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OUCH! PLAY NICE, KITTY! | Han Dongmin

EPISODE ONE OF MISSION: SAVE THE WORLD

IN WHICH with the whole world at stake, Robin and Catgirl are once again crossing paths. This time, however, they aren’t on Gotham’s rooftops, where a certain bat-duo tries to stop the cats from stealing riches. No, it’s worse. They’re working side-by-side against the big evil, AKA known as The Light. But with old tensions and unspoken feelings simmering between them, the question remains: can they put aside their differences long enough to succeed?

FEATURING Boynextdoor’s Taesan as Robin, and reader as Catgirl, protégé of Catwoman

GENRE Action Romance, Slight Comedy, Enemies-to-Partners, Slow-Burn Tension, Covert Mission, and Banter-Heavy Dynamics (WC. 10.1k)

WARNINGS extremely suggestive banters bc they’re FREAKS, mentions of gore, blood, and violence, reader gets hurt, cursing, combat-heavy descriptions, as well as slight personal angst.

NOTE fyi for the majority of this fic you both will be called with your code names and not as Taesan/reader, so please don’t get confused! Other than that I do have a lot to say tbh, since this is my first time hosting an event, but i’m so glad everyone’s enjoying it and i’m so excited to finally be able to share this with you all! Writing this genre is completely new to me but I think I did pretty well. It was such a fun experience and I absolutely adore my event members so please look forward to their works too! Love you guys loads 💗

MORE WORKS: navigation | bnd!masterlist | spotify!playlist

ACT I : BATWING DIARIES, FLIGHT TO FIGHTS

THE ENGINE WHIRRED TO LIFE as the Batplane powered on, low and guttural, like some great beast shaking itself awake. Across the cockpit, switches blinked to attention one after another, flooding the cabin with cold, sterile light. Screens lit up with endless data streams, coordinates flickering, flight diagnostics scrolling so fast you wondered if he even read them. The air inside smelled faintly of metal and oil—clinical, sharp, unmistakably Bat.

The seat beneath you vibrated with each rising pulse of the engines, a steady thrum that seemed to crawl up your spine. Restraints hung heavy and stiff at your shoulders, their weight reminding you that this jet wasn’t built for comfort, only for survival. Beyond the glass, the vast doors of the Batcave hangar began to grind open with a groaning roar, revealing a yawning stretch of night sky like the mouth of something hungry. Shadows slid across the cockpit as the floor rumbled beneath you, and for a fleeting moment, you felt like Gotham itself was expelling you both into the dark.

In front of you sat your partner for this life-or-death mission, the boy who had spent years of his vigilante life chasing you across Gotham’s rooftops. Cat and bat, hunter and hunted—though if you asked, you’d say the score leaned heavily in your favor. After all, for all their brooding and big talk, neither he nor his mentor had ever quite managed to throw you or Catwoman behind bars.

“Seatbelt. Now.” His voice was clipped, steady, like the order was just as essential as takeoff. Fingers flew over the controls, each movement practiced, automatic. He handled the jet like someone who’d done this a thousand times.

You slouched back in your seat, buckling in with deliberate slowness, eyes roaming the cabin. The whole interior was matte black, a cross between a coffin and a computer lab. Honestly—did everything in Batman’s life have to be so dark and broody? It was efficient, sure, but it was also… joyless. Not that you could judge much, considering Catwoman had an equally dramatic flair for the shadows.

Your gaze slid from the endless streams of numbers on his screen to the back of his cape draped over the pilot’s chair. Everything about him screamed straight lines and sharp corners. Predictable. Orderly. Which, naturally, made you want to ruin it.

Your lips curved into a sly smile as you leaned forward just enough to see the utility belt cinched around his waist, the tiny flashdrive nestled in its holster. The one thing Batman had trusted him to guard.

Well. How could you not?

Your fingers brushed his belt on the way back from “adjusting” your seat, nimble enough that he didn’t even twitch. The tiny flashdrive was in your palm before you’d fully leaned back, tucked casually between your fingers like it had always been there.

“Y’know,” you started lazily, twirling it behind the cover of your knee, “I don’t get why everything in here has to be so… broody. Dark paint, darker leather, dim lights. Do you guys just… hate fun?”

His posture stayed stiff. “It’s stealth. Not a joyride.”

You smirked. “Stealth. Right. Because no one would ever notice a giant black bat-shaped jet flying over an island.”

His grip tightened on the yoke. “Better than announcing yourself with claws and a whip.”

“Oooh, claws and a whip. Sounds like you’ve been thinking about me.”

His shoulders went rigid. “…Don’t flatter yourself.”

You grinned, letting a beat of silence hang before adding smoothly, “Besides… maybe you’re not as untouchable as you think.”

That got him. His head whipped slightly, suspicion flashing across his face. He checked the belt on instinct—only for his eyes to widen.

“Wait—hey!” He twisted around in his seat, hand flying to his side where the flashdrive should’ve been.

You raised the tiny chip between two fingers, waggling it smugly. “Looking for this?”

“Give it back.” His voice was sharp, but there was an edge of fluster that warmed you all over.

“Relax, bird boy,” you drawled, leaning back in your seat. “I was just… stress-testing your security. Which, by the way, you failed at spectacularly.”

His jaw clenched. “That’s not funny.”

“Oh, I don’t know.” You rolled the flashdrive once more before he lunged and snatched it back from your hand. “I think it’s hilarious.”

“That’s not a toy.” His glare could have burned a hole through your forehead.

You tilted your head, smug grin never fading. “You act like I was gonna sell it on the black market.”

“With you, I wouldn’t put it past you.”

“Ouch.” You clutched your chest dramatically. “So little faith in your partner.”

“Temporary partner,” he muttered, eyes narrowing as he turned back to the controls. But his ears—just visible above the high collar of his cape—were tinged red.

“Sure, sure,” You smirked to yourself, purring low under your breath, “Keep telling yourself that, boy wonder. Deep down I know you like me keeping you on your toes.”

His jaw clenched, but he didn’t answer. Which, in your book, was as good as admitting you were right.

He jammed the flashdrive back into his belt with unnecessary force, muttering something under his breath as he adjusted the throttle. The Batplane’s engines thrummed, vibrating through the seats as the hangar floor began to shift beneath you.

“Unbelievable,” he grumbled, eyes locked on the controls. “You probably pull that same stunt on every poor guy you rob blind.”

You blinked, then a slow grin spread across your face.

Goodness Gracious, your material for tease today was at a premium.

“Wow. Did you just—” You leaned forward, resting your chin on the back of his chair like a cat prowling into his personal space. “Are you saying I can’t do that? Or are you just mad that I can?”

His grip on the stick tightened. “That’s not what I—”

“Sounds a lot like you’re territorial, sugar,” you cut in, sing-song. “What’s next, you gonna growl every time I so much as look at someone else’s pockets?”

His ears went red under the edge of his mask. “That’s not it. I mean that you shouldn’t be pulling those stunts in the first place.”

You grinned as an evil idea placed itself on your mind.

You leaned closer to him.

“Why not?” Your voice is low—drawn out and sultry, just as your mentor taught you.

All the while, your curious hand playfully itches one step at a time from his shoulder to his well-built torso, and you could tell from the way he unintentionally flexed his muscles and the hitch of his breath that you got him exactly where you wanted.

His hand caught your wrist in a firm grip. Tight enough that you couldn’t slip free unless you really tried, but careful—restrained. Always restrained.

“Behave,” he ordered, voice low. The word was steady, but you caught the tiny tremor in it, the faint uneven hitch of his breath. He didn’t sound like someone in control. He sounded like someone reminding himself not to lose it.

You tilted your head, a slow smile curling your lips. Was it to put you back in your place—or to put the line between you back up before he crossed it himself? Maybe both. Either way, the conflict flickering in his eyes was satisfying in its own right.

Satisfying enough to allow him to breathe… for now.

“Mm. You’re no fun, sugar.” You slipped your hand free with a practiced twist, settling back in your seat as if nothing had happened.

He turned back to the controls too quickly, forcing his attention onto switches and screens. “We’re not here to have fun,” he muttered, voice clipped, but the color creeping up the edge of his mask betrayed him.

You smirked, stretching your legs out lazily. “Tell that to your pulse.”

His jaw locked. “Unbelievable.”

And just like that, the Batplane roared to life around you, engines shaking through the cabin as the runway ahead split open to the night sky.

ACT II: ARRIVAL AT AN EVIL’S PARADISE ISLAND

YOU MADE IT TO SANTA PRISCA with immaculate timing and a good power nap on your side, all thanks to birdy who took the reins of the steer the whole flight.

It’s Saturday night, and you have approximately 25 hours before shookapow—boom! Death to all humans! Death to humanity!

Ya’know, the whole villain gig.

From a distance, the island looked unassuming—just another patch of green rising out of the ocean, smothered in jungle and untouched by human hands. Just like your everyday neighborhood island.

Dense canopies overlapped in layers, a tangle of leaves and vines thick enough to swallow any trace of civilization. If you didn’t know better, you’d think it was empty.

But you and your partner knew better, and as the Batplane drew closer, the truth bled through the foliage; paths cut sharp into the undergrowth, patrols weaving along the shoreline, and, buried in the heart of the jungle, the faint, angular outline of steel where the factory hid itself away. What looked like wilderness was a mask—one cracked only by the glint of spotlights and the movement of guards who clearly weren’t here for sightseeing.

”Batplane’s on stealth mode.” Your partner says grimly, like he’s talking about something horrid instead.

Perhaps it is horrid. Technically, you could get fatally injured and buried tonight.

That’s if, of course, you’re someone amateur.

Hey, there’s a reason you’ve never been put behind bars before, isn’t there?

“Position the plane behind the ridge, let’s take it from foot so we don’t risk getting caught.”

There was no response from your partner, but the Batplane dipped smoothly into shadow, engines humming low as it glided out of sight. A moment later, the hatch hissed open, and your heel sank into the soft, wet earth of Santa Prisca. Mud clung to your boots and humid air wraps around you like a second skin as the jungle’s chorus rises loud in your ears.

The air smelled of damp earth, moss, and salt carried faintly from the shoreline. Somewhere deep in the jungle, insects trilled like static, sharp and constant.

Taesan dropped into a crouch immediately, moving with the rigid precision of someone trained by the Bat himself—silent, efficient, every footfall measured down to the grains. You, on the other hand, slipped through the shadows like you were born to them. Where he stalked, you flowed; where he calculated, you improvised. Two opposite rhythms—and yet, somehow, you didn’t step on each other’s toes once.

A deliberate rustle behind made him glance back, brow furrowed under the mask. You only tilted your head, mouthing a mock-innocent what?

He rolled his eyes and pushed forward after realising it was just your antics—trying to mess with him again.

Give it to you both for continuing the rivalry even when you’re teammates now.

Back in Gotham’s rooftops, you’d always mess around with each other even while physically engaging violence against one another. Banters between you both would always echo through the night—a snide remark every once in a while when a foot gets kicked or a scratch was enforced.

Back in the motherland, you were allowed to be as loud as you wanted.

Though, you suppose the silence between you was a kind of banter in itself. The way he paused too long at a stump, only for you to slink past with a smug little smirk. The way you deliberately matched your footsteps to his for a few paces, then broke off in a feline dart that made him huff soundlessly. Even without words, you kept needling him.

By the time the first glint of chain-link fencing peeked through the foliage, you’d scaled halfway up the gnarled trunk of a tree without so much as a whisper of movement. Settling on a branch, you looked down at him with your chin propped lazily on your hand.

“Took you long enough,” you whispered, voice low but taunting.

He shot you a glare from below before leaping up beside you, cape rustling just faintly as he landed on the branch with practiced grace. From here, the view opened wide: a faint glow of floodlights, metallic outlines half-swallowed by the jungle, and the unmistakable perimeter of a heavily guarded factory.

Your lips curved into a sharp grin. “So… what’s the play, sugar?”

From your perch in the branches, the jungle seemed almost to conspire with the factory—both greedy in the way they swallowed light. Even with the Batplane hidden miles behind, you could still feel the weight of its absence. Just you, him, and the shadows.

Two guards paced lazily along the perimeter fence below, big boy rifles slung too casually for comfort. They weren’t idiots, though—you caught the faint gleam of radios, the occasional stiff glance toward the treeline. All it would take was one misstep, one snapped twig, and you’d both be lit up by floodlights.

Robin crouched low on the branch, studying their movements. His lips pressed thin, every muscle wound tight like a bowstring. You’d seen that look a hundred times before—from the rooftops, from alley corners, whenever he was setting up a takedown. Serious, careful, calculating.

“Two-man patrol. Pattern’s predictable,” he murmured, barely louder than the buzz of insects. “We wait for the cross, then drop from behind. Silent takedown. No alarms.”

Efficient. Textbook. Very Robin.

You stretched out leisurely on the branch, swinging one boot idly in the air. “Mhm. Very impressive, Boy Wonder. But don’t you ever get tired of playing by the rules?”

His eyes snapped to you, narrowed slits behind the mask. “It’s not about rules. It’s about not getting killed.”

You smirked, rolling onto your side to watch him. “Oh, I’m hurt. You think I can’t handle two rent-a-cops without daddy’s instruction manual?”

He bristled, shoulders tightening. “This isn’t Gotham back alleys, Catgirl. One wrong move and they radio the whole island.”

“And that’s why you love me,” you purred sickeningly sweetly at him. “Because I don’t make wrong moves.”

His jaw worked, silent, and you caught the faintest twitch of color high on his cheekbones.

Jackpot.

You shifted, leaning down from the branch like you were about to drop, hair spilling forward. “How about this.. You, keep brooding in the trees, and I, go test the waters. See what they know. What they’ll spill.”

He frowned. “Test the—what are you talking about?”

You arched a brow, lips curving slow and dangerous. “Oh, come on. It’s the oldest trick in the book. A little smile, a little conversation… maybe they’re dumb enough to tell me if they’ve got friends inside.”

The disbelief on his face was almost comical. “You mean—flirting? With guards?”

You tapped your chin thoughtfully. “Mhm. Might be fun, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely not.” His voice was a harsh whisper, sharper than the batarang at his hip. “That’s reckless. And unnecessary.”

“And effective.” You let the word drip, playful. “Not everything has to be an ambush, bird boy.”

For a moment, neither of you spoke. His glare bored into you, his knuckles white where they gripped the bark. You could practically see the conflict written on him—logic warring with… something else. Something hotter, prickling at the edges. Something that you’ve been hoping to bait out.

You tilted your head, smirk curling wider. “Ohhh. Wait. Don’t tell me.” You leaned closer, voice dropping to a whisper that almost purred against his ear. “You’re not mad because it’s dangerous. You’re mad because you don’t like the idea of me batting my lashes at someone else.”

He went rigid, every muscle locked. The tips of his ears darkened beneath the mask.

“…Stay put,” he ground out, jaw tight enough to crack.

You only laughed softly under your breath, shifting like a cat about to spring. “Relax. I’ll be quick.”

You didn’t even bother waiting for his nod before slipping down from the tree, heels finding soft earth with barely a sound. His muffled curse followed, but you only grinned. Gosh, you absolutely adore rage-baiting this man.

You roll your shoulders loose as you smooth your hair down.

Showtime.

The two guards at the perimeter were bored—easy tells. Guns slung lazily, one kicking at the dirt, the other half-leaning against a tree. Not exactly peak vigilance.

“Evening, boys.” You greeted, stepping out from the shadow with the kind of confidence that would’ve made your mentor proud. A tilt of your head, a coy little smile. “Don’t mind me. Just needed a break from… factory duties.”

Their heads snapped toward you immediately, eyes narrowing in suspicion—but not enough to override curiosity.

Men.

One of them straightened, trying to look authoritative, while the other’s gaze flicked far too obviously to your lips.

“Factory?” the taller one asked, frowning.

“Mmhm.” You let the sound linger, tracing a claw along your arm as though it were idle habit. “Paperwork. Long hours. Thought I’d stretch my legs. Maybe… find better company.”

You could feel Robin’s disapproval from where he stayed hidden—like a heat radiating across the clearing. It almost made you laugh out loud.

One of the guards shifted, taking a tentative step forward. Hook, line, sinker—

—and then whump. A blur of black shot down from above, and both men hit the dirt before you could so much as blink. Robin landed in a low crouch, staff sliding neatly back into place. Not a single wasted movement.

You stared. “Seriously?”

He straightened, dusting his gloves as if he hadn’t just interrupted your perfectly set trap. “No alarms. Silent takedowns.” His voice was all business, clipped, but you caught the faintest edge of irritation there.

Your smirk came slow, curling at the edges. “That looked an awful lot like jealousy to me.”

His jaw flexed beneath the mask. “It looked like efficiency.”

“Efficiency, huh.” You sauntered closer, careful not to step on either unconscious guard. “Could’ve fooled me. You couldn’t stand another two seconds of me having their attention.”

He shot you a glare, but the tips of his ears betrayed him, flushed red under the edge of his mask.

“Relax, bird boy,” you whispered, brushing past him and towards the perimeter wall. “You’ve already got all of mine.”

You didn’t look back to see the response, and neither did boy blunder respond to that.

The factory loomed larger the closer you crept, its steel walls half-swallowed by vines and shadow. Up close, the place was less forgotten jungle and more fortress in disguise—security cameras tucked beneath branches, motion sensors camouflaged under metal grates, wires disappearing into the earth like veins.

“Cute,” you muttered, crouching low near the perimeter fence. “Somebody really doesn’t want visitors.”

“Somebody should’ve tried harder,” Robin countered, already pulling the bio-tablet from his arm. He didn’t even look up as his gloved fingers began tapping across its screen. “Standard Light-grade tech. Overconfident. Sloppy.”

You leaned on the fence beside him, chin tilted, watching him work. “Sloppy’s the word I’d use for knocking out my entertainment back there.”

His jaw tightened, but he didn’t take the bait this time, eyes flicking between the screen and the nest of wires. The faint glow of the tablet painted his face in blue and green, and for a second, you could see the focus etched into him—sharp, unflinching.

“Three motion sensors. Two cameras. All networked to a central feed.” His voice was low, clipped. “Give me thirty seconds.”

You tilted your head. “Thirty? That’s all?”

He shot you a sideways glance, finally breaking his focus long enough to mutter, “Don’t sound so disappointed if I’m faster than you thought.”

You smirked, but before you could reply, the tablet let out a muted ping. One by one, the red lights on the cameras and sensors winked out, leaving the wall ahead cloaked in harmless darkness.

Robin slid the device back into his belt, gaze sweeping the now-exposed entryway. “Perimeter’s blind. We’re clear.”

You brushed invisible dust off your gloves, a grin curling as you stepped past him toward the gap. “After you, Boy Wonder. Wouldn’t want to steal your thunder… tonight.”

He exhaled—half a sigh, half a huff—and followed, the Batplane shrinking into the distance behind you as the factory’s shadows opened up ahead.

And with that, you were in.

ACT III: INFILTRATION ON A “DESERTED” ISLAND

AS PER THE USUAL VIGILANTE FASHION, you both ended up infiltrating the factory through the air vents.

A note to those who are planning to do this as well?

Be prepared for the dust.

The tight vent creaked faintly with every crawl forward, the metal pressing uncomfortably against your palms and knees. You wrinkled your nose, blowing a tuft of dust away from your face. Robin, of course, moved like the vent had been made for him—silent and well practiced, every shift of weight calculated to avoid a single sound.

“You know,” you whispered, dragging your nails lightly across the metal just to make it screech a little, “I think I’m doing better than you. Zero noise.”

He shot you a glare over his shoulder so sharp it could’ve cut steel. “You’re a walking alarm system.”

“And yet here we are. Still undetected.” You smirked, deliberately stretching your legs a little too far so the vent groaned in protest.

“Do you ever take this seriously?” he hissed.

“Oh, I do. Just not in the ‘grim soldier’ way.” You grinned, tapping the flashdrive holster on his belt. “Relax, bird boy. You’d be bored without me.”

He muttered something under his breath that you were pretty sure wasn’t a compliment, before holding up a hand.

Stop.

Through the narrow slits in the vent, the camera room loomed below. Two lenses swept the hallway like predatory eyes. You tilted your head, about to whisper a cocky suggestion, but he was already pulling a gadget from his belt—tiny, compact, like a throwing disc.

“On three,” he mouthed.

“On two,” you mouthed back, and before he could argue, you dropped through the grate.

The landing was noiseless, your boots kissing the floor with feline grace. You slid into the nearest shadow, pressing flat against the wall just as a guard patrolled past. Robin landed behind you a second later, precise as a scalpel. He grabbed your wrist before you could saunter forward, tugging you back just as the camera swiveled toward your position.

“Impatient much?” he whispered harshly, reprimanding you.

“You’re welcome.” You grinned, eyes darting to the camera as it passed again. “Now we move.”

And you did—like clockwork. He vaulted over a low railing, his cape barely grazing the floor, while you wove through the blind spots, twisting and ducking with liquid agility. At one point, when you flipped up onto a narrow pipe to avoid a patroller, you caught him looking. Just a flicker, quick and sharp.

You smirked down at him. “See something you like?”

He turned away instantly, voice flat. “Focus.” But the subtle rouge creeping up his ears was impossible to miss.

At this point, you might just make his red ears permanent.

You purred low in your throat, stretching like a satisfied cat before dropping noiselessly beside him again.

Together, you pressed on, weaving through security as though the bickering was just part of the rhythm—your rhythm.

The corridor narrowed, steel walls gleaming faintly in the dim red glow of emergency strips. Ahead of you, a heavy door loomed—reinforced, electronic, and definitely not something you could jimmy open with a hairpin.

Robin crouched immediately, fingers flying over a compact device pulled from his belt. Sparks of green light reflected in his mask as code scrolled across the tiny screen.

You leaned lazily against the wall beside him, arms crossed. “So this is what you do on Friday nights? Hack doors and brood?”

“Shut it,” he muttered, not looking up. Then—

A soft click sounded, and the door gave way with a hiss.

You gave a low whistle, impressed. “I was joking, but that was… actually hot.”

“Move,” he ordered, pushing the door open.

The two of you slipped inside…

…Only to be unfortunately greeted by a half-dozen guards stationed around glowing monitors. Heads snapped up, weapons raised.

“Well,” you sighed dramatically, cracking your knuckles. “So much for subtle.”

The first guard lunged, swinging a baton. You ducked low, sweeping his legs and sending him crashing into a console. Sparks flew as his weapon missed. Robin was already on the second by the time you embarrassed the first, a flurry of precise strikes disarming him with his escrima sticks before knocking him cold with a clean elbow to the back of his head.

You laughed, darting between two larger guards who tried to corner you. One swung—miss. The other lunged to aim for your stomach—you caught his wrist, twisted, and used his momentum to flip him clean over your shoulder.

“You’re showing off,” Robin grunted, grappling with a guard who was surprisingly quick.

He pressed something on his escrima stick that made it electrocute the guard, shocking him hard enough for the poor dude to pass out.

“Maybe I like an audience!” you shot back, but your grin faltered when you caught movement—another guard, creeping up behind him with a metal pipe raised high.

“Robin!”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

Shoving off the floor, you tackled him sideways, both of you rolling as the pipe came crashing down where his head had been. The guard staggered from the rebound, and you sprang up, claws slashing across his arm before kneeing him hard. On reflex, he hunches forward and you use that opportunity to drop kick him on the head, making him fall on the ground unconscious.

Robin scrambled back to his feet, eyes wide. “What the hell was that?”

“Saving your life, bird boy.” You smirked, brushing dust from your gloves. “You’re welcome.”

He opened his mouth—probably to argue—but closed it again. Just gave you a look, somewhere between frustrated and… impressed.

The room fell silent. Six guards down, all unconscious. The monitors blinked with looping surveillance feeds.

“Looks like teamwork suits us,” you said lightly, already rifling through a guard’s pockets for keycards.

Robin sighed, clearly not ready to admit it out loud—but the way he watched you, like he was seeing you differently now, said enough.

It didn’t take long for you to find the access card, tossing it at your partner with significant precision, though the attitude displayed laziness.

Yeah, you’ll admit you’re a show-off.

Didn’t matter though because you knew that deep down the display of boy wonder’s huffs and rolled eyes, he enjoyed your flair for dramatics.

Said boy slid into the swivel chair, fingers already dancing across the console. The green glow of code washed across his mask as he muttered, “If their system’s anything like Belle Reve’s, I can find the satellite uplink within two minutes.”

“Mm. Two minutes.” You hummed like you were measuring it against a clock only you could see. “That’s enough time for me to tie up our friends before they wake up. Don’t get too lonely.”

He didn’t look at you, but the corner of his mouth ticked upward—just barely. “Focus, Cat.”

“Oh, I am. Focused on how much fun you’d be if you let yourself breathe once in a while.” You bent down, securing a guard’s wrists with a length of cable you’d found, looping it with far more flair than strictly necessary. “Don’t think I didn’t see the way you stared when I flipped onto that pipe earlier.”

His typing stuttered, just for a beat. Then he shot back flatly, “Your form was inefficient.”

You grinned, tightening the knot with a sharp tug. “Inefficient. Cute way of saying ‘impressive.’”

He huffed under his breath, clearly refusing to give you the satisfaction, but his body language was telling a different story—stiffly awkward as if trying to not react.

You moved to the next unconscious guard, dragging him into a pile with the others. “So. This satellite of yours—how close are we talking?”

Robin’s expression sharpened as the screen flashed. “Close. Uplink’s active, but if I cut power here…” His eyes narrowed, hands flying faster. “We can stall the upload. Buy the League time, but ultimately this isn’t that effective unless the others get work done on their satellites.”

“Any help is still good, don’t worry.” You settled back on your heels, brushing hair out of your face, watching him work. “Because between you and me, I’d hate for this night to end before it gets fun.”

He glanced at you then, just a flicker, and you caught it—something between annoyance and reluctant amusement.

The green code flickered across his screen one last time before freezing into a solid map of the factory floor. Robin leaned closer, scrolling through schematics, the steady clack of his keys filling the silence.

“There,” he said at last, tapping the monitor. A red dot pulsed in the northwest wing of the facility. “Satellite uplink chamber. Shielded, reinforced. Security’s heavier there, but only on the outside. No one’s inside.”

You rose smoothly to your feet, brushing your gloves together. “Translation: fun zone.”

He ignored your grin, slotting a flash drive into the console. The machine hummed as data transferred. “This will let us bypass the firewall when we get inside. Without it, the satellite keeps transmitting even if we smash the hardware.”

“Smash later, steal now. Got it.” You sauntered over as the download bar filled, perching against the desk to watch the guards twitch faintly in their unconscious pile. “Guess that means the vents again, huh?”

The flash drive pinged. Complete. Robin yanked it free and tucked it into his belt with practiced precision. “Come on. We don’t have long.”

Minutes later, the two of you were crawling through steel ducts once more, the sounds of boots and muffled chatter echoing faintly below. This time, though, there was less bickering—just the quiet rhythm of your movements, in sync despite everything.

When Robin halted and angled the flashlight from his belt toward a grate below, you followed his gaze.

Through the slats, the satellite chamber loomed—massive and pulsing with pale blue light, its armored shell bristling with cables like some kind of mechanical beast.

You exhaled slowly, a smile tugging at your lips. “Well, bird boy. Looks like we found our nest.”

Robin’s jaw tightened as he studied the scene, already calculating. “Stay sharp. Alert them and it will get extremely dangerous.”

“Mm.” You tilted your head, smirk widening. “Good thing danger’s my specialty.”

But despite your confident mask—

You could only pray that everything goes according to plan.

ACT IV: ONE CHIP, ONE SATELLITE, AND HALF A GUARANTEE TO SUCCESS

DROPPING INTO THE SATELLITE CHAMBER was almost anticlimactic.

No guards, no alarms—just the low, steady hum of machinery filling the cavernous space. For the first time all night, it was only you, Robin, and the beast of steel and wires towering in the center.

Blue light washed over the floor, shadows stretching long across the walls as the satellite thrummed at its heart—utterly, unnervingly empty.

You let yourself pause, circling slowly around the uplink like a predator testing its cage. “Creepy… You’d think they’d at least leave a ‘do not touch’ sign, or a welcoming committee here like they did in the..other room.”

Robin didn’t rise to the bait. He was already at the main console, fingers dancing across the keys with clinical precision. “They didn’t expect anyone to get this far. Overconfidence.”

You tilted your head, smirk tugging at your lips. “Or maybe they just heard you were coming and figured no one could survive your dry personality long enough to try.”

He shot you a flat look from behind the mask, but the faint twitch at his jaw betrayed him. Without another word, he slid the flash drive into the port. The screen flickered, a loading bar crawling across it with agonizing slowness.

You leaned an elbow on the console, chin in your hand. “So…what now? Just babysit the progress bar until it gets bored of taunting us?”

Robin didn’t even glance up from the screen, though the faint twitch at the corner of his mouth betrayed him. “It’s called a secure data transfer. It’s not supposed to be entertaining.”

You tapped a claw against the metal desk, deliberately loud. “Mm. Feels like a waste of my talents. You know I could’ve cracked a safe, raided an art gallery—maybe even stolen a diamond necklace in the time this thing takes.”

He shot you a look, deadpan. “And here I thought you were trying to be on the side of the angels.”

“Please.” You smirked, leaning closer, voice dropping in mock seriousness. “I’m just on the side of ‘fun.’ If the angels want me, they’ll have to make a much better pitch.”

Robin shook his head, huffing before his attention flicks back to the flashing percentages crawling upward on the monitor. 12%. 13%. 14%. You noticed how tightly he perched, posture so exact it almost looked uncomfortable, like he was holding himself in some invisible mold.

“Relax, bird boy,” you teased, nudging his arm with your elbow. “No one’s here. No death traps, no guards, no cameras. Just us, your favorite partner in crime.”

“Partner in crime is… not the phrase I’d use,” he muttered, but he didn’t move his arm away.

You grinned. “You wound me. And here I thought I was growing on you.”

He stayed silent at that, and for a moment the room filled only with the hum of servers and the steady tick of percentage numbers climbing upward. 18%. 19%.

You hummed, tapping your claws against the desk in rhythm. “Y’know… you’re not half bad when you’re not glaring holes into me. Almost charming, if you let yourself.”

That earned you another look. This one lingered longer than he meant it to, you could tell—his mask hid his eyes but the tilt of his head gave him away. You felt the weight of it, sharp and assessing and maybe… softer than he wanted to admit.

“Don’t get used to it,” he said finally, though his voice had lost some of its bite.

“Oh, I won’t.” You gave him a sly smile. “I like keeping you on edge too much.”

The progress bar ticked past 25%.

For a few beats, neither of you spoke. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, but there was something heavy in it, pressing in with the faint glow of the monitors. You found yourself watching him, the precision in every move, the way he kept his jaw set even when there was nothing to fight.

“Do you ever get tired?” you asked suddenly, because you enjoy making life more difficult.

He blinked, caught off guard. “…Of what?”

You gestured vaguely. “All… this. Being perfect all the time. Always doing the right move, the exact strike, the plan executed down to the second. You make it look effortless, but…” You tilted your head. “That’s gotta be exhausting.”

He hesitated. Long enough that you almost thought he’d ignore it completely. Then—

“I don’t have much choice,” he said finally, quiet but sharp.

That surprised you. You opened your mouth for another joke, but stopped when you saw his shoulders—still square, still rigid, but his hands had stilled on the desk. Not typing, not fidgeting. Just still.

The progress bar ticked past 33%.

“Everyone expects it,” Robin said at last, voice low. “Him most of all.”

You didn’t need to ask who. The shadow of Gotham’s bat stretched long enough to be obvious.

“He sets the bar. Higher than anyone can reach. And I—” His jaw clenched. “I can’t fall short. Not once. If I do, it’s not just me who looks weak. It’s him. And he can’t afford that.”

You studied him quietly, the tightness in his tone. For once, the words didn’t sound rehearsed or clipped—they slipped out raw, like something he’d been holding back far too long.

“Y’know,” you said softly, “you don’t always have to be him.”

“I know that,” he snapped, too fast. Then, quieter: “…I know that.”

The progress bar hit 40%.

You shifted against the console, trying to lighten the air. “Well, for what it’s worth, I think you’re way more fun than Bats. He’s all ‘gravel voice’ and ‘I hate smiling.’ You, at least, make good scowls.”

That earned you the tiniest snort. He caught himself before it could grow, but it was there. You grinned triumphantly.

“There it is,” you teased. “The rare Robin laugh. Truly an endangered species.”

He gave you a sidelong look, but the edge in his posture softened.

The progress bar ticked past 48%.

For a moment, you thought that might be it—that the talk had skidded back into playful banter, where you were safe. But then he surprised you.

“What about you?”

You blinked. “…What about me?”

“You act like none of this bothers you. Like it’s all a game. But I’ve seen the way you fight. The way you plan. That doesn’t come from someone who doesn’t care.”

You felt your smile falter for the first time. “…Maybe I just hide it better.”

“Maybe.” His gaze didn’t waver. “So what are you hiding?”

The progress bar ticked past 55%.

You tried to wave him off, leaning back with an exaggerated sigh. “Oh, you know. The usual. Bad hair days. Fear of commitment. The tragedy of always running out of tuna.”

“Catgirl.” His voice was firm now, cutting through the joke. “Seriously.”

You swallowed, caught in the steady way he was looking at you. No glare, no sarcasm. Just steady.

“…I don’t know if I’ll ever be enough,” you admitted at last, the words slipping out before you could stop them. “Not compared to her.”

Robin didn’t interrupt.

“She was the best,” you said quietly. “Everyone knows it. The thief who could never be caught. The legend who toyed with the Bat himself. And I’m—” Your voice cracked slightly, but you pressed on. “I’m just her protege. I mess up. I get reckless. I… I don’t fit her shadow—not completely, no matter how hard I try.”

The words hung heavy in the room, echoing faintly against the hum of machines.

The progress bar hit 63%.

Robin shifted then, turning to face you more fully. His hand twitched—like he almost reached for you, but stopped short. Instead, his voice was quiet.

“You don’t have to fit her shadow.”

You looked at him sharply.

“And I don’t have to fit his.”

The air between you felt different now—charged, fragile, like stepping onto a high wire without a net.

The progress bar ticked past 71%.

You exhaled slowly, trying to shake it off, to smirk again. “Well. Aren’t we just a pair? Living in other people’s shadows, waiting for a loading bar to save the day.”

He huffed, not quite a laugh, but close. “Guess that makes us alike.”

“Dangerous thought,” you teased, though your voice was softer this time.

The silence that followed wasn’t heavy anymore. It was… full.

The progress bar ticked past 80%.

Robin finally let his hand brush yours on the pipe where yours rested, so subtle it could’ve been an accident. But you felt it. The warmth through the gloves. The pause.

You looked at him, and for once, he didn’t look away.

The progress bar hit 89%.

Then—

A sharp, shrill alarm cut through the chamber, red lights flooding the room. The almost loaded progress bar hit an ERROR as the lights flickered.

You both snapped to attention instantly, tension breaking like glass.

“…Guess they noticed,” you muttered, claws sliding out with a metallic hiss.

And just like that, the moment slipped through your fingers, unresolved.

Robin’s jaw tightened as he started moving his fingers across the satellite’s screen panel with quick precision. “I’ll get this error fixed and fully loaded, can you buy me some time?”

“On it.” You stepped forward, claws snapping out with a hiss.

The steel doors burst wide. Armed guards spilled in, rifles raised, shouting over the alarm. And behind them—towering, broad-shouldered, with venom tubes bulging green under his skin—came Bane. His shadow stretched long across the floor, each step sinking like the earth itself braced against him.

“Well,” you muttered, rolling your shoulders, smirk sharp and wicked. “Guess the welcome party’s here.”

The first guard lunged. You ducked, claws raking across his chest plate, sparks skidding as you twisted under his swing. Another came from behind—you kicked upward, catching his jaw and sending him crashing into the wall.

“Two down,” you called, breathless but grinning. “Eight to go. And one steroidal nightmare.”

Robin didn’t answer. His focus was a razor, jaw clenched as he wrestled with code. But you could feel his tension through the space between you, like he was fighting every urge to yank you back from the frontlines.

Bane’s voice rumbled through the sirens, deep and cruel. “The Bat sends children now?” He cracked his fists, the tubes at his back pulsing. “I’ll break you both.”

He charged.

The floor trembled under the impact as his fist swung down. You flipped backward, claws sparking against the concrete as you landed low, teeth gritted. “Big talk for a guy whose outfit looks like a plumbing disaster!”

He roared, swinging again. This time you didn’t dodge. You darted inside his guard, claws slicing across the tubing at his wrist. Venom hissed out in a spray, green mist curling in the air. He bellowed, backhanding you hard—too hard.

Pain exploded across your ribs as you were hurled backward. Your body slammed against a steel cylinder—gas container, by the looks of it—and the impact ripped the air from your lungs. You slid down, arm curling over your stomach as white-hot pain burned through you.

“Cat!” Robin’s voice cracked like glass. He half-turned from the console, feet stuttering forward. His hands hovered like he didn’t know whether to rip off his gloves and touch you or rip Bane apart with his bare fists.

Through clenched teeth, you forced the words out. “Focus on the chip dumbass—don’t blow the whole mission over me.”

For a heartbeat, his face crumpled. Panic, fear, fury—all warring behind his mask. Then, jaw locking, he forced himself back to the console. Keys clattered beneath his gloves. You could see the tremor in his shoulders, but he obeyed.

He trusted you.

That didn’t make the pain on your back hurt less.

You dragged yourself to your feet, one hand clutched over your side, claws glinting red under the alarm. A guard rushed you—you caught his arm, twisted, and sent him sprawling with a growl. Another lunged; you swept his legs with a low kick and slammed an elbow into his visor.

Every move made your ribs scream. Every breath was fire. But you kept going.

“Sixty percent!” Robin’s voice cut through the chaos.

Bane charged again. His massive fist slammed down where you’d been a second before, cratering the steel floor. You leapt, twisting off his shoulder, claws leaving a deep scratch across his back. He howled, but the sound was swallowed by alarms.

“Eighty-five percent!” Robin again—voice taut, urgent.

You landed hard, knees buckling. Vision blurred, ribs screaming. Still, you raised your claws. “C’mon, plumbing nightmare,” you hissed, staggering forward. “Round two.”

Bane’s hand clamped around your arm before you could strike. He lifted you like a doll, muscles bulging, venom tubes glowing. “You’ll wish you had stayed in Gotham, gatita.”

His grip crushed down, ribs nearly snapping—

And then Robin was there. He slammed into Bane’s side with a flying kick, the impact cracking like a whip. Bane stumbled, dropping you.

He caught you before you hit the ground, one arm braced tight around your waist. For half a second, his mask was inches from yours, eyes wide with the raw fear he’d been choking back.

Then he set you down, turned, and with a low growl of his own launched back into the fight. Staff snapped open with a metallic crack, spinning arcs of fury as he struck Bane again and again.

“Chip’s loaded!” he shouted between blows. “Satellite’s shutting down—just hold him!”

Together—hurting, desperate, furious—you moved in sync. You went low, claws tearing through Bane’s knee tubing. He staggered, roaring, as Robin vaulted high, staff cracking against his jaw. The venom flow sputtered, the tubes hissed.

“Now!” Robin barked.

You both struck at once—you raked your claws across his chest as Robin’s staff slammed down across his back. Bane toppled, crashing to the floor like a fallen colossus, the ground rattling with the impact.

The alarms still screamed, red still bathed the walls, but the satellite’s glow dimmed—the signal severed.

Robin’s hand was at your arm instantly, pulling you upright. “We’re done here. Move.” His voice was low, harsh—like if he let it crack, he wouldn’t stop.

You managed a smirk, even as your ribs throbbed with every step. “You fuss too much, bird boy.”

“Shut up and run.” His grip tightened as he hauled you toward the vents.

And together, you ran—lungs burning, alarms blaring, the floor slick with shadow and steel—out of the chamber that had almost devoured you whole.

ACT V: THE ESCAPE

THE JUNGLE TORE AT YOU on the way out—roots, mud, the sting of smoke still burning in your throat—but Robin didn’t loosen his grip. One arm was hooked under yours, the other steadying you against his side, every step of his boots iron-hard as if force alone could outrun the chaos collapsing behind you.

“Keep your weight up,” he hissed, though his tone cracked like he was begging instead of commanding.

You tried. Really, you did. But your ribs flared every time you moved, every breath a scrape of glass.

The Batplane loomed ahead like salvation. Robin half-hauled you up the ramp, and the moment the hatch sealed, he didn’t hesitate. Fingers flew over the console, systems coming alive beneath his hands. The plane lifted, shuddered—and then he shoved the throttle like it had personally wronged him.

The island shrank away in the viewport, but he didn’t slow. His jaw was tight enough to crack, shoulders locked like every muscle thought stopping meant losing you.

“Robin,” you said, but the word was drowned by the growl of engines.

He didn’t answer. Not until you reached over—gloved hand brushing the side of his head, fingers sliding into the sweat-damp strands at his temple. A subtle thing, but he jolted as if you’d pulled him back to air.

“Hey,” you murmured, softer now. “We’re clear. You can breathe.”

For one impossible second, his hand hovered above the controls, not moving, not fighting. Just suspended between duty and something else entirely.

And when he finally exhaled, ragged, he flicked a switch—Batplane gliding into autopilot.

The Batplane hummed steady now, autopilot guiding it away from the island. You barely had time to let your lungs expand in relief before Taesan turned on you.

“Up,” he ordered, already tugging you from the copilot seat.

“Wait—Hey!” You squeaked, more from surprise than pain. “Birdie, a little warning—“

He didn’t wait. His arm locked firm around your waist, lifting half your weight as he hauled you to the back of the cabin, where the med-station table sat folded out of the wall. He planted you there with more force than finesse, the edge biting against the backs of your thighs.

You blinked, startled. “Geez, at least buy me dinner before throwing me on the furniture.”

His ears went red instantly. “T-that’s not—I’m not—oh be quiet.” His gloves were already opening the first-aid kit, pulling gauze, antiseptic, scissors in sharp, efficient motions. The precision didn’t hide the tremor in his hands.

You smirked despite the ache in your ribs. watching him rip open antiseptic wipes with a little more aggression than necessary. “Mm. Sure looks like you’re eager.”

He froze just long enough to look at you, eyes sharp beneath the mask. “Lift your shirt.”

“Oh?” You widened your eyes, tilting your head like you’d just caught him in something. “And here I thought you’d at least take me to a rooftop first.”

Taesan’s jaw clenched, the faintest hint of red creeping up his ears. “I’m checking the wound. Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest, feigning bashfulness. “My, my. Batman’s protégé, scandalized by a little skin…How adorable.”

His glare could’ve cut steel. But when his gloved fingers brushed your side—hesitant, careful, trying not to hurt you—it felt less like a medic’s touch and more like something he wasn’t ready to name.

His fingers hovered at the hem of your shirt, stiff with restraint. “Just—hold still. Please.”

The word cracked through your teasing act sharper than you expected. It wasn’t the command of a soldier—it was the plea of a boy terrified of losing someone. And despite yourself, your grin softened, a breath catching in your throat as you finally lifted the latex.

Taesan worked in silence.

His gloves, so sure when throwing punches, were unbearably careful now—fingers tugging gauze with awkward precision, pulling tape too gently, brushing antiseptic over your skin like he was scared of breaking you. Every time you hissed, even the smallest wince, his jaw twitched.

He didn’t look at your face once. Not really. His mask stayed angled down, eyes sharp on the wound. His mouth pressed thin like he was stitching himself shut along with your side.

You sat still, watching him.

And in that silence—only the hum of the Batplane around you, his ragged breathing, and the faint sting of antiseptic—you couldn’t help it. That thought slid in like it always did.

He feels something. He always has.

Every time you flinched, even a sharp intake of breath, he reacted like it was his body taking the hit. The corner of his jaw twitched, his breath hitched. But his eyes never left the wound. Not once.

Not even to your face. Never your face.

Typical.

You stared at him, and frustration—familiar, bone-deep—climbed back up your throat. How many years had it been? How many rooftop chases through Gotham’s skyline, his cape always just a few steps behind you? How many smirks had you thrown over your shoulder, hoping he’d do more than growl your alias like a warning?

You remembered his eyes—sharp, hawk-like—but always lingering too long. Lingering like he didn’t want the chase to end. Like catching you wasn’t the point.

You remembered the times you’d fought toe-to-toe, trading blows in the glow of police sirens, and you knew—knew—he never swung at you as hard as he could. He pulled back every time, some restraint clawing at him.

And you waited.

Waited for him to slip, to say something, to want you enough to break his stupid rules. You gave him years of bait, taunts, stolen touches, stolen looks. But every single time, he clamped his jaw, turned his back, and buried it under discipline.

Now here he was—hands trembling while tending to your ribs. And still, he wouldn’t look at you.

Patience has its limits. And yours had run out.

You wanted to see it break through. To hear him admit it.

So you tested the water.

Your hand shifted, light at first—just pressing against his chestplate. Right over his heart. His body stilled, tense as a bowstring.

“…You’re really bad at hiding things, you know that?” Your tone was half-playful, half-probing. “Always thought the mask helped, but…” Your thumb brushed lightly across the ridge of his emblem. “You wear your tells everywhere else.”

His shoulders rose, stiff, a sharp breath sucked in like he’d been struck. But his hands didn’t stop working. If anything, they moved faster, taping down the gauze like he could outpace your words.

“You’re imagining things,” he muttered, clipped. Too fast.

Your smirk curved slowly, deliberate. “Am I?”

He didn’t answer.

So you pressed further. Literally. Your fingers slipped up—inch by inch—trailing from the emblem up the line of his collar, until you touched the edge of his jaw. His skin was warm beneath the mask, soft where the cowl left him bare.

His hands froze this time. Gauze half-folded, scissors slack in his grip. Both fists clenched against the med-table to keep from touching you back.

“Stop,” he said, low. Rough. “You don’t—You can’t just—”

But he wasn’t moving. Wasn’t pushing you away. His breath had gone uneven, shallow, like his lungs couldn’t keep up with the war inside his chest.

You tilted your head, your palm cradling his cheek now, daring him. “What’s the matter, Birdie? Afraid of something?”

His eyes flicked to yours—sharp, burning, a storm just barely leashed. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“Oh, I do.” You smiled, slow and wicked, fingers brushing the corner of his mouth. “You’re the one who doesn’t.”

The silence stretched. His fists trembled at his sides, veins tight, knuckles bone-white. He was holding back so hard you could feel it—his entire body locked down, refusing, restraining.

You leaned in, close enough to feel the heat radiating off him. And then—

Your hand slid lower, catching on the heavy strap of his utility belt. You gave it a tug, firm enough to jolt him forward.

And you kissed him.

Not hard. Not desperate. Soft. Deliberate. The kind of kiss meant to say I know exactly what I’m doing, and so do you.

He froze. Absolutely short-circuited. His breath hitched audibly, lips going still against yours, like his brain had blue-screened.

You pulled back with a smug little curve to your mouth. “…Thought so.”

It was like snapping a wire inside him.

He moved—suddenly, urgently—hands braced on either side of you against the table, caging you in. His mouth hovered, then pressed, then claimed, rougher this time. His restraint burned away, replaced by passion, by a desperate edge like he’d been holding this in for years and finally lost the battle.

You let him taste it—just a second, just enough. And then your hand pressed flat against his chest, halting him.

“Mm-mm.” You smirked, breath mingling with his. “Not tonight. I’m injured, remember?”

The sheer whiplash on his face—stunned, undone, utterly bamboozled—almost made you laugh.

“Are you serious?” he managed, voice wrecked.

You tilted your head, all faux-innocence. “Dead serious.”

Served him right for making you wait for so long.

He stared at you, wide-eyed, half a second from combusting. And then—unexpectedly—he laughed. Just one sharp breath, then another, until his forehead dropped against your shoulder, shaking with disbelief.

“Goodness,” he muttered, muffled, voice warm against your neck. “You drive me insane.”

You hummed, smug and satisfied, stroking a hand through his hair. “Mm…You know you love it.”

His laugh softened, turned low. And the way his hand finally—finally—settled against your waist told you everything words couldn’t.

Well…Mission Success?

ACT VI: BACK IN GOTHAM’S ROOFTOPS

TWO WEEKS LATER.

Gotham was alive the way only Gotham could be—sirens wailing like wolves, floodlights slicing through the smog, the throb of the city never sleeping. From the streets, police shouts rose, boots pounding as squad cars cut off intersections.

And above it all, you ran.

Your boots skimmed the lip of a fire escape, leaping to the next rooftop with the bag slung over your shoulder. You landed light, like a shadow with claws, a grin sharp on your face. Sirens were noise, but the rhythm in your ears—the real music—was the sound of pursuit behind you.

“Getting slow, Birdie!” you called over your shoulder, vaulting over a pipe. “Did all that League babysitting make you rusty?”

A grapnel line hissed, anchoring onto the building ahead. Robin vaulted after you, red and black cape snapping in the wind. He didn’t miss a beat.

“Rusty?” His voice was low, even through the commotion. “I’m pacing myself. Hate to see you gas out this early.”

You laughed, vaulting higher onto another ledge, cutting left where neon signs glared pink against rain-slick brick. “Funny. I thought you’d enjoy me being tired—makes catching me easier.”

“Where’s the fun in easy?”

The words made you stumble for half a second, not physically, but in your chest. He never used to banter back like that. Never gave you more than the sharp edge of reprimand. But now—after the Batplane, after the wounds and the first-aid and his hands that shook harder than yours—he was slipping.

And you loved it.

You darted down an alley, the chase spiraling upward again—pipes, ladders, crumbling staircases, the two of you chasing each other like orbit and gravity. It was always like this, wasn’t it? You ran, he chased. You teased, he bit down in silence. But tonight, his silence cracked with every word he threw back, his movements sharper, closer.

And maybe—just maybe—you slowed down enough for him to catch up.

By the time you vaulted onto the last rooftop, Gotham stretched beneath you, a sprawl of glowing windows and sirens. But you didn’t get to enjoy the view.

Because he was there.

A blur of black and red, he landed ahead of you, boots striking concrete with a force that made you skid to a halt. His cape flared in the wind, his chest rising hard, his body already angling to cut off your escape. You smirked and stepped back—only to feel a cold brick press against your spine.

Cornered.

Robin stalked closer, each step deliberate, his eyes hard beneath the domino mask. You tilted your head up, grin sharp. “What’s this? Finally going to throw me in prison, hotshot?”

He didn’t answer with words. He yanked the bag from your shoulder, ripped it open, and tossed the stolen stacks of cash onto the rooftop like they were worthless scraps.

“No need for this,” he said flatly. “Just use my money.”

You blinked. Then—slow, sly—you let the grin curl wider. “My, my. Are you giving me access to the Wayne funds, Taesan?” You dragged out his name like it was honey. “What would your daddy say?”

His jaw clenched. His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade.

Almost there.

“I’m sure he’ll be fine with it,” he said, challenging you with a raised brow—voice low, dangerous. “Since you’re to be a Wayne too, [reader].”

”Woah now, sugar. Who said I’d be caught dead holding your arm for Gotham press?” You teased, loving the way he furrowed his brows in frustration.

”Didn’t have to say it, kitty. You signed up for it when you joined my team and we succeeded in saving the world.” He snarked back, but you could feel the annoyance building in his throat. The impatience.

You smirked, before stepping closer to him.

The air between you thickened. You swore even Gotham held its breath. The sirens, the chaos, the wind tugging at your hair—none of it mattered. Because he’d said it. He hadn’t just taken the bait—you felt him snap the line in half.

For a long second, neither of you moved.

Then, slowly, deliberately, you reached up. Two fingers at the edge of your mask, peeling it away. A dare. Your eyes met his, unguarded—vulnerable in the Gotham night.

He didn’t look away.

His hand rose to his own mask, tore it free with a sharp motion. It clattered onto the rooftop between you.

Taesan.

Your breath caught—not because you hadn’t known. But because he was here, no barriers, no excuses, no shadows to hide behind.

And he was looking at you like he’d been starved.

You tilted your chin, smirking, just enough to poke. “So what now, Birdie? Gonna scold me? Drag me back by the collar? Or just keep staring?”

For years he’d restrained himself. You could see it in his fists now, clenched so tight his knuckles went white, arms rigid at his sides like if he touched you, he’d never stop.

But not tonight.

Tonight, he broke.

He surged forward, one arm braced on the wall beside your head, the other catching your waist as he pinned you to the wall. His mouth crashed onto yours—no hesitation, no restraint, years of pent-up frustration igniting at once.

You gasped against him, the kiss rough, consuming, desperate. He kissed like he’d been holding his breath for years and only just now allowed himself air. You grabbed fistfuls of his hair, yanking him closer until there was no space left, your back against the wall, his body a cage.

It wasn’t neat. It wasn’t the slightest bit careful. It was messy, hot, teeth and lips and all the tension that had knotted every rooftop chase snapping in a single violent spark.

When he finally broke away, both of you were breathless, foreheads pressed together, Gotham roaring below like nothing had happened.

His voice was raw, barely more than a rasp. “Do you have any idea what you do to me?”

You smirked, lips swollen, breathing hard. “You wouldn’t trade it for anything.”

A laugh burst out of him, unsteady, shaking with disbelief. He leaned his forehead harder into yours, eyes closed, like if he looked at you again he’d never stop.

And even if he did, you weren’t going to complain.

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