Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Damian, this would be a bad idea, right?” Jon Kent, Superman, with a choked voice, asked his stubborn best friend.

“Tt, Kent. If we had any other resource or avenue to get it, I would not do this reckless, asinine, and mostly dubious one. Possibly fake. There was no such thing as soulmates,” Damian Wayne, Batman in his adult years, brushed up his hair. The cowl was down, his high collar impeccable as always.

Looking at the magical sphere, Themyscira in origin, and a written note from the absent third member of the Trinity, Elizabeth Prince.

Possibly a dare, a written letter that said: “Use it to see your soulmate. Son of the Bat, you’re still single for a decade since Nika had left. You must take the chance, forget the past, and see the future with your soulmate. It is only a one-way use, so do it if you’re ready.”

“P.S. It’s not fake, Damian; it’s a real deal. This sphere was an heirloom of my grandmother.”

“Tt, I choose to be celibate, I am not moping around.” Damian gritted his teeth as he took the sphere and looked at it. It was obsidian as he focused. He rubbed it with his hand, checking.

“Wait, we’re not sure what powers it has. You know Lizzie, she’s playful and a bit of a prankster,” Jon said. But before he could reason with his best friend, a dark-blinding light swallowed Damian. In one blink, the Batman vanished.

Jon put his hand to his temple. “Stubborn as a mule.” But the letter swiftly changed, flipping to reveal another written note from Lizzie.

“If you read this after you use it, heh, I win. I just forgot some important things.”

“What important thing?” Jon whispered.

“It is not merely a soulmate. Remember, guys, when we defeated a magic user? That the two of you became Corgis, insufferable dogs? Ehe, the sphere is not only going to find your soulmate; anyone who uses it will become their soulmate’s Soul-Pet. Tee-hee!”

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Marinette Dupain-Cheng’s MDC apparel had skyrocketed in her adult life. She had been busy for a decade, but her love life was down the drain. She and Adrien really tried, but the betrayal regarding his father, Hawkmoth, stung too much, so they remained friends. Even flings, like with Kiss from Stellar Force, didn’t work.

Now in her studio apartment, she was waiting for Manon. That girl was going places, genius intellect to boot. Manon needed safe-keeping for a new pet, so Marinette offered to help. A break from work to babysit a dog for a day wouldn’t be a bad pastime.

She heard the doorbell ring at her apartment door. She panicked, tripped, and momentarily opened the door, but Manon was not in sight. Instead, there was a box containing a pet: a Corgi, medium-sized, and, aww, it was wearing something.

“That’s cute! You’re in a costume, and wait……that’s the newest Batman apparel, his new high collar too. and super-long bat-ears!” she whispered. She carefully took the dog out of the box; it was still asleep. Forgetting Manon, she closed the door, looking at the costumed Batman dog. She chuckled, thinking this would be a major highlight of her week.

------------------------------------------------------------------—

Damian Wayne woke up groggy, his senses tenfold. The scent overwhelmed him; it was different. Not the Batcave. Not Pennyworth Manor. Where was he?

He stood up. Why is the world so big? Is he in a giantess’s home? Possibly.

He felt that he still had his cowl. He tried to stand up on two legs, but why was he crouching? And why... freaking paws?

NOT AGAIN! No, no, no.

He scrambled, a clumsy hop, run, and bumped into a designer pink monstrosity of a mirror. To his horror—NO. Looking at his reflection, he was not Batman. He was a Corgi in a Batman costume, with his high collar, and he was goddamn cursed AGAIN!

DAMN YOU, ELIZABETH!

He tried to roar, but he only growled: Barff barff!

---------------------------------------------------------------

Marinette entered the living room. “Oh, you’re finally awake, you’re so cute!” she cooed, spotting the Corgi in the Batman costume. “Don’t be scared. I’m your mama for today, huh? Come to think of it, Manon didn’t give you a name yet. Maybe I’ll call you one? Let’s see…”

Damian turned his furious attention from the mirror to the giantess speaking the saccharine nonsense. He tried to issue a guarded warning of his identity and his ability to dismantle her. He growled: “Barff! Grrr! Barff barff!”

“Oh, don’t be scared,” she said, laughing again at his attempt to look menacing. She completely misunderstood his aggression, seeing only a shy puppy. “It’s normal! I’m not put off. I can definitely swoon this little dog by the end of the day.”

Marinette giggled again; the Corgi refused to stand down. She had an idea: she fetched a blue ball and stood up. “See this?” The Corgi immediately stopped his frantic barking and focused intently on the ball.

As Marinette threw it to the farthest part of the room, the Corgi snapped, jumped, and hopped after it, overcome by the sheer, unadulterated joy of fetching something, just like any good dog would do. She laughed. Oh boy, she thought, my day would be so much fun if I had my own pet.

Damian Wayne hyperfocused. He must catch this ball no matter what. Using his Batman greatest detective skills, he calculated the trajectory. This ball was an easy catch. Wait, how far had that woman thrown it?

Oi. He glided, hopped over the obstacle, and swiveled. The ball was still flying into another room. Damn it. He lunged at the table and growled. Safe. He had taken the ball.

CRASH.

But the dollhouse had been broken. Oh, shoot. Did he over-brake? Oops. He needed to return...wait.

He could fix it. He used his snout, trying to push the pieces back together to fix the dollhouse.

But instead, it opened. It revealed a weird box, guarded, with a high-tech vault? Huh. Is this a money vault, possibly?

Shit.

This vault... the box with red spots. It seems high-tech, bordering on magical. It definitely utilizes a force field. How does this woman possess such an artifact? Is it a money vault? Is she a rich meta-human? Possibly.

But damn it, of course, this is Lizzie’s prank. The soulmate sphere.

Wait. Soulmate. He forgot that part.

Don’t tell me... that woman?

He assessed her properly now, his senses sharp. She was gorgeous. Petite. An adult wrapped in a baggy, homey, pink monstrosity of a jacket.

The scent hit him, plum blossoms. Her hair, not messy, but a shiny raven black. Her reddish cheeks. And those eyes... blue ocean eyes.

Wait. If Elizabeth’s artifact is real, then that girl... she is his soulmate.

Goliath’s Beard.

He completely forgot about the box. He jumped off the table, his heart racing. What is this feeling? Giddy? Eager? Scared? Is this love, or just dog excitement?

An audible gasp escaped the woman. Damian flinched, his body dropping low. His instincts, both the anxious dog and the trained assassin, registered immediate danger.

He bared his teeth, a low growl vibrating in his small chest. If this woman had a problem with him, she would learn a hard lesson. He wasn’t just a pet; he was the goddamn Batman.

But Marinette didn’t attack. She practically flew across the room, bypassing the mess entirely.

“Are you hurt?!” she cried out.

She glanced at the ruined dollhouse and its secret vault for a moment, but it didn’t concern her. She dropped to her knees, sliding on the floor to get closer to him.

“Oh, sweetheart,” she said softly, her voice wavering with fear, not irritation. “Is nothing broken? Come here, sweetie. Maman needs to check you.”

Her hand moved forward, but not to cause harm. She gently cupped his face, her thumb caressing the soft fur under his chin. Damian’s growl died instantly in his throat.

The gentle approach caused his defenses to collapse.

His aggression didn’t just waver; it melted.

“Tt”

This woman may not be entirely unfavorable.

Chapter Text

Thanks to the woman, the room was restored to order. She was muttering inane thoughts to herself, a constant stream of consciousness. Surprisingly, he really didn’t mind.

He often did the same, conversing with Alfred the Cat, Titus, or even Goliath when the dragon-bat was in the vicinity.Now, being on the receiving end of the monologue... it wasn’t bad. Her voice was a melody to his sensitive dog ears, not grating, even in her panic-induced mania.

She talked so fast, her hands moving in a blur as she swept up the debris and clicked the dollhouse walls back into place, effectively hiding the strange vault once more.He wiggled his tail, a traitorous appendage, and circling her ankles as she worked.

She laughed, the sound bright and clear. “Oh, baby! You’re trying to help? Oh, wait, I need to find a name fitted for you. Since you’re in costume... how about Bat-dog?”

Damian growled immediately.

No.

It was too simple.

It held no merit.

Just because he was Batman, ‘Bat-dog’ was sufficient? Hah.

He huffed, letting out a low, vibrating growl of protest.

Marinette laughed again, dusting off her hands as she stood up from the now-repaired dollhouse. “You don’t like that, huh? Okay, okay. I’m thinking of more.”

“Okay, so I have to think about the source material. Batman, the vigilante.” She tapped her chin, pacing slightly as she looked at the ceiling, lost in thought. “I think... is this the third generation Batman? I remember there were actually two Batmen in Paris when I was a kid. Maybe I was eleven?”

She shivered slightly at the memory. “Those were scary days, huh? The riots, the mass protests... and those high-level assassinations.

It was chaos until the Batmen and Nightrunner established Batman Inc. here. They saved Paris from The Corrigan - that creep who could mind-manipulate victims into committing those heinous crimes.”

She looked back down at the dog with a soft, respectful smile. “So, to Paris, Batman was a hero.”

Damian let out a sharp, satisfied bark.

She spoke highly of Batman’s history, especially his father and brother. Following the respectful history lesson, the girl’s approval rating had officially reached an “acceptable” status.

He adored his brother; he truly did.

He would never forget the time Grayson had taken him under his wing, guiding him when he was at his most volatile.

Go on, he seemed to say with a firm huff, settling down to listen. I think I can tolerate you a little more.

“So, how about the new Batman?” She gestured to his costume. “Of course, it’s new. Look at your high collar.”

She tilted her head, her designer eyes narrowing critically. “The new Batman... I think his fashion sense is stuck in the Industrial Revolution. Like, is this still the ‘Brooding Gaslight’ phase? Come on, we’re in the 21st century, and the one outfit Batman chose is from the 1900s? Maybe he likes gothic too much? Or is he a hopeless romantic?”

Damian’s jaw dropped.

Excuse me?

Hopeless romantic?!

This woman was an imbecile! A philistine! This high collar was not “Gaslight”—it was tactical perfection! It protected the jugular from garrotes and blade strikes! It provided a silhouette of regal intimidation! The peak of vigilante aesthetic, you fashion-blind civilian, it was!

His “favorability rating” for her plummeted from ‘Acceptable’ to ‘Nemesis’ in a split second.

He snapped his jaws. “Barff! Grrrrr! Barff!”

He stomped his little paws, growling menacingly. He wasn’t just protesting; he was correcting her lack of taste.

“Wait...” Marinette giggled, seeing the Corgi puffing up his chest and barking with genuine offense. “Oooh, you’re angry, baby? Am I badmouthing your idol?”

She laughed again, completely missing the fact that the “idol” was standing right there, seething at the critique of his wardrobe.

“Oui, okay, okay!” Marinette giggled as the Corgi continued his tirade. “I promise, I won’t badmouth him anymore! Okay? I’m going to say what is good about him.”

She hummed, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Hmm... speaking as a retired Heroine of Paris myself, I should be fair, right?”

Damian halted. He froze mid-bark.

Heroine?

His mind snapped instantly into defense mode. Superhero?

His eyes darted to the dollhouse in the corner. The vaulted box.

It all connected. Something was definitely fishy here.

He silenced his growl, his posture shifting from “angry pet” to “tactical observer.” He was now fully focused.

Fine, he thought, narrowing his eyes. This... “temporary soulmate” status is not fully decided yet.

But with extreme caution, he listened.

“Oh, wait! Before that, I have to prepare my lunch. And... are you eating dog food?”

The tactical tension was still there, but the mention of food... Dammit.

He was salivating.

Wait. His dog body was reacting on its own. Eek. His tail was wagging excitedly, betraying his stoic mind.

Marinette giggled at his enthusiasm as she moved to the small kitchen. He trotted over to check the prep station. What was she making? Was that French? American?

Why so much salt? Does this woman know how to cook? Oi, oi, wait—that’s not how you use a pan! Why are you shooting the ingredients into it? The kitchen was a disaster zone, yet the woman was gliding through it, singing.

She was reading a design magazine with one hand while flipping food with the other.

“Focus! Oui, you’re here. Sorry, I forgot,” she laughed. “I just love multitasking. Thinking about the design for my work while working on a different plate of food. Heh.”

She smiled, a little sadly, knowing the dog wouldn’t understand her. “Well, that’s just how it is. At least I have someone to say something to. Living alone in this apartment... I really should have gotten a pet sooner.”

She began to hum, a soft lullaby.

Damian listened.

It was surprisingly soothing. He looked up at the madwoman. Is she... sewing while stirring? Why is there a pencil balanced on her nose? And what in God’s name is that cooking?

It defied logic, but undeniably, the aroma was not bad.

HOW?

---------------------------------------------------—

The chaos of the cooking finally halted. Damian’s dog brain paused as he looked at the dining arrangements.

On the floor: a bowl of dog food.

Currently, as a Corgi, he wasn’t chemically averse to the smell. In fact, it smelled quite edible. But his dignity? That had been taken down another notch. This was the second time he had been reduced to a canine thanks to a cursed mishap in a Trinity mission, and the humiliation didn’t get easier with practice.

He resigned himself to the bowl.

Marinette looked at him, smiling wordlessly, before taking her own plate to the table. And so, she ate.

Damian paused his own meal to watch, and he was horrified.

The woman was Gar Logan incarnate. She possessed a Beast Boy level of food enthusiasm that was frankly terrifying. How the hell did she eat with that speed? Was she inhaling the pasta?

And wait. She was smiling. She was looking at a fashion magazine. And wait.

Is she... sewing again?

While eating? With a fork in one mouth and a needle in her hand?

HOW?

His head snapped up. His dog eyes widened, and his tail tucked between his legs in sheer horror.

It was like being back in the trenches. He was witnessing the specific horror of Garfield Logan—the glutton of his Teen Titans years. It was something... truly terrifying to behold. He was sure that if Gar found this woman, it would be the battle of the century. He wasn’t sure who would win.

Marinette looked at him, cheeks stuffed like a chipmunk, and spoke.

“Mmmph-ghh-shhh-rrr...”

She swallowed the massive bolus of food in one go, grabbed her water glass, and downed it.

“AAH.”

She wiped her mouth, looking at the stunned dog. “Oh, sorry. First time seeing a little woman eat like that? Hehe.”

She gestured with her fork, casual as ever. “You can say I have a ‘Miraculous’ appetite. As I was a past heroine,right? and I’m still a Guardian of a set of artifacts, one of the perks, or side effects, is that I need a lot of carbs to maintain my power.”

She nodded to herself, confirming the logic, and went right back to inhaling her meal.

Damian sat there, analyzing the data. He looked at the mountain of food. He looked at the petite woman. The volume of food dwarfed her physical mass.

It was scientifically impossible. And yet, she was eating it.

He calculated the logistics instantly. He was aware of his immense wealth. However, this woman... if she truly was his soulmate...

He would need the full assistance the entire kitchen staff, and perhaps a dedicated concierge just to satisfy this woman’s caloric intake.

He shuddered.

Wait. Why am I strategizing her meal plans? What is wrong with me?

But deep down, the visual manifested unbidden: Him, back in his human form, sitting at the long mahogany table in Pennyworth Manor. Her, eating with that same ferocious joy across from him. It was... disturbing.

And entirely endearing.

Chapter Text

Damian Wayne, as a Corgi, found the current situation not so bad. He was on the sofa with the human, and they were cuddling. As a dog, he drew closer to her. It was tranquil.

Marinette was reading a fashion magazine, gently caressing his head and ears. He nuzzled closer into her side. His cowl was off, but the Batman costume remained on his dog body -- a minor act of dignity he adamantly refused to have removed.

“You know, regarding the name... oh, right, sorry, I forgot,” Marinette murmured, breaking the comfortable silence. She looked down at him, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Maybe... Julius? As in Caesar?”

She giggled, poking his nose. “Hehe. You look like a little tyrant, menacing... but still cute.”

Damian stiffened. Absolutely not. Caesar? The man betrayed by his closest allies? It was insulting. Denied.

“No?” she asked, sensing his displeasure.

She hummed again, thinking. “How about... Alexander? Like Alexander the Great?”

Damian stood stock still.

Alexander.

That was his name. Well, his middle name—his hidden name, per se. It was the name his Mother, Talia, used when demanding greatness of him. The mandate was to rule, subduing the world under the League. It was a name of conquest.

A name of power.

He jumped up, barking excitedly. Yes. That is acceptable.

“Oh, Alexander, right...” Marinette beamed, seeing his tail wag. She scratched him vigorously behind the ears. “You like it, right? Good boy, Alexander!”

“Oh, right. What to do now?” Marinette tapped her chin, looking at her cluttered workstation. “I can’t really leave the apartment yet; I still have some work to finish for the meantime.”

She glanced down at him with a warm smile. “Alexander, I’ll leave you to it, okay? I have designs and sewing I need to complete. So, be a good boy and stay put, or just wander around the apartment.”

Damian let out a sharp, internal Tt. As if.

He was not some frivolous, easily excited creature who needed to be entertained. However, her distraction was his gain.

I could stay sitting here, he thought, or...

A smirk tugged at the corner of his dog muzzle.

I can investigate.

He surveyed the living room. It was adequate, he supposed, for a single studio apartment. A bit messy, certainly, but the true offense was the decor.

The walls were an assault of devious pink. How did she live with this? It looked like the quarters of a teenager, not a functional adult.

Not my problem, he told himself.

Although... when he brought her to Pennyworth Manor, he would have to think of color combinations. Perhaps a little bit of pink wouldn’t destroy the architectural integrity of the East Wing. Just a touch. A singular accent wall, perhaps? Just to placate her...

He paused.

What am I thinking?

He froze, horrified by his own treacherous mind. Is this what “blissful” feels like? It is only the first day! It hasn’t even been six hours, and he is thinking of a domestic life with her?

What a buffoon I am.

Elizabeth, you idiot.

He narrowed his eyes, growling softly. He was going to make sure Lizzie paid dearly for this emotional sabotage when he returned to his human form.

He squinted, carefully examining the picture frames on the wall. He needed information about his contact, and this “Wall of Memories” was an invaluable source.

He scanned the photos of her teenage years. A bakery... her parents... a group of friends.

Then, his gaze landed on a specific photo. A teen blonde boy.

Romantic interest? Possibly an ex?

Damian scoffed internally. Tt.

Curious. But ultimately, negligible. He was definitely more handsome than this blonde civilian. He possessed superior genetics and a sharper jawline. No contest.

He looked for more data. He found a group image, and his eyes zeroed in on a blonde woman in the background. She felt familiar.

Lee?

Wait. Was that Zoe Lee?

His photographic memory pulled up the file instantly. The bully from Gotham Academy. The one who had been kicked out.

He could not care less about the lives of civilians, but his one year at Gotham Academy had garnered him enough trouble, and that girl was a pain in the ass. A two-faced manipulator. Perhaps not malicious deep down, but the people she associated with were insufferable.

He didn’t know what happened to that idiotic harpy, nor did he care. But seeing her here raised a tactical question: Was Marinette like her? A vapid socialite? Or was she a victim of that social betrayal?

He shook his head, dismissing the thought. Irrelevant.

He couldn’t care less about high school drama. The only things from Gotham Academy worth remembering were Maps Mizoguchi and the Pizza Club. Everything else was noise.

He looked for more intel, scanning the photos from her adult years. Lycée. University graduation. And then... the brand launch.

MDC.

The acronym struck a chord. It felt familiar.

Wait.

Is this the fashion label that Maya Ducard, the sister he adores, never stops talking about?

It was highly probable. He recalled that Maya had taken a high-profile modeling contract in France specifically to walk for this label. He hadn’t accompanied her to Paris at the time; the cowl demanded his presence in Gotham, and he had no patience for runways.

But Maya... a retired vigilante who had successfully transitioned into a full, promising career in fashion.

What a small world indeed.

A sharp, tactical smirk formed in his mind. This changed the parameters of engagement entirely. He now had a secondary path of entry.

As Damian Wayne, he wouldn’t need to approach her as a stranger or a suspicious billionaire. If Maya is familiar with this MDC, or Marinette, then he has a legitimate social tie. He could bypass the awkward introduction phase entirely.

He didn’t just need to investigate the vault. He needed to contact his sister at once.

He returned to the edge of the sofa, settling near her feet. That was all the investigation for now.

He watched her, hyper-focused on her sewing, utterly silent and serene. She was undeniably cute.

He admired the perfect sweep of her raven hair pulled into a ponytail, the soft curve of her nape, and inhaled the constant, soft scent of plum blossoms emanating from her. Everything about her was so utterly wonderful.

He was gushing. He didn’t even know he was capable of this depth of sentiment. The League of Shadows and his identity as the Bat had forged his defenses, but they were now entirely shattered.

He was sure he would do whatever it took to learn more about this woman, to hold her, and to say her name. Damian Alexander al Ghul Wayne is certain his decade of solitude will soon be over.

His romantic daydreaming was rudely shattered by the shrill ring of a cell phone.

Marinette performed a tactical panic dive across the sofa, scrambling to grab the device before it stopped ringing. She tapped the screen and answered on speaker.

“Oui! Bonjour, Kiss!” she exclaimed, her voice bright and welcoming. “Long time no contact! How have you been?”

Damian’s ears perked up.

Kiss?

His eyes narrowed instantly. What kind of ridiculous name was that? Was it a nickname? An endearment? Or some idiotic stage name? He had no intel on this subject. Who was this male?

“Ooh, you’re in Paris?” Marinette continued, sounding surprised and... was she blushing? “And you’re coming here tonight? Wait, I’m not ready! My apartment is a mess!”

A pause.

“You’re bringing food? That’s... that was cool of you, yes.”

Damian felt a growl vibrating in his chest. Food?

This stranger was attempting to ply her with sustenance? That was a courting tactic! A strategy to gain entry!

“Am I free?” Marinette hesitated. She glanced down at the Corgi, biting her lip. “Aahm... ehhm... I’m actually babysitting a dog right now—”

Damian felt the hackles rise on his back.

A man. Coming here. Tonight. In his territory. To see his soulmate?

No way.

Absolutely not.

He didn’t know who this “Kiss” was, but he was about to learn that this territory was occupied.

He lunged.

With a snarl that belonged to a creature ten times his size, he tackled the phone in Marinette’s hand.

“BARFF! GRRR! BARFF BARFF!”

Denied! Perimeter breached! Access denied! Hang up the phone, woman!

“Alexander! What are you doing?!” Marinette shrieked, trying to hold onto the device as the Corgi snapped ferociously at the speaker, trying to bite the voice on the other end.

Chapter Text

“Alexander, you are a bad dog! That's it!” Marinette scolded, putting her hands on her hips as the line went dead. “Ugh, Kiss will be here in an hour and I..”

She froze.

The silence that followed the intense barking was sudden. Too sudden.

A sound replaced it. A faint, steady, trickling sound. Like a serene waterfall in a Zen garden, but originating directly from her velvet sofa.

Marinette’s eyes widened in horror.

“Wait... Alexander?”

She looked down. The Corgi had stopped his jealous rampage. He was now frozen stiff, his eyes bulging, looking absolutely mortified. A dark, spreading stain was blossoming beneath him on the fabric.

“Did you... just piss on the sofa?”

Damian-Alexander seemed to want the ground to open and completely engulf him. You could feel the heat emanating from him. His rage at the intruder had evidently short-circuited his canine bladder control.

The flow sound stopped, leaving a heavy, awkward silence in the room.

Normally, a person would scream. They’d totally panic. But Marinette Dupain-Cheng was a veteran of magical warfare. She had seen pigeons turn into fighter jets.

She had seen toddlers turn into giants. Compared to the cosmic absurdity of her life, a little Corgi accident was merely a blip.

A sigh escaped her, and her fury immediately dissolved into compassion. The poor thing looked devastated.

“Oh... oh, baby,” she cooed, completely ignoring the ruined furniture.

She stretched out her hand to feel the Batman costume, which was regrettably wet. The dog recoiled, retreating slightly, and his head drooped in submission.

“Don’t worry, Alexander. I’m not mad,” she whispered. “It happens. You got too excited. It’s okay.”

She moved to unclip the cape. Damian growled. No.

Do not touch the suit.

“No, Alexander, don’t be pushy,” she said firmly. “The costume needs to go off. Or you’re going to be wet and stinky all night. Do you want to smell like pee when our guest arrives?”

The dog grumbled, shifting his weight. He seemed to guard his identity with the last shred of his dignity.

Marinette negotiated. “Okay, look. I know you love the outfit. How about a compromise?”

She reached for the zipper on the back of the suit.

“I will take the bodysuit off to wash it. But...” She tapped the little black cowl on his head. “I will let you keep the cowl on for the bath. Okay?”

The dog hesitated. He looked at the wet sofa and her earnest blue ocean eyes. With a sigh of utter defeat, he finally moved.

“Alright,” Marinette said with a grin, and she carefully gathered the soaked, Batman-masked Corgi, treating it with the same care a mother gives a newborn.

“Let’s get you cleaned up, you little sad one.”

The absurdity of it all hit him, the warm water cascading over him as the minutes passed. Damian Wayne reveled in the luxurious bath administered by the stunning woman.

It was a comfort he hadn’t known he was starving for. As Damian Wayne, he had rejected every woman who approached him.

Grayson often teased him about his enforced celibacy, his monastic lifestyle. His brother worried Damian was still mourning the “love of his life,” his dark Madonna, Nika—Flatline.

But the truth was less dramatic.

Their love hadn’t ended in a blaze of glory; it had simply flatlined. It petered out into silence and distance.

But this? This wasn’t silence.

He sat in the tub, giddy and trembling, feeling less like the Heir to the Demon and more like a lovesick teenager or, humiliatingly, a dog in heat.

Without realizing it, Marinette was giving a bath to a grown man. As she scrubbed him clean, her hands covered in soap, she softly hummed, gently washing him from his tail to his ears.

Pop.

A bubble burst on his wet nose.

Marinette giggled, the sound echoes. “See? You like this, don’t you, Alexander?”

She stopped and observed his calm demeanor. There were neither disapproving barks nor dignified growls. He was practically melting under the spray.

“I knew it,” she murmured. “That heavy costume probably just made your poor body overheated. You were just hot and cranky, huh?”

She smiled, scrubbing behind his ears. “Oh, Marinette is good at this, isn’t she?”

Damian closed his eyes, leaning into her touch, his shame utterly washed away by the soap.

Yes. She really is.

“You know, Alexander... I really miss Plagg and Tikki,” Marinette murmured, wrapping him in a fluffy towel and rubbing his fur dry. Her voice turned soft, wistful.

“You could say they were my magical pets... maybe more like magical partners. But alas, they have been sleeping for almost two years now.”

She sighed, brushing his damp fur. “They needed it. So, I’m essentially a Guardian of a box of hibernating miniature gods. Heh.”

She looked down at him, catching his intense stare. “Uh-uh. You look like you don’t believe me, do you? Hehe. Even if you’re just a normal dog, maybe I just needed to talk about it to someone.”

She continued, her guard completely down. “And yes, Kiss knows my secret. Because he’s one of the Stellar Force.

Oops

That’s another secret I just told! Oh, Alexander, let’s keep that between us, huh? What am I even doing? You don’t even understand what I said. Just forget about it.”

Damian narrowed his eyes beneath the cowl.

No, Marinette. I understand exactly what you are saying.

Stellar Force.

That damn group of superhero vigilantes in Japan. The twelve wannabe Super Sentai with their mechanical giant robots.

He was familiar with them. He had read the files. Jiro Osamu was someone he had direct contact with,Mr. Unknown, the Batman of Japan.

His colleague.

His friend from The Lazarus Island.

Memories of Tokyo flooded back.

Nika and Jiro had been “friendly mortal enemies.” It was a complicated dynamic: Nika was the heiress/sidekick of Lord Death Man, the very villain who had killed the original Mr. Unknown. In turn, Jiro Osamu had taken up the mantle to seek revenge.

Nika and Jiro were constantly clashing, much like oil and water, during Damian’s time in Japan. Although they often argued and fought, they had a peculiar respect for each other, a bond that was broken when Damian and Nika separated.

He missed Jiro.

He missed having a competent associate. And he knew for a fact that Jiro cooperated with the Stellar Force to protect Japan from space invaders and kaiju threats.

So, this “Kiss” was a legitimate hero.

A “good guy.”

Tt.

Damian didn’t fucking care.

He was angry. Hero or not, this man was encroaching on his territory. He needed to sabotage this meeting no matter what.

Protocol be damned. Professional courtesy be damned.

My soulmate is mine.

--------------------------------------------------------------

His bath was done, and he was graciously ushered out of the bathroom so Marinette could take her shower. He dared to glance back as the door closed, but his gentlemanly mind immediately declared war on his baser instincts.

Idiot. That is her privacy.

Tt.

He scoffed, turning away from the bathroom door, trying to flush the steamy fog from his mind. Thinking of heinous things would not be dared by him. He was a true gentleman.

He was trained by Monks. His father might be a known playboy, but Damian Wayne was not.

He grumbled, shaking his wet fur as he walked into the living room.

Then, it happened.

Knock. Knock.

A low growl started in his throat. His rage…a gargantuan, possessive Chaos-Shard, Lazarus induced hate…manifested tenfold.

The steam from the bathroom seemed to cling to him, swirling around his small body. The magic of the sphere reacted to the sheer intensity of his emotion.

He felt his bones crack, expand, and lengthen.

He didn’t care about the physics. He only cared about the intruder.

On the other side of the door stood Kiss, wearing a disarming smile, holding a basket of food.

The door swung open.

Kiss froze.

Instead of Marinette, or a cute dog, the door was blocked by a man.

A wide, colossal wall of a man. He had olive skin, drenched in sweat and bathwater. He was wearing nothing but a hastily grabbed white towel around his groin... and a Batman cowl.

Kiss blinked. For a millisecond, he thought he had the wrong room. But no, the number was correct. This was Marinette’s apartment.

The man in the cowl loomed over him, water dripping from his pectorals. His eyes were white slits of fury behind the mask.

“Don’t contact Dupain-Cheng,” Damian growled, his voice deep and vibrating with menace. “We are busy.”

He snatched the food basket from Kiss’s hands with terrifying speed.

SLAM.

The door shut in Kiss’s face, the wind of it messing up his hair.

Kiss stood there in the hallway, staring at the wood grain. The absurdity of it snapped his head back.

“...”

A ghost of a smile touched his lips. He had come to check on the girl because he knew she was lonely. But looking at that... well. There was a man.

A very large, very possessive, very Batman man.

“Guess she’s not lonely anymore,” Kiss chuckled softly. “And they are... deeply close.”

He turned and walked toward the stairs, pulling out his phone. He texted Marinette:

> “Something came up. Canceling the meet-up. Enjoy your evening. ;) - Kiss”

-----------------------------------------------------------

Marinette stepped out of the bathroom, freshly showered and changed into comfortable pajamas. She paused, sniffing the air.

The living room was oddly hazy.

Mysterious, magic-like vapor, left over from something she missed, was floating by the door. The basket of food was there, sitting regally on the coffee table.

And guarding it was Alexander.

The Corgi was practically vibrating with energy. He was hopping slightly, his tail wagging, wearing a wide, victorious grin that looked almost human. He looked like a general who had just won a decisive war.

Ping.

Marinette grabbed her phone and read the text.

“Something came up. Canceling the meet-up. Enjoy your evening. ;) - Kiss”

“Oh...” She blinked, looking from the phone to the mysterious basket of food, then down to the smug dog. “Looks like we’re the only ones for tonight, Alexander.”

She shrugged, not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. She smiled down at him, her voice soft and inviting.

“What to do? Maybe watch a movie?”

She turned toward the hallway, beckoning him. “Come, Alexander. In my room. We’re going to watch... hmm, what movie is it?”

She giggled, the sound light and happy.

Damian didn’t hesitate. He trotted after her, his little paws clicking on the floorboards with purposeful rhythm.

Target neutralized. Territory secured. Dinner acquired. Date night initiated.

He followed her into the bedroom, thoroughly and utterly satisfied.

Chapter Text

Damian Alexander al Ghul Wayne, the current Batman, former Robin, and a member of this generation’s Trinity, wouldn’t admit, even if threatened with death or subjected to questioning, that he was currently experiencing the ultimate comfort of being cuddled into absolute oblivion.

Yet, as he lay pinned against the side of Marinette Dupain-Cheng, his tactical mind struggled to maintain its icy distance. This was not the casual petting of a dog; she was clinging to him with a desperate, human need for warmth that he recognized with piercing clarity.

The same hollow ache that echoed through the quiet halls of the Pennyworth Manor was a burden of a legacy only he understood.

“Gosh, I miss them...” Marinette whispered into the quiet of the bedroom. Her voice was thick with the weight of a decade’s worth of unshed tears.

She took a slow, measured sip of Lillet Blanc, the chilled, floral aperitif catching the dim glow of the screen.

In that moment, she didn’t seem like a formidable Guardian.

“The Kwamis... you know, the living gods?” she murmured, her fingers mindlessly stroking the soft fur behind his ears. “They’re still hibernating.

A decade ago, it was the one thing that could save them and the world from the Wish Rewrite. It was the only way to stop everything from collapsing during the Chrysalis End-game.”

Damian froze, his ears perked up to listen intently.

Wish Rewrite.

Chrysalis.

Living gods.

He was filing every word into his mental database, yet the analytical part of him was being drowned out by the physical sensation of her grief.

She sniffed, her bluebell eyes clouded with a weary, profound longing. She was sad about friends who were not deceased, they were just... silent.

“And my life just moved on, you know?” she said with a bitter, tiny laugh. “I’m a designer. I’m a success. But I’m just a guardian of a box of sleeping ghosts.”

She buried her face in his neck, her exhaustion radiating off her in waves.

A profound weariness settled in, a result of being the only one aware of the world’s close call with oblivion.

It was a mirror of his own soul.

Damian let out a soft, huffing breath.

He didn’t pull away.

Instead, he shifted his weight, pressing his small, warm body more firmly against her side, offering the only comfort he could provide in this form.

His plan was to spend the night both undermining her competitors and examining her vault. Instead, he was protecting the slumber of a woman who was as weary of heroism as he was.

Lying still, his dog senses on high alert, her scent was overpowering: a blend of plum blossoms, costly cloth, and the pungent, salty smell of sorrow.

Seeking shelter in the only warmth they could find, they tucked together on the sofa in a fetal position, two guardians of the world.

The silence of the Parisian night brought back memories of his own long patrols and the years of solitude he had endured while his family slowly moved on to find their own versions of peace.

He thought of Dick Grayson and Barbara Gordon, the elder statesmen of his flock, who had finally retired the cowl to raise their own rag-tag family of misfits. They had traded the rooftops for the chaos of domesticity, leaving the mission in capable hands.

His father, too, had shifted into a role of serious mentorship, leading Batman Incorporated as a consultant and president in the open. Bruce had morphed the mission into a military-style training of a new group intended to scare criminals, all while being the person the city looked to during daylight -- a generous person who genuinely cared for the disadvantaged, his womanizing past forgotten in the tranquil joy of the family he’d created.

The others had carved out their own paths as well. Tim Drake had found a quiet happiness, now happily married to Konner and living away from the constant shadow of the Bat.

Meanwhile, Stephanie Brown and Cassandra Cain continued the legacy of the Birds of Prey, keeping the streets safe alongside their sisters-in-arms.

Even Jason, his assassin guardian of a brother, had found a way to live with purpose in the shadows of anonymity. He had built his own school and orphanage, a sanctuary akin to Ma Gunn’s but fueled by a better heart, where he wrangled his own found family of Outlaws, Roy, Bizzaro, Artemis, and occasionally Kori -- along with the endless strays he had picked up over his years of vigilante justice.

Damian felt a quiet pride for all of them, his flock of birds and his Bat-family.

Beneath those memories was the lingering echo of Alfred Pennyworth.

The guilt that once consumed him had finally faded away.

Whether Alfred was watching them from a void or a heaven, Damian didn’t know, but he felt a profound sense of gratitude.

He shifted his head, resting it against Marinette’s arm, realizing that while he was the Son to the Bat and the Heir to the Demon, in this moment, he was simply a protector guarding a woman who, like him, had survived the end of the world.

Exhaustion finally claimed him.

Damian let his head lull forward, resting heavily against her chest as the last of his tactical defenses crumbled. In that absolute, tranquil surrender, the magic of the sphere reacted to his peace just as violently as it had to his rage.

Under the dim glow of the television, the magical residue of the fog began to swirl. His bones did not crack with the violence of a struggle; they shifted with a smooth, rhythmic glide, expanding and lengthening.

The small, furry frame of the Corgi vanished, replaced by the heavy, solid mass of a grown man. The transition was silent, but the physics were impossible to ignore.

Marinette, still half-submerged in sleep, felt the sudden, crushing weight. Her eyes remained closed, her mind foggy from the Lillet Blanc.

Did Alexander eat a whole bakery? she wondered dizzily. The dog had become incredibly... substantial.

She reached out, her fingers searching for the soft fur of his back, but her hand landed on something warm.

Something smooth.

Something terrifyingly firm.

Her brow furrowed as her palm slid over the broad, defined curve of a shoulder and down the long, tensed line of a human spine. There was no fur. There was only skin and hard, sculpted muscle.

Her fingers twitched, unintentionally caressing the small of a man’s back.

Why does the dog have lats?

Damian’s eyes snapped open.

He was no longer looking up at her from the sofa cushions.

His head rested against the curve of her neck, while his strong, uncovered arms embraced her waist. He was naked.

Entirely, horrifyingly naked, save for the Batman cowl still gripped tightly to his head.

Marinette’s eyes finally fluttered open. The dog was gone. In its place, a colossal, masked stranger was spooning her on the sofa, his chest pressed against hers, his breath hot against her skin.

They stared at each other. The white, unblinking slits of the Batman mask were inches from her nose.

Beep. A low-battery notification on the TV remote cut through the air like a gunshot.

The silence that followed was heavy enough to collapse the building. For three agonizing seconds, time ceased to exist.

Then, the absurdity snapped.

Damian “plunged” away with the tactical grace of a startled cat, tumbling off the sofa in a tangle of limbs and the white towel he had scrambled to grab. Marinette didn’t just scream; she let out a sonic boom of pure, unadulterated terror that didn’t just wake the neighbors—it likely alerted the French Coast Guard.

“ALEXANDER?!” she shrieked, scrambling over the back of the sofa.

Damian dived for the shadows of the hallway, the cowl still on, his naked silhouette illuminated by the flickering light of the television.

“STAY BACK, DUPAIN-CHENG!” he bellowed, his voice dropping into a gravelly, terrified Batman growl as he clutched the towel for dear life.

The lights in the neighboring apartments flickered on. Dogs in the street began to howl. And Damian Alexander al Ghul Wayne realized that, for the first time in his life, his secret identity was the least of his problems.

The scream that ripped through the Parisian night didn’t just rattle the windows of the apartment complex; it acted as a violent, magical jolt to the ornate box hidden in the room. The Miracle Box began to tremble, glowing with an ethereal light that pulsed in sync with Marinette’s heartbeat.

With a soft poof of magical displacement, two long-dormant entities flickered into existence, orbiting Marinette like frantic satellites.

Plagg yawned, stretching his tiny black limbs before his green eyes zeroed in on the massive, muscular, and mostly-naked man clutching a towel. “Whoa... that’s a big ‘beef’ you’ve got there, Pigtails,” the cat-Kwami cackled, a smug grin on his face. “Did you order a gigolo while we were napping? Are we intruding on something... private?”

Tikki, however, was not amused. She dived toward a trembling Marinette, hugging her cheek with fierce protectiveness. “No, Plagg! That’s an intruder!” She turned her stern, red-and-black gaze toward the man in the cowl. “No way am I letting my Guardian—my friend—be harmed!”

Damian Alexander al Ghul Wayne stood frozen. His mind was experiencing a catastrophic-level of embarrassment that no League of Shadows training could have prepared him for. He was the Heir to the Bat, a member of the Trinity, and he was currently being judged by a floating, cheese-obsessed cat and a protective ladybug.

He opened his mouth to explain, but he never got the chance.

In a blur of motion faster than a speeding bullet, the window glass shattered. A shockwave of wind swept through the apartment, and in a millisecond, the naked man in the Batman cowl was gone.

The only things left behind on the floor, amidst the glittering shards of glass, were a small pin and a folded piece of paper. The pin was a heavy, official brooch—the gold-and-silver emblem of the Justice League, with the ‘J’ and ‘L’ interlocked in a design reserved only for top-tier clearance.

Marinette, still shaking, crawled forward and snatched up the note.

-----

“Please, we can explain this at a later date, Guardian. We just need some time to get our friend... situated.

The broken glass will be fixed immediately (check the window frame). We are grateful for you helping him, and we promise we aren’t the bad guys. We’ll be in touch.

— Superman :)”

-----

At the bottom of the page was a hand-drawn, happy apologetic face.

Marinette stared at the official Justice League emblem in her palm. Then she looked at the note. Then she looked at the broken window, which was already magically knitting itself back together thanks to a lingering “Super” repair.

Her neighbors were still banging on the walls. Her legendary Kwamis were finally back, floating in front of her face after a ten-year slumber.

Her world had just changed forever.

But as she sat there in the silence of her living room, she didn’t think about the Justice League.

She didn’t think about the hibernating gods. She didn’t even think about the broken window.

“Putain de merde...” she whispered, her face turning a shade of red that rivaled Tikki’s.

The only thing she could remember, the only image seared into her vision, was the man’s back.

Those lats.

Those muscles.

Alexander wasn’t a dog.

Alexander was a very, very fit man in a mask.

And she had bathed him.

Her face is clearly marked with a bright, undeniable red.

--------

AN:

We’re done! I might write an epilogue if anyone wants one.

This fanfiction was fun to make.

I planned for this to be a one-shot, but ideas came fast as I wrote, so it’s a short but fun story.

The Corgi concept originated from the Comic Trinity stories, in which Superman, Jon Kent, and Damian,Batman were cursed to transform into corgis.

And I adored your comment! really!

Thank you for sticking with this. If you’re interested in an epilogue, please comment!