#vigilante!reader

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.

“Robin,” you said, dry as dust. “You look terrible.”

Damian’s eyes narrowed behind his domino. “Who are you?”

You tilted your head. “Really? That’s what you’re going with?”

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 man’s coat with an expression that suggested the fabric had personally offended you.

“You kill,” Damian said.

“So do they.” You glanced at him. “I’m just better at it.”

“You are not sanctioned.”

A laugh slipped from you, low and sharp. “By who? Your father? Cute.”

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.

“Don’t be dramatic,” you muttered, catching him before he could hit the concrete.

“I am not—”

“Currently collapsing in a burning warehouse? Yeah. Very dignified.”

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. “Stay awake, Robin.”

“Who,” Damian forced out, “are you?”

Your grip tightened. “Nobody.”

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.

“Your body camera cut out at 23:41,” Bruce said.

“The smoke disrupted the lens.”

“The audio went out three seconds later.”

“Interference.”

“And then?”

Damian’s 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 Batman’s cape blocked the streetlights overhead.

Between those moments lay a void.

Damian hated voids.

“I escaped,” he said.

Bruce looked at him. Damian hated that look, too. “Your shoulder had been reset.”

“I am aware.”

“Did you do that yourself?”

“No.”

“Who did?”

Damian’s fingers curled. “I do not know.”

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 Damian’s 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 Damian’s gaze sharpened toward your rooftop.

Instinct.  Annoying. Impressive.

Loneliness, treacherous little beast that it was, stirred inside your ribs.

“No,” you whispered to yourself.

Below, Damian stood. His hand drifted toward his sword.

You stepped back from the roof’s 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.

“Seriously?” 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.  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.

“Stop,” Damian ordered.

You laughed, breathless. “Wow. Has that ever worked for you?”

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. “Enough.”

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.

Damian’s eyes narrowed. “You were at the warehouse.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

His grip tightened. “Do not lie to me.”

“Fine. I was near the warehouse.”

“You saved me.”

“Technically, gravity did most of the work.”

“You reset my shoulder.”

“You’re welcome.”

“You killed those men.”

“They were going to kill you.”

“That was not your decision to make.”

Your expression flattened. “I forgot. Bats love moral lectures. Very on-brand. Do you practice in mirrors, or does brooding just come naturally?”

His blade did not move. “Who are you?”

You smiled behind your mask. There it was. The question everyone asked once.

Only once.

“Look away,” you said.

Damian did not. “Answer me.”

“Look away.”

“No.”

Your laugh came out softer than you intended. “Smart.”

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.

“Who are you?” he demanded.

There it was. The old familiar knife. You should have been used to it. You were used to it.

You were.

“Wow,” you said lightly. “Déjà vu. Embarrassing for you.”

Damian’s eyes darkened. “What did you do?”

“Nothing.”

“You did something.”

“Story of my life.”

He looked away again, scanning the room for traps. When his eyes returned to you, the confusion reset.

His sword lifted. “Identify yourself.”

Something inside you curled up small and cold.

You stepped closer to the blade until the edge kissed the fabric over your throat. “My power,” you said, voice suddenly flat, “is that nobody remembers me.”

Damian stared. “You are a metahuman.”

“Sure.”

“What is the mechanism?”

“Do I look like a scientist?”

“You appear insufferable.”

“Aw. You remembered an opinion for three seconds. Progress.”

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.

“Don’t worry,” you said. “This is the part where you threaten me, interrogate me, look away, forget what you were asking, and then I leave. Classic. Very popular sequence.”

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.

“Explain,” he said.

Your heart, stupid and starved, gave one fragile little kick. You crushed it immediately. “No.”

Damian’s jaw set.

You stepped backwards into shadow. “Don’t follow me.”

“I will.”

“I know.” You sighed. “That was more of a polite suggestion.”

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, Damian’s 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, “That’s strange.” 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.

“You are snooping,” Damian said.

You snapped the notebook shut. “I am investigating.”

“You are holding my private notes.”

“You left them where anyone could read them.”

“They were in my hand.”

“Skill issue.”

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.

“You should not kill,” he said.

You groaned. “We were having such a nice moment.”

“We were not.”

“You were writing about my laugh.”

His ears went faintly pink. Fascinating. “I record relevant behavioural data.”

“My laugh is relevant?”

“It is an indicator of trust.”

“Wow.” You placed a hand over your heart. “Talk dirty to me, Robin.”

His blush deepened. Your smile faded before he could see how much you liked it.

Dangerous. Hope was dangerous.

Damian stepped closer. “You use humour to redirect.”

“You use analysis to avoid feelings.”

“I do not avoid feelings.”

“You dress like a bat-themed traffic warning and punch people at night.”

He opened his mouth. Closed it.  “That is irrelevant.”

“That is what people say when things are relevant.”

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. “Who are—”

You tossed the notebook at his chest. He caught it.

“Read page twelve,” 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.

“I apologise,” he said.

You flinched. It was small. He noticed.

“Don’t,” you said.

“I forgot.”

“Everyone does.”

“That does not make it acceptable.”

You laughed once, but there was no humour in it. “Careful, Wayne. You keep saying things like that, and I’ll start thinking you mean them.”

“I do.”

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.

Damian’s 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.

“Okay,” Tim said. “Not to be rude, but this is either a case board or the beginning of a gothic romance.”

Damian snatched a sketch off the wall. “Leave.”

“Gothic romance. Got it.”

“Drake.”

“Does your mysterious murder cryptid have a name?”

Damian went still. “No.”

Tim’s expression shifted. Gentler. More dangerous. “You don’t know?”

“No one does.”

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. “You think there’s a cognitive effect?”

“I know there is.”

“On everyone?”

“Yes.”

“Even you?”

Damian’s jaw tightened. “Especially me.”

Tim read the notes in silence. Then said, “That’s horrifying.”

“Yes.”

“And lonely.”

Damian looked at the sketch in his hand. The eyes were incomplete again. “Yes,” 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.

“What do you want?” 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.

“What?” 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.

“What do you want?” he repeated.

“A vacation. Better coffee. The Joker dead. A nap long enough to be classified as a coma.”

“I am serious.”

“That’s tragic.”

“Forget-Me-Not.”

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. “Don’t call me that.”

“What should I call you?”

You laughed under your breath. “Doesn’t matter. You won’t remember.”

“I will write it down.”

“That isn’t the same.”

“No,” Damian said. “It is not.”

The honesty almost hurt worse than comfort would have. You swallowed.

“My parents had a name for me,” you said. Damian went very still. “I don’t use it anymore.”

“Why?”

“Because they stopped.” 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. “I was little,” you continued, because apparently your mouth had decided to betray the whole fortress. “When 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. Then…” You smiled thinly. “Then I became a note on the fridge.”

Damian said nothing.

You picked at a loose thread on your sleeve. “One 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.” Your voice did not break. You were proud of that. “She forgot me faster than she could love me.”

Damian’s 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.

“That’s why you kill,” he said.

You snorted. “No. I kill because some people deserve to stop breathing.”

“Your loneliness informs your methods.”

“Careful. That almost sounded like empathy.”

“It was.”

“Gross.”

Damian’s 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. “I should go.”

Damian stood too. “Stay.”

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.

“Stay,” he repeated. “For ten minutes.”

“Why?”

“So I can remember you for ten minutes.”

Your chest hurt. “Damian.”

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. “Please.”

You hated hope. You hated it.  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 else’s 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.

“You look terrible,” you said.

He looked up sharply. For half a second, his face relaxed.

Not recognition. Never recognition. But something close.

“Forget-Me-Not.”

“You remembered?”

“No.” He glanced at the writing on his wrist. “I prepared.”

Of course he did.

You crouched beside him and slapped his hand away. “I can do it.”

“I’ve seen you try to stitch with your off-hand. It was like watching a raccoon defuse a bomb.”

“Your concern is touching.”

“My concern is impatient.”

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.

“You’re going to need stitches,” you said.

“I know.”

“This will hurt.”

“I know.”

“Don’t do that macho thing.”

“I do not do a macho thing.”

“You were raised by Batman and assassins. You absolutely do a macho thing.”

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.

“I forgot,” he said.

“Yeah.”

“But I did not release you.”

You stared at him.

He looked down again, testing. Memory vanished from his face. His hand remained around yours. Up again.

Reconstruction. Understanding.

“Physical contact,” he said.

Your pulse stumbled. “What?”

“Physical contact may preserve some continuity. Not memory, but intent. Somatic anchoring.”

“You are such a nerd.”

“Yes,” Damian said, eyes bright now in a way that made him look younger. “And you are holding my hand.”

You dropped it immediately. He looked smug for exactly one second before wincing because smugness apparently pulled stitches.

“Don’t get excited,” you said. “It was medical.”

“Of course.”

“I would hold anyone’s hand while sewing their ribs shut.”

“Your bedside manner is abysmal.”

“You’re welcome.”

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.

“Ask whether I’ve eaten?” you demanded. “What am I, a stray cat?”

Damian looked you up and down.

You hissed, “Don’t.”

“You do frequent rooftops.”

“I will stab you.”

“You also resist care despite needing it.”

“Damian.”

“And you accepted tuna from Brown last week.”

“That was sushi, you rich gremlin.”

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.

“I apologise.”

“Don’t.”

“I hurt you.”

“You forgot me. That’s different.”

“No,” Damian said once, quiet beneath the rain. “It is not.”

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 Bats’ solution to metaphysical trauma was “call a magician and make three spreadsheets.”

“You made a spreadsheet about me?”

“Several.”

“That is either romantic or a federal concern.”

“You are deflecting.”

“You are flirting with data.”

“I am flirting with you.”

You stopped breathing. Damian stopped too. The city wind moved between you.

“Don’t say things you won’t remember,” you whispered.

His expression changed. Softened. “I may not remember saying them,” he said, “but 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.”

Your eyes burned. “Damian.”

“I do not remember you the way I should,” he said. “But I know this: every version of myself that finds the evidence chooses you again.”

Oh. That was unfair.

That was so unfair.

You stepped back, but he caught your hand.

“Do not run.”

“I’m very good at running.”

“I know.”

“You don’t know anything.”

His thumb pressed against your pulse. “I know enough.”

You laughed once, broken and small. “You’re going to look away one day and not look back.”

“No.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he agreed. “I do not. But I know I have looked back every time so far.”

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.

“Oh my god,” you said hoarsely. “You wrote that on your glove?”

Damian cleared his throat. “It seemed practical.”

“You are insane.”

“Likely.”

“You forgot me during our first kiss.”

His eyes widened. Then narrowed at himself, offended. “Unacceptable.”

You laughed. You laughed so hard your eyes spilled over.

Damian looked stricken.

“No,” you said quickly, wiping your face. “No, I’m not— I’m not laughing because it hurt.”

Though it did. Of course it did. Everything did. But not only. Not anymore.

“I’m laughing because you look personally betrayed by your own brain.”

“I am.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“I will do better next time.” Next time. The words landed softly. Carefully. Like a coat around cold shoulders.

“You want a next time?” you asked.

Damian looked at the glove again. Then at you. He did not remember the kiss. But his mouth curved faintly. “I apparently insisted upon it in writing.”

You smiled despite yourself. “Okay, Wayne.”

His hand tightened around yours. “Okay?”

You leaned in until your forehead touched his. “Next time.”

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.

“There you are,” 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, “I’m sorry,” something in you folded inward.

Damian’s hand found yours immediately. Anchoring. Always anchoring.

Zatanna’s expression was gentle in a way you did not know what to do with. “It isn’t just magic,” she said. “There’s magic in it, yes, but also metahuman biology, trauma response, maybe even a curse that attached itself to your ability when you were young. It’s tangled.”

“Great,” you said. “Love being a group project.”

Tim, from behind three laptops, whispered, “Honestly, same.”

Damian glared at him.

Zatanna continued, “I 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.”

You swallowed. “But no cure.”

“Not today.”

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.

“I don’t know how to do this,” you admitted. Your voice sounded too small in the cave.

Damian’s thumb moved over your knuckles. “Neither do I.”

“You hate not knowing things.”

“I do.”

“This could take years.”

“Then we will require more notebooks.”

You laughed wetly. He looked proud of himself.

Little menace.

“You’ll forget me,” you said.

His expression sobered. “Yes.”

No pretty lie. No softening the blade. Just truth.

Then he lifted your joined hands. “And I will find you again.”

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.

“Hello,” he said carefully. Your heart broke. Your heart healed. Both, maybe.

“Hi,” you whispered.

His gaze dropped to the note on his wrist. Then back to you.

A small smile touched his mouth. “There you are.”

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 Zatanna’s visit, in the middle of sparring with Cass. He was blocking a strike to his ribs when the sound flickered through his mind—quiet, sharp, unwilling, like joy had snuck into your chest and gotten caught trying to escape.

Damian froze. Cass’ foot stopped half an inch from his knee. She tilted her head. Damian lowered his sword.

“I remember something,” he said.

Cass blinked once. Then smiled. Small. Knowing.

Damian hated being known by people who could read body language like scripture.

“What?” she asked.

His mouth opened. For one terrifying second, the memory slipped. Not gone. Slipping.

Damian’s 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.

“Their laugh,” 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.

“That’s adorable,” you said flatly. “Have you considered brain damage?”

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.

“I am not concussed.”

“You say that a lot for someone who gets hit in the head professionally.”

“I remember your laugh.”

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.

Damian’s breath caught. You heard it. That tiny shift.

You closed your eyes. There it was. The moment. The curse. The world’s old cruel joke, winding itself up again.

When you opened your eyes, Damian was staring at you. Still. Focused. Shaken.

“I remember,” he said.

Your chest tightened. “No, you don’t.”

“I do.”

“You read a note.”

“I did not.”

“You listened to a recording.”

“No.”

“You’re guessing.”

“Your laugh is quiet at first,” Damian said, voice low, “as 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.”

The city went silent. Or maybe you did. Your whole body locked around the words.

Damian took one step closer. “You called me a rich gremlin.” Your mouth parted. “And a bat-themed traffic warning.”

“That one was objectively true,” you whispered.

His mouth twitched. “And you told me my handwriting looked like a stabbed insect.”

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.

“You remember that?” you asked.

“Yes.”

You searched his face for the lie. There wasn’t 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.

“Maybe it’s temporary,” you said.

“It may be.”

“Maybe it won’t last.”

“It may not.”

“Maybe you’ll wake up tomorrow, and it’ll be gone.”

His expression softened. “Then I will begin again tomorrow.”

Your throat burned. “You don’t get tired of that?”

“Yes.”

The honesty hit harder than a pretty answer would have.

Damian stepped closer. “I get furious,” he said. “I get impatient. I get…” His jaw tightened. “Afraid.” You stared. Damian Wayne said the word like it had been dragged out of him by the throat. “But I do not get tired of you.”

Your breath caught. He looked startled by his own words, but he did not take them back. You laughed once, brittle and small. “That’s a terrible line.”

“I was not aware we were exchanging lines.”

“You’re doing a tragic rooftop romance. You should at least be good at it.”

“I will improve.”

“Don’t make that sound like a threat.”

“I make no promises.”

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. “Do you remember my face?”

His silence answered before he did. “No,” he said. You nodded like that didn’t hurt. “I remember impressions,” he continued. “Your 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.”

“Wow. Drag me, why don’t you.”

“I remember the scar on your left thumb.”

Your hand curled instinctively. Damian noticed.

“You told me it was from a knife fight,” he said.

“I lied.”

“I know.” You looked at him sharply. He glanced at your hand, then quickly back to your face, as if afraid to lose you. “You cut yourself opening a can of peaches when you were twelve.”

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.

“I remember that,” Damian said.

You swallowed hard. “How?”

“I do not know yet.”

“Of course you added ‘yet.’”

“I am consistent.”

“You’re impossible.”

“I have been called worse.”

“By me.”

“Mostly, yes.”

A laugh escaped you. Soft. Unwilling.

Damian’s eyes sharpened, not like a hunter this time, but like a boy watching the first star appear in a dark sky.

“There,” he whispered. You went still. “I will remember that one too.”

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 Mask’s 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 world’s least normal meet-cute.

“You followed me,” you said through the comm he had given you.

“I was here first.”

“I was here silently.”

“I was here competently.”

“That’s debatable.”

“You set off the pressure sensor on the south entrance.”

“That sensor was ugly and deserved it.”

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 Batman’s 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. “Identify yourself.”

Something inside you snapped.

“Are you kidding me?” 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.

“Robin!” 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.

Damian’s gaze flicked instinctively toward the sound. Lost.

His face emptied. Then his jaw clenched. He looked back at you.

“I know your voice,” he said.

You almost missed your next throw. “What?”

“I know your voice.”

“You don’t know me.”

His eyes narrowed, frustrated. “I know your voice.”

The fight surged around you. This was a terrible place for a revelation.

“Great,” you snapped. “Use that knowledge to duck.”

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 reset—but not completely. Your voice pulled him back faster each time.

“Left.” He moved left. “Behind you.” He spun. “Duck, pretty bird.”

He ducked, then glared at you mid-fight. “You did not just call me—” He knocked a man unconscious with the hilt of his sword. “You did,” he said.

You shrugged while kicking someone in the knee. “Adrenaline. Don’t read into it.”

“I will read into it extensively.”

“Focus.”

“I am focused.”

“You are flirting while concussed.”

“I am multitasking.”

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.

“Forget-Me-Not.” You froze. His eyes widened. “I remembered.”

You stared at him. “No notes?”

“No notes.”

“No recording?”

“No.”

“No contact?”

“No.”

Your pulse roared in your ears.

Damian lifted a hand to his own mouth, stunned by himself. “I remembered the name.”

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.

“Damian,” 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.

“Did you forget?” you whispered.

His fingers tightened. “No.” Your world cracked open. Damian’s voice dropped. “I remember kissing you before.”

You stopped breathing.

His brow furrowed, like the memory was fighting him, like he was dragging it up with both hands from deep water. “Rooftop,” he said. “Siren. I looked away. You laughed at my glove.”

A sound left you. Half laugh. Half sob. “You wrote ‘you love them’ on your glove.”

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.

“I was being thorough,” he muttered.

“You were being insane.”

“I was being correct.”

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.

“You love me?” you asked. The question came out smaller than you meant it to.

Damian’s expression changed. He looked briefly, openly terrified. Then certain. “Yes,” he said.

No hesitation. No escape route. Just yes.

Your eyes stung. “You barely remember me.”

“I remember enough to know what the rest of me keeps choosing.”

“That is the most Damian Wayne answer imaginable.”

“I assume that is favourable.”

“It’s obnoxious.”

“You’re crying.”

“I’m rain-adjacent.”

“It is indoors.”

“There’s a hole in the roof.”

“Because you crashed through it.”

“Romantically.”

His mouth twitched. Then softened. “Beloved,” he said quietly.

You forgot how to be clever. Damian noticed. A dangerous amount of satisfaction entered his face.

“Oh, shut up,” you whispered.

“I said nothing.”

“You looked smug.”

“I am allowed to be pleased when I render you speechless.”

“I’m going to stab you emotionally.”

“You already have.”

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.

“I remember,” he said, wonder breaking through his voice.

Your thumb brushed his cheekbone. “Damian?”

“I remember.”

His hand covered yours. “I closed my eyes,” he said. “And I remembered.”

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.

“I remembered their voice for fourteen minutes without visual confirmation,” he told Tim.

Tim stared at him over his coffee. “Good morning to you, too.”

“This suggests the effect is weakening.”

“It suggests you’re in love and making it everyone’s problem.”

Damian sniffed. “I am conducting research.”

“You wrote their name in the margin of a case file.”

“That was accidental.”

“You surrounded it with little flowers.”

Damian’s face went blank. Tim’s grin widened. “They were tactical flowers,” Damian said.

You, hidden in the rafters above them, nearly choked trying not to laugh.

Damian’s 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. “You two are going to be disgusting, aren’t you?”

“I do not know what you mean,” Damian said.

“You’re already doing the secret rooftop eye-contact thing.”

“Your jealousy is unbecoming.”

“I’m not jealous. I’m sleep-deprived and surrounded by emotionally constipated vigilantes discovering romance like it’s a new martial art.”

From the rafters, you whispered, “He’s not wrong.”

Damian looked directly at your hiding place. “I heard that.”

Tim startled. “You heard them?”

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.

“Right,” Tim muttered, immediately looking at his tablet. “Wow. That is annoying.”

“Welcome to my whole life,” you said.

Tim winced. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be. You wrote a twelve-page theory about me involving quantum attention decay. That was worse.”

Tim brightened. “You read that?”

“No.”

“You did.”

“Unfortunately.”

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 Damian’s hand and then sliding away from the rest of you.

“So,” Tim said slowly, “he’s remembering more?”

“Yes,” Damian said.

You looked at him. “Sometimes.”

“More than sometimes.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

“I am accurately confident.”

“You remembered I hate lilies and decided that made you a wizard.”

“You said lilies smell like funeral homes and rich guilt.”

Tim pointed at you with his coffee. “That is incredibly specific.”

Damian’s eyes stayed on you. “I remembered because it mattered to them.”

The cave went quiet. Even Tim had the decency not to ruin it.

You swallowed. “Stop being sincere in public.”

“This is my home.”

“There are bats in it.”

“They are family.”

Tim whispered, “See? Disgusting.”

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.

“You fled,” he said.

“I relocated.”

“You were overwhelmed.”

“I was avoiding your brother asking whether I’m your partner.”

Damian went still. “He asked that?”

“He tried to. He forgot halfway through and asked why you were smiling at a chair.”

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. “You may leave whenever you wish.”

“I know.”

“No one will keep you here.”

“I know.”

“You are not a prisoner of being wanted.”

You looked down at your tea. “You can’t just say things like that.”

“I can.”

“You shouldn’t.”

“Why?”

“Because I might believe you.”

Damian was quiet for a long moment. Then he said, “Good.”

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.

“Damian,” you said.

He stepped closer. “Yes?”

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.

“I want to tell you my name,” you said.

His face changed. Softened. Sharpened. Almost reverent. “You do not have to.”

“I know.”

“If you tell me, I may forget it.”

“I know.”

“I will write it down.”

“I know.”

“It still may hurt.”

You laughed under your breath. “It already hurts.”

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. “No one has said that to me in years,” you whispered.

Damian’s hand rose, then stopped. “May I?”

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.

“You remember,” you breathed.

Damian stared at you as if he were afraid moving would break the world. “Yes.”

“Say it again.”

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.

“I remember,” he whispered.

You clutched the back of his sweater. “You remember me.”

“Yes.”

“Don’t stop.”

“I will not.”

“You don’t know that.”

“No,” he said, voice rough. “But I know your name.”

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 times—

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 “weird.” 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 “I have selected you.” 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. “You are invading my privacy.”

“You wrote ‘do not say I have selected you.’” His entire face went red. You clutched the notebook to your chest. “Damian.”

“Give that back.”

“You asked Steph for dating advice?”

“I consulted multiple sources.”

“Did you ask Jason?”

His expression darkened. “Todd suggested kidnapping you from yourself.”

“That’s almost poetic.”

“He also suggested leather.”

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.

“Return it,” he demanded.

“You made a courtship battle plan.”

“It is not a battle plan.”

“It has numbered objectives.”

“It is a list.”

“You were going to ask me out with logistics.”

“I was going to ask you with respect.”

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. “You were?”

“Yes.”

You looked down at the notebook. Then back at him. “Okay. Ask me.”

“Now?”

“No, Damian. Next fiscal quarter.”

His eyes narrowed. “Your sarcasm is a defence mechanism.”

“Your face is a defence mechanism. Ask.”

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.

“I love you,” he said. Your heart tripped. Still. Every time. “I remember you now more often than I forget,” he continued. “But 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.” You swallowed. “I do not want you as a mission,” he said. “Or a mystery. Or a wound I am arrogant enough to believe I can close. I want you as you are. Difficult. Violent. Irritatingly funny.”

“Careful. I’m swooning.”

“You interrupt when uncomfortable.”

“I’m on brand.”

His mouth curved. “I want to be with you,” he said. “If you will have me.”

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.

“You’re sure?” you whispered.

“Yes.”

“What if it gets worse again?”

“Then we adapt.”

“What if you forget for a whole day?”

“I will come back.”

“What if you don’t?”

Pain crossed his face. No offence. Understanding. “Then you are allowed to be angry with me.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“It is the only honest one.” He touched your hand. “I cannot promise perfection. I can promise effort. I can promise records, anchors, magic, research, and my own unbearable persistence.”

“You are unbearable.”

“I know.”

“You’re smug.”

“Frequently.”

“You brood.”

“Productively.”

“You’re bad at casual affection.”

“I am improving.”

“You tried to label kissing as positive tactile reinforcement.”

He closed his eyes. “I apologised for that.”

“You did.”

“I will never say it again.”

“You better not.”

His eyes opened. Your hand turned beneath his, fingers sliding between his.

“But yeah,” you whispered. “I’ll have you.”

Damian went very still. Then, quietly, “Yes?”

“Yes.”

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. “You are laughing.”

“I’m dating a man with courtship parameters.”

“I rescind my vulnerability.”

“No take-backs.”

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.

“There you are,” 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.

“You,” Jason snapped once, pointing at empty air beside you, “better be the reason my smoke bombs are missing.”

You held one up.

Jason looked away. Looked back. Forgot. Then saw the smoke bomb floating in your hand.

“Oh, come on.”

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. “Are those forget-me-nots?”

Damian looked almost defensive. “Too obvious?”

“Horribly.”

“I suspected.”

“Very dramatic.”

“I was informed romance requires some drama.”

“By who?”

“Grayson.”

“That explains everything.”

Damian held out the flowers. You took them carefully.

“They’re pretty,” you admitted.

“I know.”

“Smug.”

“Accurately confident.”

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.

“I know,” he said.

Your eyes burned. “You looked away.”

“Yes.”

“And you remembered.”

“Yes.”

You laughed once, wet and disbelieving. “Show-off.”

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.

“I love you,” you whispered.

Damian went very still.

You felt the breath leave him.

Then his hand tightened around yours.

He said your name again. Then, “I love you.”

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.

“There you are,” he said.

You smiled through the ache.

Since childhood, the stories of soulmates had been the stuff of wonder. The whispered promises of destiny, the golden bands glowing on your grandparents’ hands. Their tale of meeting, falling in love, and living a life so tightly bound it seemed nothing could shake them was a family legend. You’d grown up watching that love, seeing it every time your grandfather kissed your grandmother’s knuckles or the way she still smiled like a girl when he walked into a room. That was the dream. The goal.

And now it was here.

The battlefield below still smoldered, but up here, on this rooftop, your heart thudded with something greater than adrenaline. You’d felt it in your bones the moment your ring flared with gold. The certainty and completion as the truth of fate settles over you. Your soulmate. 

Superman. Clark Kent.

You’d always known of him, of course. His name carried like thunder. And in the hero circles of Metropolis, his secret identity wasn’t truly a secret. You’d known the man as well as the myth. You’d wondered, in idle moments, what kind of soulmate the universe would choose for him. Never once had you thought it could be you.

Until now.

Your eyes locked with his. The glow on your finger pulsed warm. “It’s you,” you breathed, your chest so tight it almost hurt. A smile stretched your lips, trembling with the enormity of it. “Clark, it’s…you.”

The words tumbled out before you could stop them, nerves pouring into relief. “I honestly never even thought it could be you, but I’m pleasantly surprised. I mean, everyone knows you’re incredible, Clark. You’re kind, strong, dependable, and I like to think I’m nice, too, so maybe this is perfect? I always thought about what it would be like, what kind of life we’d live, and now—”

You froze.

Because the look on his face wasn’t joy. It wasn’t wonder, or tenderness, or the soft awe you’d seen a thousand times in your grandparents’ story.

It was anguish.

“Clark?” you whispered, the light in your voice flickering.

He stepped back a half-pace, his jaw trembling. “I… I can’t.”

The words sliced the air clean.

“What?” you asked, voice cracking, your smile faltering into confusion.

His eyes glistened, anguish carved deep into his expression. “I’m with someone. I have been, for a long time. Lois and I—” He shook his head, as though the very thought of saying this to you was a wound. “She’s the love of my life. I’ve built something with her, something I’ve fought for. I’ve made promises. I’ve… I’ve planned to propose.” His voice broke there, ragged. “I can’t throw all of that away. Not even for this.”

The rooftop felt colder. The gold on your finger seemed to mock you with its glow.

You blinked, stung, the words tangling in your throat. “But Clark… this isn’t just something random. This is the universe. It chose us, doesn’t that mean something?”

His face twisted, pain etched into every line. “It means everything. That’s why this hurts so damn much.” His voice cracked, raw. “But I’m not just Superman, or some symbol of fate. I’m a man. A man who’s already chosen. And I can’t betray that choice. Not even for destiny.”

Silence strangled the rooftop.

Your chest caved in as you whispered, “So what was the point? For the universe to give me hope just to rip it away?”

His shoulders shook as he whispered back, “I don’t know. But I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

The glow at your hand shuddered and then seared black, the golden ring consumed in ink. Cold fire shot through your veins, stealing your breath. You gasped, staggering under the weight of it, the sudden emptiness in your chest so profound it hollowed you out.

Clark’s face crumpled as the sound of your breaking heart thudded in his ears, a rhythm he would never be free of. His hand twitched at his side, as though he wanted to reach for you, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

Instead he turned, cape snapping in the wind, and rose into the sky. With him, he carried every promise he would never keep.

You stayed behind, alone on that rooftop. The inked ring on your finger still burned. And the dream you’d carried your whole life, the one you’d built from bedtime stories and daydreams, lay shattered around you, irreparable.

❥❥

It’s a year and a half later, in the Watchtower’s briefing chamber, the holographic display glowed with the shifting red patterns of the Injustice display, each pulse marking another suspected sighting of the Injustice League. Every time the team closed in, the trail went cold.

“They’re not hiding behind tech,” John Stewart said flatly, arms crossed as his ring projected a swirling green overlay across the map. “I’ve scanned for anomalies and  nothing. Whoever’s covering their tracks knows magic.”

J’onn inclined his head, his deep voice calm but weighted. “It is more than cloaking. They are erasing presence itself. Even my telepathy can’t find a trace.”

Diana exhaled sharply through her nose. “Then they have a mystic strong enough to blind both man and god. We’ll keep chasing shadows until we find someone who can read what our tools cannot.”

Strategies began tumbling across the table. John suggests contacting Zatanna, J’onn weighing Constantine’s reliability, and Diana noting the potential delays of relying on outside allies. 

Clark had been silent, listening with a tight jaw. Finally, his voice cut through the discussion.

“…I know someone.”

The table quieted. Heads turned.

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Who?”

Clark’s shoulders shifted under the weight of every gaze. He kept his tone even, professional. “A vigilante. Independent. She can track energy signatures: human, mystical, artificial. If anyone can follow the Injustice League’s trail, it’s her.”

Barry leaned forward. “Then why didn’t you mention her sooner?”

Clark’s eyes flickered downward. He could hear your heartbeat even now, faint but unmistakable, buried beneath memories of the rooftop. He forced his tone steady.

“We have a difficult past,” he said at last. “An…altercation that won’t be easy to move past. But she’s capable. More than capable. If we want results, she’s the League’s best option.”

The silence that followed wasn’t just thoughtful, it was suspicious. Bruce studied him for too long, Diana’s gaze softened, and even J’onn’s eyes held a quiet knowing.

Superman rarely faltered. But now, everyone in the room could see the strain in his face. There was something unique about the connection you shared with Superman, but no one would push for now.

❥❥

The night air was sharp against your skin as you crouched on the roof, your focus trained through binoculars at the warehouse below. Your case had nothing to do with the League. It was yours, private and controlled..

But you felt him before you heard him.

Even without the bond, even after it burned to ash, there was still something. A faint tether, cruel and fraying, humming at the edge of your awareness whenever he was near.

So when Superman’s boots touched the concrete behind you, his voice gentle as he said, “We don’t mean to scare you,” you didn’t even flinch.

“I already knew you were there,” you murmured, lowering the binoculars, your eyes never leaving the street below. “I’ll always know.”

The words hung in the air like smoke, meant for him alone. He stiffened.

Clark cleared his throat, searching for steady ground. “We—”

But the crack in his voice gave him away, and the silence that followed twisted too tight.

Bruce stepped forward, his presence steady as stone. “We need your help,” he said, his tone clipped, professional.

J’onn added, his voice a calm counterpoint, “The Injustice League has found someone who cloaks their movements. Magic. Strong enough to blind us. We cannot track them.”

Your eyes flicked at last, sweeping across the group. Diana stood poised, calm as always. J’onn was unreadable, but purposeful. Bruce’s eyes lingered on you, sharp and appraising. And Clark, he couldn’t even look at you directly, his jaw tight, his shoulders taut.

You exhaled slowly, masking the ache with skepticism. “Why me? You’ve got Constantine. He loves this kind of thing. You know, cigarettes, trench coat, disaster follows.”

Diana smiled faintly at that, but it was Bruce who answered.

“Because Constantine isn’t you,” he said flatly. “You come highly recommended. The best at following energy trails, mystical or otherwise. And you’re the one we’re here to see now.”

Your gaze cut to him. For the first time tonight, there was something other than pain in your chest, recognition. The detective in him recognizes the one in you. A silent nod of respect passed between you, quiet, but it held.

Clark shifted closer to you, his voice tight as he started approaching you.  “It’s dangerous work. We haven’t figured out the scope of what they’re planning yet. Don’t take it lightly—”

You moved to counter each of his. Not away quickly enough to be obvious, but carefully, naturally. Slipping to stand near Diana instead, gesturing toward the warehouse as though the movement had nothing to do with him. The space between you stretched, pointed, and deliberate.

“We’re all always in danger, Clark,” you said evenly, finally meeting his eyes. Distrust swam in yours, shadowed by the memory of his rejection.

He faltered, mouth opening, then closing again. The look on his face was too raw, too full of guilt to be hidden.

Bruce noticed. J’onn noticed. Diana noticed, and with the glances, an unspoken acknowledgment rippled through the group: something was off here. Very off.

Bruce cleared his throat, breaking the silence. “We’ll brief you fully on the Watchtower.” His eyes met yours again, steady. “This won’t be easy. We need your eyes.”

You swallowed, then nodded once. “Fine. For the people.”

The words were clipped, professional. But beneath them, everyone could feel it. There is an undercurrent of something jagged, broken, and unresolved.

And as you gathered your things, you made certain once more: every time Clark tried to step closer, you slipped just out of reach. Always natural. Always deliberate.

Always reminding him of the distance he’d created.

❥❥

The Watchtower’s briefing chamber pulsed with light as the holographic map stretched across the table, red energy trails blinking out into silence.

J’onn’s voice was steady. “Every time we approach, their presence vanishes. The mystic they employ is strong. Stronger than any we’ve faced together.”

Diana added, arms folded. “If they can conceal themselves this thoroughly, it’s only a matter of time before they strike where we cannot follow.”

You leaned forward, fingers brushing the controls. “Not entirely true. Glamours like this are messy. They don’t erase, they smear.” You worked quickly, layers of energy peeling back until faint trails emerged. “See? They routed through Blüdhaven, Gotham, then here.”

The room froze.

Barry’s jaw dropped. He leaned toward John Stewart and mouthed: ‘What the hell?’

John only gave a tight shrug, though his eyes flicked to you with something that looked a lot like respect.

“Impressive,” Diana said warmly. “You’ve seen what none of us could.”

Your lips quirked, but before you could respond, Clark shifted. His throat bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on the projection like it might save him from looking at you.

“Good work,” he managed, voice careful. Too careful. “We needed that.”

J’onn tilted his head, watching the way your shoulders tensed the moment Clark’s voice entered the air. His eyes narrowed faintly, but he said nothing.

Your gaze flicked his way, just long enough for the tension to spark, then away again. “It wasn’t that hard,” you said smoothly, deliberately casual. “Anyone with training could’ve done it.”

Clark’s mouth pressed thin, his jaw working.

Barry’s eyes ping-ponged between you and Clark, his brows furrowed. He leaned over to John again. ‘What is happening now?’

John muttered under his breath, “Later.”

You kept speaking, professional, crisp. “I can keep unraveling their trail, but if I push harder, their mystic will know. That puts all of us at risk.”

Clark shifted again, a quick, stressed sound escaping him before words followed. “Then maybe you shouldn’t—”

“I can handle myself,” you cut in, sharper than you meant to. The room stilled at the venom within your voice. You rolled your shoulders back and steadied your voice. “But you’ll need safeguards ready in case they bite back.”

For a moment, silence stretched too long. Even Diana’s brow creased as her eyes flicked between you and Clark.

That was when Bruce spoke, his tone smooth and grounding. “Then we build them.” He looked at you, steady, unwavering. “You and I. Portable wards and defensive tech that we’ll use to reinforce the Watchtower while we’re at it.”

You blinked, caught off guard by his certainty. He saw your skill and valued it. He was surprising you more and more. Your lips twitched, a small, almost reluctant smile. “Sounds like you’ve been waiting for an excuse to overhaul your security anyway.”

The faintest glimmer touched his eyes. “Always.”

Clark finally looked up. His eyes met yours for a split second. Raw, pained, guilty, before darting away again. His shoulders hunched as though the weight of the silence might crush him.

Barry threw his hands in the air, whispering to John now, “Seriously, what the hell?”

This time, even Diana’s lips twitched, though her eyes never left the two of you.

Everyone could feel it. The tension, the ache, the wrongness.

But the group knew better than to push the Man of Steel. And they didn’t know you well enough to ask those types of invasive questions. So they’ll observe for now, give both of you the space you need to work through whatever it was that happened. 

❥❥

The meeting had technically ended, but the tension hadn’t. The Watchtower’s briefing room hummed with the fading energy of the holographic displays, the air still thick with unsaid words.

On one side of the room, Diana and J’onn flanked Clark, their voices low.

“Clark,” Diana began gently, laying a hand on his forearm, “you don’t have to force yourself through this mission if it’s… difficult. No one here will think less of you.”

J’onn nodded, his voice resonant and calm. “You are carrying more than one weight, my friend. The marriage, your life as Clark Kent, and the expectations of the world. If you wish to step back, we will understand.”

Clark’s throat bobbed. His eyes flickered once across the room, just for a heartbeat, landing on you before darting away again. His jaw tightened.

“No,” he said, sharper than intended. Then softer, almost pleading. “No. Lex is involved. If he’s tied to the Injustice League, I need to be here. I have to shut him down.”

Diana’s eyes softened, understanding but unconvinced. J’onn’s gaze lingered with quiet suspicion, the kind that said he knew there was more beneath the surface. But neither pressed further.

On the other side of the room, Barry had cornered you with John Stewart and Bruce nearby, listening in.

“So, okay,” Barry said, words tumbling out fast, hands waving for emphasis, “say I go top speed around the world. Would the trail just be one giant blur? Or would it layer? Like, would you see each lap stacked on top of the other? Because if so, we could probably make the world’s coolest sketchpad drawings. Like cosmic Etch-a-Sketch. I’m talking record-breaking drawings.” 

You blinked, then laughed; genuinely, brightly. The kind of laugh you hadn’t let yourself feel in months. “Barry, if you want to try it after the mission, I’d be more than happy to see what that looks like. Just promise not to knock me over in the process.”

Barry grinned, wide and boyish. “Deal!”

John Stewart shook his head but couldn’t hide his smile. “I can already tell this is going to be chaos.”

Bruce didn’t laugh, not exactly, but he did watch you. The way your laughter softened the lines of your face, the way you lit up when you spoke about your abilities instead of hiding behind them. The corner of his mouth tugged, almost imperceptibly.

“You adapt quickly,” he said.

You arched a brow, meeting his gaze without hesitation. “Comes with the job. Surveillance, wards, detective work. You either learn to keep up or get left behind.”

His mouth twitched, almost a smile. “Then you’ll fit right in.”

You tilted your head, lips curving. “Careful, Batman. Sounds like an endorsement. I thought you didn’t hand those out.”

“I don’t.” His tone was dry, but the look in his eyes sharpened. “Not unless they’re earned.”

Your grin widened just slightly, a glint of amusement sparking. “Good. I’d hate to think you were going soft.”

Barry’s eyes went wide, and John raised a brow, turning towards each other to ensure they saw that incident. 

Barman didn’t flinch. “Don’t worry,” he said, voice like gravel, smooth and certain. “I’m not.”

The beat that followed was weighted, the kind of silence that carried heat. Your pulse picked up, thudding against your ribs. His, too.

Across the room, Clark stiffened. He’d heard it. The hitch in your hearts, the subtle change in rhythm when your eyes locked. The warmth rolling off you both, the quiet hum of attraction was undeniable to his senses.

And it hit him like another rooftop all over again.

❥❥ 

You crouched over a half-finished device, carving a rune with a precision blade. “If you overload the circuit before the inscription settles, you’ll fry the channeling array.”

Bruce’s voice drifted from across the table, low and steady. “I wouldn’t.”

You smirked without looking up. “Wouldn’t or  didn’t know you could?”

When you glanced up, his eyes were already on you, sharp and amused in that way only he managed. “Both,” he said simply.

Your lips twitched, but the retort stalled as your thoughts caught up with you. When had this started, this progression between the two of you?

It had been subtle at first, but with all the hours either spent working in close quarters or talking on the phone when you both had your own cases to go back to

But sitting here now with his gaze steady on you, it felt like something more.

You slid the finished ward across the table. His hand reached out at the same time as yours, fingertips brushing as neither of you pulled back immediately. The air shifted, heavier, warmer.

His eyes caught yours, dark and unblinking. You didn’t look away. Couldn’t.

“Careful,” you murmured, voice low, sharper than you intended. “You keep looking at me like that, I might think you actually enjoy this.”

Bruce’s mouth curved, subtle but unmistakably dangerous. He reaches a hand up to brush a hair away from your face as he murmurs just for you to hear, “Who says I don’t?”

The words hit like a spark in dry tinder. Your pulse jumped, your throat dry. For a heartbeat, it felt like the space between you might collapse.

And across the Watchtower, Clark froze.

There it was again, the stumble of both your hearts syncing in the same moment. But it wasn’t just that. His eyes had caught the exchange when he entered the room to check on progress: the way your bodies leaned just slightly forward, the invisible tether pulling you closer, the silence between you charged with heat.

Clark knew those signs. He’d lived them. He’d built a life with them. He recognized the shape of two people orbiting each other, pulled by gravity they couldn’t ignore.

And it for reasons he doesn’t know, it bothered him more than it should.

❥❥

Bruce had been watching you for days. He didn’t mean to, but old habits died hard. And patterns? Patterns screamed at him.

You were sharp as ever when working a case, but when the adrenaline bled away, the cracks showed. The way you rubbed at your sternum absentmindedly, like trying to ease an ache beneath the skin. The exhaustion in your eyes that no amount of rest seemed to cure. The way your hands sometimes trembled when you thought no one was looking, quickly fisted tight as if to hide it.

To anyone else, it was nothing. But Bruce knew better.

He’d seen sickness born of grief. He’d studied the rare consequences of broken bonds. And when he put it all together, the conclusion hit harder than he wanted to admit.

So when the workshop quieted and the others left, he finally said it aloud.

“You’re distracted.”

You gave a small, humorless laugh, still focused on stacking etched wards. “Guess I’m not hiding it as well as I thought.”

Guess I’ll have to be direct. He set down the device in his hand, leaning his weight against the table as his eyes fixed on you. “I know about the bond.”

The air seemed to vanish from the room. You froze, your back stiffening. “…You know?”

“I put it together after the rooftop,” Bruce said steadily, getting ready to lay out his evidence like it was a case. “The black ring and the way you can’t stand too close to him without flinching. The tension every time his name comes up. I’ve seen enough to know what it means.”

Shame burned hot in your chest. “So you know I was his.”

Bruce’s gaze softened just slightly. “You were. And I know he walked away.”

Your breath hitched. The dam cracked. “Then you know what that does to someone.” Your voice shook despite your best efforts. “It’s like the universe won’t let me forget. Like my own body wants me to pay for something I didn’t choose. I wake up aching. Breathing feels wrong. And no one ever talks about it. How it gets inside you and eats at you, because no one wants to admit the universe can be that cruel.”

Your voice cracked. “And the worst part? I keep thinking it’s my fault. That if I’d been enough, or more, then Clark wouldn’t have—”

“Stop.”

His voice was firm, but not harsh. You blinked up at him, startled by the sharpness in it.

Bruce pushed off the table, stepping closer, his presence grounding. “It’s not your fault.”

You shook your head, tears burning your eyes. “You don’t know that—”

“I do,” he interrupted. His jaw tightened, his voice low. “Because I’ve seen it. I’ve studied it. And I’ve lived my own version.”

Your breath caught. “Yours?”

He nodded once. “Years ago. I never met them. Never knew their face, their voice, or their laugh. One afternoon, the bond turned black. Death. Gone before I had a chance.”

He takes a slow breath, maintaining eye contact with you. Allowing you to see a side of him few ever did. “And I needed to understand, so I learned everything I could. Every exception, every outcome. Including this one, bond sickness. The weight it leaves in the one left behind. Rare, but real.”

You withhold the urge to scoff at the word ‘rare’. You both know what it means. The most compatible soulmates are the only ones that deal with bond sickness. It’s why no one talks about it, since those types of bonds have long thought to be a rumor, a fairy tale to tell kids. You both know better though, and you can’t help but feel grateful that Bruce didn’t say it aloud. 

His eyes searched yours, steady and unwavering. “I know how heavy it is. And I know it’s not a punishment you deserve.”

The tears spilled then, hot and unrelenting. You turned away, ashamed, but Bruce stepped forward and caught you, his arms wrapping firm and certain around your shoulders as he pulled you into his chest.

You sagged into him, the sob tearing free before you could swallow it down. His chest was solid, his scent warm with leather and faint smoke. His hands were gentle and protective, holding you like you were something worth protecting.

“You don’t have to carry it alone,” he murmured to your ear, voice displaying a rare softness. “Not anymore.”

And for the first time since the rooftop, you let yourself collapse. For the first time in years, Bruce Wayne decided someone was worth catching.

❥❥

The Watchtower doors hissed open. Clark stepped inside, meaning to update Bruce on intel.

Then your voice reached him. Raw and shattered. It was a nasty habit Clark had picked up since you’ve started working with them. He automatically tuned into your voice whenever he has the chance to hear it. And how he wishes he didn’t..

“It’s like the universe won’t let me forget. Like my own body wants me to pay for something I didn’t choose… and the worst part? I keep thinking it’s my fault. That if I’d been enough, Clark wouldn’t have—”

Clark staggered, hand braced against the door frame. His stomach lurched, bile rising. He had thought the rejection cruel enough. He hadn’t realized it would scar you from the inside out.

And hearing Bruce’s voice steady and soft, “You don’t have to carry it alone”, it broke something in him.

He had wanted to believe he’d done the right thing. That Lois was his anchor, his choice, and his life. But now, all he could hear was the echo of your sob, and the truth that he had inflicted. A wound the universe itself refused to let you heal from.

It made him sick.

❥❥

The Watchtower’s mission table glowed with streams of energy signatures. You tapped through them, your fingers sweeping across the holographic interface as if peeling layers of fog off the world. With the Watchtowers defenses finally appropriately upgraded to the rigorous standards of both you and Bruce, the mission could make some genuine process.

“There.” Your voice cut clean. A thin, pulsing thread of corrupted magic glimmered under your guidance. “They’ve been covering their tracks with a glamour, but it leaves residue when it brushes against places of power. They routed through Blüdhaven and Gotham before disappearing again.”

Bruce, standing beside you, gave the smallest nod. “You were right.” He pulled a small device from his belt, one of the prototypes you’d been working on together. “And the wards?”

You smiled faintly, holding up your own modified gauntlet. “Built to withstand most offensive spellwork. They won’t last forever, but they’ll buy you enough time to hit back.”

The others exchanged glances. Seeing Batman and a vigilante mystic trading gadgetry like old partners was not an image they’d expected. Nor was it one they’re against. 

The team isn’t blind, they’ve seen the way you and the Dark Knight have been hovering around each other, trading glances, jokes and smiles like you’ve known one another for years. It was a pleasant change to see their comrade walk a bit lighter after the years of him resembling the weather of Gotham: dark and gloomy.

As the discussion continued, the maps shifting with every projection of risk, you leaned back. “The last piece of information we need is their benefactor—the one funding this operation. That’s who we have to cut off. And the only way to hear it firsthand…”

“…is from inside,” Bruce finished.

The word inside hung in the air.

You didn’t hesitate. “They’re hosting a gala. I’m the only one at this table who isn’t on every international broadcast or magazine cover, or already expected to be there. They’ll know you instantly. Me? I can slip in.”

Clark stiffened, the muscle in his jaw flexing. “That could be dangerous,” he said, and though his tone was measured, his eyes flickered toward John Stewart and J’onn for silent backup, an unspoken plea.

Before anyone could answer, Bruce cut in. “It’s the best option. She has the skills and the discretion. If we want results, this is how we get them.”

The decision settled. No one would argue with Batman once he’s made his stance clear, and none of them felt like he was incorrect.

You began gathering your notes, sliding equipment back into cases. “I’ll need to prep right away. If I’m going to blend in at that gala, I have to be seen beforehand. Shopping, salons, the whole performance. These women gossip in circles tighter than a noose. If they’re talking about me before I arrive, then I’ll be in their minds exactly the way I want to be.”

The room stilled. Your casual explanation carried the weight of a chess move ten steps ahead.

Barry let out a low whistle. “That’s… actually genius.”

Bruce’s eyes flickered toward you, lingering a beat longer than usual. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, causing a sense of triumph to run through you at getting a reaction from Bruce in public like that.

You smirked. “Try not to sound so surprised.”

Bruce’s mouth curved the faintest bit. “She’s right.”

Clark’s eyes dropped to the table, shoulders taut.

You turned to Diana, your tone shifting softer. “But I’d like you to come over while I’m getting ready. After I’ve done the rounds. It’ll help to have someone with better fashion instincts than me.” Your lips curved into something warmer. “Besides, it’d be nice to just spend time with you.”

For a heartbeat, Diana blinked, surprised. Then her smile blossomed. “I’d like that. Very much.”

❥❥

Your apartment hummed with low music as sunlight slanted across the floor. Shopping bags and tissue paper littered the couch from your afternoon of “being seen.” You’d already secured the whispers you wanted: a mysterious new face stirring curiosity.

Now came the part you were actually looking forward to.

“Are you sure this one isn’t too much?” you asked, holding up a deep sapphire gown.

Diana tilted her head, studying you with the same intensity she might use in battle. “Too much? No, you underestimate yourself. That color sings on you.”

You laughed, shaking your head. “I usually dress for utility, not… this.”

Diana smiled, sitting cross-legged on the couch with a nail file in hand. “You sound like Bruce.”

You snorted. “God forbid.”

The two of you dissolved into laughter, the easy kind, warm and unguarded.

When it quieted, Diana’s expression softened. “You know, I don’t often get this. Sisterhood. Most see the tiara or the armor, but not me.”

Your chest tightened. “Yeah. I get that. Most see the black ring before they see me.”

Diana’s eyes warmed with something protective, fierce in its gentleness. She reached out, squeezing your hand. “Then they don’t deserve to see the rest of you. But I do. And I hope you’ll let me.”

The lump in your throat threatened to choke you. You squeezed back, smiling through it. “I’d like that. Sister.”

The word lingered in the air like a promise.

And for the first time in a long time, you felt the ache in your chest ease, not from romance, or from destiny, but from friendship.

❥❥

The Watchtower transport bay was quiet when you stepped inside, heels clicking softly against the metal floor.

Bruce was already there, suited in tactical black beneath a civilian overcoat that would blend into the gala crowd. His posture was relaxed on the surface, but you’d spent enough time with him now to recognize the subtle tension in his shoulders. He was waiting and it seemed like he was getting impatient as he starts tapping his foot. And then he sees you.

The sapphire gown clung in all the right places, the fabric flowing like water as you moved, shimmering faintly in the overhead lights. Your hair was swept back elegantly, every detail deliberate. Not the armor of a vigilante or the weary set of someone carrying grief. Tonight, you were radiant.

Bruce didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But his eyes swept over you in one long, deliberate pass, dark and unreadable — except for the sharp heat buried there. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, gaze snapping back to your eyes as if he hadn’t been caught looking.

You smiled faintly, something knowing and a little wicked. “Well? Do I pass inspection, detective?”

The corner of his mouth twitched, subtle but undeniable. “You’re going to shut down the room.”

A spark jumped in your chest at the gravel in his voice. You held his gaze a heartbeat too long, your pulse quickening.

Across the bay, Clark entered and froze.

He’d seen you in battle. He’d seen you broken. But he’d never seen you like this. Elegant, strong, alive. And worse,  the attraction between you and Bruce was unmistakable. 

Clark’s stomach knotted. Silent appreciation burned through him, you were stunning, he could not deny that. But the weight of guilt crushed it. That beauty, that strength, should have been his to cherish. Instead, all he could do was watch Bruce see what he had thrown away.

The transport bay filled as the team gathered for one last check-in before you went under. Holographic projections hovered above the table, casting shifting light across the steel floor.

“Security will be tight,” J’onn said evenly, gesturing to the glowing layout. “Dozens of cameras, layered wards, and more than a few high-level donors with private bodyguards.”

John Stewart’s ring flashed as he pointed out escape routes. “I’ll keep a bubble over the building in case things go south. You get into trouble, I’ll yank you out before they know you’re gone.”

Barry leaned back against the table, hands stuffed in his pockets. “And if anyone tries to tail her, I’ll make them dizzy before they can blink.”

It was all business. But the room wasn’t steady, not really.

Because every time Bruce spoke, you looked to him first. And every time you answered, he leaned just slightly closer, as though the rest of the League wasn’t even there.

“Stick to the perimeter at first,” Bruce said, voice low and even. “Make the circuit, get your bearings. Don’t go near the target until you’ve mapped the room.”

You nodded once, lips curving faintly. “Detective’s orders. I can follow those.”

Something unspoken passed in that glance, sharp and daring.

Clark noticed it all. He heard the quickening of your heartbeats when your eyes caught. He saw the subtle shift of your bodies leaning toward each other. Not enough for most people to clock, but obvious to him. He smelled it, too, in the air between you: the faint uptick in adrenaline, the almost imperceptible change in your pheromones, the markers of attraction most humans would miss.

And it gutted him.

Because it wasn’t just that you and Bruce were circling each other. It was that the universe itself seemed to be pulling you closer, bond or no bond. Fuck, he should have—

“Eyes and ears will be on you at all times,” Diana said, her tone calm but firm, reigning in Clark’s attention. “Remember, you’re not alone out there.”

You smiled softly at her. “I know. I can feel it already.”

Another laugh bubbled out of Barry, breaking the heaviness. “Just don’t forget us little people when you’re out there turning heads.”

You smirked. “I’ll send you a postcard from the champagne bar.”

The room loosened a little with the laugh that followed, even from Diana. But Clark’s smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Because he knew what Bruce was thinking. He could hear it in the way Bruce’s heart picked up when you laughed, see it in the way his gaze lingered on you too long.

And Clark couldn’t silence the truth screaming in his chest: He had broken you. But it was Bruce who was already helping you putting the pieces back together.

❥❥

The gala glittered like a thousand jewels under crystal chandeliers. Laughter chimed over champagne, the air thick with perfume, politics, and greed.

You stepped into the room, every detail of your appearance perfectly calculated. Heads turned immediately. The sapphire gown flowed like liquid midnight, your hair swept up to bare the curve of your neck, every step confident but not ostentatious. Exactly the kind of mystery these people thrived on.

You felt the shift ripple through the crowd as you passed: the whispered ‘Who is she?’ and ‘I saw her earlier gown shopping!’ The sidelong glances, the subtle maneuvering to get closer. It was working.

“Eyes on you already,” Bruce’s voice murmured in your comm, smooth and controlled.

“I told you,” you whispered back, lips barely moving as you accepted a champagne flute from a passing waiter. “These people are vultures for novelty. Give them something shiny, they’ll circle.”

On the far side of the ballroom, you spotted him. Bruce Wayne, Gotham’s favorite son, draped in a tailored black suit and his signature Brucie smile. Warm, charming, and just arrogant enough to sell the part. Beside him, Diana gleamed like marble brought to life, poised and effortless, her laughter like music.

Across the sea of glittering gowns and tuxedos, his gaze swept over you in a long, deliberate pass. Unreadable to anyone else, but to you, it struck low and sharp. A heat in your stomach, making your pulse stumble. You didn’t falter, but every nerve in your body hummed, aware of him.

Clark’s voice cut into the comm, taut, controlled. “Keep your distance from Wayne and Diana. Too much attention between the two of you could compromise the cover.”

You smirked faintly into your glass. “Relax, Boy Scout. I know how to play the part.”

“Then play it,” Bruce muttered under his breath, but his eyes hadn’t left you. A challenge, a game for the two of you.

Before you could retort, the doors opened.

A hush rolled through the room as Lex Luthor entered in a sharp black suit, his presence swallowing the space as easily as if he owned it. Which, in many ways, he did. Conversation tilted, laughter quieted, and all eyes angled toward him.

“Bingo,” you whispered.

Lex’s gaze swept the crowd, then landed on you. And he smiled.

It was the kind of smile that expected people to bow. You didn’t. You held his eyes, your expression politely curious, just amused enough to pique his interest.

A moment later, he was at your side. “New face,” he purred, voice warm but edged. “And one worth noticing.”

You tilted your head, offering him a small smile. “That’s one way to greet someone.”

He chuckled, clearly charmed. “Most women trip over themselves to be noticed by me. Yet you don’t seem impressed.”

You sipped your champagne, your voice light. “Should I be?”

His laughter rang louder this time, delighted. “I like you.”

The conversation flowed easily from there. You fed him just enough admiration to keep him preening, balanced with wit sharp enough to keep him intrigued. When he asked for a dance, you accepted, gliding into the center of the floor as the string quartet swelled.

Across the room, Bruce’s jaw tightened as Lex’s hand settled at your waist. The glass in his hand stilled, then found its way onto a passing tray. He turned smoothly toward Diana, the Brucie smile sliding easily into place.

“Care for a dance, Princess?”

Diana’s brow arched, amusement flickering, but she placed her hand in his. Together, they swept onto the floor. To the untrained eye, they were dazzling. Gotham’s billionaire and Themyscira’s princess warrior gliding as though they owned the space.

But you weren’t untrained.

You saw it. The way Bruce’s gaze slid toward you and Lex, sharper and too frequent for the role he played. His laugh came at all the right cues, his charm was impeccable, but beneath it, the simmering tension bled through in every glance. And every time his eyes brushed yours across the floor, something in your chest sparked, heat flushing your body with a flash of desire that had no business in this mission or the silent game Bruce issued. Yet, there it was, and the urge to prove something to Bruce about his own game.

Bringing your focus to Lex at the perfect time, you catch another one of his inflated-ego comments.

“Dancing with Lex Luthor is a privilege, you know,” he said, voice low, smug.

“Oh, I know,” you replied smoothly, “and I’ll be sure to remind myself if I ever get bored.”

He laughed, full and delighted. Hooked.

On the other side of the dance floor, Bruce’s growl was audible even through the comms. “I don’t like this.”

Diana’s voice was calm, teasing. “It’s working. Look at her, he’s completely distracted.”

Clark said nothing, though the tension in his silence weighed heavy.

Barry, though, caught the way Bruce’s jaw tightened. He smirked.

“Hey, Bats, relax. You know Lex only likes himself. She’s way too good for him anyway. I mean, look at that shiny dome, you could probably see your reflection in it. Maybe that’s why he’s so arrogant, he stares at himself all day.”

For the first time in the mission, Bruce actually barked out a genuine low chuckle. Clark snorted despite himself, as Diana let out a soft, amused chuckle.

And you, right in Lex’s arms, chose that moment to laugh too, the sound light and unguarded. To Lex, it sounded like you’d found his quip amusing. He preened. You smiled. Everyone else knew the truth.

Lex preened, smug satisfaction radiating from him.

Bruce smiled his Brucie smile, but you saw through it. You saw the simmer, the sharpness in his eyes when Lex’s hand lingered too long at your waist.

Something was brewing, and you had no idea of the storm that was coming your way. 

❥❥

The night air was cool against your skin as you slipped out a side door into the alley, heels tapping softly on the uneven pavement. The distant thrum of music and laughter from the gala was still audible, but here in the shadows it felt like another world.

Diana was already waiting, her presence regal even beneath the faint glow of the streetlights. Bruce joined a moment later, his tie slightly loosened, his mask of easy charm gone.

“Good work,” he said, voice low, steady. But his eyes didn’t linger on Diana, the found you instead.

You nodded, smoothing the fabric of your gown. “We’ve got enough to trace the money trail. Lex didn’t mean to drop it, but he wanted me impressed. Easier than I thought.”

Diana gave a small, approving smile. “Then it was worth it.”

As the beam from the Watchtower prepared to lock onto the three of you, Bruce shifted closer deliberately. His hand rested lightly on your lower back, warm and grounding, steadying you as the world dissolved into light. Almost as if he was trying to replace Lex’s touch. 

And then the weight was gone.

When you rematerialized in the Watchtower, the absence of his hand startled you more than the disorientation of the transport. For one breathless moment, you found yourself missing it. Missing the quiet pressure of his touch, brief as it had been.

You walked with Diana and Bruce into the debrief chamber, the others already gathering. Your and Diana’s heels clicked softly against the steel floor, the sound echoing as you moved toward your seats.

And then you looked up.

Bruce was already watching you.

The eye contact lingered, too long to be casual, too sharp to be ignored. Something unspoken pulsed between you, heavy and inevitable. A conversation waiting to happen.

You sat across from him, your posture calm, professional, as the debrief began. But your pulse betrayed you. And when his gaze dropped, just briefly, to the curve of your mouth before meeting your eyes again, your chest tightened with the certainty.

Something was brewing. And neither of you would be able to ignore it much longer.

❥❥

The debrief had ended, the team dispersing into different corridors of the Watchtower, each to their own duties or rest. You gathered your notes, the satin of your gown swishing softly as you rose. The weight of the night clung to you, not just the mission but the brush of Lex’s hand, the glances across the ballroom, and most of all, Bruce’s presence at your side.

When you stepped out into the quieter hallways, Bruce fell into stride beside you without a word. His hands were tucked into his coat pockets, his expression composed, but the air between you vibrated with something left unsaid.

Neither of you spoke at first. The corridor was long, hushed, the sound of your footsteps steady in sync. Finally, as you reached the hall leading to your quarters, he broke the silence.

“You handled yourself well tonight.”

You glanced at him, a small smile tugging at your lips. “I think that’s an understatement. I did incredible and saved the mission.”

“You’re right, I don’t know why the rest of us bother when you’re on the job,” he said, dry, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him.

You gave a small laugh as you both slowed as you reached your door. You turned to face him, expecting a nod, a brusque goodnight. Instead, he stopped too, his jaw tight as though he was weighing something.

Then his eyes lifted to yours, and his voice dropped lower, quieter, but steady.

“Watching you with Lex tonight…it bothered me more than I care to admit.”

Your brow arched. “Bothered you?”

“It shouldn’t have.” His eyes finally met yours, sharp and conflicted. “You’re my colleague. A… teammate.”

You tilted your head, hearing what he hadn’t said. “Technically?”

His hand flexed at his side. Then he stepped closer, the shadows of the corridor softening his expression. “Because I don’t want to just be your coworker. I feel more for you than that. Since meeting you, I’ve realized something I didn’t think possible, that I can fall in love again. That maybe I can have the kind of love soulmates are supposed to be. Overpowering. Fulfilled. Real.”

Your breath caught. The words, the rawness, the truth of it, cutting through every wall.

“Let me be that for you,” he said, barely more than a whisper.

Your eyes burned. Your lips parted. And softly, shakily, you nodded. “Yes.”

He didn’t wait. His hand cupped the back of your head as his mouth claimed yours, kissing you with the passion of a man starved for years. He pressed you gently but firmly against the door, protective even in his urgency. His palm cradled your skull, shielding you from the force of the impact, while his other hand anchored at your waist.

You melted into him. The ache of rejection, the sickness of the broken bond, all of it blurring beneath the certainty of Bruce Wayne’s mouth on yours.

And for the first time in what felt like forever, your heart didn’t ache. It soared as the world slowed.

Bruce’s lips softened against yours, the urgency giving way to something deeper, steadier. He pulled back only enough to breathe, his forehead resting against yours. His hand was still cradling your head like you were something breakable, something precious. You are.

Your chest rose and fell, each breath shaky, your hands gripping the fabric of his suit as if letting go might undo everything.

He whispered first, voice low, gravel brushed with vulnerability. “You don’t have to answer tonight. Or tomorrow. But know this,”  His thumb brushed your jaw, the gentlest touch from the roughest hands. “I’m here. I won’t run. I won’t lie. If you let me, I’ll prove every word I just said. I would want for nothing more than to be yours..”

Your eyes closed, the burn of unshed tears pressing hot behind them. “Bruce,” you breathed, not sure if it was a plea, a warning, or gratitude.

He kissed you again, softer this time, reverent. A promise, pressed into the quiet of the corridor.

When he pulled back, his expression was steady, though his shoulders were still tense like a man holding back an entire storm. “Get some rest,” he murmured. “We’ve got work ahead of us.”

You nodded, still dazed, still tasting him on your lips. With a final squeeze of your waist, he stepped back. For the first time in years, the space between you and someone else didn’t feel like a wound.

You slipped into your quarters, leaning against the door once it shut, heart pounding for an entirely different reason than it used to.

This wasn’t the promise the universe had written for you.

But maybe, just maybe, it was better.

a/n: hahaha i was working on this throughout the week as well as equinox part 4, but i'm struggling with getting that out. instead i'm having thoughts of whole other ideas with different people instead of equinox. she'll be done though, eventually.

as always, i hope you've enjoyed. feel free to leave a like, comment or reblog, as they mean the world to me.

if things did not make sense, ignore it and move on, please and thank you. also keep an eye out for 13 nights of kink coming out in October.

taglist: thank you for everyone signing up! feel free to sign up here:

@Itszarinaig @Babypink224221 @notsochillnerd @mess-is-my-aesthetic @h-l-m

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Tonight, you’re standing on the edge of a building, when you hear the familiar ‘swoosh’ of the black cape beside you as the man himself emerges from the shadows.

You turn, a smirk already ok your face before you blink. “By yourself tonight, Batsy?”

Bruce doesn’t provide a response right away, and instead stands beside you, his eyes scanning the warehouse you two were planning on infiltrating. The plan for the night was simple. Patrol for a couple of hours, and then at 2 AM, stop a drug trade that was taking place in one of the abandoned warehouses of Gotham.

But it wasn’t usually just the two of you. Robin was usually by his side, or Nightwing was flipping around the place.

“Robin has school in the morning, and had homework to catch up on. Red Robin has a science project due tomorrow. I forbade them to come.” He says quietly. “Nightwing is still recovering from a leg injury. I’m not even sure where Red Hood or Orphan are.”

Huh. You hum a little, before grinning. “So just me and you?” Bruce just grumbles before giving you the signal.

You aren’t his kid, but you often find yourself following Bruce just like his own does. Even though you consider yourself separate from the family, Bruce did teach you fighting techniques. You practically grew up with Dick and Jason too.

Bruce noticed that tonight you’re acting different. You’re making more rash decisions, throwing yourself into mugging without surveillancing the scene, putting yourself in front of criminals without checking what weapons they have.

“You’re rushing.” He calls to you. “You need to slow down and take a second before throwing yourself into danger. Speeding through the city won’t make morning come faster.”

You scoff, laughing. “Whatever, old man.”

Bruce just tuts.

When 1:50 AM rolled around, you and Bruce were standing on a rooftop across the warehouse where the drug deal was taking place. Bruce wanted to use those ten minutes to observe how many people were going to be there, the weapons they would have, and if they had people in other places.

But you had other plans.

As soon as you saw the first two people arrive, you burst in. In your mind, you saw yourself kicking ass. Bruce had no choice but to join in to help you, but even the criminals could see he was seething under the mask, but not at them.

And when everyone had been tied up and the GCPD were called, Bruce turned to you.

“I told you not to rush.” He clipped, making your proud smile drop.

“What? How does that matter?” You say, exasperated. “We beat them!”

“But you rushed. You could’ve seriously miscalculated that.”

Your mouth drops open, disbelief written across your face. “But I didn’t-“

“You’re grounded.”

That sentence makes you stop. “Excuse me?”

“You’re grounded. You disobeyed instructions, and then talked back to me.” Bruce mutters tiredly, already walking back to the Batmobile. You step quickly behind him.

“Dude, I’m not even your-“

“Just get in the car.” He says. He’s dealt with this too many times.

And that’s how you find yourself in the Batmobile with two seatbelts keeping you in place while Bruce drives you back to the Manor.

And now you’re blinking back at Tim, Damian, Steph, and Jason, who was hanging out in the cave for an unclear reason.

“Why are you here?” Damian asks you, almost accusingly.

“Er-“ you start, your eyes darting to Bruce, who was hunched over the Batcomputer, already logging the drug bust. “I’m grounded?”

Bruce makes a small humming noise, which obviously translates to agreement.

Jason and Stephanie both snort with laughter, patting your shoulder before ascending the stairs to go to the Manor.

“Good luck with that.” Jason says.

“But I’m not his kid!” You say, almost desperately.

“You think he cares?” Steph shouts back.

You turn back to the other three in the cave, looking at Tim and Damian for help.

Tim just yawns and shrugs at you, already knowing that there isn’t much anyone can do for you now. Damian stayed silent for once, knowing what’s ahead of you.

You look around, utterly confused. You wonder what exact decisions led you to this moment and how you can reverse it.

Bruce points you up the stairs to the Manor. “Up to your room.”

“But I don’t even have a-“

“Now.”

And that voice is scary enough to have any person around him hurry up the stairs to find their ‘room’.

You followed Tim and Damian up the stairs. “Where exactly am I meant to go?”

Tim shrugs. “You’re a member of the house now. Choose a room.” And then they both disappear to their rightfully owned bedrooms.

And you’re wondering if it’s too late to book yourself into years worth of therapy in advance.

His deep voice peters off into a satisfied grumble towards the end and you choke on a laugh. Your stomach shakes and your core aches with the remnants of the workout he just put you through.

“Come on, where could you possibly need to go?” He murmurs the question into your skin, presses quirked lips to you to kiss your soft belly.

You huff out an amused noise, ignoring the way your stomach flutters, and run your hand through his hair. Jason sighs into the touch, melting under your fingers. It’s the sweetest thing you’ve ever seen; you fist your hand and pull against those loose curls anyway.

You feel a little bad at the utterly miffed look he throws you and give him an apologetic smile.

“I have something to do Jason.”

“What cou—”

There’s a visible second where you watch as Jason pauses, catching himself. He pulls away and sits up till his back’s against the headboard like you just caught on fire. His hair is a mess of wild curls and he’s covered in a sheen of sweat with red kiss bitten lips, by all means the image of post orgasmic bliss. Or he would be if it wasn’t for the way his eyes have hardened and those ruddy lips have twisted into a scowl.

“I mean,” he gives you a one shouldered shrug, “if you want to leave I’m not gonna stop you.”

Your brows go up some and you slip off the bed to stand, crossing your arms in the dim light of the room from the one lamp still on.

“What?”

“You wanna go then go,” he grunts. You don’t think he means for it to sound so thin.

‘Oh,’ you mouth with a nod of your head. “Jay, who said I was leaving, period?”

“You just did.”

His face pinches while he waves a hand to indicate you and you're honestly a bit thrown. Somehow it hadn’t crossed your mind that his aloofness on the field could be played up, but the reality is staring you right in the face. You sigh, arms dropping and then crawl back onto the bed.

The faint, tender redness around his eyes after you’d driven him to release made more sense now.

Jason stiffens, your dewy skin sliding up against the pallor of his inner thighs catching exactly how tense and hard his muscles get, but you push past that to peck his cheek.

His glare stutters just a little bit.

You speak slowly now that he’s willing to look at you again.

“I am going to take a piss, Jay. That’s literally it.” You nod to the singular window in the room. “Unless you bodily throw my ass out that window I’m staying until I have to go to work, okay?”

After a beat he nods, watches you hard, assesses. You stamp down your own urge to tense, making sure to stare back calmly instead. Jason’s not going to attack you out of nowhere.

It’s incredibly unlikely at least.

And he doesn’t. Only taking a few seconds in the night’s stillness to search your face then roving around to check the rest of you. You make sure to keep yourself relaxed; which isn’t a hardship since he’s not even alarming you. Hell, you just asked him to make you scream and he obliged with open enthusiasm, it’d be weird if he did.

Satisfied Jason eventually pushes further away from the headboard with another nod. To anyone else, anyone not in y’all’s line of work, his inspection might have seemed inappropriate, even threatening, but you know what he was looking for. You weren’t good enough to hide the lines of deception in your body language from him and he knew it.

Not, especially, when you were stark naked at his hand.

You hum, “We good now?”

“Peachy,” he says and you let some of your pleasure at that show on your face. Hard won progress was often the best progress after all.

He licks his lips then, a slow smile spreading across them in response. There’s a flash of teeth as he grins.

“I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Your lips quirk and you duck your head to hide the evidence threatening to bloom on your face.

“Yeah, you can see me again tomorrow,” you nod. Another thought comes to you in the next second and a grin splits across your face, your dark eyes lighting up. “Maybe I’ll even kick your ass for a second night in a row and everything.”

“You ambushed me,” Jason points out, eyes narrowing playfully.

When you lean into him more he easily welcomes your weight. With your lids low over your eyes and your lips brushing his, you meet his blue, ever calculating gaze.

“And you were impressed,” you murmur over his mouth.

When you quirk a brow, daring him to argue, Jason only chuckles and pulls you into a quick kiss. Or at least it’s supposed to be quick. Jason’s lips are soft, if you run your tongue along his bottom lip you can feel the permanent devit there from taking one hit to the face too many, his body’s warm and his hands on you are hungry. It’s tempting to go another round, it really is, but you’ve got to deal with this or it’ll be nagging at the edges of your mind the whole night.

You pull away.

“Bathroom,” you say pointedly.

Jason lets you go after one more peck on the lips, reclining so he can watch the way your ass moves as you make your way there. You add a little bounce to your step just for him.

So preoccupied with the near miss in the bedroom and how giddy Jason in general makes you feel — his eyes on you, his hands squeezing you, his voice in your ear and that gruff Bowery accent, the fact that you’d be seeing him again — you forget to do anything other than close the door to his attached bathroom before you sit on the toilet.

That oversight is pointed out instantaneously.

Your pussy queefs. There’s a beat of silence where your head snaps up and you stare in front of you wide eyed and then low raucous laughter flutters in from outside.

It barely lasts ten seconds but for the life of you you can’t stop the way your head drops into your hands and how your face heats up.

“That mean I do my job right, Gorgeous?”

Against your better judgment your own laugh bubbles past your lips.

“Oh my god,” you mumble into your palm.

You make sure you finish up there thoroughly though, because yeast infections were no laughing matter, before getting up to wash your hands.

You’re opening the door to leave when something catches your attention.

The telltale bruising of a hickey stamped onto the side of your neck. And another one a centimeter below the first. Then a trail of two more; one on the curve of your right breast and on the skin covering your sternum. Shifting a little more brings to attention a bite mark against the pouch of your stomach next. Your brows raise.

“Hmph,” you hum in mild surprise before aborting your leave to lean closer to the mirror.

About four hickeys in total. Four bruises that he managed to suck into your skin hard enough that they were fairly prominent against your brown tone. Deep in color and just a tad tender to the touch.

There’s only one bite mark though. Supple around the edges, but only a little tender to the touch. It’s clear upon closer inspection that he’d revisited the spot though, the imprint of his teeth vaguely overlapping a few times.

You snort.

“You okay?” Jason asks and your eyes immediately slide to the doorway because he sounded much too clear.

Sure enough in your exploration Jason hadn’t even bothered to slip on his boxers and traveled closer without your notice and was now doing the worst imitation of someone who couldn’t care either way what answer you gave him. Aloof your ass, you’d stalled for nary a minute and he was already by your side with a downturned quirk of his lips.

It was amazing how cute he was for being a man that the descriptor wouldn’t normally be prescribed to, who you’d monitored through coms cracking a man’s shoulder blade in one strike. It was especially difficult to ascribe the word cute to him when he was drawing closer. You’re both naked — because what are clothes when you’ve been inside of and have had someone inside of you? — but your jaw still goes slack at all not-insignificant pounds of your bed partner sidling up to you. Jason’s all thick thighs and torso, corded muscle covered by a layer of fat that’s only noticeable cause he’s not flexing; he was, in short, a sight.

You swallow.

He is a very nice to look at man, and you knew that before you got involved with him, but there was something even better about being able to see him like this; naked and not afraid of it. For your eyes only. Scars and all.

“Uh huh,” you draw out in a sigh that’s far too dreamy before clearing your throat and allowing a tiny coy smile to take over your lips. “Somebody got a little…excited.”

You shove your thumb at the mirror and give him a pointed look. He falters, brows furrowing, but braces a hand on the frame and leans enough into the bathroom that he can watch you in the reflection.

He stays momentarily transfixed. Catalogs each bruise, eyes greedily wandering over the dark newly adorned expanse of your neck and chest and stomach. A smirk plays on his lips.

“God, you look so fucking good like that,” he murmurs.

He snaps out of it when he absentmindedly makes eye contact and sends you an apologetic look.

“Shit, I mean, sorry. I should be more careful next time, huh? That’s my bad.”

“Nah,” you shake your head. “I like the marks, Jay. Some more would’ve been even better, actually….”

His hand comes up to rub at the back of his neck prior to him giving you a lopsided grin. “Well gee,” he jokes, “I’ll have to keep that in mind then. I just didn’t want to scare you off our first time.”

You nod, “So considerate, Jay. I’m only telling you for — you know? — next time.”

“Mm,” any leftover sheepishness slips from his face, replaced by that easy smirk again as he enters the bathroom. “What I'm hearing is that you're already desperate to have my cock back inside of you. Is that it?”

You tamp down the wanton sound that immediately climbs up your throat. Although by the way Jason’s looking at you your attempts at lessening its volume by biting your lip have failed.

He chuckles, eyes lighting up, and grabs hold of your waist beads to pull you towards him. You go with a surprised ‘oof’ as he manhandles you. Once you’re up against his chest he wraps his arms around your middle and shifts to kiss at the side of your neck. Right over a particularly prominent bruise.

You laugh as he noses along the brown of your skin, following the short trail of marks he left. Large hands run down your plush thighs before squeezing and pulling your bodies flush together. You moan softly, head thrown back, as your ass meets his hardening cock.

“Oh fuck…”

“Yeah,” Jason nips at your neck, thrusting into you with a groan, breath leaving goosebumps along your flesh. “Don’t worry, Gorgeous, I’ll be way more thorough this round.”

NOTES: Hope you enjoyed!!!🫶🏾

Finally posting my back up fic; this one’s a cutie. Just a cozy, sexy little gal.

To fight the unthinkable, you have to be willing to do the unthinkable.

The problem with that piece of sage advice – an unprompted courtesy of Oliver Queen – is that you can’t think of a single thing to do. Daniel Brickwell, alias: Brick, is hosting yet another illegal poker game. It’s a cover, you know, a way to explain a meeting of his enforcers and ranking criminals in his empire. Since you left Green Arrow’s direct supervision and claimed a piece of Starling City as your own, you’ve kept a wary eye on Brick. With his impervious skin and innumerable allies, you’ve yet to find a way into his illegal activities.

Perched on the roof of City Hall, you watch and listen. The listening device Oliver gifted you at the end of your time on his team is linked to the earpiece in your mask, feeding you a clear stream of the conversation occurring within the underground bunker.

“Royal flush, maybe?” someone asks.

A door opens, the loud crack of wood against a wall causing you to flinch away from the audio stream. As you stand, a barrage of gunfire rings through the speaker. It sounds like an automatic weapon, and you ready your bow to grapple across the city. But then the shooting stops.

“Sorry, boys,” a voice says flatly. “Royal Flush gang is busy in Belle Reve at the moment. Perhaps I could be of assistance instead.”

“Hood,” Brick spits. Red Hood, you realize then, who is supposed to stay in Gotham. “Invitation only.”

“Oh,” Red Hood replies. A zipper jingles before he murmurs, “Must’ve lost mine.”

“Fifteen seconds to tell me what you want,” Brick growls.

“Tell you men to stand down,” Red Hood demands.

“I don’t think so.”

There’s a quiet rustling, then a single gunshot.

“Stand down!” Brick yells after the ringing ends. “What do you want, Hood?”

“Not much,” he answers. “Break up this game and give me ten percent of whatever you’re dealing this week.”

“This isn’t a negotiation, boy, it’s a business.”

“You just saw how I conduct business,” Hood says, his voice low and gravelly. “So, do we have a deal Brick?”

You hold your breath until Brick says, “Ten percent? Yours. Take the Glades.”

The Glades are yours. Your responsibility, your duty. If Red Hood thinks he can waltz into your city, your neighborhood, and take whatever he wants, he has a lot to learn. It’s too late to catch him in action, you know, but that doesn’t mean you can’t do anything. It’s time to catch a bat, and when you do, you’ll put an end to all of this.

You seem to always be a step behind Red Hood. So far, he’s left three bodies in his wake, stolen from fellow criminals, and delivered a bloodied low-level enforcer to the front steps of the Starling City Police Department. He’s moving through every contact Brick has in the Glades. Yet, he isn’t taking business; he isn’t trying to undermine Brick. Instead, he’s… ending it all.

Stepping backward on a roof, you stop when you collide when something behind you. The cold metal barrel planted beneath your shoulder blades is unmistakable, and you clench your jaw as you show your empty hands.

“You’ve been following me,” Red Hood murmurs in your ear, tipping his chin toward your shoulder. “Want to tell me why?”

“You need to leave Starling City,” you demand. “This isn’t your home, you have no right to come here, bringing the blood and hate of Gotham with you.”

He laughs lowly, then removes the gun from your back. “If that’s what you think, you haven’t been looking close enough.”

You turn, then take a step back so you’re not so close to the threatening helmet or deep red, almost blood-colored bat emblem on his chest.

“Last chance to leave,” you say, curling your hands into fists.

“Is that really what you want, little hero?”

“Yes.”

Red Hood closes the distance between you, and you realize then that it wasn’t a gun he held against you. Rather, a metal escrima stick. Nonlethal.

“You’ve seen it all?” Red Hood asks.

Nodding, you wonder if you’re picking a fight you can even win.

“Then you know what I am capable of,” he adds. “I’d advise you stay out of my way.”

“No,” you reply firmly. “Threaten me, show me pictures of the bodies, it won’t work.”

“Are you really willing to go so far for a fight that isn’t your own?”

“This became my fight when you came into my home. And I still believe, despite it all, that the essence of heroism is to die so others can live.”

Red Hood moves beneath the helmet, then chuckles. “That naivety is what will get you killed. Then we’ll see who the Glades really belong to.”

You swing your right arm into a body hook. It goes behind his arm, hitting the edge of his lat and knocking him off center. He laughs as he turns toward you. You don’t falter in your fighting stance, but fear courses through you at his response.

“I’m not going to fight you,” Red Hood says, keeping his distance from you. “If you keep following me, I can’t promise you’ll come out the same as you are now.”

“What does that mean?” you ask.

Red Hood steps backward toward the edge of the roof. “Next time we meet, think for yourself. The bow is the instrument of good; the arrow is the intention. Therefore, aim with the heart, my pretty little archer.”

He disappears into the darkness, and as you pace the length of the roof and look down into the alley, you reconsider his words. Specifically, his easy use of “my pretty little archer.”

Focus, you tell yourself. Don’t let him in your head.

Bruce sighs as he raises his phone to his ear. “Mr. Queen,” he greets. “What do you want?”

“I don’t only call when I want something, Bruce,” Oliver defends.

“I see,” Bruce replies flatly. “So, what do you want?”

Oliver hesitates, then asks, “Do they know?”

“They being Red Hood and your young protégé? How would I know what they know?”

“You know this Red Hood, Bats. Just tell me if I need to step in. Is she… Does she really know what she’s getting herself into?”

“Neither of them do,” Bruce admits. “But let them figure it out themselves, Ollie.”

“Sure,” Oliver says as the line beeps. “Yeah, that sounds great. Not like he decapitated a few of the people who got in his way in Gotham or anything.”

An arrow whizzes beside Jason’s head as he slips his finger into the trigger guard. The man curled in on himself and tucked against the corner of a foreclosed house, whimpers. Jason pulls the trigger, then turns and waves in the direction the arrow came from. You didn’t miss, he knows. That was a warning shot, but your warning goes against his plans.

If Jason stops now, Brick will just rebuild his empire, and the streets of Starling City will continue to flood with crime. There isn’t much to show for his time in Gotham, and he was getting tired of Bruce and Dick’s shadows following him everywhere. So, Jason decided to offer his unique talents to Starling City. He wasn’t expecting an arrow would try to stop him.

As he leaps across a gap between roofs, Jason wonders if you’re still behind him. A week and a half after you demanded he leave, you’ve only given him a warning shot against killing. You aren’t firm in your beliefs. Jason is half-tempted to shame you for the lack of commitment and half-tempted to drop to his knees and praise you for not letting Oliver tell you exactly how to think. Together, he realizes, the only temptation is to get close to you again.

Red Hood has an interesting way of speaking to you, you notice quickly. Even his threats are veiled in refined literary taste. As you continue following him, keeping your distance as you observe every move he makes, you lose much of your determination to make him leave the Glades. He’s killed several men you have tried to get off the streets before, only to have them released and operating at double capacity within a week. When he stumbled upon one of Brick’s personal guards cornering a young girl, he saved her, kept her from seeing how, and made sure she got home safe. Whatever it is Red Hood is doing, there’s more to it than undermining Brick.

A month into following Red Hood, you take a night off. It’s not wholly intentional, but when you finally finish an impromptu fight with Paragon, you’re tired. So, you go home. You bypass Oliver’s lair – you continue to refuse to call it the Quiver, no matter how hard Oliver sells it – and climb through a dark window before you remove your mask.

Your back is to the window when someone knocks on it. Pulling your bow forward, you let your hand block your face as you turn on your heel and catch your weight.

“Hood,” you breathe out, keeping your hand before you. “What are you doing here?”

“You were limping,” he calls through the window. “You alright?”

Weighing your options, you release the tension on the bow, but keep your face covered as you request, “Turn around.”

“Seriously?” he asks, dropping his chin toward his chest.

“Turn around!” you repeat.

He spins, crossing his arms dramatically as he taps his foot. After replacing your mask, you open the window and step out into the small space between him and the window. You tap his shoulder, then roll your eyes when he sighs and turns around.

“I wouldn’t mind seeing you just a little unkempt,” he murmurs. “But if you are of the opinion that hiding your beauty beneath the mask will keep this alive, by all means continue.”

“Shut up,” you demand, pressing an arrowhead to the seam beneath his emblem. “You followed me to my home. What is keeping me from killing you, Hood?”

“Our mutual trust,” he replies flatly, taking a deep breath against the weapon. “I’m not here for you, archer.”

“Then why are you here?” you ask, tightening your fingers around the chiseled stone. “No more lies, just tell me what it is you’re doing in my city.”

“Not much,” he deflects, shrugging.

“You have broken laws, you’ve committed murder, you are far outside your depths and whatever it is you do in Gotham. I’m asking you to answer one question!”

Red Hood sighs. Beneath the mask, Jason pulls his lower lip between his teeth and weighs the options. “I’m trying to help,” he begins. “Brick had some associates in Gotham. They were a few of the men I got out of the way, removed them entirely from society. And it was for the better.”

“That’s what you’re doing here?” you question incredulously.

“I’m on somewhat of a break from Gotham,” he adds, tipping his helmet up toward the dark sky. “It was getting… batty.”

You smile before leveling your expression. He isn’t supposed to impact you like this, but you believe him.

“Okay,” you drawl, lowering your hand. “You want to help us? There needs to be sound ground rules.”

“Ground rules?” he repeats, dropping his helmeted gaze back to you. “My help doesn’t follow your rules.”

Ignoring that argument, you raise a finger to list, “No more killing people. Criminals or not.”

“I-“ Red Hood falters at the tone of your voice, then nods for you to continue.

“Keep me in the loop,” you add. “And the next time I ask a question, you answer. No more of the runaround.”

“You love the runaround,” he argues lowly, clearly teasing you. “Admit it. Like a thief loves a gallery and as a crow loves a murder, as a cloud loves bats.”

“Ah,” you interrupt. “But I’m an archer, right? Not a cloud.”

You smile as you turn away, but Red Hood catches your wrist, his gloved fingers closing gently around your arm.

“I’m sorry,” he offers.

“It’s okay.” After you open your window, you offer, “Ask if you need anything.”

Red Hood nods, watches you go inside and close the curtains. When you’re gone from his sight, Jason whispers, “Even you?”

The night after your serendipitous meeting with Red Hood, you are on a short assignment for Ollie: looking for evidence that Ra’s al Ghul passed through Starling City on his way to Gotham. Working for Ollie tends to make you easily distracted, but when you hear a familiar voice say, “$300 or nothing,” you completely forget about the task at hand.

Carefully, you look through a broken window and identify Red Hood and Frederick Tuckman. Tuckman hands over a wad of cash in exchange for a small pouch, and you release a disbelieving breath. You aren’t sure who you’re more disappointed in: Red Hood, who you thought was becoming an ally, or maybe even something more, or Tuckman, who knows what Oliver is trying to do for this city.

Tuckman knows, you remember. You fire a grapple arrow at the closest roof and fail the landing in your disappointment with yourself. Red Hood used you to get the Tuckman. Whatever his grand plan is, he clearly isn’t working for the god of your people.

“How’s my favorite archer-“

You don’t let Red Hood finish his sentence before you turn, firing an arrow in his direction before nocking another. He steps back, hissing when the arrowhead buries itself in his shoulder, pinched into the weakest spot of his armor.

“Nice shot,” he breathes out.

Lunging toward him, you spin your bow in your hands and hit it against his leg. He twists his left leg against the roof, throwing a rear cross that makes impact with your cheek. It doesn’t hurt nearly as badly as it should, but you don’t dwell on that as you slide past him, catch yourself, and raise to one knee to elbow beneath his ribs.

Red Hood gasps again, throws a quick jab, then remains motionless as you punch his armor again and again. By the time your punches slow, your breathing is heavy, and a tear rolls over your cheek.

“I saw you,” you explain, stumbling away from him. “You- you used me to get to Tuckman, and you’re probably using him to get somewhere too. You lied to me.”

“Tuckman is doing me a favor,” Red Hood argues. “He helped me stage that meeting so we could be seen. I want to know where Brick thinks his influence stops and where it really reaches.”

“Stop lying to me!” you yell.

You spin to face him with an accusatory finger directed at him. When your masks meet, however, you stop. Your chest heaves as you stare at the anti-hero before you. There’s no way of knowing if he’s telling the truth now, but you want to believe him. That’s almost scarier than what would happen if he were simply lying.

Right now, alone on this roof, it’s no longer a bat fighting an arrow; it’s just you and Red Hood looking at one another as the world goes quiet outside your gaze.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” you inquire as your hand falls to your side.

“I want you to trust me,” he answers. “But I know trust is earned. If I told you everything I was doing, I knew you’d think I was lying to you.”

“Why’d you let me hit you so many times?”

Red Hood chuckles and glances down at the arrow protruding from his shoulder. “I deserved a few of those hits.”

You close the distance between you and gently tug the arrow out of his skin. “Sorry,” you murmur.

“Not the first time it’s happened.”

You press your hand to his shoulder, holding his other arm in your hand with your fingers pressed into his tricep. With your chests inches apart, you can hear him breathing beneath the mask.

“Don’t worry about it,” Red Hood says, his hand ghosting over your hip. “Not every day I get shot by such a pretty archer.”

You roll your eyes and immediately realize your mistake. You’ve spurred him on.

“Each arrow leaves a memory in your heart… or your shoulder… and it is the sum of those memories that will make you shoot better and better.”

“Are you really flirting with me, or is this just a tactic to keep me compliant?”

“I let you shoot me,” he replies. “What do you think?”

“Well,” you sigh, pulling your hands away from Red Hood but not stepping back. “I guess that makes me a cloud.”

Red Hood lifts his hands to his helmet, which hisses quietly before he lifts it away from his face. There’s a domino mask over his high cheekbones, a stark white streak in his dark hair, but you don’t have the time to admire him properly before he cups your face and kisses you.

“Told you,” Bruce says, tugging his ball cap lower over his eyes as he watches Red Hood from a table at an outdoor café.

“I get it,” Oliver grumbles from behind his cup, his eyes locked on you. “As the father figure of the bride, though, I get to pay for the wedding.”