#spider reader

The valve being broken and spraying cold water just made you panic even more. You swore you were about to hyperventilate.

You probably already were.

"Oh my god, oh my go—" you tried to put the valve back—only for it to stick to your hand.

There were also those faint, weird slits along your inner wrists—easy to miss unless someone was looking for them.

You tried to remove the valve using your other hand by pulling on the other side, which was a dumb idea—obviously, because your other hand was now stuck to it too.

All the while water kept spraying on your damn face.

You try to take a step back, only to lose your footing and awkwardly flail your arms around with your hands still holding onto that damn valve.

You cursed yourself for deciding to brush your teeth after literally hanging from the ceiling.

Your feet kept scrambling to regain balance, forcing you backward—until your back hit the window.

And just by your luck—it was open.

Your body was halfway out the window, and you definitely did not wanna go out as a soaked idiot with sticky hands (and feet?).

"DAMN STUPID—" you grunted, "Just let go dam—"

and it did let go. By being thrown so hard across the room that it created a huge crater.

You dumbfoundedly stared at the comically massive hole in the wall, the valve right in the middle of it.

"I'm seriously gonna get in trouble," you muttered, regaining your footing and standing straight. You thought your head would be hurting by now from hanging outside—but if anything, you still felt as fit as a monkey on steroids.

Whatever that means.

Then suddenly, everything felt like it was in slow motion.

You were feeling everything but nothing at the same time—you wonder if you accidentally inhaled something.

You could hear the wind tickling the trees outside, the coffee machine whirring downstairs, the hastened steps about to enter your room—

And with super speed you definitely didn't have before, you open the door before the person could even turn the knob.

Alfred looked flabbergasted, not expecting you to open the door so fast since he couldn't even hear you approaching the door on the other side.

"Hiya Alfred!" you greeted too cheerfully—as if you weren't about to fall to your death earlier.

You probably (definitely) looked like a psycho right now—with your upper half being absolutely drenched and your hair looking like you fought a supervillain.

The old butler quickly recovered from his shock, his expression morphing into concern now.

"Master [Name], I heard a loud noise—are you hurt?" he assessed your physical well-being.

"No worries Alfredo! I'm super fine!" you weren't. Atleast mentally.

Alfred raised his eyebrow, obviously suspicious of your odd cheery behavior.

"Then may I ask what caused the loud noise?"

You hesitated, should you tell the trusty old butler the freaky stuff that's happened? You were sure that Alfred would believe you.

But there was still that sliver of a chance he'll tell Bruce—and you didn't want to be in a lab getting dissected like a frog.

And by your circumstances, you didn't want to take chances.

"I uh.. just fell out of bed, you know? clumsy ol' me." you rubbed the back of your hand with a sheepish smile.

The old man still didn’t look like he believed you—but he decided to drop the topic.

“Master [name],” he began, voice as calm and polished as ever, “might I inquire as to the whereabouts of your glasses?”

"Oh uh, I accidentally broke them again.." it wasn't out of the norm for you to accidentally break your glasses anyway—"I'm wearing my emergency contacts!"

Alfred sighed, "I see. We must get you a new pair—"

You waved your hand, "No need! I like wearing contacts now, heh.."

He raised his eyebrow slightly, probably concluding that you didn't wanna look like a nerd anymore.

"If you say so, master [name], seeing that your fever from last night has—"

You tuned Alfred out, your attention drifting as a sharp, hollow ache twisted through your stomach.

Hunger.

You were hungry—really hungry. You hadn’t realized how much your stomach had been begging and screaming for you to feed it.

"Master Tim also has a visito—"

"That can wait Alfred! Let us get some sweet breakfast!"

You thought you could wait for a few more minutes to politely wait for the man to stop talking—but you couldn't take it anymore. You could practically feel your insides eating each other.

You bolted past the butler, causing him to get startled at the sudden speed increase.

"Master?—" the butler blinked, staring at the same spot you were in five seconds ago.

You were already down the stairs—and you did notice the absolute powerhouse you were about to run into, thanks to your heightened senses, but you were moving too fast to stop.

Your head crashed into a brick wall.

Maybe you shouldn't have tuned out Alfred. Maybe he mentioned some new construction going on—

"What the—" you muttered, feeling strong hands envelop your shoulders to create distance between you and the brick wall.

"Woah, woah! Where're you going in a hurry?"

Since when can brick walls talk?

Your eyes met brick wall's—which was actually a human. A very handsome human at that. You were hungry for all the wrong reasons now.

You blinked owlishly, staring at the boy with dark, tousled hair and sunglasses resting on his head. He had a sharp jawline and piercing blue eyes. There was a certain punk edge to him, with the black leather jacket studded with spikes and all.

You recognized him as Conner Kent. Tim's best friend.

His hands slid down to his sides as he stood just a step below you. His gaze traveled over you—and you felt oddly insecure.

"Well, aren't you pretty." he smirked.

You raised an eyebrow. “Thanks?”

He opened his mouth—like he was about to toss out another flirty remark—but whatever it was died on his tongue.

For a second, he just looked at you—like he was weighing something.

Then—

“Gotta get goin’. See you ’round, though.” He gave a quick wink, slipping his hands into his pockets as he brushed past you, heading up the stairs—probably on his way to see Tim.

What a weirdo. A handsome one though.

You frowned, feeling a tinge of curiosity on why they couldn't meet down the BatCave or whatever they called it.

Your stomach grumbled, a harsh reminder of why you’d been bolting down the stairs earlier. With no time to lose, you headed down the last steps—this time a bit more graceful than before.

Luckily, it was that odd time between breakfast and lunch—meaning the family was out doing their own thing.

You see a meal already prepped down at the table, courtesy of Alfred.

You sat down and started eating right away—quicker than usual, barely giving yourself time to pause between bites.

You still had the decency to at least not act like a starved animal. Even though you felt like one.

“You’re eating rather quickly.”

The voice came from the doorway.

You glanced up to see Damian leaning against the frame, arms crossed, watching you with a faintly raised brow.

You wondered why he wasn’t out in the garden slicing down already-trimmed large bushes or something.

He called it training.

You thought it was more like poorly disguised gardening.

You swallowed before responding, "I eat 12 year old boys pretty quick too."

The younger boy shot you a glare, clearly not amused at your jokes. You shrugged, shoving another slice of bacon in your mouth.

“Tt. Keep talking like that and I might test that theory myself,” Damian snapped, eyes narrowing. “Hurry up. Pennyworth is waiting for you outside.”

And with that—he left as quickly as he came.

He probably tastes bad anyway—

Crap. You forgot it's the weekend.

Which means you get to spend it at Uncle Ben’s—which is a good thing, of course.

You just don’t know how you’re supposed to hide… whatever’s happening to your body. You try to put the fork down—and, unsurprisingly, it sticks to your hand.

You groaned, hand rising to your face—then froze mid-motion. Yeah, no. You liked your eyebrows where they were.

You flailed your hand around, the fork stubbornly stuck to it—then, suddenly, a lightbulb went off in your head.

If panicking didn’t work—and acting like a local Gotham crackhead didn’t either—then… maybe staying calm would do the trick.

You took a deep breath, steadying your nerves. Just like you hoped, your sticky hand released the fork, letting it fall onto the plate with a soft clink.

You smiled in satisfaction before dumping the plate into the sink.

A win is a win.

Crack.

You stared at the sink, then sighed.

You didn’t even put it down that hard!

Alfred had left you at the doorstep not long ago, calmly listing off a few reminders about tomorrow—how he’d be back to pick you up in the morning for the Sunday family brunch. His voice had been as steady and patient as ever, like he already expected you to hesitate.

Sundays. The days Dick was home.

You didn’t like attending those brunches. You’d usually make an excuse—any excuse—not to show up. A headache. Homework. Suddenly remembering something “urgent.”

Alfred understood anyway.

The house in front of you felt warmer and easier.

As soon as you stepped into Uncle Ben’s house, the warm, sweet scent of Aunt May’s iconic blueberry pancakes wrapped around you like a hug. The air was thick with buttery goodness and just a hint of syrup, making your stomach twist again.

It was already lunch—and they’d normally cook something more savory, but you had a feeling pancakes were the main event today.

Your uncle greeted you. “Hey, kiddo.” He peeked over the top of his newspaper, the bold headline practically shouting—NEW VIGILANTE!

You smiled in response. “Good morning, Uncle Ben.”

You headed to the kitchen, catching sight of Aunt May setting down a fresh stack of pancakes.

“Aunt May! That smells delicious,” you said, sniffing the air—your senses overloaded with homebaked goodness.

Aunt May chuckled. “Help yourself. Ben!” she called out.

You took a seat, grabbed a fork, and took a huge bite.

The first bite practically melted in your mouth—warm, fluffy, and bursting with sweet blueberries.

Okay. Maybe this superhuman thing had one upside. You made a mental note to test your new abilities later.

“Woah—easy there,” Aunt May laughed, watching you demolish the first piece. “Don’t they feed you over there?”

You swallowed quickly, already cutting into another piece. “I am being fed,” you mumbled, mouth still half full. “Just—uh—growing. A lot.”

From the other room, Uncle Ben’s voice boomed, “Back in my days—”

You rolled your eyes, already bracing yourself from some old story.

“—I had a bigger appetite than that! Eat up, kiddo!"

He stepped in, wiping his hands on a towel, raising an amused eyebrow at your plate—which was already looking suspiciously empty.

Aunt May set another stack onto your plate, and you accepted it gratefully.

“Good thing I made extra,” she mused.

She took a seat across from you, while Uncle Ben settled into the chair beside you.

This—

this was what you considered family—home.

You mourned what could’ve been. You didn’t like dwelling on the past—but sometimes, you just couldn’t help it.

She would’ve been sitting right next to you. Probably laughing at your huge appetite—maybe a little suspicious, too.

She would’ve nudged your shoulder, told you to slow down before you choked—like you ever listened. There would’ve been that familiar warmth in her voice, something soft and teasing that made everything feel lighter.

For a moment, you could almost hear it. The faint echo of it, anyway.

Your grip tightened slightly, nails pressing into your palm as the thought slipped in deeper than you meant it to.

No point in chasing ghosts.

Even then, you also wondered what you would’ve turned out like if your mom were alive, if your family had been more financially stable.

She would’ve taken you out of Gotham, no doubt. She’d always dreamed of living in Metropolis.

Because of that, you’d dreamed of it too—the home of Superman… and, well, alien invasions.

Still better than the pollution and overall dump that was Gotham. That was for sure.

As you took another bite, Aunt May froze mid-air, her fork hovering.

“Ah! I almost forgot!” She set her fork down. “Are you going to invite that cute boy, Harry, over for dinner again?”

You groaned, warmth creeping up your cheeks,

“Aunt May!”

She had a habit of teasing you and Harry whenever she got the chance, always mentioning how she was your age when she fell in love with Uncle Ben.

You never thought of him that way—but there were times when you caught yourself noticing the little things. The way he listened to you ramble about nerdy stuff he wasn’t even interested in, or how he always looked out for you without making a big deal out of it.

It was stupid.

You didn’t think of him like that.

And he definitely didn’t think of you that way either.

“Yes… I’ll invite him over for dinner,” you said. “I’ll be out with him later, too.”

It was nothing new that you two hung out on weekends—it had practically become a ritual, whether grabbing coffee at that corner café or hitting the skateboard park where he liked to watch you pull off tricks.

He never seemed to mind staying for hours, even when you kept saying, “one more try.” He’d sit there, elbows on his knees, eyes following your every move.

Sometimes he’d clap when you landed something clean. Other times, he’d just smirk and shake his head when you wiped out—like he expected it, like he knew you’d get back up anyway.

And you always did.

Aunt May nodded with a knowing smile, while Uncle Ben tutted.

“Be careful. Stick to the safe spots, 'nd don't stay out too late.“ he reminded.

Uncle Ben hadn’t trusted Harry at first—he didn’t trust anyone with the Osborn name.

You’d tried to press him for answers, but he always deflected or told you that he'll tell you when he was ready. Which just made your already curious mind—even more curious.

But after meeting Harry—and hearing how you two met from him defending you from a bully—his view shifted. On Harry, at least.

He still hated Norman. And Oscorp.

“Right, kid, where's your glasses?” Uncle Ben hummed, eating a bite of the pancake.

“Oh, uh, I broke them. I’m wearing contacts.” The lie slipped too easily from your lips—it hurt to lie to Uncle Ben and Aunt May, but it was for the better.

The couple nodded in understanding.

Then, a bit of ceiling paint crumbled onto the table.

“Ben, you oughta fix that soon.”

Your uncle finished his pancakes and set his plate in the sink. You followed suit, picking up the plate Aunt May had just finished.

You had to be really gentle, careful not to break any more plates—you were already fifteen minutes behind from last time.

Sighing, you rolled up the sleeves of your jacket and headed to the sink. Warm, soapy water filled the basin as you carefully scrubbed each plate, making sure not to drop—or crush—anything.

Your uncle hummed from the living room, “[Name], run me an errand to the hardware store for some paint?”

You glanced over your shoulder, a plate still in hand. “Sure, Uncle Ben…”

You finished washing the dishes, drying your hands on a cloth. Uncle Ben slid a few crisp bills onto the coffee table.

“Nah, no worries,” you said with a grin. “I can finally put my allowance to use."

Uncle Ben laughed. “Don’t turn out like those snobby rich kids!”

“Wouldn’t dream of it.”

You went upstairs, the worn floorboards creaking under your weight. The old guest room that was only kept tidy for you and your mom had been made yours.

It was more decorated and lived-in than your room in the manor—even though you spent more time there. You took off your jacket, chucking it into the laundry basket.

You wrinkled your nose, tugging at the hem of your shirt.

Gross. You were still wearing yesterday’s field trip clothes.

With a quiet groan, you grabbed a change of clothes and slipped into the bathroom, shutting the door behind you. The familiar click echoed softly.

The shower didn’t take long—just enough to rinse off the day. Warm water washed over you, easing the stiffness in your shoulders, the faint scent of soap replacing dust and sweat. You stood there for a moment longer than necessary, letting the heat settle into your skin before finally turning it off.

A quick towel dry, a change into something clean, and you were out again—hair still slightly damp, but at least you felt human.

Much better.

You looked over at your drawer, grabbing a new jacket to put on. You grabbed your skateboard, which was resting against the wall, and tucked it under your arm.

You took out your phone, and opened the messages app to text Harry.

[You]

Hey, meet me at the café

You slipped your Walkman over your ears, letting familiar melodies flood your mind. You were about to tuck your crappy phone into your pocket when—

Ding!

Hare 🐰

You're healed already? I'm omw

Well that was fast.

The Walkman kept playing, muffling the quiet of the house as you adjusted the strap of your skateboard under your arm.

You just stood there in your room, listening—to the music, to the faint creaks of the house settling, to your own thoughts catching up.

Then your lips twitched slightly.

“…He’s definitely running.”

The small wheels of your skateboard grinded against the stone pavement of the sidewalk. It was cold, like it often was in Gotham—but it was colder than usual today. You shoved your hands in your pockets.

You couldn’t hear the blaring sirens of the police cars rushing by at a worrying speed, drowned out by your music.

For safety, you felt around the familiar buttons in your jacket to click stop and slid your headphones down to your neck. Even though you were stronger, it still didn't settle right in your chest.

It still feels like a dream—which is normal since its only been 6 hours you've gotten them.

The air felt heavier against your skin, every shift in temperature noticeable. The wind brushing past your face wasn’t just cold—it carried scents you couldn’t name, faint traces of smoke, metal, something burnt miles away.

You dropped your foot to the pavement, picking up speed.

A car sped past—too fast—and even with your music, you realized you would’ve heard it long before it turned the corner.

Then everything was in slow motion again—and it reminded you of your meeting with the pretty weirdo. Everything in your body was screaming one thing at you, which was to—

JUMP.

An old lady stepped into your path, her dog tugging slightly at the leash.

You flipped backward over her in one smooth motion, the world spinning once before snapping back into place.

Your wheels hit the pavement clean.

The old lady let out a shocked gasp, in which you looked over your shoulder in a sheepish grin. Other passerbys looked at you in shock, some giving u a smile that said—"that-was-cool-dude"

Whew, you had a whole lot of new tricks to show to Harry apparently.

You dragged your foot against the pavement, the rough scrape grounding you as your speed bled away. The board wobbled slightly beneath you before coming to a stop.

You stepped off, catching the skateboard by the edge before it could roll off, fingers curling around it a little too tight. The wood creaked faintly in protest.

Oops. Still not used to that.

Exhaling slowly, you tucked the board under your arm and glanced up.

The soft glow of a corner café spilled out onto the sidewalk, warm light cutting through Gotham’s usual gloom. The windows were slightly fogged, silhouettes moving lazily inside—but your eyes darted to the specific spot by the window.

There he was, your best friend.

Harry was wearing a navy blue sweater over a white polo, and his hair looked like he ran his hand through it—but somehow, every strand still seemed intentional.

He sat by the window, lazily scrolling through his phone while sipping from a paper cup—his usual order, you assumed, his name scribbled messily along the side. Another cup was next to him.

You pushed the door open.

A small bell chimed overhead as warmth wrapped around you instantly, chasing away the cold that had settled into your bones. The scent hit you next—coffee, sugar, something baked fresh.

"Hey!" you greeted.

Harry lit up immediately, setting his phone down on the wooden table as soon as he noticed you.

You let your skateboard rest against the wall beside you.

"Took you long enough, Wayne," he teased.

He slides over your drink, "Already ordered your usual, if that's alright."

You took the cup with a smile, "You really shouldn't have.."

Both of you knew this wouldn’t be the last time anyway—he’d done it multiple times ever since he memorized your order. You didn’t think he had any plans to stop, either.

You take a seat next to him, taking a sip.

Harry looked down at his cup, you could tell he has something on his mind.

"Spit it out," you flatly said.

Your best friend sheepishly smiled, "Am I that easy to read?" he sighed before continuing, "It's nothing. I was just really worried for you—and why aren't you wearing your glasses?" he raised his eyebrow, waving a hand infront of your face.

Oh right. Harry was the one who caught you when you almost fell down face first upon from leaving the bus—and drove you home.

He also sent a get well soon basket—that was really sweet. You were really grateful to have a best friend like him.

You caught his hand that was waving infront of your face, "Relax, moron. I'm wearing contacts. Also—I just have a really good immune system."

Harry tried to wiggle his hand free that you unconsciously had in a death grip—"Okay, when did you start going to the gym?"

You laughed, letting go of his reddened hand. He winced upon seeing it.

"I just been eating my greens, you know?" you take another sip of your drink.

A part of you wanted to tell your best friend and spill everything—from the scary figure outside Bruce's office to all the freaky stuff since this morning.

You doubted that he’d tell anyone—not even his father. From what you knew, they had a rocky relationship; you never really understood the details between them.

Sometimes, though, Harry would talk about him—casually, like it didn’t bother him at all. He’d mention something small, something almost normal, like a passing comment over coffee.

But other times, the moment his father was brought up, his expression would shift—his jaw tightening, his gaze drifting away, and he’d brush it off like the topic had never come up in the first place.

You would be lying if you said that it didn't taint how you view Mr. Osborn.

“Actually, Harry, I—” you started, but the words caught in your throat, hesitation settling in before you could push them out.

Would you really want to burden Harry with this?

You didn’t even know what you were capable of yet. If people started speculating—if something went wrong—he’d be dragged into it, whether he liked it or not.

Maybe some other time. When you understood more.

Your eyes flickered to Harry—his brows furrowed, like he was trying to read you—but your thoughts were all scrambled, tangled beyond recognition.

You forced a small breath out through your nose, "I mean—we have to go out and buy paint!"

Harry blinked, clearly thrown off—but he smiled anyway, "..Paint?"

"Well, yeah. Paint," you stand up, grabbing your skateboard and tucking it under your arm again.

He stood up aswell, leaving a tip on the table. But even as he did, he still looked at you—suspicion lingering in his eyes, worry etched into the slight crease of his brows.

The bell chimed softly as you stepped back into Gotham’s cold air. The warmth from inside faded almost instantly, replaced by the chill brushing against your skin.

You and Harry walked side by side down the sidewalk, the hum of distant traffic and city life filling the space between your thoughts. After a moment, he glanced at you again, as if deciding whether to say something—but whatever it was, he kept it to himself.

You felt bad for keeping him in the dark, but it was for the best.

Instead, he led the way toward a nearby retail store just a few blocks away, its bright signage cutting through the gray atmosphere. The kind of place that sold everything from basic supplies to paint and hardware.

The doors slid open with a soft whoosh as you both stepped inside, the air warmer, brighter, and filled with the faint scent of plastic, cardboard, and fresh supplies stacked neatly in aisles.

The cashier was a middle-aged man, smoking a cigarette while reading the newspaper; he barely looked up at the both of you.

You asked him if you could leave your skateboard at the counter, and he just grunted in response. You shrugged and set it down.

Harry and you made your way deeper into the store, weaving past neatly stacked shelves and scattered displays until the signs overhead pointed you toward the paint section.

He slowed his pace beside you, scanning the options with mild interest before glancing over. “So… what exactly are you looking for?” he asked, hands tucked casually into his pockets.

You slightly bit your lip, "Oh I actually don't know."

Your best friend shot you an incredulous look.

you sheepishly smiled—"Okay, sure, let's just eyeball this!"

Your eyes scanned the display as you started comparing shades of beige—each one slightly different in warmth, undertone, and depth.

Harry pointed at one of the colors, "How about this one?"

“We haven’t been inviting you over for dinner just for you to think we have a hot pink ceiling.”

You rolled your eyes at him, picking up a color that matched your memory the best.

"Speaking of dinner, Aunt May wants you to come over again," your hands reaches for the paint bucket, only for Harry to take it before you.

"Hell yeah I'm coming—" before he can continue his sentence, a bunch of dudes wearing a ski mask charged in.

The old man immediately dropped his newspaper down on the counter, and his cigarette was long forgotten. He eyed the men nervously.

You looked at them—there were three of them. Judging by their build, they looked to be around their 30s. The pack leader was pointing a gun at the cashier, who was about to reach for his own.

Woah, it feels like you're in Die Hard—wait no shut up, this is serious.

"HANDS UP, OLD MAN!" he shouted.

You and Harry glanced at each other, feeling the tension spike up in the store. It was only the two of you and the cashier dude currently.

He softly dropped the bucket of paint to the ground, with a soft clink.

You swallowed, dragging Harry by the arm as he hesitated, unsure of what to do, and pulled him to hide behind one of the shelves.

Good thing you guys were sorta hidden.

"Harry, call the police. My phone's dead." you whispered as lowly as you can.

Harry’s eyes flicked from the men to you, his expression tight with alarm. “Right—yeah—okay,” he muttered under his breath, already fumbling for his phone in his pocket.

The man with the gun stepped forward, waving it lazily but with clear intent. “Nobody move. This stays simple, yeah? Wallets, cash—everything in the bag.”

The cashier raised his hands slowly, trying to keep his voice calm. “Alright, alright—no need to do anything stupid.”

One of the other masked men moved toward the entrance, positioning himself like a lookout. The third lingered near the aisle, scanning the store.

The third one kept walking casually—as if he was just browsing around, but his direction was unmistakable. Each step brought him closer to your aisle.

You looked around frantically, if you didn't do anything now—

He stopped at the end of the shelf, glancing across the rows like he was checking for anything—or anyone—out of place. His head tilted slightly, as if something had caught his attention.

You heard a sharp crack echoed as the gun tapped against the glass counter.

"FASTER!" the leader snapped, and the one who kept walking closer and closer mumbled "show off," under his breath.

You looked over to Harry, who was talking hushedly into the phone, and nudged him toward the emergency exit that was only three feet away from the shelves you were hiding behind.

Harry followed your glance, his eyes landing on the exit—then flicking back toward the aisle where the third masked man still lingered nearby.

If he stood up and moved now, he’d have to cross a small stretch of open floor—just enough space to be seen if anyone looked in the right direction.

The steps of the third man was getting louder and louder and—

Okay, this might be the dumbest decision ever in your life, but drastic times call for drastic measures, right?

You take a paint bucket and hit the man square in the face.

For a split second, everything seemed to freeze—then the bucket clattered to the floor, paint sloshing as it tipped over.

The man you hit falls on the floor with a huge thud, knocking unconscious .

It immediately alerted the other men.

“What the—?!” the lookout barked, snapping his head toward the sound.

The leader at the counter whipped around, gun raising as his attention shifted from the cashier. “We got movement!”

You quickly pushed Harry to the way of the exit, "I'm not going without yo—"

“I'll be fine, just get out!” you cut him off, urgency sharp in your voice.

Harry’s eyes widened, conflict written all over his face. For a split second, he didn’t move—like he was about to argue again—but the approaching footsteps and shouted orders snapped him back to reality.

“Now, Harry!” you urged, giving him another firm push toward the door.

He hesitated one last time, jaw tight, then finally turned and sprinted the last few steps to the emergency exit. His hand slammed against the handle, and the door burst open with a loud metallic bang.

“HEY! THEY’RE RUNNING!” one of the masked men shouted.

Footsteps thundered in your direction as the group reacted, their focus shifting from the cashier to the aisle where you were.

"You better be out in five minutes!" he yelled.

Harry slipped through the exit, disappearing outside.

You were about to run with him, but you would be caught if the leader timed it good enough to get your head.

The weird slits on your wrists opened (gross), and you were about to grab another bucket of paint to throw—but suddenly, something clear and sticky shot out from your right wrist.

The realization hit you. The spider bite.

Time to use it to your advantage.

The web snapped forward, sticking onto the bucket of paint near with a soft thwip.

At the same moment, the masked man who had been guarding the exit stepped fully into view—now positioned directly in front of you, cutting off your line to the door. He had a gun raised, stance firm, clearly trying to block anyone from slipping out.

You reacted instantly.

Using the tension already in the web, you yanked hard, pivoting your body as the bucket swung up and out in a fast arc. The sudden motion carried the weight of the paint with it.

The bucket slammed straight into the man, catching him off guard and knocking his aim off-line as he stumbled backward with a sharp grunt.

Paint splattered across him, dripping down his mask and obscuring his vision as he lost his footing for a moment. His gun hit the floor, and you quickly kicked it out of reach.

“Hey—!” he shouted, arms flailing slightly as he tried to recover.

You shot more webs, at him—sticking him to the emergency door.

"Looks like you're stuck on the job," you mused.

The man strained against the webbing, muffled curses coming from behind his mask as he tried—and failed—to break free.

The leader, who had been waiting for the middle-aged man still taking his sweet time—and now realizing his partner hadn’t managed to sweep the floor with you and instead got his ass handed to him—snapped his attention back to you.

His posture stiffened. His grip tightened.

“Enough!” he barked, raising his gun and pointing it directly at you.

Without hesitation, he took a shot.

The gun cracked loudly through the store.

You nimbly avoided the shot, though the movement was a bit sloppy, forcing you to twist out of the way at the last second. The bullet struck somewhere behind you with a sharp crack.

The middle-aged man seized the moment—seeing the opening, he bolted past the aisle and darted straight out through the door, disappearing outside.

"I better get a discount for that paint!" you yelled at the old man, avoiding even more bullets coming right at you.

The leader repositioned for a moment, and you took the brief opening.

You reacted instantly—raising your wrist and firing a web straight at him.

The strand shot across the aisle and splattered right onto his face, sticking across his mask and goggles, blinding him mid-aim.

“—Gah!” he shouted, stumbling as his vision was completely cut off, his gun wavering as he tried to regain control.

You swiped the gun with your webbing again, swinging it right next to the stuck-on-the-door guy's gun.

The leader, now without a clear line of sight and clearly frustrated, dashed toward you, stumbling slightly as he tried to close the distance.

As he came within range, you stepped in and threw a quick, clean punch to his face.

The impact snapped his head back, and his body went limp almost immediately as he collapsed to the floor, unconscious.

The door banged, making stuck-on-the-door guy groan in pain.

Right! Harry!

Without wasting another moment, you bolted for the emergency exit.

Pushing through the door, it burst open with a loud clang as cool air rushed in from outside. The flashing red and blue lights painted the area beyond the store in quick, strobing bursts.

Harry was just outside, his hand still raised as he was about to bang on the door one more time if you didn’t get out.

He immediately engulfed you into a hug, and the adrenaline rush quickly washed over. His unsteady, warm breath tickled the corner of your neck.

You pat his back, "I'm sorry."

Harry shook his head, his tense shoulders dropping down. Behind him, the flashing red and blue lights from the approaching sirens lit up the street, reflecting off the storefront windows. The sound of police vehicles grew louder, tires screeching as they pulled up nearby.

He breaks the hug, keeping his hands on your arms—gripping them like you were about to escape from his sight.

"So much for a quick errand run, huh?" you joked, and Harry was not feeling it apparently.

"Don't do that again, moron—" you were about to cut him off and say you did what you had to do, but he shot you a look.

One of the cops rushed over to you, and talked to Harry. This was no doubt going to be in the news, then.

Your best friend still hasn't let go of you—taking your hand and squeezing it for comfort. You let him, because the guy was obviously shaken up.

You could see the headlines already, "HEIR OF OSCORP CAUGHT IN RETAIL STORE SHOOTING!"

Maybe a small mention of you as an NPC.

You tuned out their conversation, your eyes scanning the alley. Your eyes landed on the numerous posters put up with humongous men with bulging abs striking a pose.

"FIGHTING MATCH! SIGN UP NOW FOR $$$$"

That could be a good way to really test your new spider powers for sure.

A/N; This took so long im whjsia i procrastinated this so bad. Btw my art comms r open... for whoever is interested (i need that ps4) I lowkey think this is sucky

Divider; @uzmacchiato | master list

You place a plate in front of the young boy. He blinks up at you with big blue eyes. "[name]? Where'd Damian go?"

Looking outside the nearby window and seeing the darkness that had begun to replace the early morning light, you know exactly where he'd gone. You smile down at him and ruffle his hair. "He's busy. Just you and me now."

"Awe..." He deflates a little. For a moment, you wish to tell him he's out being an awesome superhero like the rest of his family, but you think that something like that may simply do more harm than good. You didn't expect them to warm up to each other so fast, but seeing them interact was more heartwarming than anything you'd seen before.

"Hey, what's with that face? Am I not enough for you?" You taunt playfully and snicker when he starts to fret and insist that you are. "I'm kidding, it's okay. I... get it. He's..."

You swallow a little and sit down on the chair beside him. He shuffles onto his knees to see over at the plate of food you'd brought him for dinner. "He's fun, isn't he? It's fun teasing him, because he always takes it way too seriously."

"He gets super red! Like Uncle Johnny when he goes on fire!" He giggles. "Even though he has an angry face, he looks more happy when he's talking to you."

Taking a bite of the mashed potatoes Alfred had ever so graciously made for him, he looked relatively unconcerned about the storm that his words had swirled up in your mind.

This was wrong, wasn't it?

The person you were here was different. They and Damian never talked, never got along—it was the opposite. They hated eachother. But seeing him now, and thinking back on all the times you'd interacted together, you can't possibly imagine a world where that would be the case.

Perhaps for any of your other siblings, maybe. They all had their strange quirks that overshadowed any good traits they may have possessed, and you'd taken it upon yourself to avoid them as much as you could. Yet, this strange phenomena—it's caused a change in the dynamic between you and your otherworldly siblings.

Damian would look to you reverently, with a softness only a younger brother could have. He'd tag along on useless shopping trips and wait outside in the cold night for hours just to be around you. He kept your secret without a fight, and you'd found a new leather schoolbag on your bed the night after he’d discovered your secret.

"You don’t say.” You manage to force out despite the confused look sent by the young boy. Always too perceptive, and too smart for his own good.

The mark you were leaving on this world was more significant than you’d expected.

He tolerated the presence of a new, strange child despite how much he seemed to annoy the other, and he watched over him like a guard-dog would a younger puppy. Is this all because of you?

Could everything really have become so different?

It felt wrong. It was wrong. You shouldn't do this. You shouldn't leave such a mark that you know this other-you wouldn't be able to fill because of how drastically different you both seemed to be. You know everything should just go back to normal after you leave, and they get to live their life away from this hellish place.

Will they feel obligated to stay now that they have a younger brother who clings to them so desperately? Or will they want to get away, only being able to see their father’s face when they stare into his eyes? For some reason, the thought stings.

But, in the end, you really couldn't help yourself.

“Frankie. Wanna watch a movie?” You plaster a big, bright smile on your face. Genuine enough to fool him, but not large enough to flash your teeth. “It can be any you’d like. Even a scary one."

"... Really?!" His eyes light up. "Even if it's gonna give us nightmares?"

You think for a moment, then cringe. "Actually, no. Maybe not any scary movies this late... but we can always watch a superhero one." An all-powerful, god-like, mutant toddler with nightmares doesn't spell any kind of danger at all. Nope, none.

"Aw..." He pouts, but perks up after you mention superheroes. "Okay!! Let's watch!"

"Great. Hey, this one looks pretty good." Jumping over the couch, you reach for the remote and scroll past various subscriptions for practically all of the those big streaming sites because of course your family has all of them—stopping on Disney kids. "How about... Kite-man and his amazing friends?"

With a fork halfway stuffed into his mouth and his cheeks puffed like a hamster, he asks, "Isn't Kite-man a bad guy?"

"..." You pause, then scroll. "Good point. Alright. I got it. The New Adventures of Danger Bug."

"Mommy said he's a bad guy too. She said he was a ar-sown-est."

You sweat drop. Why are there so many shows about super villains for children here? "... Okay. There's no way that The One, the Only, Onomatopoeia is a bad guy."

When you twist your head over the head of the couch and see Franklin's upset expression, you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from yelling out a really, really bad word.

Eventually, when Franklin snuggles into your bed after a failed movie night, you press a small kiss to his forehead and he giggles, the kind of childish laughter that can't help but to warm your heart.

"Are you gonna sleep on the lounge?" Peeking out from behind his blanket, Franklin looks mildly concerned for you. You smile a little at this and shake your head.

"No, I'll be in my own room. Don't worry about me, okay? I've been here for way longer than you have. I'll be fine." You pull on his cheek and he whines softly for you to let him go. "Don't stay up too long. I have a big day planned for us tomorrow."

"Okay! G'night [name]!" He chirps, smiling toothily as you wish him goodnight back and close the door behind you, leaving him in the dark, spacious place.

A sigh leaves your lips as you walk, and suddenly, all the exhaustion from running around all day finally hits you. The one good thing about living here, is that these mattresses truly are a godsend.

Cradling your forehead as you walk, you're stopped by a sudden voice calling out your name. "Master [name]? Are you feeling unwell?" Alfred, somehow, appears behind you, unchanging from his previous demeanour in the morning and has a concerned expression on his face.

"Oh, no. No, no, I'm fine." You shake your head, laughing nervously. "Don't worry, I'm just a little beat from running around all day with him. He's a really energetic kid."

"I'm assuming you're not talking about Master Damian, hm?"

The slyness in his tone doesn't miss you, but you're too focused on what exactly he said to process it. "...Huh?"

"He accompanied you on your errands today, yes? I saw him debating on which coat to wear in the winter weather."

"I wish I'd seen you this worried about how you look at your father's galas."

Damian's head snaps towards the door. "Pennyworth," he acknowledges, but says little more as he goes back to pondering.

Blatantly ignored, Alfred steps forward. "Master [name] surely does not care whether your coat is black or brown. I'm sure they only wish your presence, whether you're dressed up or not."

His eyes don't leave the rack for a second. "I'm not doing it to show off to them. I just..."

He trails off, and never ends up finishing that sentence. Alfred thinks it's because, he himself isn't exactly sure why he's trying to hard for something like a simple outing.

Love is something inexplicable. He'd know. You're never born loving or hating somebody. A baby will never be born with love for it's mother, only a biological attachment. Just as siblings will never be born with fondness for one another, it has be curated.

A careful bond that did not exist a few months ago. It was never even close to existing until there was a shift in the air, or perhaps within one, or both, of you, and now, it's all different.

Now, Damian sits here, thinking far too deeply about how he wishes to present himself in front of you. Every human craves validation, be it through academics or romantic affections. Seeing the way your little brother looks up at you now, he's sure of one thing.

Everything has changed. Be it for better or for worse, only time would tell.

"I believe the brown coat suits your eyes." Alfred finally suggests. Damian glances at the old butler for a moment, then grabs the furry garment.

"... I see. Your suggestion is appreciated and noted, Pennyworth." The closest thing Alfred would get to a thank you is this. He didn't mind.

"You're very welcome, Master Damian. Be safe. Shall I inform your father of this outing later?"

He steps back and for a moment, it's quiet. Damian only grasps the fur coat with hardened knuckles and Alfred, behind him, has no clue what kind of expression the young Robin must have on his face.

"No," he finally says. "There's no need. He doesn't need to know."

... "I see. Safe travels, Master Damian."

"Oh, no. Not him. He's..." You take a moment to think about how you can possibly describe the young boy. "He's a lot calmer than I... expected."

If Alfred noticed your strange choice of words, he didn't bother mentioning it. "I see. Yes, he has mellowed out, hasn't he? If he was this way when he'd first come to the mansion, and first met you, I wonder..."

"...Hm?"

He shakes his head, shaking away a small smile and coughing into a closed, gloved fist. "I apologise, I was just thinking out loud. Don't mind me."

"I would never wish harm upon you or any member of this family, but it's seemed a lot has changed since you were shot." Alfred says, and a cold chill runs down your back. "I don't believe I'm in any right to decide whether it was for better or for worse, but there's one thing I'm certain of... I'm truly glad you've started smiling again, [name]."

Left speechless, you stare at him like a stupid, gaping fish. Your face feels warm. All this time, you'd been led to believe you were completely, and utterly alone. With nobody on your side and hate buried deep into your heart, you were sure that this other you was nothing but a bygone shadow that didn't exist in the eyes of anyone.

Alone. That's what you thought you were.

Seeing everyone now, you aren't sure why Wayne-ie here ever felt this way. Kate, Alfred, MJ, Harry, and all the people in your life truly care for you, to the point they see how different you've started to act. They see this change and smile because your happiness makes them happy as well.

Is that kind of love not the purest, most genuine kind?

Maybe they were blind to see it, or maybe you were the blind one all this time. But here, right now, you feel the same smile crack across your face and stretch onto your lips at how cared for you feel, and how easily it was to get lost in a conversation with the older man.

"... I'm glad too, Alfred. Thank you for always being there. I can't tell you what it's done for me."

"It's only my duty, Master [name]. No need to thank me. I'm simply glad to see you spending time with your siblings, Master [name]. It always brings a smile to my face." He nods with a thoughtful look. "And it makes Master Damian happy as well. That's what matters most to me. If you both can spend time with one another and make each other smile, what more can I ask for?"

He looks strangely satisfied with himself. "I shall be going now. Those dishes will not wash themselves."

"I can help you, if you want, you know." You remind him, even though you know it's pointless.

"Don't be silly." He only says in return, and that was finality. "Good night, Master [name]. Sweet dreams."

"Good night, Alfred." You nod back, and head off without another word.

When you get back to your room, you collapse onto your bed. Suddenly given a lot more to think about and ten more problems on top of your workload.

Life really was tough. You hadn't believed Uncle Ben for so long, but it really was hitting you now.

The gentle night breeze brushes past you through an open window and you allow your eyes to gently fold closed.

"And it makes Master Damian happy as well. That's what matters most to me. If you both can spend time with one another and make each other smile, what more can I ask for?"

His words run through your mind, scrambling your thoughts and leaving you with more questions than answers.

Perhaps, at some point, you'd grown to enjoy Damian's company. Maybe in the future, you could even see him as family, too. Or maybe you just felt indebted to him as he kept your secret as a vigilante from everybody else in your crazy family.

You find more comfort in the thought that it was the latter, and not that you’ve begun to care for him. No shot, no way.

As always, you fool yourself.

Tap, tap, tap.

You shuffle around and turn your back to the window.

Tap, tap, tap.

You pull your pillow down over your ears, eyes, still bleary with sleep, squint into a hard glare at the wall.

Tap, tap, tap.

"Goddammit."

From behind the black-out curtains, you could see the slight flicker of a flame pour from the sides.

Stringing them open, you get flash bombed at full brightness in the early morning, all from the burning man in front of you, sending you a smile that somehow seemed to be even brighter.

With the soundproof nature of the window in your room, you grab your phone and start typing wildly on your notes app—then shoving the screen against the clear glass and deadpan.

"What the hell are you doing here? Does Reed not feed you or anything? I'm sick of letting you snoop through the pantry."

He simply shrugs, letting out a puff of hot air onto the window. Extinguishing his fingertip, he starts writing something onto the fog for you to read.

"I thought this was romantic, sneaking a boy into your room. And I missed you."

When you look up from his little message, there's already a flaming heart formed above two fingertips, and he's winking so expectantly.

"You're the worst," you say, smiling. "Don't expect me to let you inside," you say, as you let him inside.

Opening your window wide, the ball of fire tumbles into your room. The flames disappear off his figure before he makes contact with your carpeted floor—a mistake he's learned well from. He hops up and smiles. Clad in those stupid-looking pyjama pants you made yourself because you were sick of him showing up naked, tattered in burnt remnants of cloth.

"But you always do," he says, and as smart as you are, not a single rebuttal pops up in your head.

"Yeah, well... next time, you're not going to get so lucky. Besides, if you ever get caught by the others, I'll never hear the end of it." You squint at him. "Also, put a shirt on, god."

He sends you a thumbs up, rummaging through your closet and grabbing a tank-top that was likely two sizes too small for him. "Come on, Spidey, as if I'm ever gonna get caught."

"What, you have experience in stuff like this?" You raise an eyebrow, then recoil back. "Wait no. Don't answer that. I don't wanna know. Gross."

He snorts, sliding on the top and walking back over to you. "What—you jealous? I thought you were above that."

"What world are you living in, Storm?" You jut your finger into his forehead. In response, he grabs your hand, pulls it down and tugs it closer towards him.

Wrist grasped tightly in his still-warm grip, you feel that surge of warmth reach your face as he stares down at you. Baby blue eyes and the same boyish grin he'd given you so many times before—yet, for some odd reason, it felt so incredibly different than all those other times.

His face, dusted with a sunburn (did he always have those light, barely-there freckles?) and the shaggy blonde hair that falls over his forehead makes you reach your hand up and tousle it back before you process what exactly you're doing.

Did his sunburn suddenly get worse? You don't get to think about it because he suddenly grabs your wrist and holds your grip there, your touch there, before you can pull away.

"Spidey..." His lips are pulled tightly together in a thin line, and his eyes glaze over with an unfamiliar emotion. Your breath hitches. "You... shit."

There's a pull in your stomach, a twist and a growing warmth that bleeds from your chest.

Were you both this close a few moments ago? You don't remember, or maybe you just didn't notice before—his breath fans across your face and it's still warm, and he's so warm.

His body radiates the heat of a burning fire, and it's driving you crazy.

"Torch—" You begin, flustered, but are unable to finish when you suddenly feel that familiar, prickling static fear that you feel when any of your family is around.

Somebody's coming.

"Shit—hide!" You push him back and he barely has time to process what you said before the door creaks open, almost in slow-motion from your panicked eyes.

He scrambles into your open closet and shuts it just as soon as Tim enters your room.

Your eyes are still wide and shocked, chest still pounding and head still buzzing when you meet your brother's eyes. He eyes you back, suspicious.

"Hello?"

"Have you ever heard of a fun thing called knocking?" You blurt out, lips pulled downwards into a sneer.

"I didn't know if you were awake or not." He folds his arms. "My fault."

You roll your eyes. You really hate this guy. "Sure. What do you want?"

"Who the hell is the kid in the room beside yours?"

...

Fuck.

"... What kid?" You avert the gaze of the young detective, but you soon decide it's better to just get him out as soon as possible so you can deal with the younger Storm sibling in the closet right behind him. "Alright, he's my friend's son, and they're going away for the weekend, so I'm taking care of him. That's it, okay?"

Tim's gaze doesn't get any less scrutinising and you pray to ever god imaginable that he leaves right now. "Are you serious? You didn't think to tell anybody that some random kid is just here for the weekend?"

"I told Alfred."

"You know what I mean." He shoots you an unamused stare. "What if he sees something he's not supposed to? He can't know—"

You dig your nails into your arms, "He won't, okay? Why do you even care? It has nothing to do with you."

"Um, what? It has everything to do with me." You wonder where he gets off, acting like this. "This is important, [name]. You need to talk to us about shit like this—"

"What's the point in that, huh? Like you'll listen to anything I say." You mutter, glaring down at the floor so you don't have to look at the stupid look on his face. "Seriously. I can handle it. I might not be some kind of detective like you, but I'm not an idiot, Tim."

"I didn't say you were an idiot."

"It sure felt like that's what you were getting at." His shocked expression makes you scrunch your nose. "... Just go, please. I'm fine. He's fine. Nothing to do with you."

He pauses. Like he wants to say something more, but ultimately decides against it. You feel like he's been doing that a lot when it comes to you.

"Okay." He relents, a loud sigh ripping from his lips as he turns on his heel and walks away.

When your bedroom door shuts behind him, you let out a relieved breath and shove open your closet door. Johnny, sitting on a tub of winter clothes, looks back at you with a pitiful expression.

"You're dumb, you know that?" You grab his hand and pull him back up. "Especially because it was Tim. He'd like... throw a kryptonite spear at you or something."

"I think I'll be fine." He brushes off his top, but soon looks to you with those same pitiful eyes from a moment ago. "But, [name]... you...—"

"It's fine. I don't really care what he thinks." You shake your head. "Not like we'll be here for too much longer, right? This is one of the last scavenges Reed's going to be going on for a while."

"Yeah, but—" Johnny grabs your hand, engulfing it in his own and squeezing your knuckles. "You know you're smart, right? Like... stupid smart. Even Reed knows it. You're the opposite of an idiot, trust me, I'd know."

A small smile forms at his words. "Look, I know. His words aren't going to magically make me insecure. I know I'm smart, and he won't change that. Still..."

You squeeze his hand back, offering him the smallest, menial comfort. "Thanks. I appreciate that. From an idiot like you, that was surprisingly sweet."

"Ha ha." He rolls his eyes, and you laugh.

You're preparing a PB&J sandwich for when Franklin wakes up, with Johnny behind you, looking through your unnecessarily large fridge for something to eat.

"Why do you always come over to raid my fridge, anyway?" You finally ask. "Not like there's anything good in there. I live in an ingredient household now."

"I know," he groans, head still stuffed in the third vegetable drawer he'd opened. "This place sucks compared to Aunt May."

You sigh wistfully—mourning the loss of your Aunt's famous casserole. "Tell me about it."

You smush the two slices of bread together and begin cutting off the crusts, then slice it into two triangles. "What are you going to eat, anyway?"

"Oooh, I know. Look what I found." He pulls back with a red box in his hands and a triumphant grin on his face. "Pizza pockets!"

The memories that those pizza pockets bring make you wince, but you don't let it show if only to preserve his excitement. "In the morning? Are you bulking or something?"

"Nah. Haven't been to the gym since I've been stuck here, actually." He puts the frozen pastries onto a plate and place it in the microwave. It beeps as it turns on. Turning around to face you, he flexes, "What, am I losing my touch?"

You place a hand over your mouth to hide your smile. "Yeah, I think you're getting skinnier, Storm."

"No way you'd be smiling if that was true. I think you'd be just as upset as me about that." He folds his arms over his chest, smirking. You lean back on the counter as he steps closer, looking up at him with a raised brow.

"Oh yeah? Why is that?"

"'Cause then I won't look as good in my suit, and we all know you check me out in that thing."

Your first thought was, what the hell is he talking about. Your second was, hey, have I really been caught by the likes of Johnny Storm of all people? Which is weird, because you don't ever remembering doing it... but you couldn't be control of any wandering eyes.

"... Oh man, the look on your face!" He bursts out in laughter, holding his stomach as you push him back, feeling hot for some reason. "Ah—Ahahaha!"

The microwave beeps loudly in the early-morning silence, making you glance over towards it and push him in that direction. "Go eat your pizza pockets. You're cuter when you're not being so annoying."

He looks at you, shocked, for a moment, but quickly goes and gets his food, silently leaning against the counter and just... watching you stack the sandwiches.

The silence that envelopes you both is peaceful, and you find yourself humming a quiet song as you place the butter knife into the sink and start packing up.

You slide the chopping board away. You put the peanut butter back into the pantry. You brush off your shirt of any crumbs. You turn around, jam in your hand, and come face-to-face with Johnny again.

He's a few places closer to the fridge, so you outstretch your hand and gesture towards him. "Hey, can you put this in the fridge?"

He's looking at you, but he's not reacting. He's just staring. "Hello? Is anybody home?"

There's a weird look on his face. "Johnny? Storm? Torch?"

Has his sunburn gotten worse again? "... I'll just put it back myself."

"... Wh— huh?" He blinks, then scrambles off the counter and grabs the jar from your hand. "No, its okay—I'll, I'll do it. Sorry."

Staring at his strange actions, you wonder why he's suddenly become so weird. Then you remember it's Johnny, and it all suddenly becomes a lot less weird.

... Maybe I had something weird on my face.

You wouldn't catch such a look in his eyes, anyway.

Tonight, though, you move like a shadow.

A darker one.

“(Y/N), report,” Damian’s voice cuts through the comms.

You don’t answer. He can hear your breathing though— shallow, uneven, something… wrong.

He finds you on the edge of a gargoyle overlooking Crime Alley. The city lights paint your silhouette in a pale haze. The spider on your chest is wrong, too; jagged, pulsing with an ink-black sheen that crawls up your neck like veins.

“Back off, Robin.” Your voice is low, guttural, layered with something else. Something alien.

Damian’s hand twitches toward his sword, “You’re infected.”

Venom lifts your head, and your eyes— those bright, kind eyes— are eclipsed by endless black.

“You make it sound like a disease,” the symbiote grins, pulling your mouth into a too-wide smile? “We call it an upgrade.”

The next second, you’re gone— tendrils whipping out, hurling him across the rooftop. The impact cracks the concrete under him, but Damian’s already up, sliding into stance.

You leap toward him; speed and fury combined and he meets you midair. Grapple line tangled around your wrist, he pulls you down hard, slamming you against the wall. The symbiote shrieks, lashing out like a wounded beast.

“Fight it,” he growls, pinning you down, “You’re stronger than this parasite!”

“Stronger?” Venom hisses through your lips, eyes glowing white, “You don’t even know her strength. You never did.”

“Don’t you dare speak for her,” he spits, tightening his hold even as black goo curls around his forearm. It burns, cold and electric.

But for just a flicker, a breath, he sees you again. The gloss of black fades from your eyes; your trembling lips whisper his name, “Dami… it hurts.”

That’s all it takes.

He drops his sword. Pulls you close instead of pushing you away.

“I know,” he murmurs, voice breaking against your shoulder, “I’m right here. I won’t let it win.”

Venom roars through you, furious at the weakness, but Damian doesn’t flinch, not when the teeth bare, not when the claws dig into his armor. He presses his forehead to yours, forcing you to remember Who you are.

“Come back to me, Spider,” he says. “You told me once the city needed both of us. You were right, but I need you more.”

And for a moment, the symbiote hesitates. Because love— real, stubborn, human love, is the one thing it doesn’t understand.

When the goo finally slithers away, retreating with a shriek into the shadows, you collapse into his arms, trembling and gasping.

Damian cradles you against his chest, whispering your name over and over like a vow.

“Don’t think this means I’m letting you out of training for a week,” he mutters once he knows you’re safe.

You manage a weak laugh. “Even after all that?”

“Especially after all that.”But his thumb brushes gently over your cheek, wiping away the last trace of black.

And for the first time in hours, you both breathe freely again.

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