Nightwing had been hunting you for weeks— the spidersona that slung the streets, and every damn night ended the same: you slipping through his fingers like smoke, leaving him on some rooftop with his blood pumping and his pride burning. You weren’t reckless. You weren’t some amateur in a mask. You moved with skill, with intent, with a confidence that grated on him. Every time he thought he had you cornered, you proved him wrong.

But not tonight.

He tracked you over neon-lit rooftops, the city a blur beneath both of you, and when the moment opened—he took it. His shoulder slammed into you mid-swing, momentum snapping you into the brick of a rooftop wall with bone-rattling force. You fought immediately, a feral blur of strength and desperation, but he was faster this time. His body pressed flush against yours, pinning you to the wall with a weight you couldn’t shake.

His forearm braced across your chest, one knee jamming against your thigh, his free hand catching your wrist and slamming it up against the brick. For a flicker of a second, when his arm locked across your chest, he felt the subtle give of a curve that told him you weren’t the rival he’d pictured. He ignored it—shoved the thought down—and pressed harder, all steel and control, refusing to let distraction weaken his grip.

“Got you,” he breathed, sweat sliding down his temple, jaw tight with the strain of keeping you there. “No running this time.”

You thrashed against him, a whip of pure defiance, but he only pressed closer, his body a cage, his voice low and edged with a satisfaction he didn’t bother to hide.

“You’ve been a real pain in my ass, you know that? Weeks of chasing, second-guessing, wondering what the hell you are.” His eyes narrowed, teeth bared in a grin that was equal parts frustration and thrill. “You don’t get it—nobody outruns me.”

Your chest rose sharply against his arm, hot breath brushing his throat, and it only pushed him further, hand rising to your mask. He didn’t pause, didn’t soften. His gloved fingers hooked under the fabric, yanking it away in one swift, merciless pull.

And the sight froze him.

A girl. His age. Sweat plastered strands of hair to your temple, your lips parted with every furious breath, and your eyes—sharp, dangerous, unflinching—locked on his. Pretty. Fierce. Real. Nothing like the faceless rival he’d built in his head.

For a second, his grip faltered. Just a second. The surprise licked through him, quick and hot, before he swallowed it down and smirked. He leaned in, so close your breaths mingled, his voice a low rasp against the night air.

“Well,” he murmured, eyes scanning every line of your face, “wasn’t expecting this.”

His smirk deepened, cocky now, his weight pressing harder into you as if to remind you who had won.

“All this time,” he said, his tone dripping smug satisfaction, “and it turns out my mysterious rival… is a pretty little spider-girl.”

The words hung heavy between you, carried on the intensity of his grip and the heat of the fight still buzzing in the air. He had you pinned, unmasked, and there was no mistaking the thrill sparking in his eyes.