Ummi (Damian Wayne x Mother Figure!Reader)
A/n: Iâve been inspired by the Batfam x Mother reader fics! Hehe decided to create my own, I know itâs short but I hope yall enjoy it!
Cw: injuries, Damian being a menace, acceptance, found family
Since youâd met Damian, heâd never called you anything but your name.
You respected it. He didnât need to call you motherâhe already had one. Talia al Ghul, leader of the League of Assassins. You were simply his fatherâs wife. Nothing more.
Training was no different. If anything, it was worse. Damian never chose you as a sparring partner. He trained with you only when there was no other option, every movement sharp and impersonal, like he was enduring something rather than learning from it.
You knew, deep down, that Damian didnât hate you. In truth, he felt nothing toward you at all.
You patched up his injuries after patrolsâwhen Bruce was there, when Damian allowed it. He never let you get too close, always keeping a careful distance, his body angled away even as you worked. You followed the rules he set without ever being told.
âThatâs sufficient,â Damian says as he begins to pull away. Youâve just finished stitching up his arm.
On patrol, he followed your lead. Not because he trusted you, not because he let you inâbut because orders were orders, and he was a good Robin. His responses were clipped. Precise. Efficient.
I know he doesnât hate me because Iâve done something wrong. He hates me because loving me would mean losing someone again.
It became a mantra. You repeated it every time he ignored you. Every time he scoffed at the dinner you made and asked Alfred to fix him something else instead.
âJust give him time,â Bruce said gently, pressing a kiss to the side of your head.
âI know,â you replied, biting at your fingertip as you set the table. âItâs just⊠I donât understand how he can still feel this way after two years.â
âIt took me years to let people in, too.â
Dinner passed in near silence. You ate with Bruce and Alfred while Damianâs chair stayed empty.
Another loss. Logged quietly. Added to the books.
The storm had settled over the manor like a living thing.
Bruce was off-world with the League. Alfred had stepped out to pick up dinner. You were aloneâmostly. Curled into one of the library chairs with a cup of tea, your favorite novel open in your lap, you almost missed the first sound.
The crash echoed through the manor, sharp and wrong. You told yourself it was thunderâuntil you heard voices.
Damian was here. And he could fightâbut that didnât stop your body from moving before your mind caught up. You crossed the room and grabbed the fire poker from beside the fireplace. Your gun was locked away in the bedroom, too far to reach now. Bruce had taught you how to use itâjust in case. Being married to Gothamâs Dark Knight came with lessons no one ever asked for.
Why arenât the alarms going off?
They should have been screaming.
You edged toward the doorway and peeked into the hall. These werenât thieves looking for jewelry. They were armed, coordinated, and professional. Then you heard one of them speak, low and certain.
Your grip tightened. They werenât here for things. They were here for him.
Not my son. The thought grounded you.
Once the intruders moved down the corridor, you stepped outâand froze. Damian stood half-hidden in the shadows, sword already in hand, eyes sharp and calculating.
âIâve already alerted Father and Pennyworth,â he said quietly. His gaze flicked to the poker in your hand. âThat wonât protect anyone.â
âIt was what I had,â you shot back. âNow listen to me. Run to the cave. Stay there. Youâre the target, Damian.â
âI can handle myself,â he snapped. âI donât need your help. Youâd just get in the way.â
You didnât have time to argue.
You grabbed his arm and yanked him backward just as a bullet tore through the space where heâd been standing. The sound was deafening.
âGet them!â one of the men shouted.
Everything blurred into motion.
You swung the poker with every ounce of strength you had, catching one of the intruders before he could recover. Damian moved at the same timeâfast, preciseâdropping another with a clean kick to the head. A move heâd been practicing for weeks.
For the first time that night, Damian looked at youânot past you, not through you.
It happens too fast to think about. You donât plan. You donât hesitate. You just move.
âGet behind me, Damian,â you shout, stepping into his space without looking back. âI wonât let them take you.â
For a moment, you donât understand whatâs happenedâonly that the air leaves your lungs and your legs threaten to give out. Pain blooms sharp and sudden, stealing your breath.
ââdamn it,â you gasp.
The intruder stumbles back as you swing the poker on instinct, forcing him away. Your grip shakes, but you donât drop it.
Damian freezes. His eyes are wide, locked on you, and something raw flashes across his faceâfear, fury, something unguarded. Then his expression hardens, teeth bared in a snarl as he launches forward.
Everything blurs after that.
You barely register the sounds of the fight, only flashes of movement as Damian takes down one attacker after anotherâfast, relentless, precise. Exactly as Bruce trained him to be.
You stagger back against the wall, sliding down as you press your hand to yourself, focusing on staying upright. Staying awake.
Through the haze, you watch Damian standing at the center of the room, breathing hard but unhurt.
A small smile tugs at your lips despite everything. Heâll be okay, you think. He always was.
The pain is overwhelming.
You try to move and immediately regret it, a strained sound slipping from your throat instead. Somewhere nearby, Damian finishes securing the intruders. The moment itâs done, heâs at your side.
You keep your hands pressed tight, grounding yourself in the pressure alone. Damian gently but firmly moves them aside, replacing them with his own.
âIâsorry,â he says quickly, voice unsteady despite his control. âI have to keep the pressure.â
You manage a small smile, eyes lifting to his face. If this is the last thing you see, you think you could accept it. Damian is standing. Damian is breathing. Damian is safe.
âI know Iâm not your mother,â you say quietly. âBut I loved you anyway.â
Your hand lifts, fingers brushing his cheekâleaving a mark you donât quite notice. Your vision blurs at the edges, exhaustion pulling you down.
Damian freezes. Something in him fractures. He leans in, pressing his forehead to yours, his breath uneven. When he speaks, itâs barely a whisperâfragile, unguarded.
Your chest loosens at the sound. âThatâs okay,â you murmur, though youâre not sure the words make it out. Your eyes flutter despite your effort to keep them open. Damianâs grip tightens, grounding, steady.
âStay with me,â he says urgently.
You want to tell him you areâbut sleep takes you before you can.
Bruce barely remembers how he gets to the hospital roomâonly the sound of his own heartbeat, loud and relentless, chasing him down the corridor. He stops short at the doorway.
Too still. Surrounded by quiet machines and soft lights that do nothing to ease the tightness in his chest. Seeing you like thisâhurt because of his world, because of his sonâfractures something deep inside him.
Heâs sitting beside the bed, smaller somehow in the chair meant for adults, one hand wrapped tightly around yours as if letting go isnât an option. His posture is rigid, face carefully blankâbut Bruce knows his son well enough now to see the strain beneath it.
âShe protected me,â Damian says without looking up. His voice is steady, practiced. âShe chose me.â
Bruce swallows hard. The words land heavier than any blow heâs ever taken.
âI know,â he says, and his voice betrays him, cracking despite his effort to keep it even.
He steps forward and rests a hand on Damianâs shoulder. Thatâs all it takes.
Damianâs grip on you tightens for a moment before he finally lets go, turning into Bruceâs chest. The tears come thenâsilent at first, then shakingâyears of fear and loss spilling out all at once.
Bruce holds him without a word, pressing a kiss into his hair, eyes never leaving you.
âSheâll come back to us,â Bruce murmurs, more promise than hope. âI wonât let her go either.â
When you were finally ready to continue your recovery at home, Damian made sure everything was easier for you. He refilled your water before it was even empty, adjusted your blankets without being asked, and chose to sleep in the chair beside your bed instead of the couch. He didnât just want to be thereâhe wanted to keep you safe.
He was still silent, never responding when you murmured thanks for the blankets or a fresh glass of water. He guarded the door, informing anyone who asked that you werenât taking visitors while you rested. He even chased his father away once, refusing to let Bruce disturb you.
Small, subtle actions marked his care: his hand brushing yours when passing a cup, straightening your pillows before he quietly left the room, standing a little closer than before when he watched you move through the space. He didnât say it, didnât need to. His presence was enoughâsteady, unwavering, and completely devoted.
As life continued, Wayne Enterprises held its annual shareholdersâ gala.
You were talking with a group of wives while Bruce mingled with the husbands. Damian moved quietly through the crowd, eyes constantly on you, a silent sentinel. Anyone who made even the slightest move toward you would quickly feel the weight of his gaze.
His attention snapped the moment he heard your name. He narrowed in on a pair of women gossiping, champagne glasses in hand.
âSheâs the woman who saved Mr. Wayneâs son⊠the new wife,â one said.
âAlmost died too. Takes a strong woman to protect a child that isnât even her own,â the other added, their voices full of admirationâand a hint of condescension.
Damian stopped. Calm, precise, and unmistakably serious, he spoke, cutting through the air like a blade. âThat woman is my mother.â
The words landed like a verdict. He didnât wait for their reactions. He didnât glance at them. With that, he turned and melted into the crowd, leaving the women frozen, glasses trembling in their hands, and the entire room suddenly aware that this boyâand this familyâwere not to be underestimated.
Since the break-in, life had settled into a quiet rhythmâbut nothing was quite the same.
Damian no longer allowed you to step into rooms first. He always moved ahead, scanning the space before signaling it was safe for you. Sometimes he lingered by the doorway, glancing back with the faintest of assurances before letting you follow.
During training, the difference was unmistakable. His punches were deliberate, precise, focusedânot the wild, testing strikes of before. He stayed closer than usual, circling you carefully, adjusting his stance to keep you safe while still pushing you to learn. You noticed the small pauses he gave you, a fraction longer than necessary, as if giving you time to react, to breathe, to stay unharmed.
Even in mundane moments, his vigilance showed. He never let you linger near windows or doors if he could help it, subtly positioning himself between you and any potential danger. At dinner, his chair shifted slightly closer; at the table, his hand brushed yours when passing the salt. Each gesture was quiet, almost imperceptible, but over time, they piled together into a pattern you couldnât ignore.
And through it all, Damianâs stoicism never cracked. He didnât announce his care, didnât offer words of reassurance. His protection, his presence, his steady attention spoke louder than anything he could say. You realized slowly, with a small, quiet ache in your chest, that he was choosing you. Every day. In a thousand little ways.
You were in the library once again, curled into your favorite chair with your favorite novel, sipping on a tea Diana had picked up during a recent mission. The quiet hum of the manor wrapped around you as you turned a page.
A sharp clearing of a throat made you jump. âJesus, D! You startled me,â you said, clutching your chest.
âUmmi,â Damian said, his voice calm, deliberate. âCan you help me with my homework? Father is busy with Wayne Enterprises' business at the moment.â
Your heart skipped. *Ummi.* He hadnât called you that in months, yet this time it didnât feel forced or suddenâit felt right, as if heâd always meant to say it this way. Pride and warmth swelled in your chest, threatening tears, but you forced yourself to stay composed.
âOf course, D,â you said softly, a smile tugging at your lips. âGo grab your work, and Iâll help you.â
He nodded, a quiet acknowledgment, and moved off to gather his homework, leaving you with a fluttering heart and a quiet sense of completion that words couldnât touch.
From that moment on, Damian began letting you inâslowly, carefully, like a dripping faucet rather than a flood. You helped him with his homework, offered guidance during training, and he sought your company above all others, excluding even his siblings.
Life moved on at its own steady pace, quiet but deliberate. And finally, Damian was letting you into both his world and, bit by bit, his heart.
One evening, he even joined you at the dinner table, sitting across from you and taking small portions of the meals you prepared. It was such a simple act, but to you, it felt like a victoryâa sign that the walls he had built around himself were beginning to crumble, one small gesture at a time.
