Description: AU where flowers bloom on you where your soulmate is injured.

Request(s): Would you ever consider writing a Damian soulmate au fic like the one you wrote for Jon? I loved that one and I think it would be interesting to see something like that for Damian-- plus with how much you like him and how well you write I know it'll be amazing. 

Words: 3359 (I can't write below 2000 words sorry)

Notes: I decide to write another soulmate au but I used a different prompt from when I wrote Jon's! I'm using the flower bloom au thanks to @milkywayheartcupcake! Au where flowers bloom on you where your soulmate is injured. Like if they get a paper cut on their finger, flowers start to bloom from your finger. I changed it to be tattoos instead. =D

___

"Your soulmarks are gone!" Observed a classmate, drawing the attention of the whole room,"Wow! That means you found them! You're so lucky!"

"Your soulmarks," your friend whispered in awe, gently grazing the skin a thousand marks once were,"Have I met them? Are they nice? What does it feel like? Why were there so many?"

"You have soulmarks!" Your best friend cheers, wrapping you up in their embrace,"Oh, tell us that we know them? Who is it? Go on—spill!"

Y/N L/N had done the impossible before. But her definition of "impossible" is completely different from the rest of the 7 billion people populating the Earth. Perhaps that's why you've managed to overcome these incredible, daring feats. Or maybe you were just lucky. After all, most people who don't study for standardized testing don't ace. Most people can't improvise a battle strategy in the middle of a war zone after the first was botched, and then win. Most people can't take down a dozen armed men without breaking a sweat. Most people haven't met their soulmate—nevermind at only the fine age of sixteen. But then again, most people aren't Batgirl. And Batgirl is a master of mastering the impossible.

Soulmates, to the world, are exaggerated to be impossible. The subject had been put on society's backburner and solely arose with its hands entwined with headlines like scientific discovery, faith-in-humanity-returned spins, or worse, horoscopes. Soulmates became something you talked about at sleepovers. Maybe you talked to your spouse about it—hey, you may not be "the one", but you're still here and I still love you and perhaps it's better that I got to choose you—and thus soulmates earned their space snugly shoulder-to-shoulder with the cryptids category. In short, if you woke up to a bouquet of flowers sizzling against your skin only to discover your friend had earned an injury in the same place, guess what—you won the ticket for special snowflake! You were officially impossible.

But remember, your definition of impossible is different. Impossible, to you, is a mantra. You've heard it a thousand times from relatives and strangers alike. You've prayed the word as you moved mountains and saved the world. Because to you, impossible was just a word to inform you of the challenge present. And you bet your ass that you would find a way to cross-out the im each and every time. Barbara Gordon, Cassandra Cain, and Stephanie Brown had all done the same before you. That was definitely what made you Batgirl.

So of course, it's logical to conclude that you'd find an impossible way to make being soulmates infinitely more paradoxical.

Y/N L/N and Damian Wayne, the latest incarnation of Batgirl and Robin—you are soulmates. The first unbroken pair to come out of the classic duo. That's what makes it impossible. Because it had never quite interlocked so nicely until you, never before had a Batgirl and Robin bore flowers like overgrown gardens. Damian is really your everything, and the bond was too ancient and strong to bend, nevermind break as it had done before. Maybe this would never end. Or maybe that was just you hoping. But if Barbara and Stephanie and Cass had taught you a damn thing, then you knew hope and love were so much stronger than the fear of being wrong. Thus, it's better that you only think about the bright side.

There was almost too much bright side to being soulmates. After every unlucky card the world had dealt you, the warmth of the bond somewhere in the core of your heart reminded you of all of the aces. The bond was funny like that. It was too kind to be real, like a little harp's cord tied around each of your hearts, something that you could strum to share promises and beautiful secrets. This possibly literal and/or metaphorical cord allowed soulmates to do a thousand special little things; you could feel their life force and determine if they were hurt or not, to the point where some soulmates have felt the other die. And, as you immediately discovered, bear marks on the other when bruises or cuts or wounds are born.

Damian Wayne is... sigh... everything. If you wanted to be romantic (which a part of you does), then you could easily go on and on about every detail of his persona. He was stupid and reckless, irritated with everything that had a pulse, hard to get along with, and utterly, undeniably, absolutely, impossibly perfect.

It's fitting to see that not only is Damian an artist, but a masterpiece as well. It was like Talia had taken a block of marble blessed by the gods and carved him from it, perfecting every muscle and vein, chiseling the contrasting sharpness of deadliness and roundness of youth into every sly smile. Michelangelo's David had come to life and grasped a sword. If Michelangelo had fixed jade stones into David's irises, anyway.

If Damian was made of marble, then his will was of steel. He was dedicated and fiercely loyal to every cause he applied himself to, with a passion that burned like an eternal flame. He had the patience of a predator stalking its prey, a liking for organization and order, and you could rely on him in the field to watch your back. (Not like he didn't do that in civilian clothing, or at school, or home... virtually everywhere).

He had his flaws. The league had bled distrust into his very soul, so he had a tendency to assume everyone was an enemy, which had actually saved your lives a fair amount of times. The passion you loved in him could be hard to calm. And sure, he'd strike the sun if it insulted him. But you had your flaws too, and love had blinded you both to your imperfections. Mostly.

The bond had exposed you to each other in some of the most beautiful and terrifying ways. You weren't blessed with the ability to feel his emotions like you felt your own, or summon some ancient power to protect one another in times of crisis. No. You were marked. Up and down your arms, swirling around the column of your throat, diving between your collarbones, sprouting from your chest like a crown of thorned roses. Ah yes, you nearly forgot. The roses. The beauty inlaid within their petals crowded on your skin to mock the bruises he wore. If you stared at them long enough, it felt like the thorns had latched onto your skin like teeth, digging and digging until the purple was painted red. The only thing that could remove them was the touch of your soulmate. It was just ironic—figuratively, only Damian could heal your wounds, and only you could heal his.

Everyone had flowers. Your soulmate would get hurt, you'd feel a mimicry of the pain, and a bud would replace the wound. The growth rate was different for everyone. Lois Lane's were immediate, the sunflowers wrapping around her like a second skin as the buds bloomed in moments. The orchids layering Dick Grayson took years to grow from sprouts to adults. You had watched the peonies blossom on Damian's caramel skin, as gradual as the actual flower's lifespan—one or three years—just as you watched your own battle wounds become scars. You'd traced the color of the coral petals and watched them fade under your touch.

For heroes and lovers of heroes, your amount of flowers made sense. Damian had been fighting ever since the day he was born. You had been training since you could walk. Normal people had flowers; maybe a bud on their finger from a papercut, a surgery scar, or the childhood story of how you got your arm broken. You had become a garden and one that Damian would weed and heal and grow. Perhaps it was meant to be completing in that way. Damian was your garden, as you were his.

As far as gardens go, however... Damian is a stubborn one.

"Don't go jumping into things you don't need to be jumping into. Don't take unnecessary risks. Do not take on something you can't handle by yourself." You punctuated each sentence with a jab to your boyfriend's chest, which he didn't seem to appreciate. Damian only rolled his eyes—in his defense, you gave this speech each time he went off for patrol—and pouted, only smiling when you smacked the hand mimicking your speech away and finished your declaration.

"And please," you laid your knuckles on one side of Damian's face, gently rubbing your joints along his cheekbone like you were petting a needy kitten. This needy kitten with eyes as green as Earth watched your expression morph from stern to true worry. He dropped the act of annoyance when your fingers came up, nuzzling back into your hand in an attempt at lazy affection. You paused your movements,"Be safe."

"I will, habibti," Damian sighed, brows furrowing. He didn't cease in leaning into your touch and thus you didn't cease touching,"You act as if I'm not."

You scoffed lightly, nearly a laugh of disbelief. Damian opened his eyes to find you pulling up your sleeve to your elbow. Layering like a second skin was a large cluster of roses, the color of the water at sunset, as purple as midnight could ever get like a romanticized bruising upon your arm. Damian's hand subconsciously grazed said spot atop his armor, the sting of a nearly too-deep cut like an old friend jumping at the chance to greet him. He scowled lightly.

Before you could pull your sleeve over the mark, Damian clasped your wrist with his combat glove and leveled your gazes. While his eyes were often like a spell with the way they enchanted you, the only magic lying within them now was a determined seriousness,"Did it hurt?"

"No," you lied, because the marks always hurt. Damian grew up on measures of controlling how he felt pain, and thus barely felt scrapes and slashes unless they were mortal. But you felt all the pain hidden by these tactics. While punches for Damian felt like roughhousing with a younger sibling, they were sometimes hard enough to throw you aside while clutching your jaw. One part of the mark was feeling the pain of your lover, and the other was feeling the pain of a flower suddenly being carved into your skin. It added to it. Made it worse. There was no beauty in the process but physical appearance.

Damian predicted your statement almost as quickly as you predicted what he planned to do next. What was nice about it all was that now, your and Damian's marks barely even had a chance of forming before they were gone. After particularly risky missions you would take a bath together, wrapped up in each other, tracing the marks off of you until the ink evaporated and they disappeared. While you were intimate Damian would kiss every petal, every thorn or stem until you were a blank canvas for him to paint with love-bites. Every chance you had and with every flower you saw, just a brush of thumb or soft kiss would clear your body and your mind.

He smoothes your sleeve back downward. Damian just stares at the roses, intertwined, wrapping around your arm like how grapes grow around the columns of a trellis. Your pulse beats wildly under his lips as it always has, crying louder and louder the closer he comes to the bundle of flowers halfway from your elbow. The ink dances under his lips. The flower's petals curl in and begin to fade back into the color of your skin at their edges, like you'd tossed the roses into a fire and they'd folded back into themselves. He'd closed his eyes. When he opened them, the flowers had become nothing but air.

"I will return to you safely," Damian said, bobbing his head once,"I promise you."

You caught him before he could disappear on you. He always knows, and the moment you turn him around he stares down at you near expectantly. Damian's heart flutters like a bird learning to fly under your fingers when you promise,"I love you."

"I love you too," Damian nods. The flowers on your skin angle toward him as if he is the sun.

___

You hate not being out on patrol. Batgirl was out of commission only because Bruce forced you to take a week off; in the previous month before your "imprisonment" Riddler had earned your hatred for successfully kidnapping Robin. The petals painting your torso from Damian's torture had since been kissed away, but that didn't keep you from hunting Riddler down yourself and throwing him in Arkham where the bastard belonged. Bruce had barely given you enough time to spit on Nygma's shoes before he locked your uniform inside its case, forcing it to stare down at you tauntingly with Damian out in the field.

It was a rough night. You didn't know who they were fighting, but Alfred had already offered to prepare some healing teas in favor of dispelling the pain of your growing number of marks. A purple rose had rooted onto your cheek, and about a dozen had flourished on your chest. The bath you had taken had helped only so much. Sleep would be the only way of dousing your worries and the pain in one swing, so you retired to bed with a fan on and your window propped open, an ice pack clutched against your heart. But so far, that wasn't working either.

The stinging comes first. Just a dull ache, getting louder and louder until it begins to burn. The flowers form like water spills. You watch a rose wrap around your knuckles like a set of brass, clenching your fists and turning your expression to stone as the petals are carved into your bones. You're tempted to call him, just to hear if he's alright. Just to hear his voice.

"I'm fine," He'd say, and you could envision the light scowl on his face, perched on a roof's edge as he spoke and admired the city."I'm Robin, remember? I'll always come back—especially if you will be waiting for me."

"Such a romantic," You'd tease.

"Only for you. But tell a soul and you'll have to kiss me goodbye!"

Your eyes fly open and you release a horrifying cry. The flesh of your stomach sizzles as a mass of flowers scorches your skin, carving a mark you are sure even Damian's touch cannot heal. Damian. Damian, Damian, Damian! Has he been stabbed? Shot? You can only think of him in the haze of your pain. It builds and builds until you are shaking and weeping, clawing at your stomach to try and pull up your shirt, trying to provide some relief to the pain.

Suddenly there is yelling, and madness. You are unsure if it is Jason carrying you or Dick, but regardless someone's yelling for anesthetic and a cool towel. You're crying, and it burns. The rose's thorns dig into your flesh and tear until you are nothing but bloody bone. It's getting harder to hold the scream in your throat, knowing how it could shake the Earth with its volume, because Damian is hurt Damian is hurt Damian is hurt and that's all you can think.

"Hey, hey, c'mon—" A hand gently pats your cheek as you're deposited onto a medical table, wiping away the sweat pooling along your brow. Jason's visage blurs and multiplies under the blinding light above, and you wonder how it felt for his soulmate when he died. Dick appears as a blue and black blob somewhere far off.

"Why is there blood? There's never blood with this sort of shit, is there?"

"If it's bad—Damian can't be much better. We gotta prep for the worst."

The world seemed to glitch out of proportion.

"Master Jason, go get another rag and bowl of cool water while I apply—pain—medication. Master Dick, prep for an operation an—contact with—Master Bruce."

"On—it."

"He's already calling—it's not—doesn't seem—knife wound—"

___

You don't really register anything at first. Pain medication has turned your thoughts to a walk through the thickest mud. The Batcomputer's glow is faint behind the glaze of medication-induced sleep on your eyes, the bandages tight around your stomach are nothing but a hindrance to your movement, and the Batarang held in your hand is beginning to cut into your palm. But, as he always seems to be, Damian is your first thought.

They are gathered around the console, some arguing, others with their gazes cast toward, most waiting for Bruce to speak. The moment you enter the space every sound is torn from the air, leaving it empty but for the shrieks of the bats and the cave's waterfall.

Your feet feel heavy, so maybe that's why all eyes turn to you, stomping in and wavering on your feet. Dick rushes to help you stand up properly, but you only jab the Batarang at him and hiss,"Where is he?"

Damian rests. His breathing is a clarity you have never realized you needed, and as soon as the rise of his chest steadies in a soft breath you nearly cry out in relief. Not unlike your own stomach he is bandaged. His torso is wrapped up like that of a mummy's, with another from his shoulder and around his back. Your hand flies to your shoulder blade, feeling the familiar ache of another new flower there. He looks peaceful, startlingly peaceful, and yet your stomach is still braided together in an icy flush of anxiety.

There is already a chair at his side. You take it.

Dick observes the scene quietly. The others file out, whatever argument there was ceasing. You hear him pull in a breath to explain, but second-guessed himself; you don't need to know the details now. You just need Damian.

He doesn't wake up. Perhaps it's best that he doesn't, with how deep you know his wounds are and all the words that you don't want to say. You had never considered it before—never in its full depth. Death was always just a step behind, skeletal hands wrapping around your ankles and trying to pull you under with every mission and battle. It clung to the entire family like a shadow. You were familiar with it, you knew it, you had grown accustomed to staring into the abyss and knowing that it stared back. But never before had you realized just how close you were to falling in even when out of the field.

This was nothing but a scare. But scares were also reminders, and this one was a bath of ice water poured down your spine. Never before had you seen your bond this way. It could kill you. If Damian got a bruise you felt a scrape. If you managed a papercut Damian felt the slice of a blade. If Damian was stabbed, then you were seared and torn in two. If you were hurt then the pain would double for your counterpart. And that's where the question comes: when would Death's shadow catch up to one of you, and who would go first under the pain?

Soulmates were a curse. Just another way of proving how fragile mortals are, just another scar or mark or reminder of our shortcomings. Nothing but a scare that turned into a reminder which became the inevitable.

You scooped up Damian's hands, watching the coral come to life as it died under your touch, the stem of a peony replacing your papercut on Damian's finger. The moment the pads of your fingers made contact with the bud the mark coiled in on itself, cringing in the final moments of its short life before the beauty was gone. It would