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yannawayne · 10 months ago

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v. what's up danger?

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

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“Oh my god, stop! I do not need to see my own fucking thirst trap!” you groaned, quickly pausing the video. You turned away, face burning hotter than Metropolis's sun, and stared at the graffiti on the wall across from you.

You covered your face with your hands, groaning in embarrassment. “This is not how I pictured my debut.”

Morgan, still laughing her ass off, was clearly unfazed. She scrolled through the comments, her grin spreading even wider.

“You’ve gotta hear these,” she said, her voice barely containing her amusement. She began reading aloud, each comment more deranged than the last.

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

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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 of the entrance 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?”

Running your tongue over your teeth, you hesitate. Your gaze drifts away from Tony and lands on Morgan, who’s standing a few steps back, arms crossed, watching with a curious expression. She raises an eyebrow, sensing your uncertainty, but doesn’t say anything—just waits to see what you’ll do next.

“Uh...” you start, the words coming slowly as you search for the right name.

For a moment, the lab fades into the background. Your thoughts drift back to your mother, and a familiar ache settles in your chest. You clear your throat, feeling a mix of emotions bubbling up. You’re not sure why, but something about this moment feels important.

“How about Maggie?”

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

You catch Morgan’s eyes, and she gives you a soft, almost tender look. There’s a warmth there, a silent recognition of what the name means to you.

“Maggie it is, then,” Tony nods approvingly, clapping his hands as he approaches.

“Now, I’ll give you the basic rundown,” Tony says, gesturing towards the suit with a casual flick of his hand, his tone all business. “Night vision, live communication with Morgan here, medical and vital scans, contacts to emergency numbers, a heater, and a hood. The gloves? Claws for fights. And the suit also connects to web-shooters.”

You twist your wrist, curious, and notice small rectangular devices embedded in your palms, integrated with the gloves.

Tony catches your eye and points to them. “Those web-shooters are designed to enhance your organic webs—make them shoot better, farther, stronger, and faster.”

"Nice," you mutter, flexing your fingers.

The helmet’s display suddenly shifts, bringing up a sleek interface that showcases the various features Tony just mentioned. The visuals are crisp and clear, icons representing each function appearing in a smooth, fluid motion.

Tony starts to circle you, his hands moving animatedly as he continues his explanation. “Then there’s the cape. And the advanced GPS with real-time tracking, so you’ll never lose your way, and neither will we.”

You let out a low whistle. “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."

Reaching up, you pull the hood over your head, feeling it snap into place with a satisfying click. The suit responds instantly, the advanced GPS blinking to life on your helmet’s display, projecting a detailed map of Gotham right before your eyes. You catch a faint scent wafting through the helmet—clean and fresh, with just a hint of leather.

“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 as he grabs Morgan by the shoulders, steering her toward the door. Her sneakers squeak against the polished tiles as she resists slightly, more out of surprise than reluctance.

"Alright! Come on," Tony urges, pressing the buttons for the elevator. The sleek doors slide open with a soft whoosh.

Confused, you take a moment to let the suit decloak, watching as it seamlessly transforms back into the inconspicuous glasses and belt.

You raise an eyebrow, still unsure of what’s happening. “Go where?”

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

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

"What the fuck wrong with you people?"

You step out of Tony's car, your eyes widening as you take in the sight before you. The building looms ahead, a decaying relic from another era. The "SOLD" sign is barely visible through the grime and neglect, and the structure itself looks like it hasn’t seen a lick of maintenance in decades. The windows are boarded up with splintered wood, and the paint on the facade peels away in large, ragged chunks, revealing the weathered wood underneath.

Tony and Morgan follow you out, donning hoodies and glasses to blend in and avoid drawing attention.

“You guys bought a building?!”

Morgan gives you a sheepish smile. 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 of his hands. “It’s got character, right? Sometimes, you’ve got to go a little off the beaten path to find the perfect spot.”

“Sorry,” Morgan chuckles, shaking her head. “Dad insisted. 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.”

“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,” Tony chuckles, shaking his head as he locks his car. You have half a mind to tell him that leaving a luxury car in this neighborhood might not be the best idea, but you hold back.

“This”—he emphasizes with a sweeping gesture—“will be better than anything you’ve had.”

With that, you all walk past a broken, torn-up gate, its metal barely hanging on its hinges and rusted beyond repair. Tony retrieves a key from his pocket, and with a satisfying click, he unlocks the door. You all follow him inside.

Inside, the space contrasts sharply with its run-down exterior. The walls were covered with graffiti. Books are scattered haphazardly in one corner, and some tech equipment is piled up in the 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.

Your jaw drops, and your shoulders slump as you take in the scene. Your eyes widen in disbelief, and you instinctively take a step back, as if trying to distance yourself from the sheer scale of the tech before you.

Morgan steps in behind you, her gaze sweeping across the room with recognition. She whistles low and turns to Tony, her eyebrows raised.

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

“Old?!” you screech at her. “This looks like a high-tech haven compared to what we were using before!”

Morgan rolls her eyes and nudges you playfully. “Dad likes to think anything not cutting-edge is ancient history. This is all yesterday’s innovations.”

“Yep. If this is ‘high-tech,’ I’d hate to see what you were working with before,” Tony snarks, shutting the warehouse door with a creak from the rusted hinges. “Bet you had a rotary dial phone in there too, didn’t you, kid?”

“Ha ha,” you retort, rolling your eyes. “But seriously, this setup is actually impressive.”

You look around, then toss your backpack onto a nearby table and pull out your old suit. It’s practically obsolete with the new upgrades, but you’re thinking of framing it for nostalgia’s sake. Tony’s gaze sharpens as he inspects the material.

“Wayne Tech? Is that Kevlar?” Tony says, his expression souring. “Low blow bringing that into my house.”

“Lower than you think,” you shrug.

“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 snort under your breath.

“I’m going to do you a solid, kid, 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. “Everything here ties into what we’re dealing with.”

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

"That was the guy who attacked us at prom..." you say, turning to her.

Morgan nods and taps another hologram, revealing a new file marked “Confidential.” It’s from a government source, with its contents obscured by digital encryption.

The file opens to reveal classified documents, high-security footage, and a death certificate among them.

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

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

Tony taps a few commands, and more files appear on the holographic display. These documents focus on Octavius's genetic research, showing charts, graphs, and notes on enhancing human abilities.

“Here’s where it gets interesting,” Tony says, pointing to a dense document. “Octavius was obsessed with improving human potential, working on genetic modifications to enhance physical and mental capabilities.”

Morgan’s expression tightens as she explains, “He was trying to create a new kind of metahuman. The robotic arms were his first success, but the spider serum was supposed to be the next big leap. When the board rejected it and refused to fund him, he turned to more dangerous methods.”

Tony nods, adding, “And from what we know, it seems like he might have been successful with his spider serum research in some way.”

Morgan’s gaze shifts to you. You feel a burning sensation where you were bitten, and shift uncomfortably, tracing the spot on your skin with your fingers.

“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, noting sections on enhancing strength, agility, and cognitive functions—some of which match your own research with Selina.

“Uh, he... I think he used to work with my dad. My late biological dad,” you say, scratching your cheek thoughtfully.

Tony’s brows shoot up in surprise. “Your dad?”

You nod, struggling to find the right words as you stumble over them. “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,” Morgan continues, “we studied serums based on animal genetics. My mom was seriously ill, and we explored genetic modifications to help her. One serum showed promise but ultimately failed.”

Tony’s eyes darken, and he lifts his head slowly, pain evident in his gaze.

“It sped up her sickness,” Tony says, sorrow seeping into his tone. “Despite the risks and the devastating consequences, I administered the serum because I was desperate. Desperate people make dangerous decisions. And... she wasn’t the only one affected.”

Tony’s face hardens, a shadow of regret crossing his features. “I thought I could make a difference, save lives. But instead, I caused suffering. My research led to deaths—people betrayed by the very hope I offered. I shut down that department the next day, but the damage was already done.”

His tone is cold, terribly cold, as he turns 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 know, he’s working on enhancements like Octavius was. 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. “That’s why we need to find his research location and figure out exactly what he’s working on.”

You study the photo of Dr. Connors, 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 plan our next steps.”

“I’ll dig into any leads I can find on Connors. But be ready for some dead ends. This guy doesn’t exactly advertise his work,” Tony says, waving his phone around.

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

“Slow your roll, kid,” Tony raises a hand, his tone cautionary. “I’m aware of your ‘find out the hard way’ track record. PEPPER’s medical reports on you say enough.”

“Uh, I’ve got enhanced DNA. I can handle it,” you laugh at him.

“Uh,” Tony mocks, “who cares? Keep getting beat up like this, and you’ll end up dead—and that’ll be on me. My wealth, connections, and power can only do so much to sway 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 more outlandish name than the last. He hadn’t paid them much mind—aside from their flashy tech, they weren’t his concern. But then there was you: the serum, the connections. Once he dug into that, Tony found himself unexpectedly driven, despite himself, to keep you alive.

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

“If we want to get to the bottom of this lizard guy, we need you alive,” Morgan says, shooting you a look and pushing up her glasses. “So, you have to take it slow. Baby steps.”

She moves to a medical area in the corner and gestures for you to follow. You raise an eyebrow but comply. Her hands slide up your arm and roll up your sleeve.

“Starting with this.”

Morgan pricks a needle into your arm, and you yelp. You wince at the sting and the cold spreading from the needle, feeling the pressure as your blood is drawn.

“Dude! What the hell?” you exclaim.

“Blood sample,” she replies matter-of-factly. She extracts the sample and slaps a bandaid on your arm. “Have you ever thought about how your powers work? Or how modified you really are?”

Morgan moves toward a 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. “Your DNA is... fascinating. The spider venom bonded with your cells.”

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

You grin, stepping closer to the display. “Yeah! I’ve seen this before. I… did some research on my own. The venom has this enzyme that acts as a catalyst, a transgenic catalyst, that facilitates its integration with human DNA. The spider’s genetic material introduces specific protein structures that enhance cellular regeneration and muscle density. Essentially, it’s rewriting my genetic code at a molecular level. The changes are so thorough that my cells keep churning out these proteins and enzymes, which is why my abilities are so persistent. It’s like I’ve got built-in bioengineering on a cellular level. And—”

You trail off, realizing you’re rambling. Coughing into your hand, you try to muster a serious expression. “Uh, sorry. I tend to geek out over this stuff.”

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.”

“Wow,” you grumble, flushing with embarrassment.

“It’s cute,” Morgan says with a smile, continuing to read the data. “Basic stuff. Super strength, enhanced healing... standard Spidey powers we’ve seen.”

A beep sounds as she taps another screen.

“Pain tolerance when you’re adrenaline-fueled is off the charts,” she murmurs. “If you ever needed surgery, the amount of anesthetic required would be dangerously high.”

Tony leans over her shoulder. “The dosage you'd need could drop an elephant—twice over.”

Morgan glances up, turning the tablet to face you. “Your reflexes and agility are beyond the usual. You’re faster and more responsive. But that means your body burns energy quickly. You’ll need a high-calorie diet to keep up with 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 tilts her head. “I doubt six meals covers that.”

“Oh,” you flush. "How was I supposed to know that?"

“You figured out the science behind your powers on a genetic level, but couldn't figure out how much food you need?” Tony quips.

“…yes?”

“You’re killing me, kid,” Tony groans, 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.”

Tony steps out to take a call from his secretary, leaving you and Morgan alone in the lab. She’s absorbed in analyzing your results, mumbling to herself and scribbling notes on a ratty notepad. 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.

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

This? This was awesome.

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.

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 looking 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, frowning. “You still have, like, two broken ribs.”

“Which will probably heal in about an hour,” you point out.

You swing onto a rooftop, landing with a skid as the rough concrete bites into your boots, the jarring impact vibrating up your legs. You brace yourself, absorbing the shock, then straighten up, brushing off the dust and debris clinging to your suit. The city lights glint off the sleek metal of your gear.

“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 fresh. 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?”

“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. 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 down at the bustling street below, a river of colors as people move like ants in the city’s labyrinth. “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, a genuine burst of amusement that makes your shoulders shake. “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 like Batman.”

“He is the standard,” you reply, stepping to the edge of the building. The cold wind brushes against your suit and tugs at your hood. You pull it up, feeling the fabric tighten around your face as you squint against the biting breeze.

“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 dance across her laptop keyboard, the rhythmic click-clack of her nails echoing in your helmet. “Ready for your first big debut?”

You check the readout, eyes narrowing. “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 wobbles dangerously close to the towering buildings, its movements growing more erratic by the second.

“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.

A few sharp, speedy webs later, you spot the helicopter's silhouette slicing through the thick, smoky haze—a dark, menacing shape against the illuminated skyline.

THWAP.

With a powerful swing, you fire a web at the tail of the helicopter, the line snapping tight and anchoring you securely. You grunt with effort, reeling it in and pulling with all your strength. The helicopter lurches violently, its spinning blades blurring dangerously.

Quickly, you fire another web, anchoring it to a nearby building. Using the momentum, you swing to the opposite side and shoot another web to stabilize the helicopter. The erratic spinning slows as the webs pull it into a more controlled, steady position.

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

You draw back and hurl yourself toward the helicopter’s blades, cutting through the deafening noise. Multiple webs shoot from your wrists, encasing the spinning blades in thick, sticky threads. The helicopter’s spin slows, the blades eventually halting as the craft begins to tremble and sway.

Panting, you cling to the helicopter’s side, your feet firmly anchored on the fuselage. Through the cockpit, you see the hijackers, their movements erratic and panicked.

One lunges at you with a knife, but you snatch it away and web 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 fire webs to disarm them, yanking their guns and knives away.

“This is just sad. I was hoping for some more action,” you quip, grabbing one hijacker by the collar and tossing him out of the cockpit. He flails wildly as he’s hurled into the air, but you’re quick to fire a web, catching him and securing him to a nearby rooftop. His face pales to a ghostly white as he dangles precariously above the city.

The second hijacker tries to take advantage of your distraction, but you’re on top of it. You spin, firing a web that catches him mid-swing. With a swift, decisive shove, you slam him against the side of the helicopter. He grunts in pain, and with a quick yank, you toss him out. Another web secures him to the same rooftop as his partner, leaving them both dangling high above the city.

You swing back to the rooftop where you left the men hanging and grin down at them. “Time for you guys to have a chat with the authorities,” you call out. “Hope you enjoyed your flight!”

KABOOM!

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.

“Oh boy,” you mutter, eyes widening as the helicopter, now belching thick, dark smoke, begins a slow, uncontrolled descent. Without a moment's hesitation, you dive after it, the wind roaring in your ears as you plummet. Your eyes stay fixed on the spiraling craft, webs catching falling debris to propel you faster.

Below, chaos erupts. Civilians scatter, their panicked screams piercing the clamor of the sputtering engines. Amidst the fleeing crowd, one woman remains frozen—her uniform and press ID visible. Trembling, she clutches her phone, snapping photos as the helicopter plummets closer.

"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 slices through the cacophony of Gotham’s busy streets, sharp and urgent. Her frustration is clear as she clutches her phone with a vice-like grip, her manicured fingers pressing into the device. Around her, the city's frenetic pulse continues unabated—taxi horns blare, and the murmur of the crowd flows around her like a river.

Her eyes dart around, scanning the street, trying to make herself heard over the din. “I was there! The spider vigilante is real! I was nearly robbed, and they intervened directly!”

Her boss’s voice on the other end is clipped, dismissive. “Vicki, I understand your enthusiasm, but right now, we need to focus on what’s capturing the public’s interest. Wayne and Stark are making headlines. Why not go interview that Kyle girl? It’s a classic rags-to-riches story. The public eats that up.”

“Who cares about some civilian?!” Vicki’s frustration boils over. She steps into the crowded Gotham streets, where people glance at her momentarily before resuming their daily routines. “This vigilante could be huge!”

“Vicki, we’re on a tight deadline,” her boss interrupts firmly. “Unless you have solid proof and concrete details about this… Spider, I don’t see how this story fits. Stick to the Wayne-Stark coverage for now. We’ll revisit the vigilante angle if it gains traction.”

Vicki’s protest is cut short by a sudden, deafening scream. She swivels her head, then snaps her gaze upward, eyes widening in disbelief. Above, the helicopter spins wildly—a chaotic blur of metal and smoke, its descent wreaking havoc on the cityscape.

A figure emerges—a vigilante slicing through the smoke like a bolt of lightning. The red and black suit flashes against the darkening sky, the emblem of a bold, black spider spreading its legs wide.

Bingo.

Without a second thought, Vicki plunges into the heart of the chaos. Around her, the crowd is a roiling sea of panic and flight, but she’s single-minded. Her fingers fumble with her phone, desperately trying to position the lens toward the unfolding spectacle.

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

Flashes of light burst from her camera in rapid succession. Every captured frame is a fragment of the story she’s been hunting, and nothing—nothing at all—will pry this chance from her grasp.

KABOOM!

A deafening roar slams into Vicki’s ears, obliterating all other sounds, leaving only a sharp ring. The helicopter plummets in a swift, uncontrollable descent—a menacing blur of spinning metal and thick, black smoke, tumbling right toward her. Her eyes widen in horror, breath caught in her throat as the scene drags out in slow motion.

“WATCH OUT!”

The warning is almost too late.

A powerful gust of wind sweeps through, lifting Vicki off her feet. She screams, grabbing onto the nearest figure with a white-knuckled grip. The vigilante, clad in a red and black suit, swoops in, pulling her into the air.

“Whatever you do, don’t let go!” you shout over the howling wind. Vicki scrambles and her arms clamp around your neck.

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 hold up 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.

SNAP!

The web snaps into place, and you grunt as the sudden force pulls you, but the other web holds firm. With a mighty effort, you brace yourself, bearing the full weight of the 6,000-pound craft.

“Ah, fuck,” you mutter, biting your lip as you throw your head back. Pain flares up like a bad cramp, every muscle in your arm and back screaming.

“Pretty sure I just broke something,” you grimace, feeling the weight of the helicopter pushing you to the limit. But with adrenaline fueling you, you grit your teeth and somehow keep it suspended. "This is great. Love my life."

Vicki, initially shaking in shock, gradually starts to calm down. Before you know it, she’s unwinding one arm from your shoulder and frantically digging through her pocket for her phone. You flinch at the sudden shift in weight.

“Hey! Hey! Hey! Lady! Will’ya stop moving?!” you scold, trying to keep both of you steady, but she’s too busy to care. Her attention is locked on her screen as she fumbles to activate the video function.

“Seriously? You’re recording now?”

Clinging to you with just one hand wrapped around your neck, she somehow keeps the lens focused on your helmet. Here she is, literally hanging on for dear life, yet still focused on getting that scoop.

You can’t decide if she’s brave, stupid, or both.

“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!”

“Uh. We’re live, so if you could just—”

“Not the time! Seriously?” you hiss. “Can we save the interview for after I’m done holding up a helicopter?”

Vicki shoves her phone back in your face. “This is history! People need to know who you are. Give me something to work with!”

You let out an exasperated groan, eyes squinting against the strain. “Alright, alright! You want a scoop? One question only. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?”

“I’m—” you pause, wincing as a fresh wave of pain hits. “I’m here to protect the city. People like you and everyone below deserve safety, and if I can help provide that, then... Shit!—that’s... that’s what I’ll do.”

The helicopter lurches again, and you grimace. “Just—okay! Got your story, right? Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

With a slow, controlled motion, you begin to lower the helicopter. The descent is careful, each web-strained inch guiding the craft to a safe landing. Finally, with a gentle thud, the helicopter touches down on the ground. The immense weight lifts from your shoulders, and you thank every god you can think of.

Jumping down, you land a safe distance from the wreck and gently set Vicki down. The streets around you hum with activity as emergency responders rush in. You let out a deep sigh of relief, feeling a sharp sting in your back—a problem for another day.

Vicki tucks her phone away, and as the adrenaline fades, you freeze. You know her—Vicki Vale. Columnist, gadfly, all-around troublemaker. The kind of trouble people crave and dread in equal measure.

She flashes a dazzling smile, perfect teeth catching the light as her nails trail up your bicep. You flinch, fighting to keep your cool.

“You’ve given me one heck of a story,” she purrs, her voice dropping an octave, laced with a flirtatious edge.

“So, what’s your deal?” she continues, leaning in a bit closer. “Secret identity? Hidden agenda?”

You glance at her, trying to maintain a professional tone despite the proximity. “Not interested in sharing more than I already have. Ha. Just… doing my job.”

Vicki smirks, clearly intrigued. “Well, I’ll keep digging. Heroes like you always have the best stories. And maybe… if you’re lucky, I’ll let you in on what I find.”

You let out a dry chuckle, feeling the heat from her proximity. “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.

What’s with you and redheads?

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

On one of the main screens of the Batcomputer, a news report flickers into view.

"—hat 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 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 Gazette! I’m witnessing an incredible act of heroism here! The Vigilante—”

“Not the time for an interview!”

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

“Alright, alright! You want a scoop? One question only. What do you want to know?”

“Why are you doing this? What’s your mission here in Gotham?”

“I’m—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.'"

A still image of Nightcrawler appears onscreen, frozen mid-swing through the skyline, one hand reaching out 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 hurles across the room, embedding itself in the Batcomputer’s screen with a sharp, metallic thud. The screen sputters violently, sparks erupting around the jagged edge of the blade as the image distorts. The monitor flickers wildly, casting brief, chaotic shadows before it goes dark.

Bruce whirls around, eyes wide. “Damian!”

"I'm going to kill them!"

“Enough!” Bruce snaps, yanking off his cowl with a frustrated sigh. He pinches the bridge of his nose, trying to stave off a headache, salt-and-pepper hair falling messily over his furrowed brows.

“Start from the top. What’s this about the vigilante?”

Damian, braced against his bike, glares through his mask. “Oh, I don’t know, Father. Maybe because just as we’re about to start patrol, some so-called minor vigilante swoops in and takes over the hijacking we were handling.”

He jabs a finger at the damaged screen, frustration crackling in his voice. “And on top of that, this ‘hero’ seems to have made it their personal mission to mess with my operations.”

“What operations?”

Damian’s jaw tightens as he spits out, “It’s… It’s Y/N.”

Bruce’s shoulders tense as he swivels his head, darting rapid, searching glances at Tim, Dick, Cassandra, and Jason.

“Alright, Damian,” Dick says, pushing himself off the control panel. “That’s a big bomb to drop out of nowhere. We need details. What do we know about this Spider?”

Damian, clearly agitated, rolls his shoulders and scoffs. “When I was assigned to track them—”

“No one assigned you,” Jason points out. “You’ve been on a one-man crusade to follow every shady character in Gotham. It’s practically your hobby at this point.”

“And it’s led me to this,” Damian hisses, slamming his fist against the edge of his bike. The impact sends a shudder through the entire vehicle. “So, if you’re done interrupting, maybe we can actually make progress. Remember the night of the dinner when they showed up, bruised and battered?”

“You’re saying it’s connected?” Tim narrows his eyes, sliding his laptop from the table and settling it on his lap. He flips the keyboard open, his fingers flying over the keys. “If we pull together all the recent incidents and sightings, we might spot a pattern.”

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, trauma-fueled, highly trained, rebellious sons sneak out—something that’s happened more times than he can count—and it never leads to anything good.

He’s caught in the well-worn groove of dread, like an old record that keeps skipping to the same track. The adoption jokes practically write themselves in his mind, but right now, he's too worried to laugh.

Selina and Bruce had always been a tangled mess of on-again, off-again.

When they were younger, the chase was a thrill, the romance intense. But when things got serious, the cracks started to show. 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 storm-lashed night, everything changed. Selina appeared at his doorstep, Rain streamed off her like tears, and in her arms was a small bundle—a toddler, swaddled tight but still shivering, cheeks flushed and red.

It had been years since they’d last spoken. Bruce, barely containing his shock, asked if the child was his. Selina shook her head, the sobs barely intelligible as she murmured something lost to his ears.

Not his, he mourned.

But the connection was there. You were a mirror of his own younger self—the same tragic backstory, the same deep-seated sadness. In the quiet, lonely hours of the night, Bruce would find himself searching for glimpses of your life, his mind wandering to what might have been. You were his child in spirit, if not in blood.

His daughter��if not truly, then almost.

“A solid approach,” Bruce says, snapping back to focus. “Her safety is our top priority. We need to figure out how to protect her from whatever this threat is.”

“But what exactly are we protecting her from?” asks Dick. “We still don’t fully understand what this vigilante wants or why they’re fixated on Y/N.”

Cass steps forward, her hands moving fluidly.

“Sullen,” she signs.

Tim nods in understanding, his fingers flying over the keyboard as he updates the document.

“Does Selina know about this?” he asks, glancing up. “Y/N’s been looking more scrawny. They’ve put on some muscle, sure, but they’re clearly neglecting their health. We might have missed other signs.”

Bruce made a strangled sound in his throat. He mentally made a note to call Selina later.

Catwoman hadn't been on any heists recently—good for Gotham, 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.

“Kid came in with a black eye,” Jason grunts, striding over to his gear. He slams rubber bullets into their chambers with a sharp clack, the sound echoing through the room. “And from what I see, they’ve been holding back on us. We should’ve noticed something was off sooner.”

Damian rubs his eyes in frustration. Guilt eats at him.

You'd been hiding injuries and sneaking around at odd hours, that much was clear. The Spider inflicted them deliberately, not just to hurt you but to send a message. It was a warning to the Bats that they could make things much worse if they got in their way.

“There was a cut on their ribs. A knife wound. The way it was done, so precise—there’s no way it was an accident or a stray hit. Someone wanted to hurt them, to send a clear message.”

Everyone’s head whips toward Damian.

Dick takes a deep, shuddering breath, shaking his head in disbelief. “She didn’t tell until after that night?”

Damian’s fingers dig into his own arms, leaving crescents of white where his nails press. “They’ve been hiding things from us. I should’ve seen it coming. I’ve been pouring over every encounter, trying to piece together what’s been going on. But there’s something we’re missing, and I—”

His voice catches, trembling with regret. “They must have been too terrified to speak out. It took them showing me before I finally caught on to what was happening.”

Bruce steps forward, his hand soothing over Damian's tense shoulders. “Son, now isn’t the time to blame yourself.”

Damian’s eyes blaze with frustration as he jerks away from Bruce’s touch. “How can you say that? They’re in danger because I didn’t see it coming!”

Bruce’s expression melts, mouth pressed in a concealed white-hot wrath. “It’s not about blaming anyone. What matters now is what we do next.”

“Alright.” Jason grabs his gun and starts loading it with a series of sharp clicks. He slides it into his holster and looks up. “Let’s say we find a connection. What’s the plan? Do we confront her directly or set a trap for the Spider?”

Bruce moves to the Batcomputer, slipping his cowl back on. “We can’t rush into anything. We need concrete evidence first. Confronting Y/N without it could put her in danger and jeopardize our position.”

He turns to Damian, a silent exchange passing between them.

Damian, on the edge of adulthood and just a step away from graduation, is nearly a carbon copy of his father—save for his far tanner skin and hooked nose. His deep-set eyes are shadowy pools that seem to contain entire worlds, while dark, inky waves of hair tumble over his forehead. His broad shoulders are as solid and sculpted as marble.

“For now, you’ll keep a close watch on her. Protect her if you need to.”

Damian strides toward the Batcomputer, his cape trailing behind him. He dislodges his Batarang with a deft flick, expression set in stone

"Of course."

 ༻⊰───⋅

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

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

With a weary sigh, you uncloaked, and your suit shimmered as it dissolved into nanotech, reforming into your glasses and belt. Sweat clung to your forehead as you ruffled your damp hair, trying to shake off the lingering adrenaline. You removed the glasses with a swift motion, tossing them 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.

"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 an eyebrow at her. Morgan leaned back, her fingers drumming rhythmically on the armrest. "That was one hell of a debut. The media is already all over it. They’re calling you the ‘Nightcrawler.’”

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

“Are you kidding me? That’s badass!” Morgan grinned, her eyes sparkling with enthusiasm. She wheeled back to her desk, snatching a remote and pointing it at the large screen mounted on the wall. The screen flickered to life, and news footage of the event burst onto the display.

As the video played, Morgan leaned closer to the screen “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?”

“The emo Gotham hero stereotype,” you groaned, 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—Nightcrawler—perched on a rooftop, the scene drenched in shadows. The red of your suit bled into the darkness. Your hood was drawn low, obscuring your face, while the city lights below flickered like distant stars in the void.

You squinted at the screen, oddly flattered. "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 at her phone, swiped through her feed, and tapped on the tag #NightcrawlerEdits. She then turned the screen toward you, excitement practically bursting out of her.

Clips of your rooftop swings, dramatic landings, and quick takedowns looped across the screen, set to raunchy 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. It featured you throwing your head back, straining against a helicopter's weight while Vicki clung to your neck. Your biceps were prominently flexed, and the background whizzed by in a blur of motion and color.

The accompanying song blasted, with the lyrics:

Push me down, hold me down Spit in my mouth while you turn me on I wanna take your light inside Dim me down, snuff me out Hands on my neck while you push it out And I'm screamin' out

Morgan burst into laughter, practically rolling on the floor.

“This is my favorite one,” she said, her eyes sparkling with tears.

You covered your face with your hands, groaning in embarrassment. “This is not how I pictured my debut.”

Morgan, still laughing her ass off, was clearly unfazed. She scrolled through the comments, her grin spreading even wider.

“You’ve gotta hear these,” she said, her voice barely containing her amusement. She began reading aloud, each comment more deranged than the last.

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

Of course, there were the occasional snarky comments but they were buried under an avalanche of over-the-top reactions and sheer, unrestrained heat.

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

"Morgan!" You cringed, peeking through your fingers. "Stop! I can't believe this shit. They turned my life-threatening mission into a fucking thirst trap.”

Morgan could barely catch her breath between laughs.

“Alright, alright. Enough,” you said, snatching her phone away. “Enough with the thirst traps! Let’s get back to work!”

Morgan’s laughter died down 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. “Injuries detected: dislocated shoulder, torn muscles in back and bicep, a cut on the cheek, and minor abrasions.”

The robotic arm paused. “Recommendations: immediate treatment for the shoulder and muscle tears; clean and treat minor cuts to avoid infection. Rest and recovery are essential.”

“More injuries?” Morgan fake gasped, rising from her chair. She gave your forehead a playful 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 try catching a helicopter with one hand while some shitty reporter tries to interview you midair!”

Morgan just rolled her eyes. Quick on her feet, she approached the medical cabinet and gathered supplies. The room filled with a soft hum as a bunch of robotic arms whirred to life, their sleek forms extending and positioning themselves around you.

“Alright, superhero, let's get you your fix.”

One of the robotic arms gently secured your dislocated shoulder. Morgan adjusted its settings on a nearby console, her fingers moving deftly 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 brief, sharp pain of your bone realigning quickly faded as the shoulder was set back into position.

The remaining robotic arms moved in to treat your muscle tears. They applied a soothing gel and began a methodical massage, easing the inflamed muscles with each gentle stroke.

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

“You don’t get paid,” you say dryly.

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

You raised an eyebrow. The tips of Morgan’s ears turned red and she cleared her throat awkwardly.

Typing in a few final commands, she lingered a moment, glancing at you with a faintly hopeful look. “So, any plans for the rest of the day?”

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

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

“Why? Ugh. Please don’t tell me you want to go to class.”

Morgan shook her head. “No, no! I know the internship has both of us excused for the month, but I need to check out some files on Octavius Burton. He used to be faculty there, and I thought it’d be a good chance for us to revisit the oh-so-magnificent halls of our beloved school.”

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

Morgan pursed her lips. “You might run into Damian, though.”

You pause.

You thought about it for one second, then nodded.

“Gotham Academy it is.”

<- PREVIOUS | NEXT ->

 ༻⊰───⋅

voomba sorry for the long ass paragraphs i write shit lore

ur like a redhead magnet girlypop

#damian wayne x reader #damian wayne #batfamily #dc robin #damian wayne al ghul #damian wayne imagine #selina kyle #bruce wayne #batman

359 notes · View notes

strongheartneteyam · 1 year ago

Text

I wet you like water but she stained you like blood.

Chapter 4

Pairing: widowed!dilf!Jake Sully x younger!female!human reader

CW: jealous-in-an-unhealthy-way-Jake, Jake and y/n verbally fight because of complicated feelings, angst!!, heated make out session, possessive Jake, TRIGGER WARNING for Jake being toxic and unreasonable, Jake apologizes afterwards bc he's good after all, Daddy kink (nothing explicit but still the kink is there)

So… after this fic being on an incredibly long hiatus, I'm back with another chapter. I had this in my Google Docs for way too long but I was not sure if I wanted the story to go this way but I guess I do. I'm extremely insecure about this chapter, so, please, leave me your opinion about it. Love you guys <3

Not proofread. I'm sick n sleepy. Sorry :(

Chapter 3 𓆩♡𓆪

You know I'm good at keeping secrets, you know that you're my weakness and I'll always repeat it

If I could hold onto the feeling back before your words lost their meaning

There's no need for apologies 'cause, honestly, fuck your honesty, I'm done

Think you like the insanity

I'm the casualty of your dreams 'cause I'm not the one

casualty of your dreams (Maggie Lindemann)

𓆩♡𓆪

Rumor had it there was a human girl that worked in the lab being all lovey-dovey with an Omatikaya young guy. They had gotten it from the fact that you were just talking to and smiling at an Omatikaya male you had met in one of your walks in the woods to collect samples. You had just found out the na'vi could be as fond of gossiping as humans… Great. As the word runs fast as the wind on the Pandora planet, three days after you finally see Jake again. He had been gone for 3 whole days, not even paying a quick visit to the lab to see you for some minutes, really early in the morning, - like he always used to do - when he was already awake to do some Olo'eyktan tasks and you were up with your face buried in science books about extraterrestrial flowers and herbs, a cup of hot black coffee on the table, right next to your hand for easy access, as you survived only because of the caffeine, having to wake up so early almost every day. Sometimes being a xenobotanist truly sucked...

"Who's that Omatikaya boy you were seen with? People are saying you were all over each other." Jake spit, rage and jealousy burning his insides, bursting like a bomb inside of the cold, filled with cold air coming from the air conditioner room you were in, sitting down, taking notes with an electronic pen in your tablet about the herb samples you were conducting a research about.

There were microscopes, high tech computers, Pandoran plants samples and xenobiology books all around.

"What?!" You said, startled by his sudden, noisy appearance.

"Don't pretend you have no clue! You were there, y/n." Jake says, a cold smirk filled with anger adorning his face, the feeling of his heart being crashed and bruised even stronger than when he first heard the news harassing him

"What the hell, Jake?!" You say loudly, mad at him "why are you being so rude to me?!" Your heart was beating fast inside your chest cavity. You couldn't believe Jake was treating you that way. "Why did you burst into the room like that, without even knocking on the door, like you usually do?! You scared the shit out of me!"

"Won't you just answer my question already?!" Jake said, in a cutting tone

That was the last straw. You had enough.

You swiftly stood up from the high chair you were sitting on and came closer to Jake, looking up at his usually yellow bright eyes that were now tainted with a dark atmosphere, like a rainy grey cloud was around him, his 9 feet something frame towering over you, but you were so damn angry that you didn't feel a single bit of fear, even knowing he was incredibly mad and seemed out his damn mind and you knew that he could even kill you so goddamn easily if he wanted to. Not that you thought he did. You could never see Jake doing something so horrible, especially to you. It was just a fact: he was ridiculously stronger than you. His height and his muscles, plus the fact he had military training and so much experience at war, making him a dangerous adversary right now. You thanked any Higher Force that existed in the Universe that you were sure and confident Jake would never hurt you physically.

But he was hurting you in another way, a very detrimental one: he was hurting your feelings. Hurting your feelings good.

"No, Jake Sully. I won't answer you until you stop being such a goddamn jerk." You said, a serious, stern expression in your heated with anger face as you stared at his eyes

He looked you dead in the eyes and breathed heavy though his nose, supporting his back against the wall, his body inclined back, his huge toned but a little fleshy arms crossed in front of his chest. He calmed down a little and was waiting for you to talk.

"Thank you!" You spit, rolling your eyes at him "I was, yes, talking to an Omatikaya boy. But that was all. He was really nice and we were just having a good time. Nothing happened. I even told him that I had someone. Didn't say who it was, though. I don't know if he was interested in me. I'm not that good at noticing these things."

"Hah, so he was flirting with you! I knew it!!" Jake was lost in his jealousy. You didn't recognize the man in front of you

"Jake!! Are we gonna do this all over again?!" You were getting way too mad at his attitude

Jake tilted his head to the side, furrowed his lips, eyes on yours, scorching your very soul.

"Why can't I be mad? He was messing with what's mine." He stated, fierce.

"Ahaha" You laughed sarcastically

"Unbelievable…" You thought

"So, you don't make our relationship official, you don't let your family or anyone in Pandora know, everybody thinks you just like to talk to me about sciencey stuff, Norm might be the only one that suspects of something, in my opinion , but he minds his own business and respects our friendship - with me and with you - way too much to go around gossiping to people about the fact you always come way too often to the lab and spends a lot of time alone in rooms with me, and you have the audacity of acting like a mad man when an Omatikaya guy, who has no damn clue you're dating me, seems interested in me?! Is that the way you're gonna act, Sully?! Really?!"

Jake still stared at you, angered.

"Yes." He said, in a low, calm tone. But you could feel his cold demeanor coming towards you. He was still angry and still though he was right.

You chuckled faintly, your face tainted with disbelief "Manchild." You said, looking into his eyes.

Jake sighed heavily, spent some seconds with his head down, seeming to be thinking about something and then, he came closer to you, his eyes softer this time, that anger flying away slowly.

"I'm sorry. You're right. I'm being childish. I'm way older than you are. I should be the mature one here."

You looked at him, eyes still distrustful, but you gave in and calmed your nerves down too.

Jake looked at you with puppy adorable eyes, the way he used to look at Neytiri when they were young. Even after so many years, he still had that cute look in his eyes when he was sorry, or pleading for something or when he just wanted to show his true feelings to someone he had romantic feelings for. He wasn't the romantic type, but he showed his love through actions, through acts of service, quality time, physical touch, and, through looking at the person he loved - in this case, "the person he liked", you thought - that way. His eyes said everything his mouth couldn't say.

"Please, forgive me, baby. I didn't mean to hurt you this much. I was foolish, I was letting my heart guide me. That's not good, sometimes." He sighed, upset with himself "it's just that... you mean so much to me. I don't wanna lose you to someone else. Someone younger, who doesn't have a whole lot of baggage like I do, someone who can make you happier than I can."

You breathed through your nose, your chest felt tight, filled with anxiety and tension

"You will never lose me, Jake. Never. Don't worry about it." You looked at his pleading amber eyes, forgiving him "My heart is yours. You're always there. Everywhere I look, you're there. I listen to love songs from Earth thinking about you. Why are you so insecure?"

"No reason... I just... You're so precious to me. I need you so much. So much."

You gazed into his eyes, started to tip toe, trying to reach his mouth. It was stupid, you knew the height difference wouldn't let that happen, but, you were following your instinct to physically show him how much you loved him. That you were his and never wished to belong to anybody else.

Jake noticed what you wanted to do and took you in his arms, sweeping you off your feet, his arms beneath your thighs and initiated the kiss himself. Jake held onto your thighs tightly and strongly. He kissed you like a starving man finally getting some food. His tongue wildly touching yours, licking it, sucking on it. His lips bruising yours, leaving your mouth reddened afterwards.

His big blue hands moved from your thighs to hold onto your butt, carefully to not let you fall from his arms, as you were up in the air and could get hurt if you fell.

"Nobody can touch you. Or kiss you. Or fuck you. Only I can. Do you understand, sweetheart?" Jake spoke, almost whispering, out of breath because of the heated kiss

"Yes, Daddy."

"Good girl. My good girl. Only mine." Jake praised you

𓆩♡𓆪

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