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

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

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

thank you for your request! ♡ fem, 1k

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You're Peter?" you ask. 

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

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

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

"What do I usually look like?" 

"Not so, you know. Daunted." 

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

"Oh, you think so?" 

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

"Let's get you to the car, baby." 

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

"Home." 

"Together?" 

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

"Thank you," you say shyly. 

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

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

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

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

"You're my boyfriend?" 

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

"You want to get married? To me?" 

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

"We did?" 

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

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

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

"I love you," you say quietly. 

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

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

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

Which reminds him. 

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

"What is it?" you ask. 

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

"My boyfriend is Spider-Man?!" 

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

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

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

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

This time, you intend to stay in bed.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon laughs, shaking his head. “Maybe.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

.

.

.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You left them. All to die.

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

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

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

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

“Only an hour.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Like they’re in love.

…

Oh.

Oh.

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

.

.

.

God, what have you been doing?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“What time is it, K?”

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

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

“Happy New Year, [Name].”

“...Happy New Year…”

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

Looks like…

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

How did your senses not pick up on them?

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

They’re stepping closer to you.

“I guess… well. I don’t know.”

It’s… it’s…

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

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

“You…” Suddenly, you can’t breathe.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Me?” they squeak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“...What is it?” you croak.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Find him, and tell him where I am.”

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

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

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

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

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

“Jon?” Is that your voice?

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

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

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

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

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

He nods against your head. “Your heartbeat.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“I'm not invalid, Jon.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

notes: so... how we feeling? LOL

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

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

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

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 ༻⊰───⋅

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

"Repeat that."

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

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

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

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown.

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

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

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

 ༻⊰───⋅

GOTHAM WAS BEAUTIFUL.

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

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

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

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

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

"That's all it takes."

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

A leap of fate.

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

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

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

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

THWIP.

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

You were flying.

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

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

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

What's up, danger?

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian’s face falls visibly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He'll make sure to lift extra hard tonight.

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

"WOO!"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Your heart skips a beat as recognition hits. 

It’s Morgan.

Hold up—what is she doing here?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You chuckle, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Teenage angst? Really?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na…Batman!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Damian perks up at that. Finally.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Selina raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “Who?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You clear your throat, trying to shift the conversation.

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

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

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

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

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

Ouch. That was expected, but it still stung.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Taking a deep breath, you step into the alley.

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

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

Holy shit, it’s Morgan.

What is it with this girl and getting assaulted?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

One.

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

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

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

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

Two.

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

Three.

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

Four.

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

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

Five.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stagger back, clutching your side. 

Well... shit.

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

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

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

“You’re—”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Do I at least look badass?"

"Oh my god. I literally hate you."

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

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

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

“Pepper, I need you!”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You take a deep breath as the hand finally retreats.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Morga—”

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

“Welcome home, Tony.”

Both of you freeze.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Yes.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Ass!"

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

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

You push open the door and lead Morgan inside.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You stare at her blankly.

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

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

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

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

Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na-Na… Batman!

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

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

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

“Did you just hack my phone?”

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

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

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

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

“Not going to answer?”

You wince. “We had an argument.”

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

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

“Yikes.”

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Spidersilk.

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

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

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

His position is compromised.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Personal case?”

“Yes. I'm going on a hunt."

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

You peek in further and gape.

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

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

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

You... did?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You nod, the tension in your shoulders easing slightly.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

THWIP.

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

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

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

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

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

Tony’s smirk widens as he extends his hand. 

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

"..."

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

༻⊰───⋅

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

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

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

"Are you trying to eat your plate?"

"Die."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The table fell silent for a moment.

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

"Repeat that."

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

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

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

Bruce’s expression shifted to a frown. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Dick and Tim exchanged glances, eyebrows raised.

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

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

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

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

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

“Hope you enjoy cereal, Master Damian."

༻⊰───⋅

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im a hoe for comments/reblogs/asks/kudos

it fuels me <3 pls send more

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 ->

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voomba sorry for the long ass paragraphs i write shit lore

ur like a redhead magnet girlypop

The Other Woman

—

Synopsis: Where Miguel leaves Y/N to go back to a different version of his old wife found in another universe.

Pair: Miguel O’Hara x Spider!Reader

Tags: ANGST!!, long term established relationship, heartbreak, marriage, cheating, mental health, cold/distant Miguel

—

A/N: Hi! I don’t really write at all!!

I have been a silent reader on tumblr for years but this idea has been playing in my mind so much I had the urge to write it. I have been down so bad for Miguel been on his tag like 24/7 indulging in all the content creators have been putting out. So I’m excited to join in giving content, however keep in mind I kinda suck! Apologies for any mistakes, anything confusing, or it not being well written enough. Honestly could have made this into multiple parts with better details but nah. Tried my best ^^ since it’s my first time, any feedback is greatly appreciated!

Honestly tbh we all don’t have a solid grasp how the whole canon thing and multi universe works yet so!! A lot of what is written is made up to suit my storyline so please don’t get mad about the inaccuracies.

I love a good angst and today’s story will be EXTRAAA angsty!!! As well kinda long!!

—————————————————

The moment that changed your life was while working on an experiment during your college finals. You were a proud and gifted physics major that was so passionate about discovering and exploring what the world didn’t know.

You had snuck into Alchemax late at night. You wanted to show your professors just how much you could do with the right tools. Next thing you know, playing with their machines, you had spawned a spider right in-front of you. The glowing vibrant red spider had sunk its jaw into your hand.

Your life did a complete turn and you spent the rest of that week freaking out while changes to your body were happening. Causing you to fail your semester after missing exams. Things felt like it could only get worse when a massive blue suited masked man showed up out of nowhere in your dorm interrogating you.

“Where’s the spider?” He had a strong grip on your shoulders. You couldn’t focus while trying to process why this man had what seemed like claws sticking out of the ends of his fingers.

“I don’t know, it like died after it bit me!” You exclaimed nervously at the freakishly strong man. Trying to reach for anything behind you to use as a defense weapon.

“Dios mío no me digas eso…” He groaned loudly letting you go. Having the opportunity to grab something, you threw a sanrio plushie at him. Only causing him to wave his arms in annoyance. “That spider is from my earth and somehow you brought it here. Now you’re a spider-man.”

And the rest is history…

—

You learned that the man was Miguel O’Hara and when he found you he was just starting his missions with the multiverse. You being the few of the firsts to join his team.

Your situation was quite bizarre and he called you an anomaly for a long time, spending hours studying you and also training you. You ended up being the one case that can’t be explained no matter how much effort was put into monitoring you.

Almost like it was meant to be. Your universe remained perfect with its current spider-man doing fine. No big collapse of a black hole or anything. When you got bit by a spider from Earth-928 your DNA merged with that universe making you fit in perfectly. You were one of the only spider-people with an uncertain timeline with new canons being created depending on what universe you were in.

What changed from you being just a piece of research for Miguel is when he then realized that maybe you were a gift from the multiverse. After all the grief and pain he’d went through the universe had given him this person that worked out perfectly no matter how hard he tried to push them away. You fell head over heels for him and vice versa, all while canon events were being created with both of you together.

You were there as his team grew, slowly turning into a family. Then both of you getting married finalizing that this was your home. Everything felt perfect. Although a relationship with Miguel could have its up and down days, nothing could ever tear you both apart. Or so you assumed.

—

“I’m sorry Y/N.” Miguel couldn’t look at you.

“When did this start? Please be honest with me. Did I do something wrong?” You begged at him. You knew he was acting off recently but never did you think it would result to this.

You watched as he exhaled deeply staring at the ground. You felt like you couldn’t breathe as you studied his face trying to grasp onto any emotion he was showing. The atmosphere in his office felt so cold. You so badly wanted to catch his gaze and find the warmth and love his red irises used to give you. He was doing everything to push you away. He was abandoning you.

“You did nothing wrong. I met her during a mission 4 months ago.” Was all he replied.

“Who is she?” Your heart kept breaking. His face hardening as the question slipped through your lips. You knew Miguel wouldn’t leave you for just anyone. Deep in your heart you knew what this was about. He never responded but he didn’t need to when you saw his eyes flicker over to his monitor screens. You followed his trace and saw the photo of Gabriella in the corner.

“Does she have another version of your daughter?” You tried again. This is what made him look directly at you. Miguel kept opening and closing his month unsure how to tell you the truth. You weren’t stupid and he knew that. After everything he couldn’t just walk out on you with a lie.

“No.” He paused thinking of how to finally share the truth without it ruining you. There was no way out of this. “She is a younger version of herself. There is no Miguel in her universe and she’s not important to the timeline. She lives a regular life. I-it’s a chance for me to start at the very beginning.”

You felt your heart being ripped out of your chest. You processed the words carefully. She doesn’t have a child yet… Not only was he leaving you for her but he was going to fall in love with her all over again and start a family with her. A family you wanted so badly to have with him.

“What about with what happened last time you tried to live a life in a different universe?” You didn’t understand how this was happening.

He was always so carful he would never do anything to cause that again. Everything you had witness Miguel work so hard for to keep safe for years. Sleepless nights, returning bruised and beaten, frustrations and constant stress. Was it all for nothing? Is he throwing all his work away?

“This is different.” He turned away from you. “I pushed myself then into an already established life. This time I am creating that life. After all the research we did on you…” He knew that this was going to tear you apart. “I learned that if done right I could have a child from two different universes that won’t disrupt anything.”

It clicked to you then that all the research he was doing on you lately was for this. The research he did on you that time was different, personal, intimate even. As he was testing your DNAs together and seeing the outcomes. He mentioned a child and you were foolish enough to assume he was doing research to see what it would be like if you both had one together. You were giddy even as you watched him work. You had both spoken about having a family together in the past but had been too busy with spider activities. You thought it was a sign of him getting more serious about it, knowing how badly he wanted one. You would have never thought he was doing it to see how he could get back his previous child. The one you could never give him.

You had truly believe that Miguel had recovered from his obsession that his grief gave him. He accidentally destroyed a whole universe needing that life back so badly. You had spent late nights watching him re-watch clips over and over of what he had lost. It slowly stopped once your relationship blossomed with him and you thought he was ready to move on and start new. Why would you have never thought that with such a perfect opportunity presented to him that he wouldn’t drop everything for it.

“I think it’s best that you leave.” He spoke with a soft tone. As if not looking at you any longer will make the problem go away. You couldn’t wrap your mind around how he was just throwing you away like this. As if he wasn’t making you dinner, giving soft kisses, whispering I-love-you’s not so long ago.

You felt too choked up to ask anymore questions. Your throat tight and painful as you held back tears from escaping in-front of Miguel. You just nodded and headed straight out the door not being able to handle another second in that room. Your knees and hands were shaky as you speed walked into the nearest bathroom and let it all out.

—

It didn’t take long for everyone else to know something had happened. Everyone had gotten used to seeing you and him sitting together at lunch. You would make him cute lunch boxes and everyone would gag a bit while watching the two of you smile together. Some cringing seeing their scary boss being so soft around you. It was a big surprise when Miguel started to eat alone with a bag of take out food and you no where to be seen.

His teams he sent out for missions were all confused when you weren’t assigned to anything. Knowing you were one of the best, one of them slipped out a “Call for Y/N!” In the middle of fighting an anomaly too strong for them. Miguel only looked away.

It wasn’t until a new woman showed up in Miguel’s office with a grip around his waist. That’s when the spider-community realized that this was way worse than they thought.

—

You on the other hand had spilled everything to Hobie when he caught you that day leaving the bathroom with puffy eyes. You had been staying with him in his universe until you could gather yourself together to return to HQ. You knew you were going to leave for good, but you needed to go back to retrieve all your things. You couldn’t stay with Hobie forever. Worse that you weren’t from there.

You still had some hope that Miguel would come looking for you and tell you that he was all wrong. However almost two months had passed and not a word from him… That’s when you knew it was time you should return to what you once knew.

Stepping into the portal Hobie followed close behind you. He told the few others who were once close to both you and Miguel that you would be visiting. Stepping through the portal you were immediately greeted by Jessica and Peter B Parker.

“Oh, Y/N.” Jess sighed your name sadly while pulling you into a hug. You felt like you wanted to cry all over again. Missing your friends so much. Peter B came behind giving you a hug on the side.

“He’s on a mission right now.” Peter spoke up. “It might be a long one too but don’t waste anytime just incase.”

You nodded pulling away from them. Looking up around the headquarters building faintly smiling at the past memories you had here. You started heading to different areas gathering all the little things you had left around. Hobie had stitched for you a cute backpack with different scraps of patterned clothes and covered in patches of punk band logos but made with hammer space technology. Making it fun for you to fill endless of your things in the bag.

The last stop was in Miguel’s office. Doubt started to fill your mind; maybe he already threw out all of your stuff. Why would he even keep it after all of this? What no one could warn you of was the other person sitting on his platform.

“Hello!” She chirped at you. It felt like the air in your lungs had just been punched out. You knew her too well. From all the photos and videos you had seen peaking over Miguel’s shoulder. However seeing her in person was something you had never expected. You knew it wasn’t the original her but it was a copy paste image for sure.

“Hi.” Was all you managed to choke out. She was beautiful, stunning. You could see clearly now the similar features she shared in another universe with her daughter. The parts that Miguel didn’t have. She kept smiling kindly at you, almost in a graceful way. You started to feel all your insecurities start eating you up from the inside. How could you have ever compared to her.

“What’s your name? I don’t think I’ve seen you here before.” Getting off Miguel’s platform she walked closer to you. The room started to feel suffocating.

“Y/N.”

“Well, it’s nice to meet you! It’s nice to meet other girls around here.”

Your eyebrows furrowed as you realized she had no reaction to your name. So Miguel never told her about you… Or that the fact was he was still even legally married to you.

“My boyfriend isn’t here right now but, if you want, I can tell him you stopped by.” She continued as you stayed silent.

“Oh, no it’s okay. I just came in here to get some stuff.” You rushed as you really wanted nothing to do with Miguel at all. You almost worried that he might even get angry knowing you got to speak with her. If he already dislikes you this much you couldn’t even imagine how he would feel if you got in the way of this for him.

You started heading over to the familiar drawers around the room. Grabbing your old hoodies and shirts finding your most comfortable of things here. You treated this place as one of your safe spaces as you used to spend so much time here.

“Oh I didn’t know these were all yours! I was wondering why this was all around. When I came here I wanted to do some spring cleaning but Miguel wouldn’t let me touch anything.” She followed besides you. “It’s so mind blowing seeing all this technology. We don’t have any of this where I live-“ She continue rambling but you started to zone her out. You felt like you were about to have a panic attack any minute. There was one question that kept burning in your mind.

“Are you and Miguel already planning to have a child?” You blurted out. Your eyes widened a bit as you surprised yourself. She let out a loud laugh.

“Oh dear no! We have only been together about 6 months. You must be new around here so you must not know much about us.” She chuckled.

In some cruel way you were hoping she would have said yes. You had that twisted hope of maybe Miguel just keeping her to have a kid and ditching her after he gets Gabriella and run back to you. In reality he was playing the long game, he really meant it when we said he was starting over. “He’s never mentioned kids anyways. I’m not even sure if he’d like them or do well with them.”

With that statement she made you looked at her appalled. Anyone could see in Miguel how good of a father he could be. Just in the way he takes care of the society he built here. You started to realize that she really has been left in the dark. She doesn’t know anything. She probably doesn’t even know that she’s a replacement of another self. You wondered why Miguel was doing this. It felt like he didn’t just toy with you but with her as well. A man you came to love for how selfless he was, to realize now everything was for his own personal gain. Suddenly you started to feel bad for her. You couldn’t dislike her, she wasn’t doing anything wrong and she doesn’t even know.

“I got all my stuff. Nice to meet you.” Was all you could say as you zipped up your bag and turned straight around out of there. Not giving any glance back at her, you left to one of the empty training rooms to recollect your overwhelming thoughts. All of the self healing you tried the past month thrown in the garbage.

It wouldn’t be too soon that news of you going around the building was returned to Lyla. You had cut out all coms while you were gone so she immediately popped up on your watch when she found out.

“AH-“ You jumped as the tiny AI was suddenly in front of your face.

“It’s so wonderful to see you Y/N. Oh my god!”She started. Then she went on rambling about how she knew everything and had seen everything. How she didn’t agree with what was happening and was doing everything she could to convince you to stay. After 5 minutes of her rambling you stopped her to let your emotions out.

“Lyla, Lyla It’s okay. Just stop. It’s all complicated I know, but this didn’t work out. I wished Miguel just cheated on me like all the other fucked up normal men out there. That I walked in on him deep in another random girl. Though painful I could have tried fixing and fighting for us. But instead what I got was him emotionally cheating on me and chase after something he knows I can never give him.” You felt yourself choke up. “I can never ask him to give up what he longs and dreams for just for me to be happy. I lost this battle the moment he laid eyes on her.”

Finding comfort in the AI your husband made. You’ve created a bond with Lyla that Miguel found cute but you knew now this might be the last time you’ll be speaking with her.

“You can give him a family y/n… you guys have been married two years now. I know you’ve both set the thought aside until the multiverse issues are better but you can fight for him. You have to snap him out of his fantasy. He still thinks about you.”

“Lyla you know deep down truly he never just wanted a family. He wanted exactly what he had. What he lost. Which should be impossible but being by his side seeing how insane the multiverse is… Good for him for believing in something so hard he’s found himself even a third chance to do it.”

“I hate that you’re being too kind about this situation.” Lyla paced around you.

“I love him so deeply Lyla. You know that very well. It’s so hard to suddenly hate him. I am angry, but I’m also emotionally drained I can’t do this.” You let out a deep sigh. “I’ve watched him long for this family when we just met. For some stupid reason when things worked out for us I thought I would be enough… When we got engaged and he would spend some days at home with me not even coming to HQ. I thought he was finally moving on not just from his grief and past but from the weight of his work. I saw a bright future for us.”

“You can still have a bright future with him! You moving here gave him a new canon event, another chance at life in his timeline. Here in his own universe! He’s just too obsessed and he’s lost himself in that.” She exclaimed with her hands up.

“Our canon event was our wedding.” Your frowned deepened. “But the universe didn’t say anything else after. It doesn’t say our canon event means we are suppose to live happily together forever I guess.”

“I’m just trying my best to be optimistic. I rooted so hard for you and Miguel when you joined the team. I know you can remember the amount of times I would force you both in rooms.” Lyla recalled.

“And I’m grateful for it… Even if this didn’t work out. I was given precious memories, not just working with you and being on this team but falling in love with Miguel. I know I’m being all depressed and hopeless but I feel like even if I move on I’ll never be able to replace him and find a relationship like this again. However he threw me away so easily and maybe he never valued me as much as I did to him.” You felt your emotions bubble. “I became who I am here. I’m going to miss everyone so much.”

“You can still stay here and work with us.” She edged on.

“I can’t just sit around here begging at his feet to return to me or moping around doing missions while watching him with someone else. I want to hate him so badly. I know he’s your boss and you’re basically hardwired to do everything for him and you’re trying your hardest to fix what you think is his right path. But think of me a little more and how miserable it’ll be. I’m the only one hurting here.”

Lyla paused and stared at you with an almost glossy-eyed look. While she worked she could see the inner term-oil Miguel was hiding and the emptiness he was turning to since trying to start new in the other universe. It just wasn’t her place to hold this conversation and he was the one who needed to get a grip of himself and really think and talk with you. She can’t be the one trying to mend the pieces for both of you together. What Miguel did was so wrong. She knew you were right and she didn’t want to see any more damage be caused to you.

“You’re right. I’m sorry.” She looked up at you sincerely. “I hate this outcome for you. Not only are you loosing your husband but your home. When was the last time you’ve even been in your universe?”

“Like a year ago for a mission…”

“Exactly! Even if things are over with Miguel, you have all of us here! I wish you could stay. I understand you leaving, I really do. I know a lot of us will try visiting you but I’m tied to Miguel…” You started to see how it clicked for her too that it’s most likely you might not see each other for a long time. “Even if a spider-person is visiting you I can’t just show up on their watch… It’ll go back to him and I know you wouldn’t want that. I know I’m an AI and I can’t hold real emotions but I mean it when I say I’m going to miss you.”

Tears poured down your cheeks as her words hit you. Going back to your universe is going to be a struggle. You have nothing there now. However nothing can compare to the pain of the outcome you’ve had with Miguel, and you needed out of here ASAP. Your mental health getting worse the longer you stay. Even the other spiders you have come to love can’t bring that spark back right now. You needed genuine time for yourself, even if it’s self destructive, instead of putting on a fake smile everyday here.

“Bye, Lyla.” You whispered. She nodded and waved her hand goodbye at you before disappearing. You took your watch off your wrist placing it on a nearby desk. With it you pulled the divorce paperwork out of your pocket neatly sealed and already signed on your half. Opening a portal you took your last glances at the place you spent so many loving memories in.

Tears blurred your vision as you stepped through the portal. Once your legs landed on a rooftop of a building in your dimension, you racked out full sobs falling to your knees.

You were always just the other woman.

—————————————————

Thank you so much for reading!! I know it was a longer one ~

would anyone like a part 2? If so anyone want a angsty or happy ending? I think it’ll be more in Miguel’s perspective as well!

EDIT: You can now read PART 2 here