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@softclementineblog is stealing my work if anyone sees it, theyāve blocked me so I canāt see but I am aware. Not fully sure on what to do about it so I guess it is what it is, just donāt support because it is not me and they have no permission by me to post. Thank you to everyone who has reached out to tell me, love you guysš„²š£
content damian wayne x gn! reader, vigilante! reader, aged up damian, metahuman! reader, angst, slow burn, lonely morally grey reader, memory/identity curse, first kiss, emotional hurt/comfort, identity erasure, loneliness/isolation, abandonment trauma, childhood neglect, violence, murder/lethal vigilantism, blood/injury, emotional distress, fear of being forgotten, emotional vulnerability, abandonment trauma, trauma responses, violence/injury, blood, canon-typical gotham violence, angst with comfort, identity insecurity, fear of being loved then forgotten.
masterlist
wordcount 11.1k
you have lived your whole life being forgotten the second people look away. when you save damian wayne and vanish from his memory, he does the impossible: he starts looking for you anyway. he cannot remember you, but every version of him keeps choosing to find you again.
The first time Damian Wayne met you, you killed three men in front of him.
To be fair, they had been trying to kill him first.
The warehouse was already burning by then, heat crawling up the rusted walls in orange veins, smoke thick enough to make even his lenses stutter. Damian had lost comms seven minutes ago. His left shoulder had been dislocated four minutes ago. His sword had been knocked from his hand ninety seconds ago. And the man in front of him had a gun pressed beneath his jaw.
āAny last words, little bird?ā
Damian hated being called little. He hated guns more. He was considering three options, all with a poor probability of success and an irritatingly high probability of dying, when the man holding the gun suddenly stopped smiling.
His eyes went wide.
A blade punched cleanly through his throat.
Damian did not flinch. He did, however, blink.
The body dropped. Behind it stood you.
You were not dressed like one of them. That was the first thing he noticed. No tactical insignia, no gang colours, no theatrics. Just dark clothes, a hood pulled low, a half-mask covering the lower part of your face, and a long knife held loosely in one hand as if violence bored you.
The second thing Damian noticed was that you were looking directly at him. Not at the gunman. Not at the fire.
At him.
āRobin,ā you said, dry as dust. āYou look terrible.ā
Damianās eyes narrowed behind his domino. āWho are you?ā
You tilted your head. āReally? Thatās what youāre going with?ā
Two more men rushed from behind a stack of crates. You moved before Damian could.
You moved like someone who had stopped caring whether the world saw them coming.
The first man lost his gun hand. The second lost his breath when your knee cracked into his sternum. Damian lunged for his fallen sword, pain detonating white-hot through his shoulder, but by the time his fingers closed around the hilt, both attackers were on the ground.
One dead. One bleeding out.
Damian stared.
You wiped your blade against the dead manās coat with an expression that suggested the fabric had personally offended you.
āYou kill,ā Damian said.
āSo do they.ā You glanced at him. āIām just better at it.ā
āYou are not sanctioned.ā
A laugh slipped from you, low and sharp. āBy who? Your father? Cute.ā
Damian stepped toward you. His vision blurred. The smoke, he realised too late. Too much of it. His lungs seized. His injured shoulder throbbed. His balance faltered.
You were in front of him in an instant.
āDonāt be dramatic,ā you muttered, catching him before he could hit the concrete.
āI am notāā
āCurrently collapsing in a burning warehouse? Yeah. Very dignified.ā
Damian tried to shove you away. His arm refused to obey. You looked down at him, and for one impossible second, your sarcasm cracked.
Something ancient and tired moved behind your eyes. āStay awake, Robin.ā
āWho,ā Damian forced out, āare you?ā
Your grip tightened. āNobody.ā
Then you dragged him out of the fire.
By the time Batman arrived, Damian was alone. Three bodies were inside the warehouse. His sword was at his side. His shoulder had been reset.
And Damian Wayne had absolutely no memory of how he had escaped.
The report was unacceptable. Damian knew it before Bruce said anything.
He stood in the cave with one arm strapped across his chest, jaw clenched, while his father reviewed the footage on the main computer. Or, more accurately, the lack of footage.
āYour body camera cut out at 23:41,ā Bruce said.
āThe smoke disrupted the lens.ā
āThe audio went out three seconds later.ā
āInterference.ā
āAnd then?ā
Damianās mouth tightened.
And then nothing. He remembered the gun. The heat. The pressure beneath his jaw. The moment he had calculated his odds and found them unpleasant. Then he remembered waking outside beneath the rain, coughing ash onto the pavement while Batmanās cape blocked the streetlights overhead.
Between those moments lay a void.
Damian hated voids.
āI escaped,ā he said.
Bruce looked at him. Damian hated that look, too. āYour shoulder had been reset.ā
āI am aware.ā
āDid you do that yourself?ā
āNo.ā
āWho did?ā
Damianās fingers curled. āI do not know.ā
Silence stretched, broken only by the low hum of the cave systems and the faint chittering of bats overhead.
Bruce replayed the broken footage again. Gun beneath Damianās chin. Smoke. Static. Black.
Damian watched the blank screen with a fury that felt embarrassingly close to fear.
Someone had been there. Someone had touched him. Moved him. Saved him.
And he could not remember.
That was unacceptable.
You watched him from the roof across the street.
He returned to the warehouse the next night. You should have known he would. Robins were like mould: persistent, invasive, and very hard to kill.
This one was different, though. Older than the rumours still liked to call him. Not a boy anymore, though Gotham had a bad habit of keeping its children trapped in headlines. Nineteen, maybe twenty. Tall enough now that the cape sat differently on his shoulders. Sharper through the jaw. Still too proud for his own good.
Still alive because of you.
You hated that part. Saving people was always the beginning of trouble.
He moved through the remains of the warehouse like a ghost with a grudge, scanning scorch marks, blood patterns, boot prints. He crouched near the place where the gunman had died and touched two fingers to the concrete.
You had cleaned your blade before leaving. Burned the fibres. Taken the shell casings. Broken every camera in a four-block radius.
Still, Damian found something. A thread, maybe. A scratch. A breath you had left behind.
His head lifted. You went still.
There it was. That flicker. Not recognition. No one recognised you. Recognition required memory, and memory slipped off you like rain from glass the moment eyes turned away.
But Damianās gaze sharpened toward your rooftop.
Instinct.Ā Annoying. Impressive.
Loneliness, treacherous little beast that it was, stirred inside your ribs.
āNo,ā you whispered to yourself.
Below, Damian stood. His hand drifted toward his sword.
You stepped back from the roofās edge.
For one heartbeat, the moon touched your face.
Damian looked directly at you.
Your stomach dropped. You should have run. Instead, you froze like an idiot.
He fired a grappling line.
āSeriously?ā you muttered.
Then you ran.
You were good at vanishing. You had to be. When you were eight years old, your teacher looked away from you during roll call and forgot you were in the classroom. At nine, your neighbour saw you fall from your bike, turned to call for help, and came back wondering why there was blood on the sidewalk.
At eleven, your parents started leaving notes on the fridge. Child. Name unknown. Lives here? And by thirteen, there were no notes. By fourteen, you stopped waiting at dinner tables. By fifteen, you learned that criminals were easier to live around than civilians. Criminals did not ask why you slept in abandoned buildings. They did not remember your face long enough to betray you. And when they hurt people, no one grieved if they disappeared.
By seventeen, you had a knife. By eighteen, you knew how to use it.
Now, you moved through Gotham like a rumour with teeth.
Someone would see you in an alley. Look away. Forget. Someone would hear your voice. Turn their head. Gone. Someone would bleed beneath your blade and die terrified, not because of death, but because in the last second of life, they understood they were being killed by someone the world itself refused to hold.
You had spent years pretending that it did not hurt.
Pretending worked, mostly.Ā Right up until Robin started chasing you. He chased you across three rooftops, over a skybridge, down a fire escape, and through the top floor of an unfinished apartment complex.
He was fast. You were faster. He was trained. You were desperate.
āStop,ā Damian ordered.
You laughed, breathless. āWow. Has that ever worked for you?ā
He threw a birdarang. You ducked. It sliced through your hood, pinning fabric to a wooden beam behind you. You slipped out of it and kept moving.
Damian landed hard in front of you, sword drawn. āEnough.ā
You stopped because the blade was pointed at your throat. Also, because, for the first time in years, someone had chased you long enough to get tired. It made something in your chest ache.
Damianās eyes narrowed. āYou were at the warehouse.ā
āNo, I wasnāt.ā
His grip tightened. āDo not lie to me.ā
āFine. I was near the warehouse.ā
āYou saved me.ā
āTechnically, gravity did most of the work.ā
āYou reset my shoulder.ā
āYouāre welcome.ā
āYou killed those men.ā
āThey were going to kill you.ā
āThat was not your decision to make.ā
Your expression flattened. āI forgot. Bats love moral lectures. Very on-brand. Do you practice in mirrors, or does brooding just come naturally?ā
His blade did not move. āWho are you?ā
You smiled behind your mask. There it was. The question everyone asked once.
Only once.
āLook away,ā you said.
Damian did not. āAnswer me.ā
āLook away.ā
āNo.ā
Your laugh came out softer than you intended. āSmart.ā
His eyes flicked, just once, to the shadow behind you. A tactical glance. Less than a second.
It was enough.
His face changed. Not dramatically. Damian Wayne had too much discipline for that. But his brow furrowed. His mouth tightened. The sword at your throat shifted as confusion passed through him. He blinked. Then focused on you again as if seeing you for the first time.
āWho are you?ā he demanded.
There it was. The old familiar knife. You should have been used to it. You were used to it.
He looked away again, scanning the room for traps. When his eyes returned to you, the confusion reset.
His sword lifted. āIdentify yourself.ā
Something inside you curled up small and cold.
You stepped closer to the blade until the edge kissed the fabric over your throat. āMy power,ā you said, voice suddenly flat, āis that nobody remembers me.ā
Damian stared. āYou are a metahuman.ā
āSure.ā
āWhat is the mechanism?ā
āDo I look like a scientist?ā
āYou appear insufferable.ā
āAw. You remembered an opinion for three seconds. Progress.ā
His eyes narrowed. You waited.
His gaze flicked down to your hands. Gone. Again. When he looked back up, his expression sharpened with renewed alarm.
You laughed before he could speak. It sounded ugly.
āDonāt worry,ā you said. āThis is the part where you threaten me, interrogate me, look away, forget what you were asking, and then I leave. Classic. Very popular sequence.ā
Damian did not answer. Instead, without looking away from your face, he slowly reached into his utility belt.
You tensed.
He pulled out a marker. Then, with his gaze still locked on yours, he uncapped it with his teeth and wrote on the inside of his left wrist.
You watched despite yourself.
DO NOT LOOK AWAY. PERSON IN FRONT OF YOU EXISTS.
Your mouth went dry.
Damian finished writing. Then, deliberately, he looked at his wrist.
You vanished from his mind. You saw it happen. You always saw it happen. His pupils shifted. His body went rigid. His eyes scanned the words.
DO NOT LOOK AWAY. PERSON IN FRONT OF YOU EXISTS.
Slowly, slowly, he looked up.
He saw you. He did not remember you. But he believed himself.
That was new.
āExplain,ā he said.
Your heart, stupid and starved, gave one fragile little kick. You crushed it immediately. āNo.ā
Damianās jaw set.
You stepped backwards into shadow. āDonāt follow me.ā
āI will.ā
āI know.ā You sighed. āThat was more of a polite suggestion.ā
Then you dropped through the unfinished floor before he could stop you.
By the time he reached the lower level, you were gone. But on his wrist, in his own handwriting, proof remained.
PERSON IN FRONT OF YOU EXISTS.
Damian did not sleep. This was not unusual. What was unusual was the wall.
Three nights after the warehouse, Damianās room contained forty-seven handwritten notes, twelve printed maps, six blood-spatter diagrams, and one sketch of a figure he could not remember drawing. The figure wore a half-mask. The lines were precise, though incomplete around the face. Every time he tried to sketch the eyes from memory, the image dissolved. Not physically. The paper remained.
His mind simply refused to hold the connection. It enraged him.
So he adapted.
At the top of the wall, he wrote: SUBJECT: FORGET-ME-NOT Then, beneath it: Known effects: Memory loss triggered when direct attention breaks. Written records persist. Video uncertain, beed test. Physical evidence persists. Emotional response may persist after memory loss. Subject saves civilians but uses lethal force. Subject saved me. Subject is alone.
Damian stared at the last line for a long time. He did not remember writing it. That bothered him more than the rest.
There were other notes too.
Do not trust first instinct upon seeing Subject. You have met before. Subject uses sarcasm defensively. Irritating. Possibly deliberate. Subject appears resigned when forgotten. Do not forget: forgetting harms them.
The final note was carved harder into the paper than the others. Damian ran a thumb over the indentation. He had no memory of the conversation that caused it.
Still, anger rose in him. Not at you.
At the fact that the world could look at a person and let them disappear.
You should have left Gotham. You knew that. You had left cities for less.
A cop in Blüdhaven once remembered the shape of your hand for nearly four seconds after looking away. You were on a train by morning. A telepath in Metropolis once frowned at you and said, āThatās strange.ā You were out of the state within the hour.
Survival was simple: never wait to be wanted. Wanting was a trap.
So, naturally, you stayed.
Because Damian Wayne kept leaving evidence that he was looking for you. A chalk mark on a rooftop you used often. A camera angled toward an alley with a handwritten sign taped above it IF YOU SEE THIS, I AM TRYING TO SPEAK WITH YOU. A packet tucked beneath a gargoyle containing protein bars, medical supplies, burner comms, and a note. I do not know whether you need these. Take them anyway.
You threw the protein bars away. Then retrieved them ten minutes later. You were lonely, not stupid.
The burner comm you kept for three days before turning it on.
Immediately, a message appeared. This is Robin.
You stared at it.
Another message followed. If this device is active, I assume you have it.
Another. I will not ask you to meet in person unless you agree.
Another. I do not remember you. That does not mean you are not real.
Your throat tightened.
You hated him a little for that one.
So you typed, This is extremely dramatic.
The reply came thirty seconds later. You have met my father. I assure you this is restrained.
A laugh escaped before you could stop it. It startled you. The sound felt foreign. Like opening a door in a house you thought had burned down.
You typed, Your handwriting is terrible btw.
My handwriting is exceptional.
Your R looks like a stabbed insect.
A pause. Then, Noted.
The next chalk message you found two nights later had perfect block letters.
Smug little freak.
Damian learned around the shape of you. That was the only way to describe it. He could not remember you directly, but he built scaffolding around the absence.
Notes on his gloves. Voice memos recorded while staring at you, played back after he forgot. Sketches done in real time, each labelled with date, location, and emotional impression.
Subject looked tired tonight. Subject pretended not to care about antiseptic. Lied poorly. Subject dislikes being thanked. Continue thanking them. Subject laughed at 02:13. Remember that this matters.
You found that one in his notebook when you absolutely were not snooping.
āYou are snooping,ā Damian said.
You snapped the notebook shut. āI am investigating.ā
āYou are holding my private notes.ā
āYou left them where anyone could read them.ā
āThey were in my hand.ā
āSkill issue.ā
Damian looked unimpressed.
You were perched on the edge of a rooftop HVAC unit, swinging one leg like you had not just been caught reading the closest thing anyone had ever made to a record of you. He stood three feet away, refusing to break eye contact.
He had learned that trick too. It made conversations tense. Intimate. Weird.
āYou should not kill,ā he said.
You groaned. āWe were having such a nice moment.ā
āWe were not.ā
āYou were writing about my laugh.ā
His ears went faintly pink. Fascinating. āI record relevant behavioural data.ā
āMy laugh is relevant?ā
āIt is an indicator of trust.ā
āWow.ā You placed a hand over your heart. āTalk dirty to me, Robin.ā
His blush deepened. Your smile faded before he could see how much you liked it.
Dangerous. Hope was dangerous.
Damian stepped closer. āYou use humour to redirect.ā
āYou use analysis to avoid feelings.ā
āI do not avoid feelings.ā
āYou dress like a bat-themed traffic warning and punch people at night.ā
He opened his mouth. Closed it.Ā āThat is irrelevant.ā
āThat is what people say when things are relevant.ā
He glared. You smiled. Then his gaze flicked, involuntarily, to the notebook in your hands.
And it happened. His expression emptied of you. Just slightly. Just enough.
He looked back up. His hand went to his sword. āWho areāā
You tossed the notebook at his chest. He caught it.
āRead page twelve,ā you said.
Damian looked down.
You watched him reconstruct you from ink. Watched his own words pull him back to the edge of belief. Watched him breathe in slowly.
His eyes returned to yours. Not remembering. Choosing anyway.
āI apologise,ā he said.
You flinched. It was small. He noticed.
āDonāt,ā you said.
āI forgot.ā
āEveryone does.ā
āThat does not make it acceptable.ā
You laughed once, but there was no humour in it. āCareful, Wayne. You keep saying things like that, and Iāll start thinking you mean them.ā
āI do.ā
That was the problem.
You looked away first. The second you did, you knew he would forget the exact softness that had passed between you.
But you remembered. You always remembered.
Lucky you.
Damianās family noticed eventually. Of course they did. A Bat could hide a stab wound for six hours, but not a new obsession. The dramatic irony was almost cute.
Tim found the wall first. He stared at the notes. Then at Damian. Then back at the notes.
āOkay,ā Tim said. āNot to be rude, but this is either a case board or the beginning of a gothic romance.ā
Damian snatched a sketch off the wall. āLeave.ā
āGothic romance. Got it.ā
āDrake.ā
āDoes your mysterious murder cryptid have a name?ā
Damian went still. āNo.ā
Timās expression shifted. Gentler. More dangerous. āYou donāt know?ā
āNo one does.ā
That shut him up. For almost three seconds, which for Tim Drake was basically a vow of silence. Then Tim stepped closer to the board. āYou think thereās a cognitive effect?ā
āI know there is.ā
āOn everyone?ā
āYes.ā
āEven you?ā
Damianās jaw tightened. āEspecially me.ā
Tim read the notes in silence. Then said, āThatās horrifying.ā
āYes.ā
āAnd lonely.ā
Damian looked at the sketch in his hand. The eyes were incomplete again. āYes,ā he said.
Later, after Tim left, Damian added another note. Ask Subject what they want. Do not assume rescue equals cure.
He underlined it twice.
āWhat do you want?ā Damian asked.
You stopped sharpening your knife. That question was worse than who are you. At least who are you had an easy answer. Nobody. Nothing. Gone already.
āWhat?ā you said.
Damian sat across from you on the rooftop, knees bent, forearms resting loosely against them. He had taken off the domino. You hated when he did that. It made him look too human. Too young. Too beautiful in a way that was absolutely none of your business.
āWhat do you want?ā he repeated.
āA vacation. Better coffee. The Joker dead. A nap long enough to be classified as a coma.ā
āI am serious.ā
āThatās tragic.ā
āForget-Me-Not.ā
You froze.
He had never called you that out loud before. The name should have sounded clinical. It should have sounded like one more label pinned to the body-shaped hole you left in the world.
But Damian said it like a promise. Quiet. Careful. Yours, almost.
You looked away. The city blurred beneath you. āDonāt call me that.ā
āWhat should I call you?ā
You laughed under your breath. āDoesnāt matter. You wonāt remember.ā
āI will write it down.ā
āThat isnāt the same.ā
āNo,ā Damian said. āIt is not.ā
The honesty almost hurt worse than comfort would have. You swallowed.
āMy parents had a name for me,ā you said. Damian went very still. āI donāt use it anymore.ā
āWhy?ā
āBecause they stopped.ā You hated the silence that followed. You hated that he did not rush to fill it. You hated that some part of you wanted him to. āI was little,ā you continued, because apparently your mouth had decided to betray the whole fortress. āWhen it started. At first, people just⦠misplaced me. Teachers skipped over me. Kids forgot games halfway through playing them. My parents thought it was stress. Then a phase. Then a curse. Thenā¦ā You smiled thinly. āThen I became a note on the fridge.ā
Damian said nothing.
You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. āOne day, I came home and there were no notes. No dinner plate. No bed made up. My room was storage. My mother looked right at me, turned to call my father, and when she turned back, she screamed because there was a stranger in her house.ā Your voice did not break. You were proud of that. āShe forgot me faster than she could love me.ā
Damianās hands curled.
You looked at him then. Big mistake. His face held rage, but not the kind people usually aimed at you. This was not fear. Not suspicion.
This was fury on your behalf.
Hope sparked again. Tiny. Stupid. Cruel.
You crushed it badly this time. Not enough.
āThatās why you kill,ā he said.
You snorted. āNo. I kill because some people deserve to stop breathing.ā
āYour loneliness informs your methods.ā
āCareful. That almost sounded like empathy.ā
āIt was.ā
āGross.ā
Damianās mouth twitched. There. A near-smile. The kind of thing a person could get addicted to if they were very dumb and had no self-preservation.
You stood too quickly. āI should go.ā
Damian stood too. āStay.ā
The word struck between you like a thrown blade.
You stared at him. He looked startled by himself. Then determined, because of course he did. Damian Wayne would fight God before admitting a feeling caught him off guard.
āStay,ā he repeated. āFor ten minutes.ā
āWhy?ā
āSo I can remember you for ten minutes.ā
Your chest hurt. āDamian.ā
His name came out before you could stop it.
He inhaled sharply. You had never said it before.
Not Robin. Not Wayne.
Damian. Like he was a person. Like you were a person.
His voice softened. āPlease.ā
You hated hope. You hated it.Ā You hated how it bloomed anyway.
So you sat back down. For ten minutes, Damian Wayne looked at you and did not forget. For ten minutes, you existed in someone elseās mind.
It was not enough.
It was everything.
The breakthrough came from a mistake. Damian was injured. Not badly, he insisted, which meant badly enough that anyone sane would seek medical attention. You found him in an alley behind the Iceberg Lounge, bleeding from a cut across his ribs and trying to staple himself shut with one hand.
āYou look terrible,ā you said.
He looked up sharply. For half a second, his face relaxed.
Not recognition. Never recognition. But something close.
āForget-Me-Not.ā
āYou remembered?ā
āNo.ā He glanced at the writing on his wrist. āI prepared.ā
Of course he did.
You crouched beside him and slapped his hand away. āI can do it.ā
āIāve seen you try to stitch with your off-hand. It was like watching a raccoon defuse a bomb.ā
āYour concern is touching.ā
āMy concern is impatient.ā
You cleaned the wound while he stared at you. The eye contact had become easier.
No. That was a lie. It had become more unbearable.
Because Damian watched like attention was devotion. Like looking could be a form of shelter. Like if he just tried hard enough, the universe would be forced to admit you were there.
āYouāre going to need stitches,ā you said.
āI know.ā
āThis will hurt.ā
āI know.ā
āDonāt do that macho thing.ā
āI do not do a macho thing.ā
āYou were raised by Batman and assassins. You absolutely do a macho thing.ā
His lips twitched.
You started stitching. His breath hitched once, controlled and sharp.
Without thinking, you placed your free hand over his.
A stupid comfort. A forgettable comfort.
Damian looked down at your joined hands. You felt the moment his memory dropped.
His fingers tensed. You tried to pull away.
He caught your hand.
Not hard. Just enough.
His eyes were still on your hands. He should have forgotten you. He had forgotten you.
But he did not let go.
Slowly, he looked back up. His expression was confused. Then he saw your face. Then the note on his wrist. Then your hand in his. His thumb moved once against your knuckles.
āI forgot,ā he said.
āYeah.ā
āBut I did not release you.ā
You stared at him.
He looked down again, testing. Memory vanished from his face. His hand remained around yours. Up again.
Reconstruction. Understanding.
āPhysical contact,ā he said.
Your pulse stumbled. āWhat?ā
āPhysical contact may preserve some continuity. Not memory, but intent. Somatic anchoring.ā
āYou are such a nerd.ā
āYes,ā Damian said, eyes bright now in a way that made him look younger. āAnd you are holding my hand.ā
You dropped it immediately. He looked smug for exactly one second before wincing because smugness apparently pulled stitches.
āDonāt get excited,ā you said. āIt was medical.ā
āOf course.ā
āI would hold anyoneās hand while sewing their ribs shut.ā
āYour bedside manner is abysmal.ā
āYouāre welcome.ā
That night, Damian wrote seventeen pages about somatic anchoring. You pretended not to read them.
You read them three times.
After that, things changed. Not fixed. Never fixed. This was not a fairy tale. Gotham ate fairy tales, picked the bones clean, and sold them back as cautionary graffiti.
Damian still forgot you. Every night. Every conversation. Every time his gaze broke, even for a breath too long.
But now he built ways back. A touch to his wrist. A note in his palm. A recording in his own voice, You trust them. Do not reach for your sword. Ask whether they have eaten.
The first time that recording played, you nearly threw his comm off a roof.
āAsk whether Iāve eaten?ā you demanded. āWhat am I, a stray cat?ā
Damian looked you up and down.
You hissed, āDonāt.ā
āYou do frequent rooftops.ā
āI will stab you.ā
āYou also resist care despite needing it.ā
āDamian.ā
āAnd you accepted tuna from Brown last week.ā
āThat was sushi, you rich gremlin.ā
He looked pleased. It was awful.
You started staying longer. That was the dangerous part. Five minutes became ten. Ten became an hour. An hour became patrol routes where Damian would glance at you every few seconds, stubborn as sunrise, refusing to let you vanish if he could help it.
Sometimes he failed. A lot of times, he failed. You learned the shape of his forgetting. The slight tightening of his stance. The way his eyes flicked cold before his notes thawed him. The apology he gave every time, even when you told him to stop.
Especially then.
āI apologise.ā
āDonāt.ā
āI hurt you.ā
āYou forgot me. Thatās different.ā
āNo,ā Damian said once, quiet beneath the rain. āIt is not.ā
You had no joke for that. So you stood beside him in silence while Gotham glittered wet and cruel below.
Your shoulder brushed his. He did not move away.
Neither did you.
The first time he kissed you, he forgot you halfway through. It was, objectively, a disaster.
You were laughing when it happened, which made it worse.
Damian had been trying to explain a new theory involving tactile recall, mnemonic loops, and Zatanna, because apparently the Batsā solution to metaphysical trauma was ācall a magician and make three spreadsheets.ā
āYou made a spreadsheet about me?ā
āSeveral.ā
āThat is either romantic or a federal concern.ā
āYou are deflecting.ā
āYou are flirting with data.ā
āI am flirting with you.ā
You stopped breathing. Damian stopped too. The city wind moved between you.
āDonāt say things you wonāt remember,ā you whispered.
His expression changed. Softened. āI may not remember saying them,ā he said, ābut I have written them in twenty-three places. I have recorded them in my own voice. I have told Drake, Cain, and Pennyworth. I have carved reminders into my routines until my life bends around the fact of you.ā
Your eyes burned. āDamian.ā
āI do not remember you the way I should,ā he said. āBut I know this: every version of myself that finds the evidence chooses you again.ā
Oh. That was unfair.
That was so unfair.
You stepped back, but he caught your hand.
āDo not run.ā
āIām very good at running.ā
āI know.ā
āYou donāt know anything.ā
His thumb pressed against your pulse. āI know enough.ā
You laughed once, broken and small. āYouāre going to look away one day and not look back.ā
āNo.ā
āYou donāt know that.ā
āNo,ā he agreed. āI do not. But I know I have looked back every time so far.ā
There was no defence against that. None.
You kissed him first. Because you were tired of being a ghost. Because you wanted one thing before the world took it. Because hope was a cruel little weed growing through concrete, and maybe you were tired of ripping it out.
Damian made a soft sound against your mouth, startled, then certain. His hand rose to your jaw. His other hand stayed locked around yours. For one blazing second, you were held in memory and body both.
Then a siren wailed below. His eyes flicked toward the street.
You felt him forget. His mouth stilled. His hand tensed.
You pulled back before his confusion could finish forming.
Damian blinked at you, alarmed. Then looked at your joined hands. At the note written across his glove. You love them. Breathe. His face went scarlet.
You stared. He stared.
āOh my god,ā you said hoarsely. āYou wrote that on your glove?ā
Damian cleared his throat. āIt seemed practical.ā
āYou are insane.ā
āLikely.ā
āYou forgot me during our first kiss.ā
His eyes widened. Then narrowed at himself, offended. āUnacceptable.ā
You laughed. You laughed so hard your eyes spilled over.
Damian looked stricken.
āNo,ā you said quickly, wiping your face. āNo, Iām notā Iām not laughing because it hurt.ā
Though it did. Of course it did. Everything did. But not only. Not anymore.
āIām laughing because you look personally betrayed by your own brain.ā
āI am.ā
āYouāre ridiculous.ā
āI will do better next time.ā Next time. The words landed softly. Carefully. Like a coat around cold shoulders.
āYou want a next time?ā you asked.
Damian looked at the glove again. Then at you. He did not remember the kiss. But his mouth curved faintly. āI apparently insisted upon it in writing.ā
You smiled despite yourself. āOkay, Wayne.ā
His hand tightened around yours. āOkay?ā
You leaned in until your forehead touched his. āNext time.ā
He closed his eyes.
Panic shot through you. But his hand stayed in yours. His forehead stayed against yours. And when he opened his eyes again, the confusion came. Then the note. Then the choice.
Always the choice.
āThere you are,ā he said softly.
Your breath caught.
He did not remember saying it before. Maybe he never had. Maybe he would say it again.
Maybe that was enough to survive on. For now.
Zatanna could not cure you. Not fully.
You expected that. You told yourself you expected that. Still, when she stood in the cave beneath the cold blue light and said, āIām sorry,ā something in you folded inward.
Damianās hand found yours immediately. Anchoring. Always anchoring.
Zatannaās expression was gentle in a way you did not know what to do with. āIt isnāt just magic,ā she said. āThereās magic in it, yes, but also metahuman biology, trauma response, maybe even a curse that attached itself to your ability when you were young. Itās tangled.ā
āGreat,ā you said. āLove being a group project.ā
Tim, from behind three laptops, whispered, āHonestly, same.ā
Damian glared at him.
Zatanna continued, āI may be able to help reduce the effect. Create anchors. People who consent to remembering you may be able to retain emotional continuity longer. Names may hold power. Touch helps. Written records help. Repetition helps.ā
You swallowed. āBut no cure.ā
āNot today.ā
Not today. It was not a yes. It was not a no.
Hope, again. That annoying little weed.
Damian looked at you. You knew he was waiting for you to break first. To scoff. To run. To turn cold before disappointment could touch you.
Instead, you looked at your hand in his. At the ink on his wrist. At the wall of notes behind him. At the sketch he had redrawn so many times the eyes were finally starting to look like yours.
āI donāt know how to do this,ā you admitted. Your voice sounded too small in the cave.
Damianās thumb moved over your knuckles. āNeither do I.ā
āYou hate not knowing things.ā
āI do.ā
āThis could take years.ā
āThen we will require more notebooks.ā
You laughed wetly. He looked proud of himself.
Little menace.
āYouāll forget me,ā you said.
His expression sobered. āYes.ā
No pretty lie. No softening the blade. Just truth.
Then he lifted your joined hands. āAnd I will find you again.ā
You closed your eyes. For once, when someone looked away, you did not disappear completely.
Damian forgot. Then read the note. Then remembered enough. His hand stayed around yours.
When you opened your eyes, he was watching you with that familiar, stubborn, impossible focus. Like the universe had made a rule, and Damian Wayne had taken it personally.
āHello,ā he said carefully. Your heart broke. Your heart healed. Both, maybe.
āHi,ā you whispered.
His gaze dropped to the note on his wrist. Then back to you.
A small smile touched his mouth. āThere you are.ā
And for the first time in a very long time, you believed him.
The first thing Damian remembered was your laugh. Not your face. Not your voice. Not the exact shape of your hand in his.
Just the laugh.
It came to him three days after Zatannaās visit, in the middle of sparring with Cass. He was blocking a strike to his ribs when the sound flickered through his mindāquiet, sharp, unwilling, like joy had snuck into your chest and gotten caught trying to escape.
Damian froze. Cassā foot stopped half an inch from his knee. She tilted her head. Damian lowered his sword.
āI remember something,ā he said.
Cass blinked once. Then smiled. Small. Knowing.
Damian hated being known by people who could read body language like scripture.
āWhat?ā she asked.
His mouth opened. For one terrifying second, the memory slipped. Not gone. Slipping.
Damianās hand snapped to his wrist, where his notes were written in dark ink. FORGET-ME-NOT EXISTS. DO NOT TRUST ABSENCE. THEY ARE REAL.
But he did not need them. The sound returned. A laugh on a rooftop. Rain on metal. Your voice saying, You are flirting with data.
His heart struck hard against his ribs.
āTheir laugh,ā he said, stunned.
Cass lowered her foot fully. Damian stared at nothing.
He remembered. Not because of a note. Not because of a recording. Not because his past self had left breadcrumbs like a man wandering through a cursed forest.
He remembered something of you.
On his own.
You did not believe him. Naturally.
āThatās adorable,ā you said flatly. āHave you considered brain damage?ā
Damian stood across from you on the roof of Gotham Central Library, arms crossed, jaw set in the particular way that meant he was either offended or about to confess something emotionally devastating with the energy of a murder accusation. Sometimes both.
āI am not concussed.ā
āYou say that a lot for someone who gets hit in the head professionally.ā
āI remember your laugh.ā
You looked away. It was instinct by now. A survival reflex. If someone said something kind, you made sure they forgot it before it became real.
Damianās breath caught. You heard it. That tiny shift.
You closed your eyes. There it was. The moment. The curse. The worldās old cruel joke, winding itself up again.
When you opened your eyes, Damian was staring at you. Still. Focused. Shaken.
āI remember,ā he said.
Your chest tightened. āNo, you donāt.ā
āI do.ā
āYou read a note.ā
āI did not.ā
āYou listened to a recording.ā
āNo.ā
āYouāre guessing.ā
āYour laugh is quiet at first,ā Damian said, voice low, āas if you resent it for existing. Then it catches. Barely. You look away when it happens, because you do not like being seen wanting to stay.ā
The city went silent. Or maybe you did. Your whole body locked around the words.
Damian took one step closer. āYou called me a rich gremlin.ā Your mouth parted. āAnd a bat-themed traffic warning.ā
āThat one was objectively true,ā you whispered.
His mouth twitched. āAnd you told me my handwriting looked like a stabbed insect.ā
You stared at him. The wind moved between you, cold and sharp, tugging at his cape and your sleeves. Far below, sirens wailed. Gotham kept being Gotham, rude as ever. But above it, the impossible sat between you like a candle in a ruined church.
āYou remember that?ā you asked.
āYes.ā
You searched his face for the lie. There wasnāt one. That was the problem with Damian. He could be arrogant, difficult, blunt, dramatic in a way he would deny until the sun died, but he did not give you comfort he could not defend.
Hope stirred. You hated it. You hated how quickly it had learned his name.
āMaybe itās temporary,ā you said.
āIt may be.ā
āMaybe it wonāt last.ā
āIt may not.ā
āMaybe youāll wake up tomorrow, and itāll be gone.ā
His expression softened. āThen I will begin again tomorrow.ā
Your throat burned. āYou donāt get tired of that?ā
āYes.ā
The honesty hit harder than a pretty answer would have.
Damian stepped closer. āI get furious,ā he said. āI get impatient. I getā¦ā His jaw tightened. āAfraid.ā You stared. Damian Wayne said the word like it had been dragged out of him by the throat. āBut I do not get tired of you.ā
Your breath caught. He looked startled by his own words, but he did not take them back. You laughed once, brittle and small. āThatās a terrible line.ā
āI was not aware we were exchanging lines.ā
āYouāre doing a tragic rooftop romance. You should at least be good at it.ā
āI will improve.ā
āDonāt make that sound like a threat.ā
āI make no promises.ā
There it was again. The almost-smile. You wanted to touch it. You wanted to run from it. Both urges lived in you at once, twin animals baring teeth.
Instead, you pulled your knees to your chest and sat on the edge of the roof. After a moment, Damian sat beside you.
Not too close. Close enough.
You glanced at him. āDo you remember my face?ā
His silence answered before he did. āNo,ā he said. You nodded like that didnāt hurt. āI remember impressions,ā he continued. āYour eyes when you are annoyed. The angle of your head when you are about to insult me. The way your shoulders rise when someone says something kind and you do not know where to put it.ā
āWow. Drag me, why donāt you.ā
āI remember the scar on your left thumb.ā
Your hand curled instinctively. Damian noticed.
āYou told me it was from a knife fight,ā he said.
āI lied.ā
āI know.ā You looked at him sharply. He glanced at your hand, then quickly back to your face, as if afraid to lose you. āYou cut yourself opening a can of peaches when you were twelve.ā
The world fell out from under you. You had told him that on a bad night. A stupid night. A night where you had been tired and bleeding and too lonely to keep every door locked. You had told him about the abandoned apartment you stayed in that winter, about eating canned fruit with a stolen pocketknife, about slicing your thumb open and crying more because there was no one to hear you than because it hurt.
You had told him. Then he had looked away. And forgotten. You had regretted saying it for weeks.
Damian remembered.
Your hand trembled before you could stop it. He saw. Carefully, slowly, he offered his hand palm-up between you.
Not taking. Asking.
Damn him. Damn him for learning you this gently.
You stared at his hand like it was a trap. Then you placed yours in it.
His fingers closed around yours. The contact steadied something in the air. Or maybe in you.
āI remember that,ā Damian said.
You swallowed hard. āHow?ā
āI do not know yet.ā
āOf course you added āyet.āā
āI am consistent.ā
āYouāre impossible.ā
āI have been called worse.ā
āBy me.ā
āMostly, yes.ā
A laugh escaped you. Soft. Unwilling.
Damianās eyes sharpened, not like a hunter this time, but like a boy watching the first star appear in a dark sky.
āThere,ā he whispered. You went still. āI will remember that one too.ā
Your heart hurt so badly you almost hated him for it.
Almost.
The second thing Damian remembered was your voice.
It happened badly. The Narrows were soaked in rain, neon bleeding down dirty windows and alley walls. You had been tracking a weapons shipment tied to Black Maskās old network. Damian had tracked it too, which meant the two of you ended up on opposite sides of the same warehouse skylight, glaring at each other through wet glass like the worldās least normal meet-cute.
āYou followed me,ā you said through the comm he had given you.
āI was here first.ā
āI was here silently.ā
āI was here competently.ā
āThatās debatable.ā
āYou set off the pressure sensor on the south entrance.ā
āThat sensor was ugly and deserved it.ā
Damian sighed. You grinned despite yourself. Then the floor beneath him exploded. The comm cut out. Your body moved before your fear could name itself.
You dropped through the skylight into smoke and gunfire, landing hard on a steel beam. Below, men shouted. Red emergency lights flashed. Damian was on one knee near the centre of the room, one hand braced against the concrete, blood bright against his temple.
For one horrible second, he looked younger. Not Robin. Not Batmanās heir.
Just Damian. Your Damian.
No. Not yours.
You threw three blades in quick succession. Three men dropped.
Damian looked up. His eyes found you.
Relief flickered across his face. Then a flashbang detonated. White swallowed everything. When your vision returned, Damian was standing with his sword drawn and no recognition in his eyes.
Of course. You knew this part. You could survive this part.
Then he pointed the blade at you. āIdentify yourself.ā
Something inside you snapped.
āAre you kidding me?ā you shouted.
He froze. Not because he remembered.
Because your voice did something to him.
You saw it happen. His shoulders shifted. His grip faltered. His eyes widened, not with knowledge, but with impact. Your voice had gotten through before his mind could slam the door.
āRobin!ā one of the smugglers barked from behind him.
Damian did not turn. Good. Learning.
The man raised a gun. You shot him in the shoulder.
Damianās gaze flicked instinctively toward the sound. Lost.
His face emptied. Then his jaw clenched. He looked back at you.
āI know your voice,ā he said.
You almost missed your next throw. āWhat?ā
āI know your voice.ā
āYou donāt know me.ā
His eyes narrowed, frustrated. āI know your voice.ā
The fight surged around you. This was a terrible place for a revelation.
āGreat,ā you snapped. āUse that knowledge to duck.ā
He ducked. A crowbar swung through the space where his skull had been. Damian moved like water after that, violent and precise. You covered his blind spots. He covered yours. Every time he looked away, his body resetābut not completely. Your voice pulled him back faster each time.
āLeft.ā He moved left. āBehind you.ā He spun. āDuck, pretty bird.ā
He ducked, then glared at you mid-fight. āYou did not just call meāā He knocked a man unconscious with the hilt of his sword. āYou did,ā he said.
You shrugged while kicking someone in the knee. āAdrenaline. Donāt read into it.ā
āI will read into it extensively.ā
āFocus.ā
āI am focused.ā
āYou are flirting while concussed.ā
āI am multitasking.ā
You laughed. He heard it. And this time, when he looked away, he still smiled.
Only for half a second. Only barely. But you saw it.
And after the last man dropped, Damian stood in the wreckage, rain pouring through the broken skylight, blood sliding down his jaw, and said your name. Not your real name, but the one he had given you.
āForget-Me-Not.ā You froze. His eyes widened. āI remembered.ā
You stared at him. āNo notes?ā
āNo notes.ā
āNo recording?ā
āNo.ā
āNo contact?ā
āNo.ā
Your pulse roared in your ears.
Damian lifted a hand to his own mouth, stunned by himself. āI remembered the name.ā
You should have made a joke. You always made a joke. Instead you crossed the space between you and grabbed him by the front of his suit. His eyes dropped to your hands.
You knew the risk. His memory flickered. You felt him begin to lose you.
āDamian,ā you said.
His gaze snapped back to your face. There. He stayed.
You kissed him. It was not graceful. It was wet from rain and sharp with fear, his mouth startled beneath yours for one breath before he kissed you back with a kind of fierce, trembling focus that made your knees weak. His hands hovered for half a second, like he was afraid touching you wrong would make you vanish. Then one settled at your waist. The other came up to your jaw.
You felt him try not to look away. Felt the concentration in every line of him.
It should have been funny. It was devastating.
You pulled back just enough to breathe. His eyes were still open. Still on you.
āDid you forget?ā you whispered.
His fingers tightened. āNo.ā Your world cracked open. Damianās voice dropped. āI remember kissing you before.ā
You stopped breathing.
His brow furrowed, like the memory was fighting him, like he was dragging it up with both hands from deep water. āRooftop,ā he said. āSiren. I looked away. You laughed at my glove.ā
A sound left you. Half laugh. Half sob. āYou wrote āyou love themā on your glove.ā
His face flushed. Even now. Bleeding, soaked, standing over seven unconscious criminals and three dead ones, Damian Wayne blushed because you remembered his dramatic little love note to himself.
āI was being thorough,ā he muttered.
āYou were being insane.ā
āI was being correct.ā
You looked at him. He looked back. The rain softened the edges of him. Made him less blade, more boy. Fewer weapons, more want. Your hands were still fisted in his suit.
āYou love me?ā you asked. The question came out smaller than you meant it to.
Damianās expression changed. He looked briefly, openly terrified. Then certain. āYes,ā he said.
No hesitation. No escape route. Just yes.
Your eyes stung. āYou barely remember me.ā
āI remember enough to know what the rest of me keeps choosing.ā
āThat is the most Damian Wayne answer imaginable.ā
āI assume that is favourable.ā
āItās obnoxious.ā
āYouāre crying.ā
āIām rain-adjacent.ā
āIt is indoors.ā
āThereās a hole in the roof.ā
āBecause you crashed through it.ā
āRomantically.ā
His mouth twitched. Then softened. āBeloved,ā he said quietly.
You forgot how to be clever. Damian noticed. A dangerous amount of satisfaction entered his face.
āOh, shut up,ā you whispered.
āI said nothing.ā
āYou looked smug.ā
āI am allowed to be pleased when I render you speechless.ā
āIām going to stab you emotionally.ā
āYou already have.ā
And there it was. The ache beneath the banter. The years of loneliness. The curse. The forgetting. The way every soft thing between you had teeth marks in it from trying not to die.
You touched his cheek. His eyes closed for one second. Just one.
When he opened them, panic flashed. Then recognition followed. Slowly. Painfully. But there.
āI remember,ā he said, wonder breaking through his voice.
Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. āDamian?ā
āI remember.ā
His hand covered yours. āI closed my eyes,ā he said. āAnd I remembered.ā
You stared at him.
The silence after that was not empty. It was full of every impossible thing neither of you dared to name.
Then Damian leaned forward and kissed you again. This time, he closed his eyes. This time, when he opened them, you were still there.
He became unbearable after that. Scientifically unbearable. You had never seen a man so smug about emotional progress. Damian walked around the Batcave like he had personally defeated the laws of metaphysics through discipline and cheekbones.
āI remembered their voice for fourteen minutes without visual confirmation,ā he told Tim.
Tim stared at him over his coffee. āGood morning to you, too.ā
āThis suggests the effect is weakening.ā
āIt suggests youāre in love and making it everyoneās problem.ā
Damian sniffed. āI am conducting research.ā
āYou wrote their name in the margin of a case file.ā
āThat was accidental.ā
āYou surrounded it with little flowers.ā
Damianās face went blank. Timās grin widened. āThey were tactical flowers,ā Damian said.
You, hidden in the rafters above them, nearly choked trying not to laugh.
Damianās head snapped up.
He could not see you. Still, he smiled. Tiny. Private. Like his body knew where you were before his eyes did.
Tim followed his gaze and sighed. āYou two are going to be disgusting, arenāt you?ā
āI do not know what you mean,ā Damian said.
āYouāre already doing the secret rooftop eye-contact thing.ā
āYour jealousy is unbecoming.ā
āIām not jealous. Iām sleep-deprived and surrounded by emotionally constipated vigilantes discovering romance like itās a new martial art.ā
From the rafters, you whispered, āHeās not wrong.ā
Damian looked directly at your hiding place. āI heard that.ā
Tim startled. āYou heard them?ā
Damian paused.
His expression changed. Not confusion. Astonishment. He had heard you without seeing you. And remembered who the voice belonged to.
You dropped lightly from the rafters, landing beside the computer platform.
Tim looked at you. Then away by accident. When his gaze returned, he frowned at the empty space his mind insisted on making.
āRight,ā Tim muttered, immediately looking at his tablet. āWow. That is annoying.ā
āWelcome to my whole life,ā you said.
Tim winced. āSorry.ā
āDonāt be. You wrote a twelve-page theory about me involving quantum attention decay. That was worse.ā
Tim brightened. āYou read that?ā
āNo.ā
āYou did.ā
āUnfortunately.ā
Damian stepped closer to you. His hand brushed yours. Not because he needed to anchor himself.
Because he wanted to. That difference nearly ruined you.
Tim looked between you and Damian. Or tried to. Mostly, his eyes kept snagging on Damianās hand and then sliding away from the rest of you.
āSo,ā Tim said slowly, āheās remembering more?ā
āYes,ā Damian said.
You looked at him. āSometimes.ā
āMore than sometimes.ā
āDonāt get cocky.ā
āI am accurately confident.ā
āYou remembered I hate lilies and decided that made you a wizard.ā
āYou said lilies smell like funeral homes and rich guilt.ā
Tim pointed at you with his coffee. āThat is incredibly specific.ā
Damianās eyes stayed on you. āI remembered because it mattered to them.ā
The cave went quiet. Even Tim had the decency not to ruin it.
You swallowed. āStop being sincere in public.ā
āThis is my home.ā
āThere are bats in it.ā
āThey are family.ā
Tim whispered, āSee? Disgusting.ā
Damian ignored him. You tried to, but your mouth twitched. And Damian remembered that too.
Your real name came on a night without costumes. That was not planned. Most important things with Damian were either meticulously planned or happened with the emotional timing of a car crash. This was the second kind.
You were at Wayne Manor because Alfred had decided you were underfed. Alfred Pennyworth, you quickly discovered, was immune to approximately sixty per cent of your nonsense through sheer British stubbornness. He forgot you, yes. But he did not forget the place setting he had arranged. He did not forget the extra cup of tea. He did not forget the note he had written in elegant script beside the tray, Our guest takes honey, not sugar. Do not allow Master Damian to brood overmuch.
You read it three times. Then blamed allergies.
There were no allergies.
Damian found you in the library after dinner, standing near the window with a cup of tea cooling in your hands.
āYou fled,ā he said.
āI relocated.ā
āYou were overwhelmed.ā
āI was avoiding your brother asking whether Iām your partner.ā
Damian went still. āHe asked that?ā
āHe tried to. He forgot halfway through and asked why you were smiling at a chair.ā
Damian grimaced. You turned from the window.
The library was warm, gold-lit, lined with books that looked older than several Gotham neighborhoods. Rain tapped against the glass. Somewhere far down the hall, Dick laughed at something Jason said. It sounded painfully normal. Too normal for you. Too much like a life.
Damian approached carefully. āYou may leave whenever you wish.ā
āI know.ā
āNo one will keep you here.ā
āI know.ā
āYou are not a prisoner of being wanted.ā
You looked down at your tea. āYou canāt just say things like that.ā
āI can.ā
āYou shouldnāt.ā
āWhy?ā
āBecause I might believe you.ā
Damian was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, āGood.ā
Your grip tightened around the cup. The ceramic warmed your palms. You hated how badly you wanted to stay. You hated how much of your life had been built around leaving before anyone could prove you were impossible to keep.
āDamian,ā you said.
He stepped closer. āYes?ā
You looked at him then. No mask. No hood. No blood. No rooftop distance. Just Damian in a dark sweater, hair still damp from the rain, eyes fixed on you like attention was the first language he had ever learned.
āI want to tell you my name,ā you said.
His face changed. Softened. Sharpened. Almost reverent. āYou do not have to.ā
āI know.ā
āIf you tell me, I may forget it.ā
āI know.ā
āI will write it down.ā
āI know.ā
āIt still may hurt.ā
You laughed under your breath. āIt already hurts.ā
Damian looked pained. You set the tea aside. Then you stepped close enough that your shoes nearly touched his.
You told him. Not loudly. Not dramatically.
Just a name. A small sound. A human thing. The first thing ever taken from you.
Damian closed his eyes like receiving it hurt.
Then he opened them. Said it back. Perfectly.
Your breath shook. āNo one has said that to me in years,ā you whispered.
Damianās hand rose, then stopped. āMay I?ā
You nodded.
He touched your cheek. Your eyes closed on instinct. His thumb moved softly against your skin.
Then he turned his head. Just slightly. A glance toward the door at a distant sound.
Your stomach dropped.
There. The curse took its bite.
Damian went still. His hand remained on your face. His eyes returned to you. For one second, there was no recognition. Then something fought through.
Not notes. Not touch alone. Something deeper.
His brow furrowed. His lips parted. Then he said your name.
Your whole body went cold. Then hot. Then weightless.
āYou remember,ā you breathed.
Damian stared at you as if he were afraid moving would break the world. āYes.ā
āSay it again.ā
He did.
You covered your mouth. He said it again, softer. Like a vow. Like a prayer. Like he was teaching the universe how to behave.
You made a sound you could not swallow.
Damian pulled you into his arms. Not too tight. Never trapping. Just holding.
You buried your face against his shoulder and shook. He pressed his mouth to your hair.
āI remember,ā he whispered.
You clutched the back of his sweater. āYou remember me.ā
āYes.ā
āDonāt stop.ā
āI will not.ā
āYou donāt know that.ā
āNo,ā he said, voice rough. āBut I know your name.ā
You broke then. Not prettily. Not quietly. Years of vanishing tore out of you all at once. You cried like a child. Like the child who had waited at a dinner table no one set. Like the teenager who had learned knives because hands were never offered. Like the ghost who had survived being forgotten by pretending they did not want to be known.
Damian held you through all of it. And when he looked away once, twice, three timesā
He still knew who you were when he looked back.
He asked you properly two weeks later. Because apparently, Damian Wayne could confess love in a burning warehouse but needed a formal strategy for dating.
You found the list by accident. Mostly accident. Fine. Thirty percent accident.
It was in his notebook, beneath a heading written in his sharp, perfect block letters, COURTSHIP PARAMETERS You stared. Then slowly turned the page.
Ask directly. Do not assume existing emotional intimacy equals consent to romantic partnership. Avoid phrasing as a tactical alliance. Drake says this is āweird.ā Flowers? Not lilies. Possible alternatives: forget-me-nots, though they may be too obvious. Consider irony? No. Too painful? Ask. Dinner? Public spaces may increase discomfort due to memory effect. Rooftop picnic? Too much like patrol? Do not say āI have selected you.ā Brown laughed for four minutes.
You had to sit down. By the time Damian entered the room, you were on his bed, laughing silently into his pillow.
He stopped in the doorway. āYou are invading my privacy.ā
āYou wrote ādo not say I have selected you.āā His entire face went red. You clutched the notebook to your chest. āDamian.ā
āGive that back.ā
āYou asked Steph for dating advice?ā
āI consulted multiple sources.ā
āDid you ask Jason?ā
His expression darkened. āTodd suggested kidnapping you from yourself.ā
āThatās almost poetic.ā
āHe also suggested leather.ā
You wheezed.
Damian lunged for the notebook.
You rolled away, laughing harder. He caught your ankle. You shrieked, half-laughing, and kicked at him without real force. He climbed onto the bed with the terrifying determination of a man fighting for his dignity and losing badly.
āReturn it,ā he demanded.
āYou made a courtship battle plan.ā
āIt is not a battle plan.ā
āIt has numbered objectives.ā
āIt is a list.ā
āYou were going to ask me out with logistics.ā
āI was going to ask you with respect.ā
That stopped you. Damian froze too, one hand braced beside your shoulder, the two of you suddenly close enough that laughter became breath. His blush lingered high on his cheeks.
Your smile softened despite yourself. āYou were?ā
āYes.ā
You looked down at the notebook. Then back at him. āOkay. Ask me.ā
āNow?ā
āNo, Damian. Next fiscal quarter.ā
His eyes narrowed. āYour sarcasm is a defence mechanism.ā
āYour face is a defence mechanism. Ask.ā
He took the notebook from your loosened hand and set it aside. Then, because he was Damian, he straightened even while kneeling on his bed like this was a boardroom and not the most ridiculous romantic moment in recorded history. He looked directly at you. Softer this time.
āI love you,ā he said. Your heart tripped. Still. Every time. āI remember you now more often than I forget,ā he continued. āBut even before that, I knew you. I knew you from the evidence you left behind. I knew you in what my hands refused to release. I knew you in the anger I felt when the world failed to keep you.ā You swallowed. āI do not want you as a mission,ā he said. āOr a mystery. Or a wound I am arrogant enough to believe I can close. I want you as you are. Difficult. Violent. Irritatingly funny.ā
āCareful. Iām swooning.ā
āYou interrupt when uncomfortable.ā
āIām on brand.ā
His mouth curved. āI want to be with you,ā he said. āIf you will have me.ā
For a moment, you could not answer. Your chest felt too full. Too bright. Like hope had stopped being a weed and become a garden overnight, and you had no idea how to tend it.
āYouāre sure?ā you whispered.
āYes.ā
āWhat if it gets worse again?ā
āThen we adapt.ā
āWhat if you forget for a whole day?ā
āI will come back.ā
āWhat if you donāt?ā
Pain crossed his face. No offence. Understanding. āThen you are allowed to be angry with me.ā
āThatās not an answer.ā
āIt is the only honest one.ā He touched your hand. āI cannot promise perfection. I can promise effort. I can promise records, anchors, magic, research, and my own unbearable persistence.ā
āYou are unbearable.ā
āI know.ā
āYouāre smug.ā
āFrequently.ā
āYou brood.ā
āProductively.ā
āYouāre bad at casual affection.ā
āI am improving.ā
āYou tried to label kissing as positive tactile reinforcement.ā
He closed his eyes. āI apologised for that.ā
āYou did.ā
āI will never say it again.ā
āYou better not.ā
His eyes opened. Your hand turned beneath his, fingers sliding between his.
āBut yeah,ā you whispered. āIāll have you.ā
Damian went very still. Then, quietly, āYes?ā
āYes.ā
His face changed. You had seen Damian angry. Injured. Focused. Afraid. Tender in flashes he tried to hide.
You had never seen him happy like this. It was not loud. It did not transform him into someone else. It simply loosened something around his eyes, lit something beneath his skin. A sunrise with discipline. A miracle standing at attention.
Then he leaned down and kissed you. Slowly. Carefully. Like he had all the time in the world and planned to use it well.
You smiled against his mouth.
He pulled back just enough to frown. āYou are laughing.ā
āIām dating a man with courtship parameters.ā
āI rescind my vulnerability.ā
āNo take-backs.ā
He kissed you again, firmer this time. Your hand rose to the back of his neck, fingers slipping into his hair. He made a quiet sound that you immediately filed away for future bullying.
Then his eyes closed. Your body tensed automatically. He felt it.
His forehead rested against yours. Eyes still closed, he said your name. Perfectly.
You shuddered.
Again, he said it.
Then opened his eyes.
āThere you are,ā Damian whispered.
And this time, he remembered saying it.
The curse did not vanish. Life was not that kind. Strangers still forgot you. Cameras still blurred if no one watched the footage with intention. Tim still had to write your name on his coffee cup when you visited the cave, and Jason still got annoyed every time he forgot who had stolen his ammo.
āYou,ā Jason snapped once, pointing at empty air beside you, ābetter be the reason my smoke bombs are missing.ā
You held one up.
Jason looked away. Looked back. Forgot. Then saw the smoke bomb floating in your hand.
āOh, come on.ā
You laughed for ten minutes.
Damian remembered the sound all day.
That was the difference now.
Not a cure.
A beginning.
Some days were worse. Some days, Damian forgot your face after blinking too long. Some days, your name dissolved on his tongue and came back only after he touched the bracelet Zatanna had spelt for him.
Some days you spiralled. Some days he did.
But more often, he remembered.
Your voice from another room. Your hand without looking. Your name in the morning, sleep-rough and certain. Your laugh. Your scars. Your tea. Your hatred of lilies. Your habit of sharpening knives when anxious.
The way you still stood near exits. The way you looked stunned every time he reached for you simply because he wanted to.
And every time he remembered, some old frozen piece of you thawed.
Not all at once. Not cleanly.
Healing was ugly sometimes. It limped. It snapped. It forgot the way home and had to be led back by hand.
But Damian was good at difficult paths.
And you, despite everything, were still here.
One evening, months after the warehouse, you found him on the same rooftop where he had first remembered your laugh. He was waiting with a thermos of tea, two paper containers of takeout, and a small pot of blue flowers.
You stared at it. āAre those forget-me-nots?ā
Damian looked almost defensive. āToo obvious?ā
āHorribly.ā
āI suspected.ā
āVery dramatic.ā
āI was informed romance requires some drama.ā
āBy who?ā
āGrayson.ā
āThat explains everything.ā
Damian held out the flowers. You took them carefully.
āTheyāre pretty,ā you admitted.
āI know.ā
āSmug.ā
āAccurately confident.ā
You sat beside him, shoulder pressed to his.
Below, Gotham glowed like a bruise full of stars.
For a while, neither of you spoke.
Then Damian said your name.
Softly.
No prompt. No note. No spell.
You looked at him.
He was watching the skyline, not you.
He had said it while looking away.
Your breath vanished.
Damian turned his head. Saw your face.
Remembered why you looked like that.
His expression softened.
āI know,ā he said.
Your eyes burned. āYou looked away.ā
āYes.ā
āAnd you remembered.ā
āYes.ā
You laughed once, wet and disbelieving. āShow-off.ā
He smiled.
Actually smiled. Small but real, and yours to remember even if the world forgot.
You leaned into him. His arm came around you.
This time, neither of you called it anchoring.
This time, it was just holding.
āI love you,ā you whispered.
Damian went very still.
You felt the breath leave him.
Then his hand tightened around yours.
He said your name again. Then, āI love you.ā
No curse took it. No silence swallowed it. No forgetting followed.
The words stayed. You stayed.
And when Damian looked away toward the city, then back at you, his smile returned like dawn breaking over a place that had only ever known night.
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What do you mean āchatā is now referring to ChatGPT and not twitch chat? What? What? What the fuck? No?
When I address chat I am speaking to a presumed Greek chorus of real human people shitposting on their lunch break, not a machine that devours lakes to covert electricity into slop.
Warning: Slight stalking, cursing, fat shaming? Damian and reader are 17
Summary: dating Damian Wayne was Itās pros and cons, cons being the press follows you almost every where when youāre alone or with Damian.
Word count:1.5k
Well to say you arenāt always laughing when you read the headlines from the Gotham city news, is really an understatement at this point because you always are. You know the troubled life youāll be living when the word got out you and Damian Wayne were finally a thing. But you didnāt expect it to turn out like this most of the time. Oh how quickly the news spread from person to person and from news archers to Gotham city news. They were the ones who always came up with the most bizarre headlines. You still remember the first headline you have ever read about yourself like it was yesterday.
~~~~
youāre sitting on the couch by Damian, enjoying each otherās warmth as you two snuggle up against each other on the couch but the fireplace during a cold day. Damian is reading a book, you on the other handāyouāre scrolling through your phone, keeping up with the latest news in Gotham when you find yourself upon a headline:
āDamian Wayne, all time billionaire Bruce Wayneās son, is dating a middle-class commonerā
You let out a snort, trying to hold back your laughter. Damian glanced at you suspiciously. Placing the book he was once reading down on the little night stand beside the arms of the red couch.
āWhatās so funny, beloved?ā
You looked up at Damian through your eyelashes, fighting back a smile as you shoved your phone screen near his face, surprised Damian took a closer look at the screen. His green eyes scan back and forth as he reads. Damian's brows furrowed as he gently took your phone from your hand, you let him, he keeps reading, the frown on his face gets moreā¦.frownier? Heck is that even a word?
āNot even a week and thereās already headlines about usā you smile. Damian ignores your words as he keeps reading, he breathes out his nose when heās done reading, well not entirely done reading the boy got tired of reading it to be precise. He rubs the bridge of his nose mumbling out words in Arabic, clearly he isnāt happy about the headline, although he canāt be too angry considering it was his ideas mostly, go out in public holding hands and having fun. You know youāre in for a roller coaster at this point.
~~~~
āDamian Wayne and his lover playing the nosy aunts and gossiping out in publicā
The headline would always make you laugh out loud no matter how many times you read it. Even the pictures they put under it makes it better. The series of pictures in involved both you and Damian standing next to each other,
Picture one: you standing next to Damian as you have your hands up, mouth open, clearly talking as he just stares down at you at you unfazed.
Picture two: Damian's expression changes when you says something,
Picture three: you pointing at the much younger Wayne as you pull out your phone
Picture four: you showing him your phone and him clearly reading it
Picture five: is a very shocked Damian Wayne and you're just standing there still holding the phone.
Till this day the press is still trying to figure out what you two were talking about that made the stoic Wayne so shocked.
āDamian Wayne is actually in love and isnāt like his playboy father we all knowā
His siblings would not let this one go. Took them about three months for them to forget but occasionally someone would bring him up. He hates it. But youā¦.you LOVE IT. The headline sounds but I know but it isnāt as bad as you think. So far the press only knows your first girlfriend, but you know Damian has had a couple of girlfriends before he met you but they were nothing serious. So they are all shocked that your relationship with the young Wayne lasted more than seven months, the main reason being is because Bruce has had a few flings that donāt even last that long, no offense to him.
Thereās pictures in the Gotham news paper as well as the Gotham news website, pictures of you and him on the latest date you two went on. Wasnāt anything fancy, just a small breakfast date at a small restaurant. You thought you were slick about hiding your identity, but not slick enough. Because the next day thereās pictures of Damianāyouāre in the picture to, but your back was just facing the paparazzi so it was just a clear view of Damianā whoās just very star stuck as he looked up at you, soft smile, love tinted in his eyes, a picture of him kissing your knuckles all lovey dovey. Yāknow someone whoās really in love.
But the minute his brothers got ahold of it he wanted to kill them all. They would not leave him alone. It was even worse because you came over to the manor to hang out with him. You had to stop him from pulling out his katana and slicing them up.
āAwe look at it!ā Dick yelled out pointing at the newspaper in hand ālittle D is in love!ā
Dick was being overly dramatic just like he always is, crying at how his brother is no longer the little boy he once knew and is now becoming a grown man, considering Damians was only seventeen. Damian can only glare at his older brother, yelling at him to shut up as he chases him around the manor, trying to snap the newspaper from his hands. Jason and Tim were being childish and making kissing noises.
~~~|~
But there are times where the headlines are just plain rude. Making you feel horrible and insecure.
āY/n L/N, Damian Wayneās girlfriend, is she getting fat or is she pregnant?ā
Damian, with all his power, tried to keep you from seeing it. Hiding all the newspapers from your and making sure you donāt look at your phone, But it was already too late as he saw you frown down at your phone screen. He notices as you quickly smile, waving your phone slightly.
āI mean I know I gained a few but I didnāt think it was this badā you joked. Your feeling weāre hurt, thereās no trying to hide it Damian can clearly see the hurt in your eyes.
āY/n, Beloved are you alrightā
No youāre not. Like at all.
āYeah Iām fine I donāt really mindā you shrugged āplus I needed the motivation anywayā
āMotivation for wh-ā
āAnyway I gotta go, my moms waiting for me to get home so she can go out or get things for dinner tonightā You kissed his lips and cheek āIāll see you later tonight, yeah?ā
āYeahā¦.Tonightā
Damian glared at the back of your head as you left his sight. With a frustrated sigh Damian pulls out his own phone, quickly dialing a phone number. He placed the phone up against his ear and with three rings the person on the other end answered.
āDamian?ā
āFatherā Damian sighed out āI need your help with somethingā
Later that night you got a text from Damian himself, telling you that he wonāt be able to make it to your place tonight, not to wait up on him and go to bed. He even suggested that you can stop by the manor to hang outl . You told him that was perfectly fine and to be safe. What you didnāt know was that Damian watched you from afar, from your bedroom window, how he sees the looks of disgust written on your face as you look at yourself in the mirror. Pulling and taping the extra skin that was justā¦.there. Damian never left until you closed the blinds on your window and turned off the light.
His father, well Batman, stood behind him. The vigilante sidekick explains everything to him.
Robin and Batman skipped their patrol leaving it for the others to do while they did other important things.
So the next morning when you came over at the manor only to find a news article with the headlines
āIām sorry Y/N L/Nā
The entire article was at least five paragraphs of the writerās apology to you. You just stand there confused, whatās with the sudden change? Did they feel bad? No, that canāt really be possible. Most news reports and press donāt have any feelings towards others and only care about what they can put out in the public no matter what it takes. So why change it up now? You looked up at Damian, who had a smug look one his face as he drank his tea Alfred had prepared for him. You glance up at Bruce Wayne, who had the same look as his son didāreading the newspaper. You smiled softly. You pulled Damian down gently kissing his check.
āThank youā you whispered against his ear
āFor what exactly, beloved?ā Damian smirks as you roll your eyes.
āYou know idiotā you let go of his check as you go back to eating.
* itās literally cannon Damian is attracted to the goth/Alt type šš¤
*Come on now, he has a type. Read the comics with his written lovers and tell me he doesn't have a type.
*compliments you so much on everything, makeup? Like the way you did your eyeliner, lipstick? Likes how dark and glossy it looks, Your outfits? Loves how it just fits you right and hugs every curve.
You tend to wear darker clothes, pure black or dark versions of any color so when the sun is out and shining down he brings an umbrella. As we learn in middle school dark colors tend to absorb more heat than lighter colors, so he doesn't want you to have a heat stroke out in the open.
Enjoys going out shopping with you, like it especially if he gets to sit and show him all the clothes, trying to determine what looks good on you and what doesn't. News flash, he tells you everything you put on looks amazing on you and buys everything you try on with his dads credit card cause why not.
I believe that there are so many goth/Alt styles in Gotham, so there is no judgment anywhere but there are times when people are looking at you weirdly, or in some cases those religious people who whisper prayers under their breaths that are aimed at you. You pretend you don't hear or see them but Damian is another story who would go out of his way and verbally talk back.
Returning to complimenting your makeup, he likes to watch you put it on. Does it take a while? Damian doesn't mind the long hours spent on your makeup stand. You just don't like how Damian likes to steal kisses from you, it misses up your lipstick but you'll never complain to him.
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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
ā Live Streamingā Interactive Chatā Private Showsā HD Quality
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pairing: damian al ghul-wayne x reader
summary: running into street interviewers, particularly in gotham city
a/n: inspired by meet cutes nyc<3
proofread?: n.
wc: 824
you and damian were walking through the streets of gotham, only managing a few blocks away from the wayne corporation headquarters. the two of you stopped by the building to drop off a few documents that bruce left in the manor since you were heading out to bring titus on a walk.
on the way to your go-to cafe, you stumbled upon a street interviewer around the area.
āexcuse me, sorry, are you two a couple?ā asked a man with a phone camera in hand, standing on the edge of the sidewalk.
āoh my god i know youāā you halted in your tracks while damian continued walking ahead with titus in his right hand.
before your intertwined hands could be pulled apart by distance, you tugged on damianās. ādami, waitā
āwhat is it, beloved?ā he turned around to see you with your eyes shining with excitement. then, his gaze fell upon the man holding his phone, clearly taking a video.
āmy apologies, weāre not doing photos or interviews todayāā
āāplease, dami? pretty please?ā you squeezed his hand, convincing him to do the interview.
āfine, weāll do itā he walked back to where you were standing and prompted titus to sit on the ground.
the man asked very politely, āwould you mind telling us the story of how you first met?ā
āYES oh my god iāve been waiting for this moment my whole lifeā you were practically jumping in place from excitement. ādami, you startā
āwe first met in univāā
āyup so we first met at gotham u as freshmen and we were only classmates for like two classesā you turned to damian to continue.
āi happened to fall firstāā
āwe werenāt even in the same major. he was a business major with a minor in veterinary medicine and i was a hardcore marketing majorā
āup to this point i still donāt know how she found me in a sea of other peopleā damian glanced at your side profile.
āoh come on,ā you turned to the camera, āguys, if you were in our year you wouldāve known how he was constantly being chased by girlsā
ābeloved, i was notāā
āyes you were so shut up please so i can continue. anyway, i did a whole shoot-your-shot kinda thing and sat adjacent to him in the library. by the long communal tables.ā
āi do not even remember this happeningā¦ā he looked at you confused.
āyeah because you were so locked in for finals, damesā
he shrugs, āshe left out the fact that she only āshotā her āshotā when it was senior year. the next time something actually happened was during our graduationā
you laughed, recalling the memories of that day. āi remember he left his entire family in the hall just to find me and invite me for dinner. i could still picture how stressed bruce probably looked at that time.ā
āfather had a whole search operation ready for me. he thought i was kidnapped and my siblings were already rolling up their sleevesā damian sighed, placing a hand on the small of your back.
you shot the camera a derpy smile and shrugged, āhe brought me to a local burger restaurant. you know, the ones with greasy windows and neon lights for that so-called dinner of ours. it was delicious and the conversations were endless. the rest is historyā
the man added, āso whatās your favorite thing about her?ā
damian cleared his throat, āshe is a very comforting person. sheās always there for me when i tend to shut myself within myself, when i come home from tiring nights from work. sheās also very respectful of all the things in my life. i am not very good with words, as she also knows, but she is someone iād fight gotham criminals for, over and over again. my forever confidant.
you pretend to wipe a fake tear from your eye. āthatās the sweetest thing heās said this month so far guysā you said jokingly.
before the interviewer could say his thanks, damian added a few more words after a moment of awkward silence that felt like forever.
āi donāt have many regrets in life, but she caught my eye pretty early on in college so i wish i talked to her sooner. so that we couldāve spent more time together.ā
āoh donāt you fret. we still have the rest of our lives togetherā you placed a hand on his chest and kissed his cheek.
damian picked up your left hand and flashed it to the camera with a smug grin on his face, much to your surprise. āoh yeah! weāre engaged now!ā
he nodded at the man and whistled for titus to stand up. the camera panned to the two of you walking away, blending into the crowd of gothamites going about their lives.