if I were her

jennyjay @ metroboomingpolis・30m

someone give me a ticket to Gotham so I can throw myself off a building and let Nightcrawler save me. no cap 🧢

harry 🐾☕️ @ blehhidc ・1hr

going to become a villain rn. pls choke slam me into Arkham.

ji ─ nightcrawlers #1 fan @ nightcrawler_updates・1hr

i want nightcrawler to smash that helicopter on my tits

The comments were a chaotic mix of wild emojis, desperate pleas, and hashtags like #TakeMeNightcrawler and #WebMeUp. Some fans professed their undying love, while others begged for personal meet-ups or even just a chance to be webbed up by you. 

Of course, there were the occasional snarky remarks, but they were drowned out by the sheer volume of over-the-top reactions and fervent enthusiasm. The intensity of it all left you feeling utterly overwhelmed. You buried your face in your hands, struggling to process the flood of attention.

“Hooooly shit!” Morgan howled with laughter. “This one called you mommy long legs─!”

"Morgan!" You cringed, peeking through your fingers. “Alright, alright. Enough! Enough with the thirst trap comments! Let’s get back to work!”

Morgan snickered. “Sure thing. But you have to admit, Gotham’s reaction is pretty epic.”

You shook your head, trying to refocus. The whirlwind of comments and fan frenzy was a lot to take in, but you knew you needed to stay grounded. “Yeah, well, let’s see if we can keep the city talking for the right reasons.”

Morgan rolled her eyes as she moved back to her spot at the computer, still grinning. “Whatever you say, Mommy Long Legs.” 

You rolled your eyes and began to slowly pull off your undershirt. Morgan glanced up, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she maneuvered a robotic arm from the workstation to scan you.

Pepper’s voice crackled through the speaker, her tone calm and clinical as the AI assessed your injuries. “Injuries detected: dislocated shoulder, torn muscles in back and bicep.”

The AI continued in its methodical manner. “Additional injuries detected: a cut on the cheek, numerous minor abrasions, and lacerations from debris.”

The robotic arm paused for a moment, its sensors analyzing every detail. “Recommendations: immediate treatment needed for dislocated shoulder and muscle tears; minor cuts and abrasions should be cleaned and treated to avoid infection. Rest and recovery are essential.”

Morgan’s eyes widened with exaggerated surprise. “More injuries?” she exclaimed, rising from her chair with mock enthusiasm. She gave your forehead a tap with her knuckles. “What’s going on in that head of yours? It’s like you’re a magnet for trouble.”

“It’s not my fault!” you shot back, gesturing wildly. “You know how my luck is. Seriously, try catching a helicopter with one hand while some shitty reporter tries to interview you midair!”

“Alright, enough with the excuses. Let’s get you patched up,” Morgan said, rolling her eyes.

Quick on her feet, she approached the medical cabinet, efficiently gathering supplies. The room filled with a soft hum as a series of robotic arms whirred to life, their sleek forms extending and positioning themselves around you.

One of the robotic arms gently secured your dislocated shoulder. Morgan adjusted its settings on a nearby console, her fingers dancing over the controls.

“You really need to stop making my job so interesting,” she muttered.

“You’d die of boredom otherwise,” you retorted, wincing as the arm held your shoulder in place. The sensation of your bone realigning brought a sharp, fleeting pain that quickly subsided as the shoulder was set back into position. 

The remaining robotic arms were now programmed to address your muscle tears. They applied a therapeutic gel and began a methodical massage, their movements soothing the inflamed muscles. 

Morgan glanced up from the control panel, her hands still adjusting the final settings. “I don't get paid enough for this.”

 “You don’t get paid,” you smiled dryly.

“True,” she replied with a smirk, “but keeping you in one piece is its own reward.”

As she wrapped up, Morgan asked, “So, any plans for the rest of the day?”

“Probably just going to sleep,” you said, stifling a yawn. “Handling helicopters really takes it out of you.”

Morgan’s eyes brightened with an idea. “How about coming to Gotham Academy with me?”

“Why?” you asked, intrigued. “Ugh. Please don’t tell me you want to attend class.”

Morgan shook her head, a smirk playing on her lips. “No, no. I know the internship has both of us excused for the month, and I need to check out some files on Octavius Burton. He used to be faculty there, and I figured it’d be a good chance for us to see the beautiful halls of our beloved school.”

You cringed. “Oh my god, I do not miss that place at all.”

Morgan’s grin widened. “You might run into Damian, though.”

You pause.

You thought about it for one second, then nodded. Morgan laughed.

“Gotham Academy it is.”

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

voomba sorry for the long ass paragraphs i write shit lore

ur like a redhead magnet girlypop

vi. what's up danger?

SYNOPSIS: "Alright, let's do this one last time. My name is Y/N Kyle. I was bitten by a radioactive spider, And I've been the one and only Spidey in Gotham. I’m pretty sure you know the rest." PAIRING: Older! Damian Wayne/Fem! Reader TAGS: Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Surgical procedures, Panic Attacks, Arguments AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

NOTE: THIS IS PART 6. I POSTED 2 CHAPTERS TODAY! PART 5 IS HERE

 ༻⊰───⋅

"No sign of activity. Just monitoring. Slow night."

"Figured," Nightwing's voice spoke up. "There is a storm."

“Ishth Gotham,” Jason's voice chimed in, muffled as if he was chewing something. “When isn’t there a storm?”

"Are you eating right now?" Tim's voice squeaked with disbelief, the sound sharp and incredulous over the comms. "Again? Really?"

"Yeah?" Jason retorted, taking another bite of whatever he was munching on. "A guy's gotta eat. Maybe if you actually ate more, you wouldn’t be so scrawny, Timberland."

"I'm fit!" Tim snapped back, voice cracking. "And can you please stop using my name? We have codenames for a reason."

"You're the genius who called yourself 'Drake'."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday, 8:35 AM - Gotham Academy, Gotham City.

THE HALLS OF GOTHAM ACADEMY buzzed with the usual mix of chatter and laughter, a stark contrast to the storm of nerves swirling inside you. You navigated through the crowd in your standard-issued uniform, your worn Converse scuffing against the linoleum floor. Over your uniform, you wore Damian’s varsity jacket, its hood pulled up to conceal the cuts marring your face.

Morgan had left you at the entrance earlier, and you weren’t keen on sneaking around the labs with her, so you decided to wander instead.

And if I only could I'd make a deal with God And I'd get Him to swap our places Be runnin' up that road Be runnin' up that hill Be runnin' up that building Say, if I only could, oh

Your headphones were securely in place, the music offering a brief escape as you walked, your head nodding to the beat. Despite the volume, you were acutely aware of every shift in the crowd, the discomfort of the jacket against your still tender muscles, and the stiffness in your back and arm from the muscle tear. Concerned whispers fluttered around you, carried on the currents of passing conversations.

Every so often, a friend or classmate would glance your way, their eyes lingering a bit too long on the hooded figure moving through the hallway. You avoided eye contact, your thoughts a tangled web of last night’s events.

When you reached Damian’s locker, you leaned against it, the cool metal pressing into your back. You adjusted the hood of his jacket, pulling it further down to better conceal the cuts around your eyes. With your free hand, you typed out a quick message to Damian, your fingers moving swiftly over the screen.

You:

"At your locker!"

You hit send and slipped your phone back into your pocket, only to pull it out again moments later. This time, you opened Twitter, scrolling through your feed in search of posts about the recent incident.

Tweets about the attack were already trending, accompanied by blurry photos and sensational headlines. You cringed as fan accounts for #Nightcrawler began popping up. It was startling how swiftly the public’s focus could shift from genuine concern to an obsession with the latest hero or villain.

You sighed, the tension in your shoulders increasing as you continued to scroll through the flood of posts.

“Beloved?”

A tanned hand suddenly appeared in your field of vision, brushing gently against your arm, followed by the sight of polished brown dress shoes.

“Dami,” you said with a relieved smile, leaning into his hold and keeping your head bowed.

Damian instinctively pulled you into a hug, one arm wrapping around your shoulders. The embrace was tight, yet cautious, as if he feared you might shatter. He could feel the stiffness in your muscles, your body rigid with unspoken tension. His eyes narrowed with concern, but he said nothing, allowing the silence to envelop you both.

His gaze flicked to your phone screen, where the trending tweets were visible.

"Nightcrawler…" Damian murmured, and you lifted your head slightly.

Sighing, you shifted so your cheek was pressed against his chest, the cool scent of his cologne easing your senses. You continued scrolling, clicking on a particularly cringeworthy tweet and wincing at the fanatical comments.

"Can you believe these people?" you murmured. Sometimes you wondered how Damian and his brothers dealt with all the fanatics, the constant drooling over their hero personas—or even their civilian lives.

Damian’s grip tightened slightly as he held you closer, his brow furrowing in disapproval as he read the tweets over your shoulder.

Repulsive. To him, it was a grotesque spectacle. The media had managed to paint the Spider into a celebrated hero, a figure of admiration, when in reality, the person behind that mask was nothing more than a monster, cloaked in deception and false heroism.

“They’re utterly obsessed,” Damian scoffed. “It’s as though they’ve forgotten there’s a person behind that mask.”

With a sigh, you shook your head and closed Twitter, slipping your phone back into your pocket. Damian noticed your distress and instinctively began rubbing soothing circles on your back. But as his hand moved, a sharp muscle spasm seized your shoulder, the sudden, painful tightening leaving you momentarily stiff and wincing.

Damian’s hand froze. His years of patrol training had made him all too familiar with the signs of a muscle tear. Without hesitation, he guided you into a nearby janitor’s closet, the door clicking shut behind you to ensure privacy.

Gently, he placed his hand on your elbow and carefully began to stretch the affected muscle. You winced in pain, but Damian hushed you softly, his voice a soothing murmur as he pressed a gentle kiss to your temple.

The pain gradually eased, and you sighed in relief, your shoulders relaxing.

"I love you and your weird Robin skills," you said with a grateful smile as you rolled your shoulders.

Damian's lips twitched into a faint, approving smile, though his voice remained gruff. “Love you too.”

He continued to watch you with keen, sharp eyes, his gaze lingering on the hood of your hoodie that you had kept pulled up. Realizing he hadn’t yet seen a clear glimpse of your face, his expression shifted to one of concern.

“Why haven’t you taken your hood down?” he asked quietly.

You pursed your lips, slowly attempting to turn towards the exit, but his hand shot out, gripping your arm firmly and shoving you gently against the wall.

“I just didn’t want to get my hair messed up,” you muttered, trying to sound nonchalant.

“Mhm…?” Damian hummed in disbelief, his voice thick with something darker. Then, without warning, he bent down to your height, his rough fingers sliding up your jacket. You gulped, bracing your hands on his shoulders, your nails digging into his uniform.

“Pull the hood off,” he demanded, his hands working insistently to pry the hood up. You muttered protests, attempting to bat his hands away, but Damian was relentless. “Habibti, let me see! Pull up the hood! Let me see!”

Your grip on the hood tightened, your knuckles whitening. Damian’s concern overpowered any resistance you offered. Scowling, he shifted his approach, his hands moving under your thighs to lift you. He maneuvered you back against the wall, your weight pressing into his hips.

"Damian, stop!" you groaned, trying to push away.

Ignoring your plea, he swiftly yanked the hood off, his eyes widening in shock as he took in the full extent of your injuries. Cuts and bandages marred your face, some fresh and others already scabbing over. Deep bruises colored your cheek in dark hues.

“Who did this to you?” he demanded, even though he was already cursing a certain spider vigilante in his head. Damian dipped his head low, his dangerous glare cutting through you. “Tell me who hurt you, and I’ll make them pay.”

“Baby, you’re being melodramatic. It’s just a few bruises,” you said, avoiding his gaze. “I’ll survive. You’ve seen the news report I’m sure.”

Damian’s expression tightened. Of course—how could he have been so blind? The news reports had barely scratched the surface, but now, seeing the full extent of your injuries, it was clear—you had been hurt during the hijacking.

“Melodramatic? You’re hurt, and that’s not something I can just ignore," he frowns.

“It’s not like you can just go around punching everyone who annoys me,” you huffed, wincing as you tried to pull your hood back up. Damian scowled and yanked it down again, a firm grip on the fabric.

“Yes, I can.”

“Oh my god,” you said, raising an eyebrow and trying to stifle a smile. “I hate you so much.”

Damian tightened his hold, his eyes flashing with irritation. “That promise ring on your finger says otherwise. And I’m not letting go until I get answers.”

You squirmed in his embrace, attempting to free yourself, but he held you tightly. “Let go.”

“No.”

“You’re going to miss your first period.”

“And?”

“Your education will be in shambles.”

“Beloved, my GPA is already at a 5.0. I’ve been top of my class since junior high. Missing one period won’t ruin my future.”

You groaned, grabbing the nearest object—a mop. Raising it in a mock-threatening manner, you declared, “I’m seriously considering hitting you with this until you let me go.”

"TT," Damian scoffed, casually raising a hand to the metal handle. His grip bent the metal in half effortlessly, and you gawked in awe and frustration.

Okay, that's a little annoying, but also super, super, super hot.

“Seriously? You’re showing off now?” you snapped, exasperated.

“Showing off?” Damian replied with an arch of his brow. “I’m merely demonstrating my point.”

“You’re not my bodyguard. I can handle myself!” you insisted.

“Clearly,” Damian retorted with biting sarcasm. “That’s why you’re littered with cuts and blooming bruises.”

“Fuck you,” you snapped, your irritation bubbling over.

“I would be delighted,” Damian replied with a mockingly sweet tone.

"Ugh! I hate you," you seethed, tugging the hood over your face. "I hate you and your jade eyes, your muscles, your hair, your gorgeous skin, and your infuriatingly handsome face!"

You were trying to butter him up, and unfortunately for Damian’s ego, it was working.

“Flattered,” he drawled, a smirk curling at the corners of his lips. He rolled his eyes with indifference, but his gaze softened just a fraction, betraying a touch of pride.

Immediately, he adjusted his hold slightly, his demeanor shifting back to its usual no-nonsense tone. “Now, stop with the theatrics and tell me what happened. I need to know so I can take care of it.”

“I already took care of it! I just need some rest, okay?” you scowled, frustration lacing your voice. "I can handle my own battles, thank you very much."

Damian’s jaw tightened at your evasive response. The fact that you were dodging his questions only deepened his suspicion. He would have to find another way to uncover the truth.

"You're not telling me everything," he said, his voice low but firm. "But I’ll find out. I always do."

With a final sigh, he gently squeezed your thigh, pressing your foreheads together. His eyes searched yours, the storm of his emotions slowly calming as he focused entirely on you.

A small, reassuring smile tugged at your lips as you melted into him, pulling him into a tender kiss. Damian hummed softly, the vibration adding a sweet warmth to the moment. He kissed you again, his lips moving gently against yours, and then again, and again, and again, each kiss more affectionate than the last. Your laughter mingled, breathy and light, as you both got caught in a playful rhythm, his nose brushing against yours.

The sudden ringing of the school bell cut through the moment.

“Mmph! You… should probably get to class,” you smiled against his lips, your fingers gently stroking his cheek.

It took a few more (okay, a lot more) minutes before Damian finally let you go. You practically had to wrestle your way out of his arms, like he was a kid clinging to a favorite toy. When you told him to go back to class instead of tagging along with you and Morgan, he sulked like a toddler.

Despite his stormy mood, you managed to escape and convince him to head back. In his fit, he slammed the door to the janitor's closet with such force that the handle popped right off, clattering to the floor with a loud clang. He began to walk away with a grumble, throwing one last, dramatic look over his shoulder.

“Behave yourself,” you laughed, waving him away before setting off to find Morgan.

You found Morgan waiting by the entrance, a flash drive held high like a trophy. Your hair was a wild mess, your jacket was rumpled, and your tie was crooked from the chaos of your escape. You looked like you'd just rolled out of a wrestling match.

“Got the goods?” you asked, catching your breath and straightening your tie.

“Yep,” Morgan said with a grin, her eyes darting to your state of disarray. “Damn, what a scene. A janitor’s closet, huh? I see it got pretty heated in there.”

“Yeah, yeah,” you said, scowling and giving her a playful kick on the shin. “Nothing happened, you ass. We were just talking. I had to practically wrestle my way out because he was losing his mind over my injuries.”

Morgan chuckled, slipping the flash drive into her pocket. “Looks like you’ve got your hands full with him. Anyway, let’s get out of here before the rumors start about how you and Damian ‘reunited’ in a closet.”

You raised an eyebrow at her. "How did you know it was the janitor’s closet, anyway?"

“CCTV,” Morgan replied nonchalantly, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Was checking out the live feed for security. And I figured you two were up to something when I saw you both ducking out of the room,” She shrugged then, her grin widening. “The system was laughably easy to hack into. I was honestly surprised.”

“You’re Tony Stark’s daughter," you snark. "Anything less than government-level encryption is basically child’s play for you.”

“True that. But there’s one problem,” Morgan said, raising a single finger and swirling it in the air.

You tensed, glancing around as the faint sound of alarms started to wail in the distance. “What…? What the hell did you do this time?”

Morgan’s grin widened, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “I had to shut down some things to avoid detection. So, the power’s going to go out in 3…2…1.”

As she finished her countdown, the lights flickered wildly before plunging the hallway into complete darkness. A moment of stunned silence followed, shattered by the blaring of alarm systems. Their wails echoed ominously off the walls as students screamed in panic, running out of classrooms and stumbling over each other in the dark.

Morgan’s grin turned into a satisfied smirk as she adjusted her glasses. “Boom."

“What the hell about this screams ‘stealth’ to you?” you whisper-shouted, grabbing Morgan’s hand and pulling her toward the exit.

Morgan’s eyes gleamed with excitement as she squeezed your hand in return. "It’s way more fun this way."

You both sprinted down the dimly lit corridor, the emergency lights flickering on and casting an eerie red glow. The sound of your footsteps echoed through the hallways, blending with the blaring alarms.

As you neared the exit, you could hear the muffled voices of security personnel rushing to restore power. With one last burst of speed, you burst through the exit doors, the alarms fading behind you.

Morgan looked over at you, her face lit with a victorious smile. "And that’s how you make an exit.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Friday - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

After the thrilling escape and a drive across the city in a shady Uber with stains all over the seats—next time, you both agreed, you would take a cab— you finally arrived back at the safehouse.

Morgan was stationed at the main table, her focus locked on the flash drive she’d retrieved from the school. Files and documents were sprawled across multiple screens, each one meticulously sorted and categorized.

A few steps away, you were deep in the tech area, hunched over a cluttered workbench loaded with spools of web fluid and a chaotic mix of metal tools. After a full day of tinkering, your whip project was finally coming together.

With a few final tweaks, you picked up the whip and gave it a few test swings. It sliced through the air with impressive precision, but the smooth motion brought a rush of memories.

You couldn’t help but think back to when you were a kid, watching Selina work her whip with jaw-dropping skill. You’d hunker down in the corner of the training room, eyes wide and totally mesmerized. Inspired by her, you’d sneak into your room after her sessions, grabbing anything you could find—a belt, a rope, whatever resembled a whip. You’d slam the door behind you and practice in secret, hell-bent on nailing those moves.

Sometimes you’d catch a glimpse of your reflection in the mirror—awkward, stumbling, and kind of a hot mess—but you didn’t give a damn. You were determined to match her skill, even if it meant looking like a complete idiot in the process.

CRACK!

Morgan jumped, her chair spinning around as she stared at you with wide eyes. You couldn't help but grin, confidently moving towards her. You twirled the whip around your body, mimicking one of Catwoman's signature moves, the webbing swirling gracefully through the air and curving sinuously around your body. With a flourish, you cracked it down onto the floor again, the sharp, satisfying snap echoing through the room.

Morgan’s ears flushed red, and she shifted in her chair, clearly taken aback. “Woah. That’s hot as fuck.”

You laughed, giving her a wink. “Glad you think so. I was channeling my inner Catwoman.”

Still a bit flustered, Morgan cleared her throat and extended her hand. You placed the whip into her palm, and she inspected it closely, her fingers tracing the intricate details of your craftsmanship.

“Seriously, though,” she said, looking up at you, “I didn’t realize you had this kind of flair. Where’d you learn to handle a whip like that?”

You shrugged, trying to play it cool. “Just a little bit of practice, you know? I’ve had some pretty good teachers.”

Your gaze then shifted to her screen, where a file on Ivy's toxins was open. Charts, chemical structures, and old lab notes cluttered the display.

“Thought you were going through Octavius’ files?” you asked.

“Oh, I was," Morgan handed the whip back to you with a shrug.

"But then I stumbled on this.” She pointed at the screen. “Insane, right? Did you know Gotham University lets their Botany majors examine Ivy’s toxins? There are detailed reports from student lab projects—college students analyzing some seriously dangerous stuff. Who thinks that's a good idea?”

You arched an eyebrow. “It’s Gotham University. Top in the country. They probably consider it a rite of passage. It’s not like the city holds back on the bizarre.”

Morgan shook her head, her disbelief morphing into a bemused smile. “Seriously, though, it’s even in their chemistry curriculum. ‘Advanced Chemistry: How to Survive Ivy’s Toxins 101.’ Like, what kind of class is that?”

You chuckled. “Sounds like standard Gotham fare. The city has a way of turning even the most mundane academic subjects into survival skills.”

As you examined the file, your thoughts drifted to Ivy—Pamela Isley, who once held a special place in your life. She used to be close with Selina, and back then, you’d even called her Aunt Isley. The name felt right, natural, given how much time you’d spent around her.

You recalled a particular incident from when Ivy had to leave town for a while and entrusted Selina with the care of her beloved plants. You were just a kid at the time, but you remember the thrill of having Ivy’s vibrant greenery around. Selina had promised to take good care of them, but things didn’t go as planned. She forgot to water them. Just… forgot.

When Ivy returned, the plants were withered and dead. For someone like Ivy—an eco-terrorist with a green thumb so legendary she could probably make a cactus bloom in a snowstorm—this was more than just a simple mishap. It felt like a personal betrayal.

The fallout was intense. Ivy was furious, and Selina was devastated.

If it weren't for you being there, she probably would have strangled Selina with a vine right then and there.

Morgan sighed dramatically, rolling her chair away from the screen and stretching her arms over her head. "I'm so bored of reading these files," she declared, spinning around to face you. "We need to do something fun."

You quirked an eyebrow, watching her with curiosity as she navigated to a map on her command center.

"What are you doing?" you asked, a hint of amusement in your voice.

"I'm finding us a little adventure," she grinned, zooming in on a location. "Check this out—there's an old, supposedly abandoned greenhouse on the outskirts of Gotham. Rumor has it, it's still full of Ivy's plants. We should go check it out."

You blinked, taken aback by the suggestion. "You want to go trespassing in an abandoned greenhouse filled with potentially dangerous plants?"

Morgan shrugged nonchalantly. "Why not? It's better than sitting here reading boring files. Plus, think of the intel we could gather! Maybe even some samples to study. If you're going to continue this hero thing then having some cures might be useful."

"Last time I checked," you started. "I’m focusing on tech companies. Not plants."

Morgan leaned back in her chair, eyes twinkling with excitement. "C'mon, it’ll be fun! We could call it a ‘field trip’ for our mission."

You scoffed, but a smirk tugged at your lips as you moved to grab your glasses. “I thought you were supposed to be the smart and responsible one among us?”

Morgan shot you a playful smile as she stood up to grab her jacket. “Smart enough to know when we need a break. Besides, a little field trip never hurt anyone. Just think of it as expanding our knowledge base.”

She slung her jacket over her shoulder with a casual flick. “And who knows? We might even uncover some new leads or have a little fun along the way. Ready to make some memories?”

“Alright,” you said with a laugh. “But if we end up in trouble, you’re explaining it to Tony.”

“Deal,” Morgan grinned, heading toward the door. “Now let’s get out of here before I lose my mind.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 12:34 AM - Ivy's 'Abandoned' Warehouse, Gotham City.

The moon hung high in the sky, casting a silvery glow over the overgrown landscape as you swung through the rainy Gotham air. Raindrops pattered against your suit, mixing with the cool breeze as you guided both yourself and Morgan down toward the warehouse’s perimeter. You landed softly on the other side of the fence, the wet ground beneath you squelching slightly.

The warehouse loomed in the distance, shrouded in shadows and engulfed by a thick veil of greenery. Vines and creeping plants had swallowed the building, twisting their way up the walls and breaking through the broken windows. Shrubs and wild foliage sprawled across the once-smooth concrete, creating a tangled jungle that had overtaken the area.

You and Morgan navigated through the thick underbrush, your footsteps muffled by the lush carpet of foliage. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and blooming flora, a stark contrast to the usual urban grime of Gotham.

“Welcome to the jungle,” Morgan joked, adjusting her glasses as raindrops collected on the lenses. She reached for a flashlight, flicking it on to cut through the gloomy darkness.

“Did you really have to pick the creepiest spot in Gotham?” you muttered, glancing around warily. Your spider senses were on high alert, a low hum that indicated you should be cautious, though you were still uncertain what for.

As you approached the warehouse’s entrance, you noticed the heavy wooden doors were slightly ajar, held open by a large vine that had wedged itself in the gap. You took a few steps back, then charged at the door with all your might, sending it crashing inward with a thunderous clang.

You kicked the door aside and stepped into a scene that looked like something straight out of a botanical horror movie. The interior of the warehouse was a riot of green. Hanging plants and tendrils formed a dense canopy overhead. The remnants of old plant pots and scientific equipment were half-buried under layers of creeping vines and moss.

“Keep your eyes peeled for anything useful,” you said, stepping cautiously inside.

The plan was simple: infiltrate the location, gather as much information as possible, and leave before anyone even noticed you were there.

Your boots squelched slightly on the damp ground as you made your way further into the labyrinth of greenery. Morgan followed close behind, her flashlight beam scanning the surroundings.

“Looks like she really made herself at home. This place is like a jungle gym for plants,” she whispered.

After a few minutes of searching, you stumbled upon a makeshift lab tucked away in a corner of the warehouse. Old tables and shelves, now covered in a thick layer of dust and grime, held an assortment of glassware, old notebooks, and strange botanical samples.

Morgan’s eyes lit up as she approached the lab. “This must be it! Look at all this stuff.”

Kneeling down, she began sifting through the clutter, her flashlight revealing dusty glassware, faded notebooks, and a variety of botanical samples in various states of preservation. She carefully picked up a few jars, examining the contents with growing fascination.

You stood guard by the door, your senses on high alert. The slow hum of your spider senses gradually intensified, becoming a persistent buzz in the back of your mind. Your eyes darted from shadow to shadow, scanning the dimly lit warehouse for any signs of movement.

Morgan, oblivious to your heightened alertness, was engrossed in a particularly worn notebook.

"This is fascinating," she said, her eyes wide with excitement. "Check out these notes—they look like they’re from Ivy’s earlier research. She was experimenting with ways to boost plant growth, mixing toxins, and even concocting some kind of antidote. This could be incredibly useful for us."

As Morgan continued to study the notebook, the buzzing in your senses grew stronger, almost overwhelming. You tensed, feeling the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. There was something else in the warehouse—something you couldn’t immediately identify, but the feeling was unmistakable.

“Morgan,” you said quietly, your voice barely a whisper, “I’m getting a bad feeling. We might not be alone.”

Morgan glanced up from her work, her expression turning serious. “What do you mean?”

“Just keep your eyes open,” you warned, eyes narrowing as you continued to scan the shadows. “And be quick. Something doesn’t feel right.”

Morgan’s fingers flew over the lab equipment as she grabbed several samples and shoved them into her bag. The air seemed to grow thicker, the plants rustling with an almost eerie liveliness.

DANGER.

“Alright. We need to go. Now,” you hissed, urgently grabbing Morgan and pulling her to her feet.

Morgan raised an eyebrow but quickly scrambled to stand, shoving the worn notebook into her jacket. “Alright… let me just—”

Suddenly, the hum of your spider senses crescendoed into a full-blown alert.

“Get down!”

Without warning, you grabbed Morgan and pushed her down behind some crates, your suit beginning to uncloak.

A thick vine lashed out from the shadows, slamming into your side with a force that knocked the wind out of you. Pain exploded where the vine struck, radiating through your ribs as you skidded back, crashing into a nearby metal rack.

The vine had struck before your helmet could fully materialize, and your head collided with the shelving unit, sending a jarring shock of pain through your skull.

"A little spider has wandered into my web~"

Shit.

Warmth trickled down from your forehead where the impact had split the skin, a sharp contrast to your cold sweat. With a shaky breath, you pushed yourself off the rack, using it for support as you steadied yourself.

"Hello, crazy plant lady," you quipped, your helmet materializing and your voice modulator kicking in.

For now, you weren’t her estranged niece; you were Nightcrawler, Gotham's newest hero.

Unfurling from above, Ivy smirked down at you as she lounged on a leaf. Vines curled lazily around her, responding to her slightest gestures as if extensions of her will.

"You're Gotham's newest little spider," Ivy's voice carried a melodic yet chilling undertone, the echo of her laughter reverberating through the warehouse. "What brings you to my sanctuary?"

The slits in your mask narrowed as you drew your claws and unclipped your whip from your belt. Ivy’s eyes narrowed at the choice of weapons, a flicker of recognition in her gaze. She was clearly connecting the similarities between you and Catwoman.

"Oh, just swinging by to see what all the fuss is about. Heard you've been busy in Gotham."

Ivy's smile sharpened, a hint of admiration gleaming in her emerald eyes.

"Hm. Spunk," she remarked, her voice low and melodic like a siren's song. "I do appreciate that in my visitors."

In the corner of your visor, you noticed Morgan slowly sneaking away. You subtly nodded in her direction, then turned your full attention back to Ivy.

"So, this place wasn’t as abandoned as I thought," you said, trying to keep the conversation going as a distraction. "You know, for someone who supposedly retired from the spotlight, you sure know how to throw a party."

Ivy threw her head back and laughed. "Retired?" she repeated. "Oh, honey, you have no idea."

Around you, vines stirred, their sinewy tendrils snaking up your legs like snakes. Unfazed, you subtly shifted your weight, and then, with a swift slash of your claws, the vines split apart. You flipped away, slipping out of their grasp with ease.

“Did you really think I wouldn’t notice when my darlings are disturbed?” Ivy’s voice dripped with mockery. “Just when I finally manage to reclaim this space from concrete and steel, pests like you decide to get curious.”

“Look, I’ve got a busy schedule and a whole bunch of people counting on me,” you quipped, narrowly dodging a lashing vine. “So how about we skip the tango, and you save us both a night of pain?”

“Oh, you’re simply delightful,” Ivy purred, her tone both sultry and chilling. “Very well, little spider. Let’s see if you can keep up.”

Without warning, Ivy sprang into action. Vines lashed through the air with deadly precision. You ducked and weaved, your reflexes on high alert as you evaded each strike.

In the corner of your visor, Morgan’s face appeared—a welcome sight amid the chaos. The camera feed was shaky and of lower quality than usual, but you could make out her anxious expression as she hunched over her phone, trying to stay hidden.

You sighed in relief and shouted over the clamor of the battle, “Where are you?”

“Outside! Sorry! I…I didn’t realize Ivy was here!” Morgan said, her voice tinged with panic. “I thought this place was a total ghost town!”

“Apologize later!” you shouted back, ducking a swinging vine. “Just stay out of sight. I’ll catch up with you once I deal with the plant lady!”

Ivy’s eyes narrowed as she listened in on your screaming, realizing you had someone on communication.

“Oh, a little team effort, how charming,” Ivy taunted, her voice dripping with disdain. “But let’s see how you fare without your friend.”

With a quick flip, you barely managed to dodge another flurry of whipping vines. You drew back your whip and snapped it towards the incoming vines, slicing through them with precision. Ivy scowled and retaliated, sending a fresh wave of vines hurtling toward you.

You charged through the thick foliage, ducking and weaving to avoid the onslaught. Closing the distance, you landed a solid left hook to hface, the impact resonating with a satisfying thud. Ivy’s head snapped back with a yelp of pain. Laughing, you didn’t give her a chance to recover, landing another punch directly on her jaw.

JAB!

“You know, for someone who’s all about growth, you sure don’t handle a beating well,” you smirked.

"You little—"

Leaping onto a stack of crates to avoid another lash of her vines, you shot a web line at Ivy. The sticky webbing wrapped around her wrists, pinning her firmly against a nearby support beam.

Ivy struggled against the webbing, her eyes narrowing as she watched you approach, her vines twitching with frustration. You readied your whip and claws, prepared for any further attempts at escape.

“Alright, listen,” you said, your tone firm yet apologetic. “Unless you want more of your plants to get diced, I suggest you calm down.”

“Calm down?” Ivy hissed, her vines momentarily freezing in place. “You’re the unwelcome pest invading my precious sanctuary. I won’t tolerate your intrusion.”

You took a deep breath, trying to defuse the situation. “Look, I’m really sorry about the intrusion. Didn’t mean to step on your botanical toes. We were just here to explore—”

Ivy’s brow raised in skepticism. “Is that why your friend stole some of my vials and old papers?”

You stood there for a moment, staring blankly at her.

Then, with a shrug, you said, “Okay, to be fair, you left that stuff lying around. It looked like it was up for grabs and we didn’t exactly see a ‘Keep Out’ sign.”

“Oh, how charming. So, it’s a case of ‘finders keepers,’ then?” she scowled, her tone dripping with sarcasm. “And here I thought you were a little more refined than that.”

“Hey!” you said, walking towards her until you were just a foot away. “I’m just calling it like I see it. Maybe if you didn’t leave your stuff scattered around like it was free for the taking, we wouldn’t be in this mess.”

Ivy tossed her hair over her shoulder, the emerald strands cascading like vines down her back. Leaning closer, her lips brushed against your jaw, her breath warm against your skin. “Well, if you’re so keen on exploring,” she purred, her voice a sultry whisper, “I can show you something that’s bound to satiate your curiosity. Come and get it!”

Your spider senses flared with urgent warnings, but before you could react, Ivy thrust a slender vine beneath the edge of your helmet. In an instant, a cloud of pollen erupted inside your mask, catching you completely off guard. You gasped and choked, stumbling backward as your vision blurred and your nose was overwhelmed by the suffocating, heady scent of the pollen.

Your visor’s alarms blared, vitals flashing urgently:

TOXIN DETECTED.

“Damn it,” you grimaced as a searing heat began to radiate through your skin and bones. The prickling sensation quickly escalated into an intense burn, making it feel like your blood was boiling beneath your skin.

“Morgan!” you heaved, your voice strained and desperate. “Find me an escape route, now!”

"Underestimated me?" Ivy taunted, her voice dripping with malicious glee. "Thought you could resist my charms, did you?"

Morgan’s shaky voice crackled through the comms. “I’m searching for a way out! Just hang in there!”

“Oh, you won’t be escaping that easily,” Ivy sneered at you, still trapped in your webs. Despite her restraints, her vines writhed and twisted with a life of their own. “This is my domain, and you’re not leaving until I say so.”

You gritted your teeth, struggling against the searing pain as the vines inched closer. “Alright, I’m really sorry for this, but I’m done playing nice,” you rasped, your voice edged with desperation.

With a sharp flick of your wrist, you shot a web at a vase perched precariously on a high shelf. The vase tumbled through the air and crashed down onto Ivy’s head, shattering into a shower of shards and a splash of crimson.

Ivy screamed as the shards rained down, a flurry of leaves and flowers cascading over her head and shoulders, momentarily obscuring her vision. The disorientation gave you a precious few seconds to regroup and regain your bearings.

Morgan's face reappeared on your visor, her brow furrowed with worry. “There’s a clear window—no vines blocking it! Hurry! I marked it on your map!”

Glancing at the map, you spotted the indicated window. You swiftly shot a web at the nearest support beam, the familiar thwip sound providing a brief sense of relief.

"This was nice, but I’ve got places to be and people to save," you heaved, your voice breathy as you kicked away a lashing vine. "So if you don’t mind, I'll be taking my leave."

With a firm grip on the web line, you launched yourself toward the window. The cool, rain-soaked night air of Gotham hit your face as you burst through the opening. Behind you, Ivy’s enraged voice cut through the storm, her curses echoing as her vines thrashed against the walls in a frenzied pursuit.

“PEST!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 1:05 AM - Crime Alley, Gotham City.

"Robin, status?" Oracle's voice beeped in from Damian's earpiece.

Damian was perched on a rooftop, jade eyes scanning the dark expanse of Crime Alley below. The rain poured down in relentless sheets, the cold droplets cascading off the edges of his hood and dripping onto his shoulders.

From his vantage point, he could see the dilapidated buildings lining Crime Alley, their broken windows and graffiti-covered walls illuminated by the sporadic flashes of lightning. The streets below were deserted, the few brave souls out in the storm moving quickly, their faces obscured by umbrellas and hoods. Puddles formed in the uneven pavement, reflecting the occasional flicker of streetlights.

He lifted a gloved hand to his communication device, the wet leather squeaking slightly against the earpiece.

"I'm in my usual position," he reported, his voice steady. "No sign of activity. Just monitoring. Slow night."

"Figured," Nightwing's voice spoke up. "There is a storm."

“Ishth Gotham,” Jason's voice chimed in, muffled as if he was chewing something. “When isn’t there a storm?”

"Are you eating right now?" Tim's voice squeaked with disbelief, the sound sharp and incredulous over the comms. "Again? Really?"

"Yeah?" Jason retorted, taking another bite of whatever he was munching on. "A guy's gotta eat. Maybe if you actually ate more, you wouldn’t be so scrawny, Timberland."

"I'm fit!" Tim snapped back, voice cracking. "And can you please stop using my name? We have codenames for a reason."

"You're the genius who called yourself 'Drake'," Damian scoffed, a hint of amusement in his voice as he kept his eyes trained on the rain-soaked expanse below.

"Demon brat's got a point," Jason drawled, the sound of him slurping a drink faintly audible over the comms. "Harley still calls you Duck-Boy."

"Just focus on the job," Nightwing interjected firmly, his voice slicing through the bickering with an authoritative edge. "Tonight’s a washout. Red Robin and I are on patrol near the docks. We’ve encountered a few low-level crooks, but nothing major."

"Alright," Oracle’s voice came through again, calm and commanding. "Stay on high alert. Let me know if anything changes."

As the communication lines closed, Damian pulled his phone from his belt, the device’s screen flickering to life. For a brief moment, amid the storm and chaos, his steely demeanor softened. A faint, almost imperceptible smile touched his lips as he glanced at the screen.

The lock screen showed a wallpaper of you, cozy in one of his shirts. Your messy hair framed your face as you lay nestled in his arms, a bright, genuine smile lighting up your features.

Damian’s eyes flicked to the screen’s corner, where the time read 1:05 AM. Considering your sleep schedule, he surmised you might still be awake.

He hesitated, his finger hovering over the screen as he debated whether to send you a quick message or make a call. But his thoughts were cut short by a fierce gust of wind that swept across the rooftop, causing his cape to snap violently and sending a shiver through his drenched uniform. He pocketed his phone, shook off the chill, and refocused on the city below, his senses sharpening with renewed alertness.

His gaze swept over the shadowy expanse: dark alleys, rain-slicked roads, and flickering, rusting shop signs.

Then, a sudden, unexpected movement broke the monotony. A flash of red and white streaked across the skyline, its vibrant colors starkly contrasting against the darkened sky. A web shot out, glinting briefly in the intermittent flashes of lightning before anchoring itself to a nearby building.

THWIP.

There was a pause before Damian's lips curled into a sharp snarl. His fingers tightened around the grip of his grappling gun, and his mind swiftly shifted into pursuit mode. With a scowl, he tapped his earpiece.

"Oracle," he began, boots crunching as he moved to the edge of the rooftop. "I have visual on the spider vigilante. Engaging in pursuit. Will update with further details."

Without waiting for a reply, Damian fired the grappling gun. The line shot through the air with a metallic twang, slicing through the rain-soaked night. He felt the jolt as the grappling hook found its anchor, pulling him forward with an exhilarating force. Damian's grip tightened as he navigated the storm, his eyes locked on the red and white streak darting across the cityscape.

He felt a wild energy coursing through him, like a bird unleashed with new wings.

And Robin was ready to do what he did best.

Hunt.

 ༻⊰───⋅

"It's going to take hours to get this smell out of my suit," you heaved, wrinkling your nose as you fired a web into the distant skyline. The line anchored firmly to a building, and with a jarring lurch, you swung deeper into the city. The wind whipped past your face, and your heart pounded in your chest.

Morgan clung to you for dear life, her voice barely audible over the rush of air. “Not the time to worry about laundry! Focus on not crashing into something! And maybe on not dying from the poison?”

"Hey, I’m just saying," you shot back with a strained chuckle, “if I survive this, I’m gonna need to have this suit professionally cleaned.”

Morgan’s grip tightened, and she shouted, “Survive first, clean later!"

With a yank of your web, you aimed for the next rooftop, but as you hurtled through the air, you realized with a jolt that you’d miscalculated the distance. The rooftop was rushing in too fast, and panic surged through you like ice.

Your stomach lurched, and in a split-second decision, you threw Morgan forward, trying to cushion her fall. She landed with a thud, a breathless gasp escaping her as she hit the roof.

You, however, weren’t so fortunate. Your foot snagged the edge of the roof awkwardly, sending a sharp pain shooting up your leg.

CRACK.

The sickening crack of bone snapping echoed through the air as your ankle twisted violently. The force of the impact jolted your entire body, sending you sprawling onto the rough, gravelly rooftop.

“Great…” you muttered through gritted teeth, struggling to push yourself up onto your hands and knees. Your body felt like it was on fire from the inside out, the toxin’s effects amplifying the pain with each passing second.

You bit down hard on your tongue, the metallic taste of blood bubbling into your mouth. You fought to keep yourself upright, but your legs felt like lead, and you crumpled onto the rooftop, unable to fully bear your weight.

Morgan scrambled to her feet, her face a mask of panic and concern. “Are you okay? What happened?”

“Just… a little off target,” you panted, wincing as you assessed the damage. Your visor had taken a hit during the fall, causing the data to flicker erratically, but you could still make out the crucial information: a broken bone.

“It's fine… Just a broken ankle,” you added, trying to maintain your composure despite the sluggishness creeping into your movements. Your once-steady grip on your injured ankle was faltering.

Morgan’s eyes widened in alarm as she took in your condition. “You’re getting brain fog and dizziness. It’s a side effect of the toxin. We need to get you to the safehouse—”

Before she could finish, you shook your head with a groan. “No. You call a cab and head there. I’ll swing.”

“Are you insane?!” Morgan nearly shouted, grabbing your arm in panic. “You can barely stand, let alone swing through the city! We need to get you help, now!”

You pushed her away, trying to ignore the throbbing in your ankle. “It’s not like I have much of a choice. The suit’s tampered, I think. Look.”

You attempted to uncloack, but the metal sputtered and glitched erratically. “See? I can’t uncloack. If you’re seen with me, they’ll find us out in no time. I can’t risk that.”

Morgan’s eyes darted between you and the malfunctioning suit, her face a mix of worry and frustration. “This is all my fault. I’m so sorry. I should have—”

“Stop,” you cut her off, wincing as the pain intensified. “It’s not your fault. Just get to the safehouse. I’ll manage.”

Tears of frustration welled up in Morgan’s eyes. “I can’t just leave you like this!”

“You don’t have a choice,” you said firmly, trying to steady your voice. “If we’re both caught, it’ll be worse. Now go. I’ll be fine.”

With one last, apologetic glance, Morgan pulled out her phone and hurriedly dialed for a cab, her hands trembling.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Damian, concealed in the shadows of the rooftop, landed with a muted thud. He crouched behind the crumbling ledge of an old brick wall, his sharp eyes narrowing as he took in the scene unfolding just a few feet away.

He watched as you struggled to regain your footing, your movements pained and uneven. The girl with you—her features obscured by the relentless rain—scurried around with her phone, her breath forming misty clouds in the chill of the night air. She was clearly a civilian, vulnerable and out of her element.

Damian scowled. Attacking directly now would be a mistake. He needed to ensure that the vigilante was truly alone before making any move.

Damian’s gaze remained cold and calculating as he scrutinized the scene. “Typical amateur,” he muttered under his breath, thinking back to your fall. He leaned against the wall, the rough, damp surface pressing into his back as he crossed his arms. “One would think that basic spatial awareness would be an elementary skill for a vigilante."

After a tense moment, the redhead finally moved and dashed down the fire escape, her figure barely visible through the downpour. Damian squinted through the sheets of rain, straining to catch a glimpse of her features, but the storm blurred his view into an indistinct smear of color and motion.

Then, with a deep, ragged breath, you launched yourself into the night—the sound of your webline slicing through the stormy air.

Damian’s instincts flared. In one fluid motion, he pushed off from the ledge with the grace of a shadow, his cape billowing out behind him like a dark, flowing banner. He darted into the storm, pursuing your fleeting silhouette through the rain-soaked cityscape.

Below, the streets were a chaotic blur of honking horns and glaring headlights, their harsh lights slicing through the darkness like knives. Heavy sheets of rain hammered down, obscuring your vision and drenching you to the bone. Water seeped through the cracks in your suit, each drop feeling like an icy needle against your overheated, feverish skin.

The sensations were overwhelming. It was too much. The pain, the heat, the storm—it was all too much.

Your vision blurred, the world around you swirling in a disorienting haze. The once-familiar skyline now felt alien and hostile, each building a looming giant ready to topple. Your breath came in ragged gasps, every inhale bringing more of Ivy’s insidious toxin into your lungs.

In one desperate swing, you miscalculated the web’s trajectory. It shot out too low, sending you plummeting uncontrollably below.

Cursing through gritted teeth, you were hurled down into traffic. Everything was a blur as you slammed into the side of a car, metal denting and screams deafening your ears. Your shoulder bore the brunt of the collision, sending shockwaves of pain through your bones.

For a brief, suspended moment, everything went dark.

A cold, mechanical voice sliced through the void, its tone harsh and insistent. Maggie’s synthetic voice, though devoid of human warmth, was tinged with urgency.

“Spidey, this is Maggie. Immediate response required. Vitals are critically low. Consciousness levels decreasing. Current status is life-threatening. Please respond.”

Abruptly, your senses snapped back into sharp focus. You jolted awake with a ragged gasp, your breath coming in frantic bursts. Your vision was a fractured mosaic of blinding lights and shadowy figures. The sounds of blaring horns and panicked shouts crashed back into your ears, tires screeching all around you.

Morgan’s voice crackled through the static, panic evident in her tone. “I’m at the safehouse! Where are you? I couldn't reach you! What’s going on?”

With a pained groan, you heaved yourself away from the car, each step a struggle as you limped forward. “Change of plans,” you managed, your voice strained. “I won’t make it to the safehouse in time.”

You tapped the side of your visor, making a map flicker to life through the cracks and glitches. The display was unstable, but it highlighted a route to your apartment.

“You know where my mom's apartment is, right?” you asked, wincing as you spoke. Entering your apartment was risky, but with your condition worsening and death looming, it was the closest refuge you could manage.

"Because that's where I'm heading."

Damian, having swung into an alleyway, observed you from the shadows, his brow furrowing in confusion. He had initially dismissed the earlier fall as a rookie mistake, but your erratic movements now seemed bizarre. It was unlike the precise, practiced maneuvers he had seen in the news footage and CCTV feeds attached to your case file. He would know. He had been tracking your case, analyzing every detail, and this disarray was not what he had expected.

He watched as you struggled to your feet, your legs trembling with each effort to steady yourself. The car’s driver was shouting, his words a distant, indistinct noise amidst the chaos. You muttered hurried apologies, your voice strained and barely audible. Then, you fired another web, using it to pull yourself up and away from the angry crowd and the wrecked car.

Damian cursed under his breath and immediately moved to follow you.

He tracked your erratic path through twisted, narrow streets until he saw you aim for an apartment building. With a quick stretch of your arm, you shot a web toward a balcony, but your aim was off again.

Another sloppily thrown web sent you slamming into the windows of the apartment. The metal edge dug into your ribs with brutal force, knocking the wind out of you. You gasped, your lungs burning as you struggled to draw in air. Pain radiated from your side, and shards of glass sprayed everywhere.

Damian, perched on the rooftop across the street, stared in disbelief. This was Catwoman’s apartment—Selina Kyle’s. The worst possible scenario unfolded in his mind. To him, it looked like a break-in. His jaw clenched tightly, and his fingers gripped the edge of his grappling gun, knuckles whitening with the force of his anger.

Pest.

Without hesitation, Damian leapt into action. He aimed for the fire escape with single-minded intensity, propelling himself toward it with a powerful thrust. His boots hammered against the metal steps, causing them to buckle and the entire structure to groan and rattle under the force of his descent. In the corner of his eye, he saw your figure slip into the window.

Tunnel-visioned and driven by a surge of protectiveness, Damian kicked the door to the fire escape open, the metal panel scraping roughly across the floor. His father would have his head for causing unnecessary public damage—something Robin was frequently under fire for—but at that moment, he couldn't have cared less.

"Was that a crash?!" Nightwing's voice crackled through the comm line.

"I think it's coming from demon brat's side. What's the report, squirt?"

Damian merely growled in response as he began to stalk down the hallway. His tall figure, cloaked in shadows, cast long, dark lines across the floor as he moved. He cracked his knuckles, the sound sharp and menacing over the comms.

The world around him seemed to narrow down to one singular focus: getting to the pest, no matter the cost.

"Someone's about to learn the price of crossing me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

Dazed and disoriented, you slipped into the building, the rough edge of the window scraping against your battered body. As you tumbled through your apartment, you hit the floor with a heavy thud, the impact shaking your entire frame. Your head struck the ground with a thump, stars exploding in your vision.

For a brief, haunting moment, there was silence—deep, oppressive silence. Then, a cold, creeping dread slithered through you.

You clawed at the floor, your body shaking uncontrollably as you desperately reached out.

"Mom? Mom, please! I need you!" Your voice cracked, a raw, fear seeping through every syllable. "Mom, are you there? Please, help me!"

Tears streamed down your face, mingling with the sweat and blood as you cried out into the empty, echoing apartment. The lights were off, casting the space into a suffocating darkness that seemed to press in on you.

Desperately, you stumbled into Selina’s bedroom, your breaths coming in ragged, painful gasps. Your heart sank as you noticed the absence of her suit—no sleek, black leather or signature whip. She must have been out on patrol.

A deafening crash shattered the silence as the door to the apartment was blown off its hinges. Panic surged through you, and you let out a scream. The chaos barely registered before a rough hand clamped down on you, slamming you down. The impact rattled your bones, sending a jolt of pain through your already battered body.

Your vision swam in and out of focus as you were pinned to the floor, a foot pressing mercilessly against your chest. The crushing weight only intensified as the leg lifted and slammed down again, ripping through your metallic suit with a sickening crack. The suit uncloaked, leaving you exposed in nothing but your undershirt and pants.

Pain radiated through your ribs, mingling with the throbbing agony of your injury. Each breath came in ragged, shallow gasps as you struggled to clear the haze from your sight.

Through the dim, flickering light, the outline of your attacker began to solidify. A katana was unsheathed with a chilling rasp, its cold blade pressed menacingly against your neck. The polished steel gleamed ominously, catching the sparse light and reflecting a deadly shimmer. The edge was so close that you could feel its icy touch against your skin, a mere breath away from slicing into flesh.

The thought of that forced you to tilt your head back, exposing more of your neck to the shadowy figure looming over you.

Tall and imposing, the figure was clad in grey and black armor, with a black cape flowing behind them. A red emblem, unmistakably the symbol of an R, was stitched onto their chest.

A cold realization cut through the fog of pain and fear—Robin?

 ༻⊰───⋅

dundunDUN

whatchu think bookiebears

surely the batfam will handle this well

vii. 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, Mentions of overdosing, Pills, Non-sexual intimacy, Mentions of death AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

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 ༻⊰───⋅

The blood drained from Damian’s face, leaving him ashen and hollow. The horrifying truth sank in—you thought he was going to kill you. And he had nearly done it.

“No... no, no, no...” The words tumbled from Damian in a panicked whisper.

He dropped to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, but hesitating, afraid to touch you and cause more harm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, guilt choking his voice. His fingers hovered near your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but hesitant to make contact.

“My sweet girl, you’re safe with me.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

DANGER. 

Instinct screamed louder than thought, flooding your veins with raw, primal fear—a visceral, choking terror that clawed at your chest.

Panic clawed its way up your spine, gripping your heart in a vice, as if every nerve in your body had been doused in ice. The sound that followed, the sickening lurch in your stomach, and suddenly, you couldn’t breathe— 

The blade pressed closer, its cold edge grazing your skin. White slits, the only features visible on Robin’s shadowed face, stared down at you from behind the blur of your vision. The edge of a rain-soaked cape trailed down, droplets mingling with the blood pooling on the floor. 

You couldn’t breathe. You were staring up at your own death, and you couldn’t breathe. 

“Don’t—” 

With a breath that felt like a desperate gasp for air, you crawled away from the blade, pleading for your life in ragged, broken whispers. 

Each inch you moved felt like wading through water, the crushing weight of fear dragging you down. Your helmet had long since uncloaked, and the remnants of your damaged suit clung to you, cracked and broken. Some pieces of the shattered armor lay scattered around. 

That white gaze slithered over the spider emblem on your chest piece, coiled around it, heavy with unspoken realization, before slowly unwinding to meet yours.

“Habibti?” 

For a moment, everything seemed to stop.

“It was you?” Damian’s voice was barely a whisper, laced with horror and disbelief. 

But then his expression shifted, confusion and hurt twisting into something darker. His brows furrowed, and his mouth set into a hard line.

"Why did you hide this from me?" Damian growled, voice rough as if dragged over gravel. His teeth ground together with a harsh, grating sound. As he advanced toward you, his hands shook, the katana gripped tightly in his trembling fingers. His knuckles were white with the strain.

“Why didn’t you trust me?!”  

Your head spun, confusion and fear intertwining—what was he talking about? You couldn’t—didn’t—understand. 

Damian’s boot came down on your chest with a bone-jarring thud, the impact forcing a violent flinch from you. Your torso buckled under the pressure.

“Stop—” you croaked, your fingers digging desperately into the worn leather and scuffed rubber of his shoes.  “What—what’s this about? I—I don’t know what you think you’re doing, but don’t—don’t you dare lay a hand on me!”

Damian hesitated for a fraction of a second, but his anger remained tightly coiled, ready to snap.

With a choked, anguished apology, you summoned your strength and swung at him. The punch landed solidly on his jaw, causing Damian to stumble back in shock. 

Seizing the moment, you scrambled away, but he surged forward with a swift, diagonal slash. The katana sliced through the air with a high-pitched whistle, narrowly missing your shoulder as you ducked and recoiled.

“Ngh!” you grunted as you hit the ground hard on your chest. Turning quickly, you saw Damian drawing his sword up. You paled and curled into yourself.

DANGER. 

Heaving, Damian held the sword up, his breath coming in ragged bursts. Anger consumed him, his entire being trembling with the force of it. But amid the storm of rage, flashes of clarity began to pierce through the haze. He saw the fear in your eyes, the way you shrank away from him.

The katana slipped from his grip and clattered to the floor with a cold, final sound.

CLANK.

The fury that had burned so fiercely began to crack, replaced by dawning horror. Damian stumbled back, eyes wide, chest heaving. What was he doing?

“Fuck,” he rasped, his voice cracking as he knelt before you, reaching out with trembling hands. But you recoiled, pressing yourself against the floor, the fear too fresh, too consuming.

“Please, don’t,” you gasped, voice shaking. “I’m not—please, just don’t... I’m begging you—”

The blood drained from Damian’s face, leaving him ashen and hollow. The horrifying truth sank in—you thought he was going to kill you. And he had nearly done it.

“No... no, no, no...” The words tumbled from Damian in a panicked whisper.

He dropped to his knees beside you, reaching out with trembling hands, but hesitating, afraid to touch you and cause more harm.

“I’m sorry,” he breathed, guilt choking his voice. His fingers hovered near your skin, close enough to feel your warmth but hesitant to make contact.

“My sweet girl, you’re safe with me,” Damian whispered, his voice trembling. He pressed the emergency button on his watch, and an urgent alert blared out, sending a distress signal to the nearest Bat-vigilante.

You wanted to respond, to reach out, to say something. But the panic had you in a vice grip, squeezing your throat and chest, rendering you mute.

“Habibti, you need to breathe,” Damian urged gently.

You shook your head, the motion making the pain flare up again. 

“I—” you choked, “I can’t.”

“Yes, you can,” he insisted.

You squeezed your eyes shut, trying to block out the pain, but it only seemed to make it worse. The fear clawed at your chest, leaving you gasping.

“It hurts,” you whimpered, every breath a battle.

“I know it does, but you have to breathe. Breathe with me.” His tone was calm, grounding you even as you looked up at him through a blur of tears.

Damian’s hands numbed as he started to assess your injuries, pushing down his rising panic to focus on the task at hand. His training took over, and he methodically began an examination. 

He gently tilted your head, inspecting the gash on your brow. Blood smeared across your face, and the cut was deep—likely requiring stitches. He checked your pupils by shining a small flashlight from his utility belt into your eyes to assess for a concussion. Thankfully, none. 

When you shifted and winced in pain, Damian’s attention fell on your leg. He carefully palpated around your ankle, noting the swelling and deformity. 

“Broken,” he murmured.

The tense moment shattered with a metallic clang and the sharp sound of a grappling hook. Damian looked up to see Nightwing’s silhouette framed by the window. Dick’s face turned grim as he took in the scene, his eyes locking onto Damian’s with a look of horror.

“No time for explanations,” Damian said, lifting you from the ground. “We need to get her to the Cave—now.”

“No...” you murmured weakly, your voice barely more than a whisper. Both men turned to you, concern etched deeply into their brows as you struggled to keep your eyes open. Your head lolled back, and the darkness around you seemed to thicken, fueled by the poison coursing through your veins. “The Batcave... it’s too far...”

“Then we’ll bring the supplies here,” Damian grit out. He tightened his grip on you, trying to make you as comfortable as possible. “I’m not letting you go. Not now.”

The conversation between Nightwing and Damian became a muted blur. You felt yourself being carefully lowered onto the couch, strong arms guiding you down. A hand threaded into yours with a reassuring grip.

You took a few deep breaths, trying to muster the strength to reach for the comm link in your ear. Your hand trembled as you raised it, fingers just closing around the device when the door burst open. Morgan stumbled in, breathless and disheveled, clutching a bag tightly in her hand.

Your eyes locked onto hers, and she let out a sigh of relief. “Y/N.”

The moment she spoke your name, Damian paused.

The warmth in his eyes slowly hardened, replaced by a chilling coldness. 

In a heartbeat, he was across the room, moving with terrifying speed. He grabbed Morgan and slammed her against the wall with such force that the impact stole the breath from her lungs.

“Damian! Wait—” you winced, trying to lift yourself off the couch, but Dick was quicker, gently but firmly pushing you back down.

“What the hell are you doing here?” Damian snarled. The words dripped from his lips like venom as he rammed his forearm against Morgan’s ribs. “You shouldn’t be—”

“Holy shit,” Morgan sputtered, cutting him off with a heave. “Did—Did she just say Damian? You’re Robin?”

Damian’s arm pushed harder, his anger unabated.

“Answer me,” Damian snapped. The white slits in his mask glared at her like twin spots of ice. “You’ll explain what you’re doing here before I ensure you regret ever stepping foot in this place.”

“What the hell, dude?” Morgan shot back, pushing against his arm. “What’s your problem? I’m here trying to help!”

Damian’s grip tightened, suspicion deepening. “Help? How did you even find us?”

Morgan met his gaze without flinching. “I followed the signal from her comm link. I’m not here to mess with you, Batboy. And I sure as hell don’t have time for this bullshit! She’s seconds away from dying from poisoning!”

The word struck Damian like a physical blow. His shoulders stiffened, then faltered slightly, revealing a flicker of genuine panic. “Poison?”

Morgan rolled her eyes, exasperation lacing her voice. “Yes, genius. That’s what I said. Now, unless you want her to die on your watch, you need to get the hell out of my way and let me work.”

Damian staggered back, momentarily off-balance as Morgan forcefully shoved him aside. Without missing a beat, she moved to your side, setting her bag on the floor and beginning to unpack multiple bottles and syringes. 

“Hey,” she said, glancing at you with a frown. “How’s it going so far?”

“Trying not to die,” you croaked. 

“Well, try to hold on a bit longer. I haven't even started saving your ass yet.”

Damian and Dick hovered nearby, their eyes following every movement as Morgan set to work.

Her fingers moved quickly as she wiped down your arm with a sterile antiseptic, the scent of alcohol wafting up your nose.

“This is a batch I made following the journal I found,” Morgan explained. She drew a syringe filled with the antidote, the liquid swirling inside. As she gently pierced the needle into your arm, you felt a brief, sharp sting followed by a wave of coldness spreading from the injection site.

Gradually, the haze of disorientation and the crushing weight of nausea began to lift. The world around you came into sharper focus, and a soothing numbness slowly spread through your limbs.

“Stay with me,” Morgan said, tapping your cheek. “Need some painkillers?”

You nodded weakly, struggling to grasp the sudden clarity returning to you. The pain was still present but had dulled.

“Please,” you said, holding out a hand. “I think... I think the toxin’s affecting my healing.”

Morgan reached into her bag and pulled out a bottle of fentanyl, dropping it into your hand. Clutching it tightly, you fumbled with the bottle of pills, your hands trembling. 

Twisting the cap off, you quickly poured a handful of tablets into your mouth. The sharp, bitter taste assaulted your tongue, making you grimace as it spread across the inside of your cheeks.

Both Dick and Damian reacted with strangled shouts.

“Stop!” Damian snapped. He lunged forward, his hands clamping onto your wrists in a desperate, vice-like grip. The pill bottle slipped from your grasp as Damian hurled it away, sending the remaining pills scattering across the floors. “What the hell are you doing?!”

You tried to speak, but the words were lost in a hacking cough that wracked your body. Dick’s face turned ghostly pale as he scrambled to pull some of the pills from your mouth, his hands shaking as he dropped them to the floor.

Morgan, now holding a syringe filled with a second dose, glanced between the two men, her eyebrows furrowing in confusion. To her, it seemed as if they had completely lost their minds. 

You and Morgan exchanged looks of disbelief.

“How many did she take?” Dick demanded, his voice trembling as he grabbed the pill bottle and frantically scanned the label. His eyes widened as he read the text, shifting from confusion to horror. “Holy shit! I think I counted ten! That’s way over the safe dose!”

“That’s far from her limit!” Morgan snapped back. “She needs more, not less! The dosage for her is higher.”

Damian’s face flushed an alarming shade of red, his anger boiling over. A rapid stream of Arabic curses burst from him before he switched back to English with a snarl. “Do you have any idea what you’re doing? Just pumping her full of drugs and hoping for the best?!” 

Damian swatted the syringe Morgan tried to bring closer, snapping, “Your incompetence makes it a miracle she’s still alive!”

“Don’t lecture me, you oversized Boy Scout! She’s not a regular patient. You don’t get the dosage she needs. She’s not like you—” Morgan cut herself off, and shakes her head with a frustrated groan. “Look! Either you help or you get out of my way!”

Damian’s hands twitched at his sides, his fingers trailing dangerously close to the blade strapped to his utility belt. 

Cursing under your breath, you reached out, your hand grasping his wrist. 

“Dames, it’s fine,” you whispered, your fingers resting on his pulse point, feeling the rapid thrum beneath your touch. “Let Morgan do her job.”

“Beloved,” he glowered. “I will not allow this—”

“I’m a meta,” you cut him off.

A meta. You’d never said it out loud before—not like this, not even with Selina or Morgan. The word felt alien, a part of yourself you couldn’t quite embrace or accept, even within your own mind. It was as if naming it made it all too real, too undeniable.

The argument that had just moments ago filled the space with heated voices and frantic movement came to a halt. 

The apologetic look Morgan sent your way stung, intensifying the ache in your chest. She had known, of course—known what you were and had still stuck by your side.

That meant something, didn’t it? That maybe not everyone would see you as a threat. But Morgan wasn’t Batman. She wasn’t the one who held the city’s safety in his hands, who made decisions that could alter lives in the blink of an eye. 

"Fuck," Dick heaved a sigh and began to pace the room, a tense set in his shoulders. Damian’s face twisted into something unreadable as he stared at you. 

Meta. The word bounced around in his head.

Raised in a world of absolutes—right and wrong, justice and vengeance, friend and foe—Damian had little experience with gray areas. 

Metas had always been... complicated. Potential threats, variables that couldn’t be controlled. And now you, the person he cared for most, were one of them.

'What would Father say?' Damian thought as he edged closer, his movements hesitant, as he extended the pill bottle to you. His fingers trembled over the label. The bottle was just a vessel for what you needed, and you took it, swallowing the remaining pills.

As he sank to his knees beside you, his head bowed, his bangs falling over his eyes, he stared at his gloves, now darkened with the blood that had flowed from you.

Batman’s code was clear—protect the city, maintain control, and apprehend threats. If Batman found out—no, when Batman found out—what would Damian do? If Batman decided you were dangerous...

Damian tips his face into your side and sighs.

With the human barrier out of the way, Morgan resumed her work, administering the dose. The sting of the syringe was a distant sensation, barely registering through the fog in your mind.

“So...” Morgan murmured, the words heavy like syrup and lathered with forced lightness as she finished administering the tenth and final dose. “You guys into birds or something?”

You managed a small, tired smile and nudged her shoulder.

Damian lifted his head, meeting Morgan's gaze with a blank, white stare.

“What?" Morgan frowned. “You two show up with bird costumes and expect me not to ask questions? I need to know if this is some sort of family tradition."

The tension in the room began to ease, the atmosphere shifting from the intense panic of moments ago to something almost resembling normalcy—as normal as two vigilantes and one spider person could get.

You took a deep breath and slowly sat up, despite the weariness pulling at your limbs. Damian immediately moved to stop you, but you waved him off with a tired sigh.

“I’m fine,” you insisted. “Fast healing.”

Your eyes scanned the wreckage of the room, taking in the damage. The shattered window was a jagged lattice of sharp edges, with fragments scattered across the floor like deadly confetti.

“Mom’s gonna kill me,” you muttered, the weight of it all finally hitting you.

“Let’s focus on getting you back on your feet first,” Morgan said, shrugging. “The window can wait. Plus, I’m pretty sure we can come up with a good excuse. Maybe blame it on a freak bird accident?”

You glanced at the two men in the room. 

“Oh, it’s definitely a bird accident,” you quipped, the double meaning not lost on them.

Morgan rolled her eyes playfully, though her gaze softened with genuine concern. She moved toward a nearby closet, retrieving a broom and dustpan. “I’ll, uh... start cleaning up.”

The room fell into a quiet, contemplative silence. Dick stood there for a long moment, his eyes lost in thought. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with an emotion that was hard to pinpoint, his gaze flicking between you and Damian.

“So...” he began, the word hanging in the air. “What happened?”

Damian seemed to collapse inward, his shoulders curling as guilt bubbled up within him. He grumbled softly, moving to slip off his domino mask. As it came away, vibrant forests met your gaze with smudged black eye paint still clinging to his lids. 

Turning away, you sighed and ruffled your tangled hair, finding the motion oddly comforting. The persistent itching in your ankle and ribs was a constant reminder that your healing factor was still at work, not yet finished mending the damage from your earlier crashes.

"A lot," you replied, biting your lip as you addressed Damian. "Why did you...? I... I thought you were coming after me because of, uh, what I’ve been doing at Ivy's, but... I just don’t understand. Why? Why did you—"

Damian's head whips up, his jade eyes blazing. "What? I—You never told me you were a vigilante."

You blink at him, stupefied. "I did! I told you the night of the dinner!"

Damian’s eyes widen in disbelief. 

“No, you didn’t. You mentioned—” He stumbles over his words. “You only said you were—” His voice trails off as his expression turns grave. His lips press into a thin line, realization washing over him.

“Oh.” The single word is barely audible.

“You—” he stammers, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to find the right words but failing. “I— I can’t believe this.”

Beet-red, he shakes his head vigorously, trying to dislodge the weight of his own mistake. 

“It’s my fault. I misunderstood. I didn’t realize...” As he trails off, his face flushes a deeper shade of red, blotchy patches spreading across his cheeks and forehead. He’s clearly mortified, his eyes cast downward as if he could sink into the floor to escape this. 

“What?” you sputter, completely bewildered.

Damian groans, burying his face into his knees. “I thought you were being hunted down...”

You jump in surprise and let out a soft scoff, placing a soothing hand on the back of his head and gently running your fingers through the scrape of his undercut. “Damian, seriously? You thought I was being hunted by my own... what, my secret identity?”

He nods against the kevlar of his suit, voice muffled and strained. “I thought... you were in danger. I didn’t realize— I didn’t make the connection.”

Dick, watching this whole exchange, finally lets out a huff and nods. “We all thought you were in danger. Guess we jumped the gun a bit. We were convinced you were being targeted by some rogue vigilante. Not exactly our finest hour.”

You turn to Dick with a weak, unintelligible croak. “And what, you didn’t think to double-check?”

“I am aware of how ridiculous we look right now.”

You wince as you lift your fingers to your temple, massaging it gently. Peering down at Damian through your lashes, you glare. “Ugh. You know... you threw me against the floor pretty hard...”

“I did not mean to hurt you,” Damian seethes, mouth dry and throat tight with regret. “But please, help me understand. What’s really going on?”

“You didn’t exactly make it easy to talk about everything when you slammed me into the ground,” you mumble, a hint of petulance creeping into your tone.

You know you’re being petty, but you feel justified. You rub your temple a bit harder, trying to chase away the pain.

His eyes flash with hurt, and you instantly taste bitterness in your mouth.

“I did not intend to be so forceful,” Damian says, his voice strained. “It’s just... with everything happening, I’m scared. I need to know what’s going on, Y/N. Please.”

Seeing the sincerity in his eyes, you lean forward, pressing your hands together. “Okay, let's go over everything, yeah? ”

You start to remove whatever was left of your armor, letting it clatter to the floor with a dull thud. Rolling up the sleeves of your undershirt, you extend your arms, revealing the small dots on your wrists.

“I got bitten by a radioactive spider,” you begin. “Trained for a while. Months, actually. Been Spidey ever since. Lately, the media’s been calling me Nightcrawler. I’ve been stopping muggings, robberies, saving Morgan—twice, by the way. She saved me after I got shot. Then blackmailed me into letting her be my ‘guy in the chair. Then I infiltrated a shipment tied to Black Mask. Morgan built me this new suit. I got interviewed while lifting a helicopter with one hand, and... yeah, I ended up getting velocity edits on TikTok. Then, we hit up Poison Ivy’s old warehouse tonight, and Damian tried to hunt me down. And... here we are.”

Damian stares at you, his expression unreadable. Dick remains frozen, caught off guard. Morgan shifts awkwardly, reaching into her pocket and slowly pulling out her phone, waving it in the air.

“Do you guys want to see the edits?”

You shoot her a withering look.

“Shut up,” you groan, throwing a piece of your armor at her.

Morgan ducks, her phone clattering to the floor. Pouting, she picks it up with a scoff. “Alright, alright. I get it.”

She shoves the phone back into her pocket with a huff. “No more distractions.”

“So…” Dick crosses his arms. “You’ve been doing this alone? All this time?” 

“Not alone,” you clarify, glancing at Morgan. “Morgan’s been helping me. Keeping me sane. And... I’ve had Selina’s guidance.”

“And good thing too,” Morgan adds, her voice taking on a more serious note. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a small, sleek device—a handheld scanner designed to detect injuries.

You straighten up, already familiar with the drill. Morgan’s device emits a soft, rhythmic beep as she runs it over your body, her eyes flicking to the screen.

PEPPER’s voice begins to speak, calm and clinical. “Regenerative healing is in progress. The antidote is fully effective, expected to take effect in about 30 minutes. Current injuries: broken ribs, fractured ankle, head gash, deep abrasions, and internal bruising. Estimated healing time: 7 hours. A bath is recommended for disinfection.”

Morgan, visibly relieved by the update, ruffles her hair and shuts off the device with a satisfied click. She looks around, trying to gauge the mood. 

“Well,” she says, “you heard her.”

“I’m never going to get tired of hearing PEPPER,” you smile, wincing slightly as you toe off your flats

Morgan rolls her eyes but manages a small smirk. “You hear her every week,” she retorts, shaking her head.

Footsteps thud heavily across the wooden floor as you stride across the room. The blood has been wiped off the floor, and the shards of glass are gone, but the broken window still gapes open. Explaining that to Selina later is going to be hell.

"You guys should head out," you murmur, glancing back at them. "Mom will be back soon."

Damian’s jaw tightens, and he takes a step closer. “I’m not leaving.”

Morgan huffs, crossing her arms. “Mm… No way. I’m staying put.”

Blinking slowly at the two of them, you grumble, “Yeah, I expected that.”

Turning to Dick, who’s been standing off to the side, you raise an eyebrow, silently pleading for some backup.

“I’ll… go,” Dick finally says, holding up his hands in surrender. “It makes more sense if both of them are here, but not exactly me.”

You nod appreciatively, a flicker of relief crossing your face. 

Dick moves toward a non-broken window but pauses, casting one last glance over his shoulder.

“I won’t tell B.”

“I know,” you murmur, offering him a faint, resigned smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes.

“But… he’ll know eventually.”

“… I know.”

Dick’s nod carries the weight of the unspoken, a silent agreement between you. He steps onto the sill, the night air brushing past him, and the curtains flutter gently in his wake. The soft rustling of the fabric is the only sound as he disappears into the darkness.

You take a step towards the window to close it, but Damian strides over, cutting you off as he shuts it for you. His movements are quick, almost too quick like he’s trying to protect you from even the smallest of tasks.

You raise an eyebrow at him, caught between amusement and exasperation. 

“You’re still injured.”

Oh boy. You can already feel the arguments bubbling up, ready to spill out—reasons to defend your choices, to insist that you’re fine, that you can handle it. But the fight drains out of you before it begins. You’re too tired, too worn down from everything that’s happened.

“Alright,” you murmur, opting for a softer approach, hoping to defuse the tension before it flares. Your eyes drift to the remnants of your suit, lying crumpled on the floor, torn and battered. “Hey, Morgz. Can you handle… that?”

Morgan follows your gaze to the suit, then nods. 

“Sure thing,” she replies, already moving toward it in fix-it mode, likely running through a mental checklist of what she needs to do to patch it up.

Turning back to Damian, you step closer, slipping your hands over his shoulders. His muscles are coiled tight beneath your touch, like springs wound too tightly. 

You give his shoulders a gentle squeeze, your fingers pressing into the solid muscle, trying to ease some of the tension, even if just a little.

“As for you… we really need to get changed,” you say, a hint of a smile tugging at your lips. “We’re soaking the floors here.”

Damian nods silently, his gaze softening as he follows you into the apartment’s bathroom. The door clicks shut behind you, sealing off the rest of the world.

With gentle hands, Damian reaches for your undershirt, his fingers brushing against your skin as he helps you peel the damp fabric away. The material clings stubbornly, but he works patiently, careful not to rush or cause you any discomfort. Finally, the shirt comes free, and he lets it fall to the floor.

He kneels down, his hands steady as he slips your leggings down your legs, his touch light and deliberate, as if he’s handling something fragile. Once the clothes are off, he lets them drop with a soft thud, his eyes flicking back up to meet yours.

Without a word, he turns to the shower, twisting the knob until water rushes out in a steady stream. Warmth seeps into the air, the foggy mirror reflecting the both of you in a hazy outline. 

Damian wastes no time unclasping his cape, letting it fall to the floor in a dark, heavy pool. He then quickly strips out of his tunic, the fabric clinging stubbornly to his skin before he pulls it off with a yank. 

The tunic lands in a crumpled heap beside the cape, and your gaze is drawn to the red "R" emblazoned on his uniform. Your eyes lift to find Damian’s bare chest revealed—bronze skin etched with hard-earned muscle and a long, faded scar that traces a path across his ribcage. 

Tugging his hands up, you began to slip off his gloves, the dark stain of blood transferring to your own skin. The crimson smear seeped down your fingers, dripping onto the bathroom floor and forming dark, splotchy patterns on the tiles. 

When the blood was gone from his hands, you didn’t let go. Instead, you held onto his hands, feeling the slight tremor in them. 

You stayed like that, holding his hands until the shaking subsided, until the tremors ceased and the strength you knew he had began to return to his grip. 

Damian tightens his grip on your hand and pulls you under the shower with him, the warm water cascading over your bodies in a soothing wave. It’s a relief, the heat working its way into your sore muscles, washing away the grime, blood, and sweat from your skin. 

For a moment, neither of you speaks. 

Silently, you trace a nail along a scar on his collarbone. The only sound is the steady patter of water against tile.

"I'm going to start patrolling with you."

You feel a muscle twitch in your jaw as Damian says that.

"Damian, you're not patrolling with me."

"Yes, I am."

"Damian, no."

"Damian, yes," he insists. “I'm coming with you. I've seen Gotham, and I've been doing this much longer than you have."

“Rub it in. Okay,” you scoff. 

“Beloved, I’m trained for this.”

“I’m perfectly capable of handling this on my own.”

“That’s not the point. You can’t predict every danger.”

He’s not backing down. And you know, deep down, that this isn’t a battle you’re going to win.

With a strangled groan that rumbles up your throat, you lean into his chest, the warm, solid presence of him offering a small comfort. 

“Ugh. Fine, but I’m the one who gets to pick out the patrol routes.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 3:02 AM - Crime Alley, Gotham City.

A whip drags across the crumbling floor of the rooftop, its leather coiling and uncoiling with each step, like a serpent following its master. The sharp clicks of heels against the roof echo through the stillness of the night.

A bag, stuffed with Selina’s latest haul, is slung casually over her shoulder, the weight barely slowing her down. The contents shift with each step, the muted clink of stolen treasures singing to her. 

She hums a low, sultry tune, the sound barely more than a whisper against the backdrop of the city’s quiet. Her gaze sweeps across the rooftop and lands on her apartment building. Her eyes narrow at the sight of a broken window. 

The playful melody dies on her lips, her steps slowing to a halt. “Seems a stray found its way in.”

With a quick flick of her tongue against her teeth, she leaps down to the fire escape.

The faint creak of metal under her heels is the only sound as she crouches. The sight that greets her sends alarms ringing in her head—the door to her apartment is kicked open, the metal railing bent and dented, signs of a struggle or a forceful entry.

Selina creeps closer, moving silently as she readies herself. But suddenly, she freezes. The sound of voices drifts through the walls, muffled yet unmistakably clear.

"—f we like... cut off your hand, do you think it'll grow back?"

"I dunno. Wanna try cutting my hand off, Morgz?"

"What?! Habibti. No. Absolutely not."

"But think about the science! What if her arm grows back, like, full-on lizard style?"

"Yeah, but what if it grows back all freaky? Like, what if I end up with two thumbs or something?"

"Or better—what if you grow back a tentacle?"

"Oh my God. I could totally kick ass as a walking calamari."

"Are you two out of your damn minds? I forbid it. We're not amputating anything."

"Killjoy."

Selina walks in, her eyes narrowing as she takes in the scene. The three of you are curled up on the sofa, with a ridiculous TV show playing in the background that no one is actually watching.

Her gaze locks on Morgan, and she quickly realizes she needs to keep her presence discreet. With a swift glance around, she silently slips into her bedroom.

Moments later, she reemerges in civilian clothes. She steps back out of the apartment, pretends to head down the hallway, then doubles back and quietly slips inside once more.

Damian is the first to notice her, and he immediately tenses, like a kid caught doing something he shouldn't.

"Do I even want to know what's going on here?" Selina asks, one eyebrow arching as she looks at the three of you.

Damian straightens up, attempting to look composed.

Morgan smiles sheepishly, "Hello, Miss Selina."

You shift uncomfortably, letting out a sigh. 

“Hey, Mom.” You nod towards the broken window, and Selina’s gaze follows. “So… um, things got a little out of hand tonight.”

Selina's eyes flick between the broken window and the three of you. "You think?

She tries to shut the door behind her, but it barely clings to the frame, tilting awkwardly on its splintered hinges. The wood creaks in protest, a low groan that echoes through the room as she shoves it into place.

Damian flushes, his shoulders hunching as if trying to make himself smaller, knowing full well he’s the one responsible for the damage. You place a reassuring hand on his thigh, tapping gently, hoping to ease his embarrassment. 

The knowing look Selina sends him suggests she’s already pieced together what happened.

Moving toward you, Selina gently cradles your face in her hands, her nails lightly tracing over your injuries.

“Hey ma,” you murmur.

You lean into her touch, feeling the exhaustion of the night seep away as her warmth envelopes you. She meets your gaze with a tender, concerned look, her eyes brimming with both worry and motherly affection.

"What happened to your face?" Selina starts. Her eyes flick from the bruises on your arms to the bandaged cut on your forehead, then to the dark circles under your eyes. "And what the hell did you do to my apartment?"

You wince a bit under her touch but try to shrug it off nonchalantly. “Oh, this? Yeah. Yeah, I was… uh, fixing the window.”

“Fixing the window?” she repeats. “Why? You do know we have repairs scheduled monthly?”

“Whaaat?” you gasp, playing up your confusion. “I mean, I’m sure it needed it. Maybe.”

“It wasn’t even broken before I left. Did you break it on purpose just to fix it?”

You blink, looking baffled. “Seemed like a good idea at the time?”

“Um, hi! Mrs. Selina,” Morgan chimes in, her tone awkward. “Actually, you see, we’ve got this event at Stark Industries coming up. We were, uh, testing some new tech, and it didn’t go exactly as planned.”

You jump in, nodding vigorously. Morgan discreetly hands you a small gadget, which you hold up for Selina to see. “Right. I didn’t expect it to work as well as it did. We were hoping for a few tweaks, but it kind of... overperformed.”

Selina eyes the gadget and shakes her head. “Overperformed? Is that what you’re calling it now?”

Morgan hums. "Yep, pretty much. The tech’s still in beta, so it’s got some quirks.”

Selina just nods, clearly unimpressed. "Still. Did you have to experiment in my apartment? I still remember that time you overcharged a set of batteries for a project and nearly blew up the kitchen."

You cringe, rubbing the back of your neck. “That was in fourth grade.”

“Ten-year-olds don’t typically run experiments on household electronics and nearly blow up the kitchen. That’s when I knew something was wrong with you,” Selina says, her gaze drifting to Damian, confusion gradually clouding her features. “And why is he here?”

“I’m helping with the project and the funding,” Damian quips, the lie slipping off his tongue like honey as he glances at you for confirmation. “Isn’t that right, beloved?”

You nod, playing along. “Yeah, that’s right.”

Selina’s eyes narrow as she processes this. “Isn’t Stark Tech rich enough to cover all of this?”

Morgan shrugs casually. “Oh, sure, Stark’s handling the main tech stuff. But Damian’s covering the extra costs—like her decorations and outfits for the semi-formal event.”

Damian steps in, his tone polite but firm. "Precisely why we came to your apartment, Miss Kyle. I was hoping to ask for your permission to take her out tomorrow. We’ll be shopping for her gown. And if you’d like, you could join us."

You blink, caught off guard. "Uh..."

Selina considers Damian’s question for a moment, then shakes her head with a sigh. "No can do. I have a... job arranged tomorrow. And I need to get that—" she points to the broken window with a frown—"looked at."

Ruffling her hair in frustration, she turns back toward her bedroom. "You have my permission, though. Just please—don’t turn my apartment into a lab next time."

"Okay! Thanks," you rush out, your voice a bit too eager. "Love you, Mom!"

Selina pauses at the doorway, humming in acknowledgment. She casts one last, assessing glance at the mess, her eyes narrowing slightly, before slipping into her room and muttering about needing to call a repair service again. 

As the door swings shut behind her, you let out a quiet sigh of relief, feeling the tension slowly ease from your shoulders.

Morgan turns to you. "That was close."

“Too close,” you agree, then turn to Damian with a scowl. “What the hell? You realize we actually have to go shopping tomorrow, right?”

Damian hums, his gaze settling on you with that infuriatingly charming smolder—dark, intense, and undeniably attractive. “Yes, I do.”

You groan, rolling your eyes. “Are you doing this to try and make up?”

Damian’s expression shifts, a flicker of something dark crossing his face. It boiled his blood to think about this, but he had a habit of torturing himself over mistakes.

“It’s the least I could do,” he murmurs. “I almost…”

He trails off, lost in thought. His gaze turns distant, haunted. “I thought, if I could at least do something—anything—to make up for it, maybe it would help... even a little.”

You reach out, placing a hand gently on his arm. 

“Nope. None of that,” you hush him softly. “We’re moving forward. We both are.”

Damian nods slowly, his shoulders relaxing a fraction. You rub his arm soothingly, then turn to Morgan with a raised brow. Morgan shrugs and holds up her hands in a mock surrender.

“The tech event is a real thing,” Morgan says, her tone matter-of-fact. “You didn’t think the internship was just a cover-up for all of this, did you?”

“Seriously? You guys actually have an event planned?” you ask, disbelief creeping into your voice.

“Yep. It’s the real deal and going to be a big deal. The whole fancy gown and decorations? Totally legit. We just had a few... detours so I couldn’t tell you.”

“What?” you groan, frustration mounting. “You didn’t tell me about this. I don’t even have a project ready to show!”

Morgan waves a dismissive hand, her grin widening. "Don’t worry, I’ll help with that. You still got a week and you’re a genius. The event’s about showcasing potential, not just completed projects. We can work something up, no sweat."

You roll your eyes. "Great, so we’re officially winging a multimillion-dollar internship offer that every single press outlet in Gotham is covering. No pressure, right?"

“Yep.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Saturday, 4:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The elevator doors slide open with a soft whoosh, revealing the dimly lit tech area of Stark Tower. You and Morgan step out, with Damian trailing behind, his arm wrapped firmly around your waist. 

Despite your protests about your healing ankle, he supported you the entire way here. The pain is mostly gone, but Damian’s insistence on playing nurse seems stronger than your actual injury.

Though you can’t help but notice the way he’s gripping you—a bit too tightly for comfort.

The three of you step out of the elevator and begin walking down the corridor. The air is crisp and slightly cool, carrying the faint scent of metal and polished surfaces. 

“Dad wants you to give the opening speech, by the way,” Morgan says, threading her fingers through her hair as she leads you both around a turn in the hallway. 

“Seriously? I’m not really a speech person,” you reply, knocking your shoe into hers. “Why don’t you do it instead?”

Morgan flashes a knowing smirk as she turns to walk backwards, facing you. “I’d love to, but Dad’s adamant about it. He’s all about that ‘new face of Stark Tech’ thing.”

A shudder of disgust visibly ripples through Damian.

“A marketing ploy,” he sneers. “Stark’s fully aware the media will devour the drama between our rival companies and turn it into a spectacle. Of course, Wayne Tech never needed such gimmicks to maintain its edge.”

Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Nah, I think he just wants to adopt her.”

The three of you turn a corner and enter a grand space where the hallway opens up into a wide, two-story room. Despite the hour, the floor-to-ceiling windows flood the area with a soft, muted glow from the city lights outside. 

At the center of the room, Tony lounges casually on one of the plush sofas. Gadgets and tools are strewn about him, and he’s engrossed in tinkering with a small device. He looks up as you approach, adjusting his glasses.

“Hey, kids. Didn’t expect you back so soon.”

“Hey, Mr. Stark. Fancy meeting you here,” you murmur, trying to keep the mood light despite your exhaustion.

“I live here, kid.” Tony wipes his hands on a rag, tossing the gadget onto the coffee table in front of him. Crossing his arms, he leans back against the couch. “Who’s your little boy toy? You cheating on Morgan now?”

Damian’s face flushes with irritation, his jaw tightening. You can’t help but snort and rest your cheek against Damian’s shoulder, your grin widening at his discomfort.

“This is the famous Daryll,” you snark, giving Tony a sidelong glance.

Tony’s gaze bores into Damian, taking in the dark, brooding aura that seems to cling to him like a second skin. The kid looks like he’s stepped straight out of a Twilight movie, with those piercing green eyes smoldering beneath furrowed brows, carrying a weight far beyond his years.

It didn’t help that Damian was also the son of a billionaire. Tony remembers him from his younger years—back then, he was a pipsqueak, a sharp-tongued brat who acted like he owned the world.

Now, he’s taller, lean, and strong, with a coiled tension in his frame. That same intense, self-assured vibe still lingers, but it’s darker now, more honed like he’s seen too much and come out the other side more dangerous for it.

“Nice to meet you, Twilight Reject,” Tony says, pushing himself up and extending his hand to Damian. "Put 'em up."

Damian’s eyes flick to Tony’s hand with a look of absolute revulsion, as if it were some particularly vile insect. He hesitates for a moment, then grudgingly extends his own hand. His grip is firm, almost painfully so, as if he’s trying to crush the perceived insult out of Tony’s hand.

“It’s Damian. Damian Wayne,” he says, drawing out and emphasizing his last name, the irritation barely masked.

"Yeah. I know who you are," Tony scoffs, turning to you with a raised brow. “What’s the deal? Did you lose a bet or something? You're dating someone with all the personality of a damp towel."

“It’s called having standards, something you might not be familiar with,” Damian snaps back, his tone biting.

You sigh, sliding Damian's arm off of you and wincing slightly as you put weight on your uninjured foot. Stepping between the two of them, you raise a hand in a placating gesture. “Alright, alright! Let’s not turn this into a pissing contest.”

“It’s been a rough night, and we all need some rest,” Morgan interjects, her tone weary as she empties her jacket pockets, gadgets clattering onto the table. She tosses her backpack across the room, where it lands with a heavy thud.

Gesturing toward the sleeping quarters, she adds, “Can we save the bickering for later? They’ve got somewhere important to be tomorrow.”

Tony squints. “And where exactly are you two going?”

“Tt…” Damian tilts his head towards the man. “We have a dress appointment scheduled for tomorrow. Naturally, I’m covering all the expenses.”

“A dress appointment, huh?” Tony steps closer, his hand resting on your shoulder. “Well, someone’s got to make sure Sneakers here doesn’t end up in a ditch, so I’m coming along, Daniel.”

“It’s Damian,” he corrects. “And no, that won’t be necessary. We can handle it on our own.”

“Zip it, Dylan. I’m the one organizing this shindig, so I’d like to ensure my top intern doesn’t end up looking like a rag doll.”

Damian’s lip curls slightly. “If you insist on being there, then I’ll have to bring my father along as well. As her top donor, he should oversee it too, don’t you think?”

You blink, caught off guard. That’s a stretch. Bruce Wayne’s never actually thrown cash at your extracurriculars—though he’s tried, insisting on it more than once. Even tried to sneak you and Selina money through some probably illegal wire transfer, but you never took it.

“Oh, please. Anyone can throw money around,” Tony retorts. “He’s not special.”

“Well. If you have a problem with that,” Damian murmurs coldly, “you’re welcome to voice it to him. Tomorrow.”

Tony coughs, barely stifling his laugh. “Oh, I’m sure I can handle some prissy playboy,” he says, clapping his hands together. “Can’t wait to see how that goes.”

Your brow creases in concern.

Oh, you really don’t want to see how that goes.

 ༻⊰───⋅

IM SO SORRY ITS LATE! HAD TO REWRITE A SCENE BC THE DRAFT GOT LOST :(

Next chap out soon </3 It's the weekends so it'll be quicker

Also I'm gonna rework some of the earlier chapters :P (Just tweaking writing a little no plot changes at all)

viii. a little death

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: MILD SMUT (will put indicators if people want to skip), Established relationship, Wounds, Violence, Suggestive jokes, Doppelgangers AO3: yenwayne SERIES LINK: gotham's only spidey

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 12:13 AM - Stark Tower, Gotham City.

The rhythmic clacking of a keyboard filled the room, and you drowsily turned over from your spot on the bed. The sheets were tangled around you, a soft blanket of warmth. Damian's thick, powerful arms were wrapped around your shoulders and waist, his touch grounding and secure. He shifted beside you, his fingers mindlessly tracing gentle patterns up and down your back, a soothing rhythm against your skin.

Across the room, Morgan was propped up at your desk, her messy hair pulled back with a headband, a few stray tendrils falling across her face. Her eyes were fixed on the laptop screen, where a Google document was open, lines of text spilling across the page. She cradled a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, her concentration evident.

After returning to the tower yesterday, you and Damian had practically slept through the entire morning—this one however... 

You groaned, burying your cheek deeper into the pillow as you tried to block out the light from the laptop and the her typing. 

“You bitch. Do you ever sleep?” you grumbled, your voice thick with sleep as you rubbed your eyes with the heel of your hand.

Morgan gave you a lopsided grin, the steam from her coffee curling around her face like a comforting fog. “Sleep? What’s that?”

You rolled onto your back, stretching your limbs. “That’s usually my line.”

She shrugged, taking a sip of her coffee. “I know. Just kinda hyper tonight,” she said, her fingers dancing across the keyboard as she continued typing.

"By the way,” she hummed thoughtfully, “what kinks do you think Nightcrawler would have?"

"..."

You could feel Damian’s confusion even before he spoke. "Excuse me?" he blinked at her, squinting as if he’d misheard. “Why on earth would you ask that? And why now, of all times?” “I’m writing fanfic,” she replied matter-of-factly, still typing away. “Ooh! You’re her boyfriend. What kind of freaky stuff do you think her hero-sona would be into?”

You stifled a laugh, propping yourself up on one elbow and enjoying the show. “Choking kink.”

Damian, who had been leaning against the headboard, choked on his own spit. His eyes widened in shock, his face turning a deep crimson. “What?!”

“Don’t play dumb,” you snickered, enjoying the way his skin turned redder by the second. “I know you knew this one.”

Morgan stared at the two of you with a blank expression, a flicker of something inscrutable in her eyes before she quickly shook it off. She returned to her typing, the rhythmic clacking of keys filling the room once more.

“That’s so basic,” she huffed. “Give me a better one. I need something with a little more flair.”

You tapped your chin. “Bondage, then. Webs, remember?"

Damian's face turned an even deeper shade of red as you mentioned webs, his mind going haywire.

Morgan’s fingers paused mid-keystroke as she considered your suggestion. A slow, mischievous grin spread across her face. “Web bondage? Now that’s more like it,” she said, quickly typing it in. “I can work with that.”

“I’m surrounded by lunatics,” he muttered.

Morgan grinned wickedly. “Lunatics, maybe, but this is going to be one hell of a fic. And don’t worry, Dames, I’ll make sure Robin gets some action too.”

He shot her a glare. “Don’t. You. Dare.”

“There are ships of us already?” you blink, surprised. 

Morgan coughs into her hand, an odd twist in her face. “There are ships of everyone these days. People have imaginations that just don’t quit. "

“I had no idea," you blinked in surprise. "What do they call it? SpideyBird? WebWing?”

Damian looked disgusted. “Why do they even need a name for it? Why are people spending time on this?”

You patted Damian’s shoulder reassuringly. “At least they’re rooting for us to be together, right?”

Morgan just shrugged that off and continued to write, “The fanfics of you are pretty fresh, only around 100 works so far but the edits…” 

Groaning, you shut your eyes as Morgan began to fumble for her phone, a mischievous grin plastered on her face.

“Do not show me—” you started, but before you could finish, the audio began blaring from her phone.

Well, come and get it now Come and get it now Baby, show me what you're doing Come and turn around 'Cause it's not just a figure of speech You got me down on my knees It's getting harder to breathe out

“MORGAN!” What?” she laughed, thoroughly enjoying the moment. “You can’t tell me this hot.” Curiosity got the better of you, and you couldn’t help but peek at the screen. The video was a shaky close-up, showing you leaning against a car, your hair tousled and your armor cracked. You were breathing heavily, your head thrown back. 

The slow zoom and the matching lyrics made the whole thing look way more intimate than it actually was. You could almost see why someone might think it was "hot," but that didn’t stop the wave of embarrassment from flooding through you.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” you groaned, burying your face in your hands. “That is horrible. I was literally on the brink of death. Was that from last night?” “Yeah,” Morgan nodded as she replayed the clip. “Your fans ate it up. Apparently, it’s going viral.”

Damian, who had been eerily silent throughout the entire exchange, finally broke his silence. “Where is that on?”

You immediately yanked your hands away from your face, your eyes wide with disbelief. “No. Don’t even think about it.”

“Tiktok,” Morgan answered casually, a hint of mischief in her tone. To your horror, Damian pulled out his phone

“Don’t you dare!” you warned, but it was too late. Damian was already typing your codename into the search bar. 

As the search results loaded, an edit began to play, and you felt your face flush with heat. The chosen song only seemed to amplify the humiliation. 

Touch me, yeah I want you to touch me there Make me feel like I am breathing Feel like I am human

Damian, smirked, liked the video and saved it.

“STOP!”

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 8:06 AM - Gotham City.

"..."

"..."

"Why—"

"Don't—" you seethed, sinking deeper into the plush leather seat of Tony’s limousine. The soft leather creaked under your weight as you clenched the armrest, your knuckles turning white. "Don’t even say a word."

Damian pressed his lips together, suppressing a smirk. 

His gaze drifted over your outfit—no, the uniform you’d been practically forced into. The Stark Industries cap perched on your head was like a crown of corporate shame, its logo glaring down at you from the brim. Your shirt clung uncomfortably to your torso, the bold emblem stretched so tightly across your chest it might as well have been tattooed on. Even your sneakers were branded with that obnoxious red logo.

You felt like a sellout.

“You look stunning,” Damian said, barely holding back a laugh as he glanced over at you from his seat across the limo. 

“Stunning?!” You shot him a scowl, the edges of your mouth twitching downward. “I look ridiculous!”

“Why didn’t you just wear—”

“I couldn’t!” you snapped, jabbing a finger at Morgan. “This fucking ginger goblin threw my clothes out! Now I’m stuck as a goddamn billboard!”

“Oh, boo-fucking-hoo," she mocked, turning to you from her spot in the limo, sprawled comfortably on the cushions. Her fingers casually brushed against the plush fabric as she spoke, “Don’t shoot the messenger. Dad’s idea, not mine. He wanted you to have a ‘fresh look.’”

You turned to Tony, who was lounging at the far edge of the limo, his dress shoes propped up against one of the seats. He was absorbed in his phone, mindlessly scrolling through this week’s gossip. Occasionally, he chuckled to himself, completely oblivious to the steam practically pouring out of your ears.

Fighting the urge to choke-slam him right then and there, you spoke up “What the hell is this all for, anyways?”

Tony peered up from his phone and grinned, “Oh, come on. It’s a marketing move. There’s going to be paparazzi and everything. We thought it’d be fun to put you in our new line of promotional gear.”

“Fun? You think this is fun?!”

“It’s not like we’re asking you to wear spandex,” Morgan snickered, her eyes drifting to meet Damian’s. He shot her a glare in response. “It’s just a little branding.”

“I’d almost rather be wearing spandex,” you grumble, pressing your cheek to the cool glass of the window. Your breath fogs up the surface, creating a clouded view of the city beyond.

Morgan whistles. "That's a sight I'd love to see."

You roll your eyes. The cityscape outside rushes by, a blur of towering buildings and streaks of light blending into a hazy, indistinct swirl. Outside, the world seems distant, almost unreal, as if you're moving too fast to truly grasp any of it.

“By the way, you’re going to hate me, but…” Morgan spoke up again, reaching into her bag. “I also brought a jacket.” She held out a sleek, branded jacket that perfectly matched the rest of the outfit.

You slammed your head into the glass and vowed to burn every Stark-branded item you owned.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 8:14 AM - Wayne Tower, Gotham City.

Bruce wondered if it was too late to file for unemployment.

He sat at the head of the conference table, his eyes glazed over as he stared at the middle-aged man droning on in a monotone voice. The man's garish mustard-yellow tie jerked awkwardly with each exaggerated gesture, as if trying to bring some life to the dull presentation. His glasses, too large for his face, inched down his nose with every movement, threatening to fall off completely.

“—as you've all been aware, we've been facing issues regarding our stolen drone flight technology due to criminal activity in the—”

The slides projected onto the screen, filled with graphs and charts, were melding into an endless stream of data that felt like it was slowly turning his brain into mush. Bruce barely registered them. Instead, his mind was a million miles away, lost in a fog. He let his attention drift to the ceiling tiles, idly counting the tiny imperfections as the briefing continued. 

TICK. TOK. TICK. TOK.

He glanced at his watch, stifling a groan as he saw only a few painful minutes had passed since he last checked. The meeting, as usual, felt like a slog, but today was particularly grueling. 

His thoughts kept drifting back to the text he received last night. Damian had invited him to your dress shop appointment today, telling him he would be covering the bill. Without a second thought, Bruce agreed and sent his card over—and if Alfred hadn’t intervened, he might have ended up buying out the entire boutique in his enthusiasm.

Could you blame him?

Much like Selina, you were stubbornly independent—always managing on your own, even when you needed support. It was a trait that made him proud, but it also left him wishing he could be more involved in your life.

If Bruce were a better man, less emotionally constipated as he often chastised himself, he might have reached out more. He might have asked if you needed to talk, offered his support more openly, and bridged the gap that seemed to widen with each passing year.

But he wasn’t that man. He was the one who held back, kept his feelings guarded, and let the distance grow because he didn’t know how to close it.

Adding salt to the wound, Stark would be there too, intruding on what should have been his time with you. 

An absolute diva. That man had a way of dominating any room, leaving little space for anything—or anyone—else. It wasn’t just Tony’s overwhelming presence that irked Bruce, but how effortlessly Stark seemed to connect with you.

In just a few months, Tony had managed to get closer to you than Bruce had in years. Where Bruce held back, Tony leaned in, closing the gap he couldn’t seem to bridge.

To make matters worse, Stark had already gotten a head start. Although Bruce would have loved to pick you up himself, he was stuck in this meeting he couldn’t cancel again—he’d already rescheduled it thirteen times.

Which is why, the moment the clock hit 12, he was already on his feet, pushing his chair back and making a beeline for the door.

"Sir, we still need to discuss—" mustard tie stuttered, but his protest was cut short as Bruce, without turning or breaking his stride, raised a hand and dismissed him with a flick of the wrist.

“Contact my secretary if you need anything,” Bruce called over his shoulder, his tone leaving no room for debate. The matter was closed.

“I’ll handle whatever needs to be done tonight,” he said, shutting the door firmly behind him.

And he would. Bruce had already gathered a significant amount of data on Black Mask and the recent robberies plaguing Wayne Enterprises. Although the case had taken a backseat amid the chaos with the spider vigilante, it was time to refocus. The priority now was to tackle what truly needed his attention.

As he stormed through the hallways, the lens of a nearby CCTV camera tracked his movements.

The camera’s feed flickered momentarily. The image on the screen sputtered and glitched, revealing fleeting glimpses of different worlds—flashes of varying times and places. Colors bled into one another, shapes twisted and warped, and for a brief, disorienting moment, the image seemed to fracture, as if reality itself was breaking apart.

Then, as suddenly as it had begun, the glitching ceased. The feed stabilized, leaving only a faint trace of the anomaly that had briefly unsettled the surveillance system.

Bruce jabbed the button for the ground floor and slid into the elevator. 

The lens refocused, but he was already out of sight.

 ༻⊰───⋅

The vehicle glided to a stop in front of a gleaming marble building, and you all stepped out, heading toward the entrance. The interior was as opulent as the exterior promised. Marble floors gleamed underfoot, and glass walls reflected the polished attendants who moved gracefully in their sharp suits. Nearby, customers mingled and laughed, their designer outfits adding vibrant splashes of color to the sleek surroundings. 

Your attention was drawn to the sleek signage behind the lobby desk, where a name was displayed in elegant gold lettering.

“La Ouvere.”

French. Expensive. So luxurious it practically oozed excess. Because, of course, this was the place Tony chose.

Grumbling, you adjusted your cap to hide your face. 

You couldn’t believe he made you wear company merch to a place like this. 

CLAP.

You looked up just in time to see two rough hands slam together in a handshake, the sound sharp and echoing through the lobby like a gunshot. Tony and Bruce exchanged pleasantries, their faces stretched into wide, almost painfully forced grins.

"Bruce! Good to see you," Tony started, his voice oozing with practiced charm. "I’ve got to say, I am a huge fan of your recent striptease at the Iceberg Lounge."

"Ha." Bruce’s reply was tight-lipped. "Tony. Always a pleasure."

The handshake lingered a beat too long, both men gripping each other’s hands like they were trying to see who could squeeze the other’s bones into dust first, daring the other to flinch.

Bruce placed a hand on your shoulder with a fatherly air. “I’m glad you saw great potential in her. I’ve always known her to be quite the achiever from a young age.”

Tony wasn’t about to let that go uncontested. He quickly slid his other hand onto your shoulder,  “Well, if anyone’s been pushing the limits and achieving great things, it’s definitely been her.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed slightly. “And it’s all thanks to the support system. After all, it’s not just about talent but the environment that nurtures it.” He gave your shoulder a pat, adding, “Despite the struggles, her aunt raised her well—you just get to reap the benefits. Haha. Not everyone can rely on billion-dollar labs to get ahead.”

“Well, thanks to me,” Tony says, giving your shoulder a shake (again with the shoulders thing.) “I’d say she’s got plenty of both now.”

The testosterone in this room was so thick you could practically taste it.

“Alright,” you shake your head, gently removing their hands from your shoulders. “Lovely. Nice. Wow. Can we like, go inside now?”

Tony tossed you a quick glance and said, “Right. Lead the way.”

Bruce gave a curt nod. “Of course. After you.”

They both reached for the door handle at the same time, their fingers colliding in an awkward, fumbling dance. For a split second, they froze, locking eyes with a mutual glare.

Seconds dragged on, feeling like hours. Neither man budged. Their hands, now tangled together in a bizarre and clumsy struggle, seemed locked in an absurd standoff. Tony’s fingers began to subtly shift, attempting a stealthy maneuver to slip underneath Bruce’s grip. But Bruce wasn’t having any of it. With a deliberate twist of his wrist, he countered Tony’s advance, blocking the move with a firm slam.

Another minute stretched out, each second heavier than the last.

You couldn’t take it any longer.

“Are you two having a staring contest?”

"..."

"..."

Tony blinked first, cursing softly under his breath. Bruce’s smirk broadened, twice as smug than usual.

“Oh my god. Just move!” you exclaimed, throwing your hands up in frustration. “We’re here to shop, remember?”

The two men released the door handle simultaneously as if startled out of their petty contest. Tony stepped aside with a flourish, giving a dramatic sweep of his arm. “After you, mademoiselle.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

“These are the choices given to you by Mister Stark and Mister Wayne. Social event, oui?” the attendant says, her tone professionally neutral despite the clearly forced, fake French accent. She smooths down your black undershirt, ensuring it's perfectly straight before presenting the options.

She holds up the first suit: “Deep scarlet. Rich, saturated color—like fine wine. A luxurious wool blend. Two-piece. Tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Streamlined silhouette. French cuffs.”

Then she displays the second option: “Now, dark silk. Smooth, so smooth—like velvet in night. Classic sheen, very elegant. Three-piece. Also with tapered trousers, invisible stitching. Slim silhouette. Barrel cuffs.”

With a smile, she adds, “Both have their own magic, non? What shall you choose for the grand affair?”

“Uh,” you gape like the peasant you were, eyes darting between the two suits which seem nearly identical apart from their color. You barely caught onto the details the attendant pointed out.

As you wrestle with your decision, snippets of the conversation between the two men outside drift through the curtain.

“Sometimes, a classic black suit just gets the job done,” Bruce interjected. “It’s timeless and professional, never out of place.”

Tony retorted, “Oh, sure, blending into the background is so exciting. Why not go for red—loud, in-your-face, and impossible to ignore? It’s a damn statement.”

Bruce’s voice grew sharper. “I don’t know if you’re the right guy to make that call, considering the atrocity you dressed her in today,” he said, gesturing toward the Stark Industries merch discarded on the couch in the dressing room.

“Uh, says the guy who thinks monochrome is the pinnacle of fashion. Please, get real asshole. This is a hell of a lot better than your boring black blobs. Grow up.”

“You grow up,” Bruce shot back.

You roll your eyes and spot another suit hung up on a nearby wall—a deep emerald green. “What’s that one?”

The attendant perks up. “Ah, cette tenue! I apologize, it slipped my mind. This one was provided by the young gentleman with you. I should have mentioned it earlier.”

She holds the suit up to your chest, carefully examining the fit and adjusting the sleeve to ensure it drapes just right. 

“Three-piece suit with pattern. Jacket is single-breasted, notch lapels, welt pocket. The trousers are flat-front, slim fit, with sharp crease. The vest has five buttons, V-neckline, tailored fit. Very technical, very structured.”

You nod, satisfied. “This one. I like this.”

“Oh, magnifique! Excellent choice!” 

She quickly helps you into the suit. First, she slides on the vest, adjusting the straps at the back for a snug fit. Next, she drapes the jacket over your shoulders, smoothing out the fabric and aligning the lapels. Finally, she fastens the trousers, making sure the fit is right and the sharp crease is aligned.

You step out from behind the curtains, and every eye in the room locks onto you.

Morgan's face drops. “She chose the puke color.”

"Wow. Thanks. Really feeling the support here," you scoff, adjusting the sleeves. 

Turning to Damian, you raise an eyebrow, and it's only then that he truly registers what he's seeing. His expression softens gradually as he takes you in. The hard lines of his face are still there, but now they seem gentler, softened. 

You give him a small smile—nothing grand, just a subtle curve of your lips. But you know that even the smallest smile from you is enough to unravel him.

He watches, mesmerized, as you twirl slightly in front of the mirror. The suit hugs your figure perfectly, accentuating every curve.

“This was the boyfriend's pick," you say, flicking and straightening the lapels. Morgan's head snaps up. "I picked it because it matches his eyes, and honestly, I couldn't deal with your guys' arguing any longer.”

"Tt," Damian’s lips curl into a smirk, and he gestures for you to come closer. You step to his side, feeling the warmth of his hand as it rests gently over yours. With a subtle twist of your wrist, your fingers intertwine naturally, fitting together like they've always did.

Tony huffs, shaking his head. “Alright, well, whatever makes you happy. You look snug as a bug, kid.”

“Uh. Arachnid. Not a bug,” you correct him.

Bruce blinks in confusion, his brow furrowing as he tries to make sense of the interaction, clearly missing the joke.

He shakes his head and gestures to a waiting attendant, who approaches with a tray holding three boxes. The attendant opens the first box, revealing a necklace that catches the light and glints brightly. They lift it out, its shine almost blinding, and place it carefully on the counter.

“If you'd like,” Bruce smiles, “I’ve also picked out some accessories for you.”

The attendant then moves to the next box, lifting the lid to reveal a set of matching earrings, which they arrange neatly on the counter. They proceed to the third box, opening it to reveal a bracelet that sparkles just as intensely as the necklace. The attendant sets everything out with careful movements, arranging the pieces in a neat row.

You hold the necklace up to the light, blinded. “This is... a lot of sparkle.”

Turning to the attendant, you ask, “What’s the damage?”

“The necklace is priced at $250,000,” they say with a smile that’s more tightrope than genuine. “The earrings are $150,000, and the bracelet is $300,000.”

You blink, your mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water, the numbers swirling in your head.

“What the actual fuck?” you blurt out, carefully setting the necklace back in its box with the reverence of someone handling a live grenade. “That’s… definitely not in my budget.”

Tony raises an eyebrow. “Don’t worry about it. It’s just money. If the price is too much, I can always—”

Bruce cuts him off with a grunt. “No need. I already have the check ready.”

"What?!" You turn to Bruce, shaking your head. “No! No one is buying me more than the suit! I appreciate the gesture, but this is way too overboard.”

"It's not that much, beloved," Damian hums, reaching for the earrings and holding them up to your face. "The necklace I bought you for your 18th cost twice of these combined."

Your eye twitches in disbelief. “You... you told me it was of ‘reasonable price.’”

“It was.”

“How much did you pay?!”

Damian remains silent, avoiding your eyes.

“Damian. Thomas. Wayne—”

Before you can finish, Damian calls over one of the attendants with a casual wave. “Excuse me? We’ll take all of this.”

The attendant, looking a bit taken aback but eager to please, nodded quickly and began arranging the items. You stared at Damian, your eyes practically burning and searing a hole through his stupid undercut.

“You can’t be serious!” 

Damian simply smirked, leaning closer. “Consider it a small gesture for someone who’s worth every penny.”

As you continued bickering, Morgan’s gaze lingered on the scene, her chest tightening with an unsettling, heavy feeling. She could feel something bitter and heavy rising in her chest, and she turned her eyes away, hoping that if she didn’t see it, she could ignore the way it made her feel, that gnawing ache she wished she could forget.

But then she heard your voice, soft and inviting.

"Morgan?"

It was like a lifeline, pulling her back to the present. She turned to you, forcing herself to meet your gaze.

"Can you tell them that I do not need this?" you asked with a groan, your smile radiating warmth. It was the kind of smile that could light up any room, even as your eyes drifted to the glimmering jewelry with exasperation. “They’re completely insane.”

Morgan forced a small smile of her own, the kind that didn’t quite reach her eyes, and shrugged slightly. 

“I don’t know,” she said softly. “I think they’re onto something. You’re worth every penny. More than any of this could ever show.”

The words came out easy enough, but underneath, she could feel the bittersweet edge of them, something she kept buried deep where no one could see.

 ༻⊰───⋅

Sunday, 10:24 PM - The Safehouse, Gotham City.

Shot through the heart and you're to blame Darling, you give love a bad name An angel's smile is what you sell You promised me heaven, then put me through hell

Music played from her speakers. The lab was dimly lit, illuminated only by the soft glow of various screens and the occasional flicker of a monitoring light. Morgan sat at her workstation, the faint blue light of the holographic display casting a ghostly glow on her face. She was surrounded by a sea of tools, schematics, and half-finished projects, but her attention was miles away from the work at hand.

The thought of how you looked at Damian earlier haunts her deep into the night. 

Morgan’s fingers tapped absently on the console, her gaze distant and unfocused. She tried to lose herself in her work, hoping the details of her projects would distract her from the ache in her chest. But every time she glanced up at the screen, it felt as if her mind was dragging her back to that moment.

It didn't take a genius to see that she had feelings for you.

Woah, you're a loaded gun, yeah Oh, there's nowhere to run No one can save me, the damage is done

On the screen, the potency of the toxin you were exposed to a day ago was being processed. Ivy's old journal lay open in front of Morgan, serving as a reference for comparison.

As she scanned the data, a troubling pattern began to emerge. The readings were unstable, fluctuating wildly and suggesting incomplete or inconsistent results. Hours melted away as Morgan poured over the data, her eyes darting between the fluctuating graphs and the notes in the journal.

An odd, unknown element kept appearing in the results. It was an anomaly.

"This is not supposed to be here...?" Morgan mumbled, scratching at her head.

The journal’s pages fluttered as she flipped through them, desperately searching for any mention of similar anomalies or clues that might explain the glitch. Ivy’s notes were dense with technical jargon and cryptic observations, but none of it seemed to align with the strange data she was seeing on her screen.

BEEP.

Morgan’s head perked up, her attention snapping back to the screen. The familiar, rhythmic pulse of data had been interrupted by a sudden alert.

Element Detected: 𝑜̥̊⃝𝑠̥̊⃝𝑏̥̊⃝𝑜̥̊⃝𝑟̥̊⃝𝑛̥̊⃝

She squinted at the glitching display. The screen flickered and distorted, displaying an unfamiliar string of characters. The text was unlike anything she had ever seen before.

The computer screen continued to flicker violently, lines of code merging into chaotic patterns. Cursing under her breath, Morgan fought to stabilize the screen. Her fingers flew over the keyboard, desperately trying to recalibrate the system.

After a tense few moments, she managed to clear the worst of the glitching. The flickering subsided, and the screen settled into a more manageable state.

Was that someone trying to hack in? The thought crossed her mind with a jolt.

She scrutinized the security logs, reviewed firewall activity, and cross-referenced access records, but found no concrete evidence of a breach. The logs were clear. Everything seemed normal—no unauthorized access, no signs of tampering.

But the unknown element was still there, stubbornly staring back at her from the screen.

Morgan ran her tongue over her teeth, a habit of hers when deep in thought. 

Alright. So. Every sci-fi movie warns against messing with unknown chemicals. And this is definitely one of those “don’t touch” moments. But what’s life without a little risk? Besides, it’s not like she hasn’t faced weird before. 

Problem was… the data on her screen right now was like trying to read a recipe from a cookbook that had been chewed up by a dog—completely useless. If she wanted answers, she’d have to get a closer look.

Morgan quickly set up a new data extraction protocol, isolating the unknown element. The process was slow and tense, but gradually, the substance began to take shape on the screen, its properties becoming clearer with each passing minute.

Once she had successfully isolated the element, she moved on to the next phase: synthesizing it into a serum. With a gloved hand, she carefully heated a glass flask on a burner and began adding the unknown element to the mix, watching as the contents started to react.

The silence was abruptly shattered by a sharp crack that split the air. Morgan’s eyes widened in shock as she saw thee glass flask on the burner shatter into jagged pieces. The once-clear liquid inside had turned into a dark, burned residue, and what was left was a blackened crust coating the inside of the flask.

"Great. Just great," Morgan muttered under her breath. She reached for the shattered glassware, cradling it gingerly in her hand. But as she did, something bizarre began to happen—the flask itself seemed to glitch.

The glass started to flicker and warp as if it were a malfunctioning image. It shimmered and pulsed with an otherworldly light, surface fading in and out of focus, struggling to maintain its form.

"What the fuck?" 

Her eyes stayed glued onto the flask. The constant flickering was starting to give her a headache, a dull throbbing that grew more intense with each passing second. She squinted, hoping to stabilize her vision, but the distortions only seemed to worsen.

Amid her growing confusion, she started to hear faint whispers—strange, disjointed voices that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. The whispers were so low she could barely make out their words, but their presence added to the sense of disorientation that was creeping in.

An unexpected impulse tugged at her—a sudden, inexplicable urge to take the serum. Her hand trembled slightly as she considered the syringe lying on the nearby counter, a dark thought creeping into her mind. 

She stared at the flask, her gaze mad.

A part of her wanted to see what would happen if she followed through with the intrusive thought. 

Then, in a sudden, jarring shift, the erratic glitching reached a peak. The flask’s distortion became so intense that Morgan could barely make out its shape. She snapped back to reality, jolted by the sheer intensity of it all. Her senses were overwhelmed, the whispers louder now, almost shouting in her mind.

In shock, her hand lost its grip. The flask slipped from her fingers and shattered on the floor, the blackened remnants scattering across the lab.

CRASH!

The sudden noise of breaking glass cut through the disorienting haze, and Morgan’s breath came in ragged gasps as she stared at the mess before her. 

The strange impulse had vanished as abruptly as it had appeared.

The glitching that had plagued the flask started to spread outward, expanding like a ripple through the air. Her eyes widened in disbelief as the distortion grew larger, forming a swirling vortex in the center of the lab. 

The portal-like disturbance expanded further, and out of it, a shadowy figure began to emerge. First, it was just a hand, reaching through the glitching void. It grasped at the air, solidifying into a more defined shape. Morgan's heart raced as the figure pulled itself further into the lab.

"Shit!" she exclaimed, as the figure's hand closed around her arm. The touch was cold and otherworldly, sending a shiver down her spine. She struggled against the grip, her heart pounding as she tried to pull away.

With a sudden, violent shove, the figure tossed her back. Morgan crashed into her workstation, slamming painfully into a shelf, sending tools and equipment clattering to the floor. 

Her eyes darted back to the figure, now fully emerging from the glitching portal. 

The intruder was clad in dark green armor, nearly black in the dim light, with a purple shawl draped over their shoulders and a hood shadowing their face. They wore goggles and a mask that concealed their features, lending them a menacing, almost robotic aura. Despite their height and build matching Morgan’s, there was a palpable strength in their movements, an unspoken threat in the way they stood.

The portal behind them flickered and closed, sealing off the strange rift from which they had emerged.

Morgan scrambled to her feet, adrenaline coursing through her veins. She clenched her fists, trying to steady herself as she faced the intruder.

“Who the fuck are you?!” she demanded. Every instinct screamed at her to run, but she stood her ground, ready to fight if she had to.

The masked figure remained silent, their gaze—hidden behind those reflective goggles—locked onto Morgan. They slowly tilted their head down, taking in the sight of the shattered remnants scattered across the lab floor. 

Morgan followed their gaze and noticed the scattered pieces of a hoverboard. She recognized it immediately from the fragmented components. The design was eerily similar to the one she had in development herself—a project that had been pushed to the back burner.

The intruder’s attention then shifted to the broken glass and the unknown element still displayed on her screen. A soft click of disapproval escaped from behind the mask as the figure nudged the broken hoverboard aside with a booted foot.

“Shame,” they murmured, their voice low and laced with something almost like regret. “I came a minute too early... You should have taken that serum first. You were supposed to. It would have made this easier for both of us.”

Morgan swallowed hard, her heart pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what they meant, but she didn’t want to find out. The figure took another step closer, closing the distance between them.

“Who are you?” Morgan pressed. “And how did you even know about that?”

The figure paused, considering her for a moment before answering. “Who I am isn’t important. What matters is what you could have been—what you were supposed to become.”

Morgan’s mind raced as she tried to make sense of the cryptic words. This wasn’t just about the serum—there was something bigger at play. She took a step back, trying to put more distance between herself and the intruder, but the figure only followed, matching her movements like a shadow.

“Don’t worry,” they said softly, almost mockingly. “I should know better than anyone that you would want answers.”

Morgan’s heart skipped a beat as the figure’s gloved hand slowly reached up to their mask. The tension in the room was suffocating, each second stretching out endlessly. The mask and goggles came loose with a soft click, and as they were removed, Morgan’s breath caught in her throat.

It was her.

Her own face stared back at her, a perfect reflection, yet not. There were differences—subtle but unmistakable. The other Morgan’s eyes held a cold, calculating gleam, their hair was longer and pin-straight compared to her short curls, and their lips curved into a smirk that sent a shiver down Morgan’s spine.

“I'm Morgan Stark,” the doppelgänger said, voice eerily familiar yet laced with something darker, something twisted. “But in my universe, they call me the Green Goblin.”

Morgan felt numb. The words didn’t make sense, and yet they explained everything. 

“What... what do you want?” Morgan’s voice was barely above a whisper, the shock of seeing her own face—so twisted and malevolent—making it hard to think straight.

The Other Morgan—the Green Goblin—tilted her head, studying Morgan with a mix of amusement and pity. “Isn’t it obvious?” she said, taking a step closer. “I’m here to make things right. In my world, I perfected the serum. I became something more, something powerful. But in this universe, you... you were just about to throw it all away.”

Morgan shook her head, trying to process the flood of information. “This... this isn’t possible. How can you—”

“Exist?” the Other Morgan interrupted, a cruel smile curling on her lips. “Multiverse theory, sweetheart. Infinite versions of you, of me, of everyone. Even our beloved Spidey. In my universe, I figured it out. Became a goddamn genius... and a bit of a monster, too. Here though? You’ve barely scratched the surface.”

“I don’t care what I—you’ve done in your world!” Morgan’s voice shook with defiance. “You don’t belong here. You won’t get whatever it is you’re after.”

The Other Morgan smirked. “Oh, but I already have. I didn’t come here to take anything. I came to see what I could have been if I hadn’t chosen the path I did. And honestly,” they scoffed, flicking a piece of Morgan’s hair, “I’m disappointed.”

Morgan’s fists clenched at her sides. “Get out,” she spat, her fear giving way to anger. “Get out of my lab, out of my life. Now!”

But they just laughed, a chilling sound that echoed in the small space. “You still don’t get it, do you? I’m not going anywhere. I didn’t come all this way just to walk away empty-handed. If you won’t take that serum, then...”

Before Morgan could react, her doppelgänger lunged toward the remnants of the shattered serum with blinding speed. Morgan scrambled to intercept, but her doppelgänger was faster. In a swift, brutal motion, they slammed Morgan down onto a nearby table, the impact knocking the wind out of her.

Morgan struggled against the hold, but her alternate self was stronger, pinning her down with ease. The twisted grin never left their face as they reached for a syringe. 

Morgan watched the charred solid remnants of the serum begin to twitch and quiver, as if responding to the presence of the syringe. To her horror, the blackened crust slowly liquefied, transforming back into a thick, dark fluid that oozed toward the tip of the needle.

"Shh," the Other Morgan cooed, voice dripping with mock tenderness as they drew the serum up into the syringe. The liquid swirled ominously inside, as if alive with a malevolent intent. “You’ll thank me for this in the future.”

Morgan thrashed, trying to break free, but her alternate self only tightened their grip, leaning in closer.

“Don’t worry,” the Other Morgan whispered, bringing the needle closer to Morgan’s skin. “This is a canon event, sweetheart. This is the part where you become more than just a bystander. This is where you become unstoppable.”

They leaned down, eyes glowing an eerie green. “This is where we kill Robin.”

“No!” Morgan's scream pierced the air as she slammed her knee into her doppelgängers gut, the sudden impact causing them to stumble back.

The Other Morgan staggered backward, clutching their midsection with a pained gasp. Morgan seized the moment, pushing herself off the ground and scrambling for any advantage. Her pulse raced as she darted towards a nearby workbench, grabbing a wrench and holding it defensively.

Scoffing, the Other Morgan recovered quickly, rising to their full height with their long hair cascading over their face, obscuring their features.

"First off, I’m not some fucking homewrecker," Morgan gasped, her breath coming in sharp, uneven bursts as she took a defensive step back, wrench clutched tightly. "And second, you’re insane! Spider’s happy with him! Do you honestly think she’ll fall for you after everything you’ve become?"

“You think you can stop me?” Other Morgan snarled. “You have no idea what you’re up against.”

“I know enough,” Morgan said through gritted teeth, trying to steady her trembling hands. “And I’m not going to let you hurt anyone.”

The Other Morgan’s lips curled into a smirk.

With a swift flick of their wrist, they threw a small device onto the floor. It hissed and released a dense cloud of smoke that quickly filled the room. Morgan’s vision blurred as she squinted, trying to make out the figure through the thickening haze.

Suddenly, a sharp, electric crackle pierced the smoke, followed by a powerful jolt that knocked Morgan off her feet. The room spun around her as she struggled to rise, her head throbbing from the shock.

Before she could fully recover, she felt a tightness around her wrist. She looked down to see a watch strapped onto her, its face glowing ominously. As she tried to make sense of it, a swirling portal began to materialize around her, its edges flickering with an eerie green light.

“Why don’t you take a trip to my universe for a bit?” the Other Morgan taunted, their voice dripping with malice. “I’ll handle things here while you’re gone.”

Morgan tried to protest, but the portal’s force was too strong. The edges of her world warped and twisted as she was yanked into the swirling void.

As she disappeared into the vortex, she heard a faint, mocking laugh. 

The portal closed with a swoosh, leaving an eerie silence in its wake.

The Other Morgan turned their gaze to the workbench, their eyes locking onto a pair of scissors lying casually on the counter.

“Alright,” they said with a chilling smile, “first, a haircut.”

 ༻⊰───⋅

They say you’ll be bitten by spiders no less than 500 times in your lifetime, and you probably won’t even notice 95% of those bites.

Spiders might not affect most people that much.

Damian, however, would have a different opinion. He’d also like to punch those people in the face

Tonight, as Robin swings through the city, his gaze is locked onto you. You dart between skyscrapers with a grace that seems almost effortless. Your Starktech suit, still in for repairs, has you back in your old black kevlar—sturdy, reliable, and showing signs of wear.

Damian, out with you for what was supposed to be a routine patrol and sweep, is seeing your skills up close for the first time. He watches as you maneuver through the urban jungle with an ease that both impresses and frustrates him.

He finds himself pacing alongside your swings, trying to stay close—not just to keep an eye on you but because he’s half-expecting to be called into action at any moment. Watching you is like witnessing a high-wire act where the safety net has mysteriously vanished. Moments ago, you executed a daring twist and jump that had Damian’s heart lodged firmly in his throat. He was practically holding his breath, bracing himself for the sickening thud of a broken leg—or worse—only to see you land on your feet with a carefree laugh.

But then, without warning, you yelp and take a sharp turn, diving into the open air. The sudden change sends a jolt through Damian, and his heart skips a beat as he watches you fall fast.

“Nightcrawler!” he shouts, his voice barely audible over the rush of wind. His grappling hook fires with a crack, and he rockets toward you, every muscle straining as he fights the pull of gravity.

Just as you’re about to hit the ground, Damian’s gloved hands wrap around your front, pulling you into his arms with a fierce grip. He tucks you close, bracing for impact. You slam against the wall of a nearby building with a jarring thud, Damian’s boots taking the brunt of the landing. The impact shakes him to his core, but he holds you tightly, shielding you from the collision.

Heaving, he immediately tucks a strong arm against your back, holding you against him. “Are you—”

You burst into laughter, your arms wrapping around his neck as you press your cheek against his. “Did you see that? I pulled off a perfect dive!”

Damian’s breath comes in sharp bursts as he steadies you both, his eyes scanning for any signs of injury. “You imbecile! What were you thinking? You could have broken your neck.”

You pout playfully, brushing a stray lock of hair from Damian’s mask. “I was having fun! Come on, I wasn’t actually going to fall.”

Damian shoots you a glare that borders on murderous. "Fun?! Fun isn’t worth risking your life."

His fingers dig into your hips as he continues to hold you tightly against him, his muscles tensed like a bowstring. "And you did fall—nearly landed on your face. If I hadn't been there, you'd be eating through a straw right now."

You tilt your head, wrapping your arms around his neck. “Uh. But you were there.”

Damian narrows his eyes, his tone dripping with frustration. "Do you get some perverse pleasure out of scaring me to death?"

"Maybe," you drawl with a teasing grin.

Even with his anxiety cranked up to eleven, he can’t help but feel a surge of warmth for you. The irritation in his eyes softens, revealing a flicker of affection.

“You talk and do too much,” he grumbles, though his actions speak louder than his words. As he starts to guide both of you up to a nearby rooftop, his grip remains firm and protective. 

He’s climbing with you in his arms, every muscle straining under the effort. You can’t help but whistle at the impressive display of strength, watching as his muscles ripple beneath his suit with each movement. 

“Tsk,” he scoffs as he hauls both of you up onto the rooftop, setting you down gently.

Once you’re safely on solid ground, Damian steps back, creating a respectful distance between you. As he stands against the backdrop of the city lights, his figure is dramatically framed by the glowing skyline. His cape flutters behind him like a dark, billowing flag, enhancing his imposing silhouette. Robin stands tall, masked, and cloaked in shadows—dark and lean.

You grin coyly at him, your arms tucked behind your back as you take a few steps closer. 

“My hero,” you tease playfully, your fingers trailing gently up his cape.

The gesture almost immediately disarms Damian, his irritation momentarily forgotten.

He snatches your hand away from the fabric, his fingers wrapping around yours in a firm grip. “Is this a joke to you? I am in no mood for your games tonight,” he grumbles, running a hand through his hair as he turns his gaze to the city skyline. He bends down, squatting on the rooftop, the city lights shimmering below and casting a soft, ambient glow over the scene.

You follow him, bending down to wrap your arms around his shoulders and drape yourself across his back. Leaning in, you press a soft kiss to his jaw through your mask, the gentle touch warm against the cool night air.

Damian’s shoulders relax slightly under your embrace, and he closes his eyes momentarily, savoring the closeness. For a moment, he considers chastising you, but the feel of your body pressed against his back makes the words die on his lips.

Instead, he lets out a sigh and shifts his position, guiding you so that you slide down his back into his lap, your legs draped on either side of his hips.

“You know,” he murmurs, “you’re not making it easy to stay upset with you.”

“That’s the point,” you whisper, your breath warm and teasing against his skin. 

“You’re going to be the death of me,” he says, moving to stand and pulling you up with him. 

You giggle, your fingers trailing down his chest, light and teasing. Your claws graze over the contours of his suit, scratching at the armor that covers his chest and abs. The sensation is electric, sending shivers through both of you.

“Careful,” Damian rumbles, his voice a low growl as he grabs your hands once they reach his waist, his grip firm but not unkind. You’re getting a rise out of him, in more ways than one.

You lean in closer, wickedness dripping from your lips. “When have I ever been careful?”

Damian’s eyes narrow, the heat in his gaze intense as he draws his face inches from yours. "You never are. You are a reckless, impulsive, and downright idiotic woman." 

“Yeah,” you press your chest against his, your voice low and teasing. “I get that a lot.”

"And you just love proving them right, don’t you?" he says, his voice low and laden with both warning and something else.

“Is that a threat, Robin?” you whisper, your voice dripping with challenge. Flicking your wrist up, you web his chest and pull him down. 

He crashes into you, his body pressing against yours. His hands fly to your thighs, gripping the supple flesh there.

A smirk spreads across his face. "Merely a promise."

Without another word, Damian tugs your mask off and closes the distance between you, his lips crashing onto yours in a fierce, heated kiss. His mouth moves with a possessive intensity that sends a shiver down your spine, his tongue teasing yours as he pulls you closer, leaving no space between your bodies.

You feel the low rumble of his moan vibrating through your chest, a sound that only fuels the fire between you. As your hands tangle in his hair, you suddenly notice something that makes you pause—he’s smirking against your lips.

He’s smirking. The fucker is smirking.

Grinning against his lips, you pull back just enough to murmur, “So my Spidey thing turns you on? Or is it the webs?”

"Keep talking like that and I'll have to shut you up," he grunts, his voice rough with desire before he silences you with another kiss, this one deeper, more consuming. His grip tightens as he claims your mouth again, leaving no doubt about the effect you have on him.

He presses you back, and in the heat of the moment, you take a step backward with more force than intended. Your injured ankle lands awkwardly, sending a jolt of pain shooting up your leg. Despite being healed, it still ached every now and then, and this was one of those painful reminders.

You pull away with a sharp hiss, unable to stifle the reaction. 

Damian's concern for you immediately eclipses his previous frustrations. His hands find your hips, steadying you to prevent you from putting too much weight on the injured foot.

“What happened? Did I—”

“It’s just,” you wince, carefully adjusting your stance, “just my ankle. It’ll be fine.”

"I thought you said you were healed," he fusses.

"Guess I thought wrong."

"I wouldn’t have let you out with me tonight if I’d known you were still having trouble. You should have told me it was still bothering you." he scolds.

You frown, your voice softening as you look up at him. "I just... I just wanted to spend time with you. Are you mad?"

Damian’s expression softens with an almost pained look as he carefully gathers you in his arms, lifting the weight off your injured ankle. 

"Mad? No, I'm not mad," he hesitates then, his grip on you tightening slightly. "But I'm worried. I worry about you, and your actions tonight didn’t exactly ease my concerns."

He looks down at your ankle, gently tracing his fingers over the injury. 

“I’m sorry. This is my fault. If I hadn’t—Last night, if I’d just taken time to ask you—you wouldn’t be hurt in the first place,” he whispers, his voice barely audible as he brings his face close to yours. The apology is raw, and when he mutters it against your lips, his breath hitches in his throat, overwhelmed by the warmth in your eyes.

“You had your reasons; it’s okay,” you say with your usual forgiveness, the kindness in your voice a balm to his aching conscience. 

His fingers gently graze the back of your neck, the touch tender and almost reverent. 

“I should have been more careful,” he murmurs, thick with regret. “I’ve let my anger cloud my judgment.”

“Damian, it’s fine,” you said, running your fingers through his hair and gently swinging your legs. “I trust you. I know you didn’t mean to hurt me. We all have our moments, and it was just a bad time for both of us. I love you, and I trust you.”

Damian made a soft sound. Up close, in his arms, there was no space between you, and he seemed softer, more touchable.

“I love you too.”

You cupped his face gently as his other arm slid below your head, pulling you even closer. His strong arms enveloped you, holding you in a way that felt perfectly right—moving closer, exchanging breaths, and locking eyes to see everything there was to know about him.

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut begins

Whispering his name, you kissed him again, and he eagerly returned the gesture. 

He guided you into a shadowed corner, his kisses growing more urgent and insistent as he pressed you against a wall. The world around you began to dissolve into a swirling haze. The only sensations that mattered were the feel of your breath mingling with his, the whisper of your voice against his, and the way your hands tugged at his hair. 

You. You. You.

His tongue brushed against your lower lip, asking for entrance, which you granted immediately, opening your mouth and deepening the kiss. His hands roamed over your body, mapping the curves and contours like a blind man seeing the world for the first time.

You raised your knee and pressed it against him, eliciting a groan from Damian, his eyes rolling back into his skull. “Fuck…”

You teased softly, “That good?”

“As always, habibti.”

Damian’s words were swallowed by another kiss as you wrapped your legs around him, pulling him even closer, bodies pressing together in an intimate embrace.

His fingers roamed up your back, tracing the curve of your spine with the practiced touch of a man who knows you intimately.

Smirking wolfishly against your lips, Damian slowly dragged down the zipper on the back of your suit. The cool air kissed your exposed skin, amplifying every sensation as he worked his way down.

The heat between you two quickly spiraled into an unstoppable force that surged and twisted. 

His utility belt falls to the ground with a loud clang, the buckle hitting the asphalt. Fingers trembling with impatience, Damian tugs at his suit's zippers, each one loosening with a sharp hiss before he dives back in. 

Every touch, every movement, seemed to ignite a deeper craving within him. Each time you breathed his name, it was like a spark that fueled his losing control, pushing him further into the abyss of his desire.

He wanted more of you—every part of you, every inch of your skin, every breath you took.

He dips his head down, his mouth finding the pulse point on your neck. His tongue flicks out, hot and wet against your skin, as he begins a trail of kisses down your collarbone that sears into your skin. 

"I need to feel you, sweet girl." Damian's words come out in a guttural moan, half-curse, half-plea. 

Your breath hitched in your throat as his mouth found your chest, and you arched your back, pressing yourself closer to him.

“Damian,” you gasped, your voice a low moan. “Please.”

A flurry of movements passes, and finally, he's pressing himself into you. Your body welcomes him like it was always meant to be, fitting together perfectly as if he was always meant to be a part of you.

His cape falls over you, enveloping you both in a cocoon of shadows and heat. 

The rhythmic movement of your bodies creates a slow, intense friction between you. The heat between you two was scorching, each touch and caress creating sparks of pleasure that shot through your body. Damian's teeth sank into the soft skin of your neck with a possessive fervor, leaving behind marks that would linger long after the night was over.

He could feel you pressed against him, your warmth melding with his. The taste of you lingered on his lips, the flavor of you lingering with every kiss. The sweet sounds of your pleasure, your moans and gasps, filled and echoed in his ears. The scent of your perfume, intoxicating and familiar, drifted in the air, consuming, overwhelming his senses and pulling him deeper into you.

It was all you. Everything was you.

It comes in waves, each one building and cresting until the final surge pulls you completely out of orbit. Your toes curl, your thighs lock, your heart seems to freeze, and a cry of his name escapes your lips, echoing in the space between you.

“Yes,” Damian pants out. “There you go, habibti. Just like that…” 

He buries his face in your neck, his breath hot and uneven against your skin as he follows you through the aftershocks. Gently, he guides you down from your peak, his hips rolling slowly against yours until the rhythm gradually subsides. He murmurs love confessions in Arabic, lips trailing loving kisses over every inch of exposed skin, soothing you as you twitch and tremble in his lap. 

As the aftershocks subside, Damian gently lifts you and tucks you against his chest. 

"You okay?" he asks, soft and filled with concern. He gently massages your lower back, his fingers tracing soothing circles on your skin.

He pulls his cape around you like a blanket, wrapping you in a layer of warmth. Even in the middle of the night on a secluded rooftop, he’s focused on making sure you're cared for and cozy.

Damian adjusts his suit and re-secures his utility belt. Taking a cloth from his belt, he begins to wipe you down, removing any lingering traces of the night’s events. Once you're clean, he carefully tugs your suit back on, smoothing out any wrinkles and zipping it up with steady hands. 

 ༻⊰───⋅ smut ends

“Thank you,” you rasp out, pressing a soft kiss to his cheek.

Damian’s response is tender; he nuzzles his face into your neck, pressing a gentle kiss to your skin. His touch is warm and reassuring. Reaching into his pocket, he retrieves your mask and hands it to you.

You tug it back on, but before you can pull it down completely, Damian leans in and kisses you. Smiling, you kiss him back, the mask only partially covering your face, leaving your lips and the lower part of your cheeks exposed.

!!!

You slowly push Damian back, a sense of alarm creeping into your consciousness.

!!!

A loud thud echoes in the distance.

DANGER.

Before you can process what’s happening, Damian is violently knocked away from you. He’s flung onto the ground with a forceful crash, the impact sending a shockwave through the rooftop. You watch, breathless, as he hits the surface hard, pain etched across his face.

Cursing, you try to move toward him, but a sudden, chilling presence makes you freeze. Out of the corner of your eye, you see the dark, sweeping fabric of a cape fluttering through the air. Your heart skips a beat as you turn, dread coiling in your stomach.

Batman.

For a moment, the world narrows to the figure looming before you, the embodiment of shadow and fear. The distant hum of Gotham fades, leaving only the thudding of your pulse, loud and insistent in your ears. The scattered light from the city below creates jagged contrasts on Batman's armor, casting him in sharp highlight. The black of his suit bleeds seamlessly into the surrounding darkness, making him appear more phantom than man.

He looks like a living nightmare.

Damian lifts his head just in time to see Batman towering over you, his cape billowing ominously in the night breeze. A cold chill runs down Damian's spine as dread settles heavy in his chest. Of all people, his father was the last person he wanted to find him here like this—vulnerable, exposed, and with you.

Reacting on pure instinct, Damian scrambles to his feet, positioning himself firmly between you and the Dark Knight.

"Father." Damian’s voice is low but steady, though the weight of what’s happening lingers in every syllable. His mind races, knowing that Batman doesn’t recognize you in your vigilante form and likely believes he's cheating on you.

To Batman, this looks like betrayal.

Bruce's hurt gaze flickers briefly to Damian before settling on you, his eyes unreadable beneath the shadowed cowl. His voice cuts through the silence like a blade, deep and gravelly. “Step aside, Robin.”

Damian doesn’t budge, his chin lifting in stubborn refusal. “No.”

“I won’t repeat myself,” Bruce warns, his tone colder, more commanding. “Move. Now.”

“You don’t understand,” he snaps back, voice laced with urgency. “It’s not what you think.”

“Isn’t it?” Bruce’s gaze hardens as it shifts back to you, scrutinizing every detail of your vigilante form. He’s searching for something—anything—that might give him a clue to your identity. “Who are you?”

You remain silent, your mind racing to assess the situation. Revealing your true identity isn't an option—not now, not like this. You adjust your stance, preparing yourself mentally for whatever comes next, but Damian's presence in front of you is a steadying comfort.

“She’s with me,” Damian states firmly. “That’s all you need to know.”

But Bruce isn’t swayed. He takes another step forward, his towering form casting a long, ominous shadow over both of you. The authority he exudes is almost suffocating, a force that demands obedience and submission. 

Bruce’s voice drops to a near growl, heavy with warning. “You’re making a mistake.”

Damian doesn’t waver, his stance firm, his resolve unshaken. “Maybe I am. But it’s my mistake to make. I’m not moving. Not until you understand—”

“Understand what?” Bruce’s voice, though controlled, cracks with an edge of hurt. “That you’re risking everything for—” His words catch in his throat, and his eyes, now seething, lock onto you with anger. The unspoken words hang in the air, heavy and accusing, as if he’s struggling to comprehend how Damian could make such a choice. 

“Father,” Damian tries again. “Just listen, please. I’m not—”

But Bruce cuts him off sharply. “I don’t want to hear it, Robin. Stand down. Now.”

Damian grits his teeth, his jaw clenching at the command. “I won’t. You want me to move, you're going to have to make me.”

Bruce growls and his posture shifts, his body tensing as he readies himself for combat, cape swirling with a sudden, sharp movement, the dark fabric creating a menacing silhouette against the night sky. Damian rolls his shoulders.

The silent acknowledgment of the fight to come is all that’s needed. 

The first move comes fast and brutal—a sweeping kick aimed at Damian’s legs. Damian barely manages to sidestep, but the force of the attack sends him stumbling slightly.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Bruce presses his advantage. He lunges forward, delivering a powerful punch to Damian’s jaw. The blow connects with a sickening thud, causing Damian to gasp and stagger backward. He tries to recover, swinging a fist toward his father, but Bruce is already moving, effortlessly deflecting the strike and countering with a sharp elbow to Damian’s ribs.

Before Damian can recover, Bruce is on him again. He grabs Damian by the collar and delivers a powerful knee to his abdomen. The impact sends Damian sprawling, crashing hard onto the rooftop. The concrete shudders beneath him, and he struggles to get to his feet, gasping for breath.

“You’ve forced my hand. I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to,” Bruce seethes as he advances. His fists come down in a series of blows, each strike aimed at disabling rather than harming. Damian blocks and dodges where he can, but Bruce's assault is relentless, each hit pushing him further back.

THWIP

A web snares Bruce’s arm, halting his advance. His head swivels toward you, confusion and fury flashing in his eyes beneath the cowl. He struggles against the webbing, but you seize the opportunity to yank him off Damian, pulling him forcefully to the side of the rooftop. The webbing binds him tightly against the edge, restricting his movements.

Without wasting a second, you rush to Damian’s side. His breathing is ragged, masked cracked. blood runs down his lip You kneel beside him, gently pulling him up against you. Your arms wrap around him, providing a protective, comforting embrace.

“Baby, are you okay?” you ask urgently, voice trembling with fear.

Damian rasps out a laugh, his grin weak but defiant. “At least I know he’ll do the right thing if I ever do you wrong.”

SHLICK.

You look up to see Bruce cutting through your webbing with a knife. The webbing disintegrates under the assault, and you curse under your breath. Without your web-shooters, your organic webs are noticeably weaker—a reminder that you'd need to ask Morgan for new ones as soon as possible.

Bruce continued his advance, his gaze fixed on you this time.

You raised a hand, trying to signal a truce, your voice shaky but earnest. “I... I don’t want to fight,” you said, the exhaustion evident in every word. 

“Then take off the mask,” Bruce commanded, his voice cutting through the air with a harsh edge, leaving no room for negotiation.

The demand hung between you, making your heart pound louder. You took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of the situation bearing down on you. Slowly, you lifted a trembling hand toward your mask, fingers grasping the edge.

But before you could fully uncover your face, Damian's hand shot out, grabbing your arm and yanking it away.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” he hisses, eyes flashing with desperation. He turns to Bruce, getting back onto his feet.

“Don’t come any closer,” Damian warns as he unsheathes his katana, its blade glinting menacingly in the dim light. “I have the utmost respect for you, Father, but if you take one more step, I will have to engage you properly this time.”

Despite the weight of your decision, there’s no other choice. Your sole aim is to end this confrontation swiftly and with as little harm as possible.

With a sharp breath, you square your shoulders and raise your head.

“Nobody’s going to do anything,” you say firmly as you start to tear off your mask. The fabric pulls away slowly, the cool night air brushing against your exposed skin.

As the mask comes free, you are left bare to the elements, your face now fully visible under the moonlight. You hold Bruce's gaze directly, hoping that this gesture will be enough to de-escalate the standoff.

"It's just me."

 ༻⊰───⋅

ruh oh

mmmmmmmm yes 3-4 chapters left

Damian has more than enough anger and tragedy to be the transfem icon we need…

(Spot all the references to the fem robins on her outfits, there’s 3 visible ones !!!)

Jason: Oh god, he texted you ‘hi.’’ punctuation only means one thing, Tim. They're mad at you.  Tim: No, it's Damian. They're just being gramatically correct!  *meanwhile*  Damian: And then I used a period so they'd know that I'm mad at them.  Dick : A period doesn't say 'I'm mad', it says 'you're dead to me'.  Damian: I stand by my choice.

Damian: I am darkness. I am an power. I am your worst nightmare. I could kill a man in more ways than you can imagine. I am the night. I am fury, I am a weapon, I am-  Dick : A doll.  Tim: A cinnamon roll.  Jason: A sweetheart.  Damian: Damian: ...stop it.

Dick: On a scale from “damn Daniel” to “fre sha vaca do”, how are you feeling? Jason: In between “it’s an avocado, thanks” and “how did you defeat Captain America”, but as a solid answer I would say “I don’t need a degree to be a clothing hanger”. How about you, Tim? Tim: Probably “road work ahead”. Damian: I speak many languages, and this is none of them.

LIKE LIKE!

pairings — grumpy!damian wayne — al ghul x sunshine!reader

warnings — they’re teenagers in the modern era of course they’re gonna curse (but not a lot), isn’t EXACTLY grumpy x sunshine but it’s okay it’s my one shot 👅

summary — friendship only gets you so far with mutual feelings and the shared yearning for more than that.

notes — hi guys

━━━━━━━ YOU’D MET DAMIAN WHEN school started, in the same advisory you two were paired up since neither of you really had friends. it didn’t bother either of you, since you actually got along.

he was pretty quiet, moody, and didn’t like anyone at school. you were the exact opposite. you were loud, cheerful, and got along with everything. that obviously didn’t mean you were necessarily friends with them.

what made you and Damian click so well was probably the fact that he only really seemed to like you — even if it wasn’t obvious.

even if he didn’t talk, didn’t smile, didn’t seem to have a sliver of an emotion, he still liked you. another thing he’d never been good at was explaining his emotions. he practically despised everyone because they treated him like some sort of bomb.

you pushed his buttons, messed around with him, and always gave him a little bit of a hard time. he didn’t hate it, he could never hate anything you did.

it was probably three months into your friendship with Damian that you hung out with him outside of school. he asked if you could come over, and you happily agreed. the day was normal, except you weren’t picked up by your guardian, rather — you went with Damian.

“hello, i’m Alfred.” you thought he was nice, an old British man that Damian told you had always worked for his family. if anything, he must’ve practically been a part of the family.

you, of course, introduced yourself. it was polite. Alfred seemed taken aback, and the look (or feeling) didn’t leave him when you turned and began talking Damian’s ear off.

the boy, however, seemed to have absolutely no problem with that. he seemed to be hanging on every word, Alfred could see the mixture of fondness and love in Damian’s eyes when he looked at you — too bad you were both as oblivious as ever.

at Wayne manor, you wore a smile as you walked behind Damian and into the large house. he waited for you to take your shoes off after him, his hands stealing away your heavy bag and throwing it over his unoccupied shoulder.

you were then introduced to Richard Grayson, Jason Todd, Tim Drake, and Bruce Wayne. of course, you’d always known who Bruce was — your guardian worked for him now, a feature you didn’t leave out.

Damian, not liking anyone here (except, obviously, you), tugged at your arm. you understood what he meant, even with a lack of words, and promptly excused the two of you.

Damian’s room was pretty plain, and you jokingly shook your head. “who knew you were so boring?” you teased, sitting next to him on his large bed.

you didn’t know then, but Damian actually had you here for a reason. for awhile now, he had found you in his every waking thought. it’s like you had overridden his normal thoughts, becoming the only thing he could comfortably think about.

it had proven difficult during patrol, his performance was lacking and he needed to do something to soothe his thoughts so no one saw Robin as weak.

“i wanted to talk to you, actually.” he muttered. it stopped your thoughts, and you turned to him curiously. he didn’t speak much, and you never pressured him to. when he did, you didn’t make a huge deal of it.

“what’s up?” you hummed, eyes locking in on him.

“i uh… listen, you don’t have to… y’know, feel the same? but… but i really, really like… you.” his sentence was awkward, which made you smile. he didn’t know, but you sure knew, you were head over heels for him.

“i like you too, Damian.” you laughed softly, letting your hand drop to his leg.

“holy shit, really?” he looked up, his normally inexpressive face suddenly unable to find an emotion, settling on utter disbelief and pure excitement.

“yeah.” you smiled fondly at him.

“does this… does this mean—” you cut him off, nodding. he reached forwards and tackled you in a hug, placing a soft kiss on your collarbone. suddenly, he stood up, jumping around happily.

“fuck yes.” he muttered, you began laughing.

this was the most important moment of your teenage years, your boyfriend, jumping around in excitement, because he was with you.

he tackled you into another hug, and you remained glued together until you had to leave.

you slept well with a huge grin planted across your face.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests are open!!

can i order an older!batman!damian x reader they have a lot of children (biologically) and his family and friends does not know, i wanna know their reactions

yes your price is 1 order of creepcast merch for me since there’s 3 days left and i haven’t been able to get my grubby hands on it

YOU HAVE KIDS?

pairings — older!damian wayne — al ghul x fem!reader (could also be read as just reader since i never really use she/her much)

warnings — idk actually, pretty generic names for the kids but obviously you can imagine a different name if you want to (i just don’t like using d/n ykwim) (plus i only use them once)

summary — literally just the request but only with the batboys, batgirls, and bruce!!

notes — i hope this is good 😟

━━━━━━━ TO BE FAIR, YOU should’ve told them sooner. well, Damian should’ve, they were his family. but, you’d never forced him too, since your account on instagram wasn’t followed by any of them.

“are you sure you want to do this?” you rubbed your hands along his shoulders, gently. you were due at the Wayne manor in a little for a small lunch, you’d never been one to force Damian into seeing them, since you understood, but you were surprised when he planned on going.

“yeah, i’ll have to do it sooner or later.” he grabbed your hand and peppered kissing along your knuckles.

“mom can i bring my doll?” your youngest daughter, just turning five with no front teeth, walked out of the hall opening holding her old doll passed down from you. smiling, you nodded.

“you gonna remember to bring it home, baby?” you stepped forwards, rubbing your hands through her messy head of black hair. she’d inherited more from her father.

“mhm!” she smiled, turning back to her room with a grin.

“can’t we have more?” Damian wrapped his arms around you, his head leaning snug against your shoulder. you put your hands over his, a soft laugh leaving you.

“not for a little bit, Dame.” you turned around with a grin, gently kissing him. you shared the small intimate moment without hesitation, bonded as one soul in the moment.

“mom! are we going yet?” your oldest, now eleven, walked down the hall. you turned to her, then to your husband, who nodded. your oldest daughter saw it, and walked over to put her shoes on.

getting your other three — your youngest and the middle boys (twins) — and helping them with their shoes, you were all off. the ride was peaceful, your kids finding themselves distracted with either the outside world or the toys you let them bring along.

“have you told any of them?” you had been holding Damian’s hand over the center console, your thumb in a constant soothing motion over his knuckles and the curve of his thumb.

“no, only Alfred. he’s the only one who needed to immediately know. besides, i told him first anyways.” Damian sighed.

“that’s fine, baby. i told you, you never had to.” you brought his hand closer to your mouth, gently kissing it. Damian smiled at you before the rest of the car ride was passed with ease.

Damian, getting out and opening your door, then began to help your youngest get out of the car. you helped the twins out, made sure they had the toys they wanted, and had them follow Damian to the front door.

on the way, your draped your arm over your oldest daughters shoulders, tugging her into you. she basically melted into you, her arm going around you in return.

Alfred opened the door, a wide smile crossing his face. “master Damian!” he was overjoyed, “lovely to see you.” he hugged the man before following up with greeting you and your kids the same way.

he led the six of you upstairs to where everyone else was.

if you could’ve had a camera, you would’ve taken a picture of the moment. their faces were covered in pure shock, staring at your kids. your hand squeezed Damian’s, which you had found yourself holding.

“well, if this isn’t news i don’t know what is.” Dick broke the silence first, stepping forwards and embracing Damian. respectfully, he shook your hand.

“these are our kids, Elliot and Titus,” he gestured to the twins, both holding their action figures and playing around with them — they were Red Hood and Nightwing action figures.

“our oldest, Lorelei,” he gestured to her, “and youngest Regan.” they looked like the two of you. your youngest had all of Damian’s features, and your oldest might as well have been your carbon copy.

the twins looked like a mixture, and you could see everything processing in their minds.

“why don’t you four come with me?” Alfred stepped forwards when he noticed the slight tension in the air.

your kids didn’t argue, following him out to the garden.

“how come we never knew?” Bruce, getting older and older each day, stepped forwards.

“because it was our mutual agreement. i told Damian he didn’t have to tell anyone he didn’t want to.” you defended you and your husbands decision instantly.

“doesn’t matter,” Dick stepped up now, “we know now!” he was grinning.

“did you really buy your kids Nightwing and Red Hood action figures?” Jason was grinning when he spoke up.

“the girls have Batgirl figures.” you informed them with a wide smile, “you might not have known them, but they’ve always known you guys.” you added, your hand rubbing comforting patterns into Damian’s back.

“does this mean we’re all aunts and uncles? well, grandparent for Bruce.” Tim asked. you nodded with Damian in confirmation. a challenging look flashed across all of their faces instantaneously.

“this doesn’t mean you guys can go and spoil them.” Damian said, trying to fight back a smile.

ever since being with you, he’d mellowed out and been less harsh towards people. something you hadn’t done on purpose. he was still mean when he had to be.

“don’t spoil them too much, we still want humble and kind kids.” you corrected Damian.

“i can live with that.” Jason shrugged.

“do they really have batgirl figures?” Cass asked. you nodded again in confirmation, mentioning how it was your idea.

“how old are they all?” Steph had finally asked.

“eleven, seven, and five.” you nodded, telling them which was which afterwards. you couldn’t specifically hear it, but you knew they were all ready to fight over the title of favorite.

after awhile at the manor, you all found yourselves back at home. you and Damian relaxed outside as your kids stayed inside, but every once and awhile, the younger ones would run outside and cause chaos.

“do you feel better now that they know?” you had your head against your husbands chest, listening to him and his heartbeat.

“a little. i… i’m glad they reacted how they did. i thought they’d hate me forever.” Damian admitted with a small laugh. you grinned.

“i don’t think anyone could hate you anymore, you big softie.” you teased him, holding open your arm when your oldest daughter came out to join you two on the hammock.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests are open!!

Can you write a Damian fic when the reader gets close to one of his brothers preferably Jason?

NUMBER ONE

pairings — damian wayne — al ghul x reader

warnings — not much maybe a little cursing

summary — Damian didn’t like how close you were with Jason, and he had no problem making Jason know how he felt about that.

notes — this isn’t the best so i probably messed up the request so im sorry about that 😞

━━━━━━━ DAMIAN KNEW THERE WASNT anything serious between you and Jason. he had no problem admitting that you guys were friends and liked to hang out. he wasn’t particularly keen on befriending his older brother, but could manage his presence for you.

it had started when Jason picked you up from school, Damian had cashed out on a favor from the older guy because Bruce needed him somewhere when your classes ended.

of course, that wouldn’t be the only time Jason had to pick you up for Damian. Jason honestly had no problem picking you up, since it put him on better terms with the younger boy.

after all, Jason was far too old for you, and since you were with Damian, Jason had no problem befriending you and enjoying time together as friends. if anything, you saw him as more of a fun uncle than your boyfriends brother.

but, you still reminded yourself that that was your boyfriends brother, not your “fun uncle”, and you were fine with setting reasonable boundaries.

“you okay, Damian?” you walked over to where he had been laying in his bed. he had a sour look spread across his face as he stared into his ceiling like it was never ending.

“do you like Jason more than me?” Damian asked suddenly, his eyes remaining glued on his ceiling. you grinned, he couldn’t see you, and grabbed one of his hands that sat on his chest, holding it in your own.

“no, of course not. he’s like a weird uncle, and he isn’t my boyfriend, is he?” you poked at his softly with your other hand, kissing the expanse of his hand softly. he finally looked away from the ceiling, meeting your gaze.

“no, he isn’t.” Damian sighed, sitting up.

“either way, i have boundaries set with him. do you want me to spend less time him?”

“no, no.” Damian sighed, leaning against you. you smiled again, kissing the crown of his head.

on occasion, other than the times that Jason picked you up and dropped you off, you would spend time playing video games or just simply hanging out with him.

you understood that Damian did not like Jason whatsoever, so the only times you hung out with the older guy one on one was whenever you were waiting for Damian.

“were you jealous?” you asked, a small grin formulating on your face. Damian brought his head back up and softly glared, shaking his head. “you totally were.” you laughed. he lightly pushed your shoulder, smiling now.

“i wasn’t jealous of Todd.” Damian pretended to be upset, but you knew it was all a lie.

you dropped it after that, spending the rest of your time with your boyfriend.

the next day, while getting ready for school, Damian sent you a message. won’t be able to pick you up today, Todd will. you replied with a short yet sweet message before finishing getting ready and going to school.

the day passed by in a breeze, nothing interesting had happened (you expected it, your school had always been boring), and you just missed your boyfriend.

walking out of the building, you easily found Jason’s car, opening the passenger side and sitting down.

“what’s up, kid?” Jason held his fist out for a fist bump, you tapped your fist against his, grinning tiredly.

“just tired. how longs Damian gonna be gone?” you asked, attempting to keep the conversation civil and short — you hardly had enough social energy left.

“not too long. just gonna sleep when we get back?” Jason pulled away from the school and drove faster than most others would, but drove safely regardless.

Damian would have his head if Jason put you in any danger.

“yeah, probably.” you confirmed, letting out a yawn.

the rest of the drive, the two of you had fun. Jason was able to make you laugh until your stomach hurt and you were crying.

either way, you were still exhausted when Jason parked outside the house. greeting Alfred and waving at anyone else, you were able to find Damian’s room and fall asleep instantaneously.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests are open!!

Can u maybe do like a Damian wayne x reader where they're friends and all but sometimes they (reader) tends to zone out a lot and think abt a lot of deep ish things that cause her to make weird faces without even realizing? Like she's much more quieter than usual and when he turns to look at her, he sees that she's visibly very upset but for seemingly no reason.

Oh, and if u want angst, maybe the specific thing she's thinking abt has something to do with him so she's really annoyed and snappy when he asks her what's wrong? Like she's be thinking abt how rude guys in their school are and then it kinda reminds her of Damian. Idk🙈🙉

(*ˊᗜˋ*)ᵗᑋᵃᐢᵏ ᵞᵒᵘ

am i good at angst? no… will i try? absolutely.

NOT YOUR FAULT.

pairings — damian wayne - al ghul x reader (platonic)

warnings — i tried to write angst but gave up, that’s all (and the ending sucks that’s not my fault (it is))

summary — pretty much what the request is gangsters

notes — i don’t know how to write angst 😞

━━━━━━━ YOU SHOULD’VE SEEN THE SIGNS before it was too late. you were sleeping more, food was suddenly too plain, you were easy to irritate, and you felt like you couldn’t do anything.

but, of course, you hadn’t understood when they began, you just blamed it on stress, since you had tons of tests coming up that you were relentlessly studying.

at some point, your grades had started slipping, and your teachers didn’t miss that. you were forgetting to turn in assignments, and whenever you suddenly couldn’t sleep the night before, you started falling asleep in class.

multiple teachers had brought it up after class with you, and you were able to come up with excuse after excuse.

eventually, Damian noticed. Damian, one of the only kids who didn’t ignore you this year, your first year of high school. but, obviously, that wasn’t always the case. Damian had originally been mean, tormenting you alongside all his other friends.

Damian only noticed because of your lack of emotions throughout the time you’d spend with him. on top of that, said time was clearly dwindling.

“hey, hey.” Damian called after you, catching up soon after and walking with you outside, far enough away from other kids so that the two of you could talk without anyone being nosy.

“what’s going on? you’ve been acting weird the past few days.” Damian’s face was clearly concerned, which irritated you further.

sure, you’d been quieter recently, and you almost always had a sour look on your face, but why would he bring it up?

“nothing, im fine.” you defensively crossed your arms over your chest — also doing so for a little bit of extra comfort as Damian seemed to be interrogating you.

“bullshit. talk to me, i’m your friend.” Damian stared at you, face full of worry.

“nothing.” you reiterated, “i said i’m fine, Damian. i’m fine.” you put emphasis on your words.

“you’re not a good liar.” he stated.

“like you even care.” you scoffed, turning on your heel and walking away. you found semblance in the school library, in the back of the room where you doubted anyone would go looking for you in.

with the silence of the room suddenly hitting you, your guard was up and your eyes were relentlessly looking around.

you probably looked angry. if anyone were to look at you, they’d probably think you were pissed off. were you? yeah, probably. why were you mad? you had no clue.

inhaling carefully, you felt your body begin to unwind, your heart rate slowly slowed.

guilt and regret flooded your system. you could then remember the way you’d treated Damian.

he was truthfully your only friend, he hadn’t deserved that.

i’m sorry, you sent the message. i didn’t mean to be so rude, you sent afterwards. he read the messages almost instantly.

it’s fine, not ur fault, he sent back.

sleepover at mine? you asked him, gathering yourself again before making your way to your next class. he agreed, and the day went on swimmingly.

the sleepover was practically the same, nothing bad happened, and it was easier to talk about it with him.

masterlist — reminder that asks / requests are open!!

DANNY PHANTOM X DC CROSSOVER, DEMON TWINS AU.

Danyal is the younger twin by four minutes. He has always been seeing as a failure due to his aversion to kill and constant rebellious behavior against Ra’s rules and orders, questioning his leadership and decisions despite his very young age. It is that same rebellious streak what stops Ra from getting rid of the boy, he can see his grand-son’s potential in the ferocity of his ice-blue glare that remind the old assassin of Batman himself.

Due to Danny’s constant defiance, he is constantly punished by Ra, always in front of Damian so he doesn’t follow his twin’s example, but this has the opposite effect. Damian deeply admires his brother’s compassion and rightful defiance and always tries to help Danyal by treating to his wounds or simply accompanying him when in solitary imprisonment, always standing outside the door.

When the twins are eight years old there is a really strong earthquake that makes the cave collapse, a large rock is going to fall on Damian but Danny pushes his brother away. The floor gives in and Danny falls into the darkness as Talia grabs her oldest and takes him away.

The boulder makes Danny sink in the large Lazarus Pit beneath the cave, that’s when Danny is hit by memories of his past life, when he was Daniel Fenton… that he is Phantom. When the flashback ends, Clockwork is in front of Danny and welcomes him back home.

Two years after Danyal’s death, Damian is sent to live with his father. Damian never really understood where all of his brother’s defiance and rightfulness came from but after meeting his father he understood. Damian doesn’t tell anyone about Danyal.

Fast forward to when Damian is fourteen. Darkside is invading and everybody is desperate so Constantine proposes his craziest idea so far: to summon The High King of the Infinite Realms. Raven, Zatanna, Dr, Fate and Captain Marvel try to stop him but after a heated speech from John the magical users begrudgingly agree. The summoning is lead by Constantine and supported by Zatanna, Raven and Dr. Fate. In the room are also Batman, Robin and Captain Marvel. Everything goes well, a creepy and unnerving as it is the summoning is a success and the magic users manage to summon and eldritch creature made of the cosmos itself, but when the High King’s eyes land on Robin it says with distorted voice: Akhi?

The watchtower is then hit by one of Darkside’s attacks, prompting the High King to join the fight.

When all is said and done and Darkside is thrown away to a far away corner of the galaxy the High King appears before Batman and Robin and the eldritch/cosmic creature then takes the form of a teen human male that is Damian’s carbon copy except for the blue eyes.

Batman almost faints but Superman takes him away just in time, leaving Robin and the High King to talk in private.

“You died.” Damian says as he touches his brother’s face, caressing his hair, his eyebrows, his eyelids, his cheeks and nose.

“I did.” The High King, Danyal, responds to his brother as he allows him to touch him to his heart’s content. “I have a lot to tell you.”