Chapter Text
The Gotham shipping docks were usually smelling of salt, rotting fish, and illegal chemicals. Tonight, however, it smelled like... strawberries and ozone?
"Robin, stay back!" Jon Kent shouted, his voice cracking slightly—a lingering remnant of a puberty that was currently being fueled by yellow sunlight and half-Kryptonian genetics.
"Do not give me orders, Superboy," Damian Wayne snapped, flipping through the air and planting a steel-toed boot into the face of a mercenary. "And stop hovering. You’re blocking my line of sight."
They were currently dismantling a smuggling ring operated by a rogue scientist who had been trying to stabilize "Synthetic Kryptonite isotopes." It was supposed to be a routine bust. But as Jon swooped down to grab the lead scientist, the man slammed a glass canister onto the concrete floor.
SHATTER.
A cloud of shimmering, vibrant pink dust erupted.
Damian covered his face with his cape, coughing. "Gas! Filter on!" He snapped his rebreather into place, but Jon was already in the thick of it. The boy of steel inhaled a massive lungful of the pink mist before he could even register the color.
"Jon!" Damian yelled, stepping through the dissipating fog.
Jon was standing still. His eyes weren't glowing red with heat vision, and he wasn't collapsing in pain like he did with Green Kryptonite. Instead, his face was flushed a deep, rosy red. He looked like he’d just run a marathon in a sauna.
"I... uh..." Jon blinked. His pupils were dilated, and he was looking at Damian with an intensity that made the Boy Wonder’s skin crawl.
"Are you injured? Report!" Damian demanded, checking his gauntlet for radiation readings. "The isotope... it’s Pink. I’ve heard of this. It’s a psychological stimulant for Kryptonians. Jon, speak to me."
Jon didn't speak. He moved. With a blur of super-speed that Damian didn't have time to react to, Jon wasn't attacking—he was closing the distance. He grabbed Damian’s shoulders.
"Damian," Jon whispered, his voice suddenly three octaves deeper and vibrating with a strange, honey-thick affection. "You have really... really nice eyes. Did you know that? They’re like emeralds. Angry, stabby little emeralds."
Damian stiffened, his cape fluttering. "Get off me. You’re compromised. The toxin is affecting your brain’s inhibition centers."
"I feel great," Jon said, his hands sliding down from Damian's shoulders to his biceps, squeezing. "I feel... warm. And you're so small. I just want to... I don't know, keep you in my pocket? Or maybe just hug you until your ribs pop?"
"Unacceptable," Damian growled, trying to pry the super-strong fingers off his arms. It was like trying to move tectonic plates. "We are returning to the Cave immediately. My father needs to run a blood panel."
"Can we fly back?" Jon asked, leaning in way too close. He was smelling Damian’s hair. "You smell like sandalwood and justice. It’s intoxicating."
"Stop smelling me!" Damian barked, his face turning a shade of red that almost matched Jon’s. "We’re taking the Batmobile. I am not being carried through the sky by a delirious, love-struck Kryptonian."
The Drive to Wayne Manor
The interior of the Batmobile was usually a place of grim silence and tactical planning. Tonight, it felt like a pressurized cage.
Damian was driving, his knuckles white on the steering wheel. In the passenger seat, Jon was not sitting. He was leaning. He had unbuckled his seatbelt and was draped halfway over the center console, his face inches from Damian’s ear.
"Jon, return to your seat or I will deploy the interior tasers," Damian hissed.
"They won't work on me, Dames," Jon cooed. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly with a strange, frantic energy, and began to stroke the velvet-lined collar of Damian’s cape. "You’re so grumpy. I love it. Why are you so grumpy? Is it because I’m not holding your hand?"
"I am going to kill you. I am going to find a way to make it look like an accident," Damian muttered, swerving the car to avoid a truck.
Jon didn't care. The Pink Kryptonite was surging through his system now. It wasn't just a "crush"—it was a biological imperative. Every fiber of his Kryptonian DNA was screaming at him that Damian Wayne was the most important, most attractive, most touchable thing in the known universe.
"Your mask is crooked," Jon whispered. His hands moved again, this time reaching for Damian’s face.
"Do not touch the cowl!"
"But I want to see your face," Jon pouted, his bottom lip actually trembling. "Come on, Damian. Just a little snuggle? We can park the car. The mission is over. Let’s just... snuggle for like, four hours?"
"You are a menace to society," Damian said, flooring the accelerator. "We are five minutes from the Manor. If you can keep your hands to yourself for three hundred seconds, I will consider not stabbing you with a Kryptonite ring."
"I'd let you stab me," Jon said dreamily. "As long as you looked at me while you did it."
Damian let out a sound that was half-scream, half-growl. "THAT IS IT."
He hit the intercom. "Father! Open the main hangar! We have a Code... I don't even know the code! Superboy has been drugged and he is being gross!"
Arrival at the Manor
The Batmobile screeched into the Batcave, drifting to a halt near the med-bay. Batman was already standing there, his arms crossed, looking imposing and grim. Beside him stood Dick Grayson (Nightwing), who had popped by for dinner, and Jason Todd (Red Hood), who was currently cleaning a pistol.
"What's the emergency, Damian?" Bruce asked, his voice a low rumble.
The gull-wing door of the Batmobile hissed open.
Damian practically fell out of the car, looking more disheveled than he ever had after a fight with Bane. His cape was crumpled, his hair was a mess, and he looked genuinely traumatized.
"Get him away from me!" Damian pointed a shaking finger back at the car.
Jon scrambled out after him. He wasn't flying; he was lunging. "Damian! Don't run! I just wanted to tell you that the way you drive makes my heart beat at 400 miles per hour!"
Jon’s eyes were practically glowing pink now. He saw the other Bats and skidded to a halt.
"Oh," Jon said, breathing heavily. He looked at Bruce. "Hi, Mr. Batman. You’re Damian’s dad. You made him. Thank you. Thank you for making him. He’s perfect."
Jason Todd dropped his gun. It clattered on the cave floor. "Uh... Bruce? Did the kid hit his head, or did he finally snap?"
"Pink Kryptonite," Dick Grayson whispered, a slow, mischievous grin spreading across his face. "Oh, this is going to be legendary."
"Jon, stay where you are," Bruce commanded, stepping forward. "We need to put you in a containment cell until the effects wear off."
Jon looked at Bruce, then at the containment cell, then back at Damian, who was hiding behind Jason’s leather jacket.
"No," Jon said, his voice turning stubborn.
"Damian," Jon said. "That suit looks really tight. It looks... uncomfortable."
Damian’s eyes went wide. "Father, do something! He’s lost his mind!"
Jon crouched, his muscles tensing.
"I'm coming for you, Dames! Group hug!"
"Oh god," Jason barked out a laugh, pulling out his phone to record. "Get him, Big Blue!"
Jon launched himself forward like a heat-seeking missile, aimed directly at Damian.
The Batcave echoed with a sound usually reserved for planetary invasions: the sonic boom of a Kryptonian moving at Mach 1. But instead of a punch, the impact was a tackle—and instead of a villain, the target was a horrified teen in a yellow-lined cape.
"Gah! Get off! Unhand me, you over-sunned barbarian!" Damian shrieked as Jon collided with him, sending them both tumbling into a pile of oversized souvenir pennies and discarded sparring mats.
Jon wasn’t punching. He was clinging. He had his arms wrapped around Damian’s waist like a vice, and his face was buried in the crook of Damian’s neck.
"You're so warm," Jon muffled into the Kevlar. "Why do you wear so many layers, Damian? It’s a barrier. It’s a barrier between our souls. And our skin. Let’s get rid of it. Let’s get rid of all of it."
"Father! He is attempting to bypass my utility belt’s security seal!" Damian yelled, his voice reaching a pitch only bats could hear. "He’s—stop that! Those are specialized pellets!"
RIIIIIP.
With the casual strength of someone who peels oranges for a hobby, Jon’s thumb caught the edge of Damian’s reinforced tactical tunic and tore a clean strip of leather and weave right off the shoulder.
"There," Jon purred, his eyes glowing a soft, neon pink. "Now I can see your collarbone. You have a very authoritative collarbone, Damian."
"That’s it," Bruce growled, his face a mask of 'I am too old for this.' "Dick, Jason—containment formation Theta. Now!"
Dick Grayson didn't need to be told twice. He flipped through the air, drawing a pair of high-voltage Escrima sticks. "Sorry, Jon-boy! Love is a battlefield, but this is a workplace harassment suit waiting to happen!"
Dick slammed the sticks into Jon’s back. Ten thousand volts surged through the boy’s spine. Normally, it would have knocked a grown man unconscious. For Jon, under the influence of the Pink K, it just felt like a pleasant tingle.
Jon turned his head 180 degrees, looking at Dick with an expression of pure, blissful annoyance. "That feels tickly, Dick. Do you want a hug too? There’s enough Jon for everyone, but Damian is the VIP."
"Abort! Abort!" Jason Todd yelled, backing away as Jon reached out a hand toward Dick’s chest. "He’s got the 'love-grip'! Bruce, use the lead! Use the lead!"
Bruce lunged forward, unfurling a heavy, lead-lined containment blanket. It was designed to block Kryptonian radiation and dampen their senses. He threw it over Jon’s head, momentarily blinding the boy.
"Move, Damian!" Bruce commanded.
Damian scrambled out from under Jon, his tunic hanging off one shoulder, his cape shredded. He looked like he’d been through a blender. "I am going to Titus’s kennel. I will be safe there. He cannot follow me into the doghouse!"
"He’s a Kryptonian, Dami! He can follow you into the core of the sun!" Jason shouted, though he was too busy leaning against the Bat-computer, wheezing with laughter. "I’ve gotta get this on the Justice League servers. Clark is never going to live this down. 'Local Super-son tries to elope with Robin, more at eleven!'"
Under the lead blanket, Jon was thrashing. "It’s dark in here! Damian? I can't see your beautiful, angry scowl! Where did you go?"
CRUNCH.
Jon didn't just lift the blanket; he stood up and flew straight upward, the lead sheet still draped over him like a ghostly, heavy-metal shroud. He looked like a very confused, very strong bedsheet ghost. He sniffed the air.
"I can hear your heartbeat, Damian," Jon’s voice echoed from under the lead. "It’s fast. You’re excited. I’m excited too!"
"I am in cardiac arrest from stress!" Damian yelled, sprinting toward the elevator that led up to Wayne Manor.
Jon shook the lead blanket off, his hair a mess, his shirt now partially torn from his own struggle. The Pink Kryptonite was accelerating his metabolism. The flush on his cheeks was a deep crimson now, and his pupils were so wide his eyes looked like solid black ink fringed with pink fire.
He saw Damian diving into the elevator.
"Going up?" Jon chirped.
He didn't wait for the elevator. He flew straight through the ceiling.
BOOM.
Dust and limestone rained down on the Batmobile. Jon had just punched a hole directly through the floor of the study in Wayne Manor.
"My floor," Bruce whispered, his eyes twitching. "That was 18th-century mahogany."
"Forget the floor, Bruce! He’s going for the kid!" Dick yelled, grabbing a grapple gun and swinging up through the newly formed hole.
Upstairs, the quiet, dignified atmosphere of Wayne Manor was shattered. Damian had just burst out of the grandfather clock in the study, only to find Jon already there, hovering three inches off the rug, looking like a predator who had just found a very grumpy kitten.
"Damian," Jon said, his voice dropping to a sultry, terrifying rumble. "You can't run. The world is too big, and I’m too fast. Just let me hold you. Or maybe we can just... wrestle? For a few days?"
Jon lunged. Damian dived under the massive oak desk.
"Alfred! Help!" Damian bellowed.
The door to the study opened. Alfred Pennyworth walked in, carrying a silver tray with tea and ginger biscuits. He looked at the hole in the floor. He looked at the hovering, pink-eyed teenager. He looked at the heir to the Wayne fortune cowering under a desk.
Alfred didn't even drop the tray.
"I see Master Jonathan has been exposed to the rose-colored variety of space-rock again," Alfred said calmly. "I shall prepare the cold showers and perhaps a very large bucket of ice water."
"Alfred, he’s trying to strip me!" Damian yelled.
"I’m helping him get comfortable!" Jon protested, ripping the desk out of the floor and tossing it aside like it was made of cardboard. "Damian, you’re wearing too much Kevlar! It’s bad for your circulation! Let me help you with those boots!"
Jon grabbed Damian’s ankles.
"NO! NOT THE BOOTS!" Damian kicked out, but Jon just giggled—a high-pitched, terrifyingly lovestruck giggle—and started unlacing the combat boots with super-speed.
"Your feet are so small," Jon cooed. "Like little lethal weapons. I love them."
"Bruce! Save me!" Damian screamed as Jon began to enthusiastically tug at his tactical trousers. "HE’S REACHING FOR THE UTILITY BELT BUCKLE! EMERGENCY! CODE BLACK!"
Bruce, Dick, and Jason exploded through the hole in the floor just as Jon managed to pull one of Damian's boots off and toss it through a window.
"Jon! Stop!" Bruce tackled Jon’s waist, using his full weight. Dick grabbed Jon’s left arm. Jason, finally deciding to help, grabbed the right.
They were all hanging off the boy, who was still hovering, trying to pull Damian into a bridal carry.
"Let go, guys!" Jon laughed, his strength bubbling over. "I just want to show him my rock collection! In the Fortress of Solitude! Where it’s private! And cold! So we have to huddle for warmth!"
(✍️:Jon, we all know you’re not talking about minerals. Keep your "family jewels" to yourself, man.)
"He’s lost it," Jason groaned, being swung around as Jon shook his arm. "He’s got the 'Super-Horny' and we’re just the speed bumps!"
"Damian, run!" Bruce yelled, struggling to keep his grip as Jon started to fly toward the ceiling again, dragging three grown men with him. "Go to the safe room!"
Damian didn't hesitate. He bolted out of the study, hopping on one foot because he was missing a boot, heading for the grand staircase.
"I’m coming, Damian!" Jon shouted, dragging Batman and the boys through the doorframe, shattering the wood. "You can run, but you can't hide from my affection!"
Damian Wayne had faced the League of Assassins. He had faced planetary gods and interdimensional demons. But as he hopped on one boot through the marbled halls of Wayne Manor, listening to the sound of his father being dragged across the ceiling like a human anchor, he realized he had never known true fear until now.
"DAMIAN! I CAN SMELL YOUR PANIC! IT SMELLS LIKE CINNAMON AND PRECIOUSNESS!" Jon’s voice boomed from the foyer.
Damian slid into the kitchen, his socks sliding on the polished tile. He slammed the heavy oak doors shut and shoved a rolling pin through the handles.
"Alfred! The tranquilizer darts! The high-yield ones meant for Killer Croc!" Damian panted, leaning against the island.
Alfred was calmly putting away a tray of muffins. "I’m afraid the tranquilizers are in the Cave, Master Damian. Along with your dignity, it seems."
"This is not the time for sarcasm!"
CRASH.
The kitchen doors didn't just open; they were deleted from existence. Jon Kent flew through, looking like a terrifying deity of hugs. Bruce was still clinging to his waist, Jason was wrapped around Jon’s left leg like a koala, and Dick was piggybacking on him, trying to cover Jon’s eyes with his hands.
"I’ve got his eyes!" Dick yelled. "Damian, go for the pantry! It’s lead-lined!"
"I don't need eyes to find my soulmate!" Jon cheered. He did a barrel roll in mid-air.
"WHOA—!" Jason yelled as he was slammed into a cabinet of fine china.
Jon landed on the kitchen island, sending flour and sugar canisters flying. He shook off the three grown men with a flex of his shoulders that sent Bruce stumbling into the refrigerator. Jon’s focus was singular. He looked at Damian, who was backed against the industrial stove.
"Damian," Jon said, his voice dropping to that husky, vibrating tone again. He stepped off the island, his boots crunching through spilled flour. He looked like a powdered donut of doom. "You’re still wearing so much clothes. Why? It’s just us. And your dad. And your brothers. And the butler. But mostly us."
"Stay back, Kent!" Damian brandished a heavy cast-iron skillet. "I will not hesitate to provide you with a concussion!"
"I love it when you’re feisty," Jon sighed, his eyes shimmering with pink light. "It makes me want to... to... oh, gosh, Damian, your tactical vest is so bulky. It’s hiding your heart. Let me help you."
Jon moved. He was too fast for the skillet. He was behind Damian in a heartbeat, his large, warm hands reaching around to the front of Damian's chest.
"Let! Go!" Damian swung the skillet backward, hitting Jon square in the forehead.
CLANG.
The skillet dented. Jon didn't even blink. He just leaned his chin on Damian’s shoulder, his hands fumbling with the clips of Damian’s Kevlar vest.
"You're so tense," Jon whispered into Damian's ear, his breath hot. "Just relax. I'm just going to take this off. And then maybe the shirt. And then maybe we can go for a swim in the fountain? Naked? Like nature intended?"
"BRUCE! HE IS TALKING ABOUT THE FOUNTAIN!" Damian yelled, trying to elbow Jon in the ribs, but it was like hitting a brick wall.
"Jon, son, listen to me!" Bruce yelled, grabbing Jon’s collar from behind. "This isn't you! It's the Kryptonite!"
"No, Bruce, I’ve never felt more like me!" Jon laughed, finally popping the clips on Damian’s vest. He peeled the heavy armor off Damian’s torso and tossed it over his shoulder. It hit Jason in the face.
"Ow! Hey!" Jason shouted. "That’s it, the kid’s going down!" Jason pulled out a specialized "Bat-Snot" foam grenade and threw it at Jon’s feet.
The grenade exploded, covering Jon and Damian’s lower halves in a fast-hardening, industrial-strength polymer.
"Ha! Gotcha!" Jason smirked.
Jon looked down at the foam trapping his legs to Damian’s. He looked back at Damian, who was now trapped in a permanent, awkward embrace with him.
"Oh," Jon said, his face lighting up with a scandalous grin. "Jason, thank you. You’ve glued us together. This is the best day of my life."
Damian looked at the foam, then at Jon’s face, which was inches from his own. Jon was looking at Damian’s lips with a terrifying amount of curiosity.
"If you kiss me, Kent, I will make sure you never see the sun again," Damian hissed, his face turning a shade of purple.
"I don't need the sun," Jon whispered, his hands sliding under Damian’s torn tunic, his palms warm against Damian’s bare skin. "I have you. You’re my sun, Damian. My grumpy, homicidal sun."
"I'm going to vomit," Dick muttered, reaching for a kitchen knife to try and saw through the foam. "Bruce, we need the specialized Kryptonite neutralizer. It’s in the lab."
"I'll get it," Bruce said, but before he could move, Jon decided he didn't like being stationary anymore.
With a roar of pure, unfiltered affection, Jon didn't break the foam—he simply ripped the floorboards right out of the foundation. He flew upward, carrying the 200-pound block of hardened polymer, with Damian still stuck to him.
"WE’RE GOING TO THE ROOF!" Jon shouted. "TO THE MOONLIGHT!"
"ABORT! HE’S TAKING OFF!" Jason yelled, grabbing onto the trailing edge of the foam block.
Now, it was a literal parade of Bats. Jon was flying through the house, trailing the foam block, with Damian trapped inside it, Bruce and Dick hanging onto Jon’s cape, and Jason dangling from the foam like a pendulum.
They crashed through the skylight of the grand ballroom.
"My glass!" Bruce roared. "That was Tiffany glass!"
"DAMIAN! YOUR HAIR LOOKS SO GOOD IN THE WIND!" Jon screamed over the rushing air, ignoring the three men trying to drag him down. He used his super-strength to squeeze the foam block, cracking it just enough so he could pull Damian even closer.
"I am going to kill you," Damian whimpered, his face pressed against Jon's chest. "I am going to kill everyone in this room."
"I love it when you talk about murder," Jon sighed, nuzzling Damian’s forehead. "It’s so... you."