Hello to you! Yes you! I hope you are doing great, welcome to my blog! This post will be a guide to my other main posts, and would work as a main list as well so you, dear lovely reader, can find what you want easily!
If you want to look at my ideas you can search the #bluetalks, it's always open for you to send me ideas!
please tell me you're alive,I remember once you said you were from Iran, android I'm getting worried
IM FINE! Just cos of the war and stopping cyber attacks the government had shut the international internet. I'm back, but if the ceasefire breaks it will be cut off again.
Yeah! Bombs got to my city and they bombed a few areas (I'm not at the capital, Tehran was bombed over and over...) but I'm fine...traumatized, lost a lot of sleep listenijg to jets fly and stuff, but fine, college exams are not stopping thoooo🥲😭
I don't know, but have you seen my request for a platonic yander emperor (alien) and his son!reader?
Oh hello! And im sorry but this is the first time I'm seeing your request! Please send me another request snd elaborate on what you actually want, what kind of emperor he is and so on and so forth. Thanks for the request!💙
Lovely! Then could I ask for a Bayonetta one shot where reader is a bellhop (or some similar service position at a fancy establishment) and as a tip for reader's good service Bayo covers their face and neck in lipstick kisses. And also slides a 20 into their pocket. Reader is, as anyone would be in Bayonetta's presence, a flustered mess.
I see you've done a couple things with Bayonetta. Is it ok to send a request for something Bayonetta-specific? I only ask because I don't see it on your "characters I write for" page.
(Bat family x reader x Cereza Balderdottir (Bayonetta))
( English is not my first language so I apologize for any mistakes in the following text.)
(This fic is inspired by this post)
The scent of ozone, old roses, and a crackle of power that tasted of time itself still clung to the air around you. One moment, you were in the soft, shifting light of your nursery in Novera, listening to Mother hum a lullaby. The next, you were standing on cold, grey stone, a biting wind ruffling the fine, downy hair on your head.
You blinked your large, luminous eyes, taking in the impossible scale of everything. The door in front of you was a giant’s door, dark and imposing. The sky was a bruised twilight, unfamiliar and heavy. But the most familiar, the most important thing, was the warm, slightly scratchy fabric of your Imp plushie pressed against your cheek. You squeezed it tighter, a soft, gurgling sound of comfort escaping your lips. Its beady button eyes and lopsided felt smile were a tether to your known world.
Your mother, Cereza, was an unshakable pillar of warmth and power beside you. Her six-foot-six frame was sheathed in an impossibly elegant black dress, the fabric seeming to drink the scant light. Her heels were architectural marvels, her hair a perfect, dark fall. To the strangers who would soon appear, she was a vision of devastating, otherworldly sexuality. To you, she was simply the sun and the moon. The scent of her magic—bergamot, iron, and rose thorns—was a blanket around your small form.
The door creaked open, revealing not the one you were told to expect, but a kaleidoscope of faces. A young man with night-sky hair and a bright, startled smile. A taller, sterner one with a red symbol on his chest, his body coiled tight. A girl with fiery hair and a look of pure, unadulterated shock. And more, filtering into the grand hall behind them, a parliament of bats, confused and on guard.
Your mother’s voice, a low, melodic purr that vibrated through the stone beneath her feet, broke the silence. “I am looking for Bruce,” she stated, as if her mere presence wasn’t a seismic event. “He and I have… unfinished business.”
The one with the bright smile—Dick—whispered something to the stern one, a low murmur that included a name, ‘Selina’, and the word ‘type’. You didn’t understand the words, but you felt the tension, the curiosity. Your mother paid it no mind. Her confidence was a force of nature.
She stepped forward, her heels clicking a definitive rhythm on the marble floor, and you were swept along in her wake, cradled securely on her hip. Your large eyes scanned the strange new faces, curious, but unafraid. How could you be afraid when your mother’s magic hummed in the air and your Imp was safe in your grasp?
“It has been some time for him,” Cereza continued, her gaze sweeping over the assembled family as if assessing them and finding them… interesting, but not a threat. “A minor temporal discrepancy. A warping of the threads of fate in a place called the Nexus of All Realities. For me, it was a rather memorable evening. For him, it may have been a footnote. But footnotes, like seeds, can grow.”
She paused, turning her head to look directly at the darkest shadow in the room, a shape that had detached itself from the grand staircase. A man. Your tiny heart beat a little faster. There was a pull, a faint, familiar echo you couldn’t name.
“The result, however,” Cereza said, her voice softening ever so slightly as she adjusted you in her arms, presenting you to the room, “is rather permanent.”
You blinked up at the man—Bruce—as he stepped into the light. He was old, you thought, with lines on his face and hair touched with silver at the temples. But his eyes… his eyes were the same as the man from Mother’s stories, the one who moved like a shadow and had a voice like grinding stone. You remembered the deep rumble of his laugh, a rare sound, from the stories she told you at bedtime.
Cereza didn’t wait for him to speak. She was a woman of action, of defining the narrative before it could be defined for her. With her free hand, she gracefully slid the baby bag from her shoulder and placed it on a nearby antique table with a soft, decisive thud.
“We will be staying,” she announced, not as a request, but as a simple, immutable fact. “The luggage is in the yard. This one,” she jiggled you gently, making you giggle and bury your face in her neck, the Imp plushie squishing between you, “requires their father. And I require… child support.”
The word hung in the air, absurd and mundane amidst the gothic grandeur and the scent of magic. The Batfamily stood in stunned silence, a collection of the world’s greatest detectives and warriors, utterly disarmed by a six-foot-six sorceress, a mountain of luggage on their perfect lawn, and a small, wide-eyed child who clung to a lopsided, felt Imp as if it held the secrets of the universe. And you, nestled in the heart of the storm, simply reached out a tiny, curious hand towards the shadowy man, cooing softly at the familiar stranger.
***
The scene in the grand drawing room was a study in surreal contrasts. The low, nervous murmurs of the Batfamily had subsided into a watchful, baffled silence, broken only by the soft crackle of the enormous fireplace. Cereza, a vision of impossible grace, sat perched on a chaise lounge that had likely never held anyone so… present. She held a delicate, bone-china teacup from the Wayne family vault, the steam from the Earl Grey within curling around her fingers.
You were nestled in the crook of her arm, your large eyes fixed not on the tense vigilantes around you, but on the cup. The warm, earthy scent of the tea mixed with the comforting aroma of your mother’s magic, and a deep, primal toddler-craving ignited within you. It was warm. She was drinking it. Therefore, it was yours by divine right.
Your small hand, still clutching the felted leg of your Imp plushie, pattered against her chest. You tilted your head back, your wide, luminous eyes pleading.
"Teata, Mama! Teata!" you lisped, the words soft but clear in the hushed room. Your little body wriggled with the urgency of your desire, the Imp bobbing in agreement.
A ripple went through the assembled family. Dick Grayson’s stern expression cracked into an involuntary, charmed smile. Damian Wayne, for a fraction of a second, looked less like a lethal weapon and more like a confused boy. Tim Drake simply stared, his analytical mind seemingly short-circuited by the sheer domestic absurdity of it all.
Cereza looked down at you, her sharp, crimson-painted lips softening into a tiny, private smile. It was a look none of them had seen, a glimpse of a warmth that had nothing to do with temporal magic or Umbra witchery.
"Patience, little one," she murmured, her voice a low thrum that vibrated through your small frame. "It is too hot for you."
But you were not to be deterred. "Teata," you insisted, your lower lip beginning to tremble in a display of genuine, heart-wrenching toddler distress. You pointed a chubby finger at the cup. "P'ease."
Bruce, who had been observing from the mantlepiece like a brooding gargoyle, finally stirred. The word "child support" had been a calculated grenade, but this… this was a different kind of weapon entirely. This was a small, defenseless creature with his own eyes—or so Dick would insistently whisper to him later—making a perfectly reasonable, utterly un-negotiable request for tea.
Cereza’s gaze flickered up to Bruce, a silent, challenging arch in her brow, as if to say, *‘See? Your progeny. Stubborn.’* Then, with an elegant twist of her wrist, she brought the cup to her own lips, took a tiny, deliberate sip, and blew a soft, cooling breath across the surface.
She didn’t look at the others. Her world had narrowed to you. She tilted the cup, just so, and brought its gilded rim to your lips.
You leaned forward, your tiny hands coming up to steady themselves on her wrist, the Imp plushie getting momentarily squashed between you. You took a small, tentative sip. The warm, slightly bitter liquid touched your tongue. It wasn't the sweet milk you were used to, but it was warm, and it was from Mama's cup. A beatific smile spread across your face, tea glistening on your lips.
"Goot," you declared with finality, snuggling back into her embrace, your mission accomplished.
In that moment, the cosmic threat, the temporal anomalies, the mountain of luggage on the lawn—it all faded into the background. The Batfamily was no longer facing down a powerful, enigmatic sorceress. They were witnessing a mother giving her baby a sip of tea, and the universe, for one quiet second, made a strange and undeniable kind of sense.
***
The fire had burned down to glowing embers, casting long, dancing shadows across the opulent drawing room. The initial shock had settled into a tense, intricate negotiation. You were no longer at the center of it, blessedly adrift in the soft, shapeless world of sleep.
A velvet cushion, commandeered from a nearby armchair and placed on the thick Persian rug, was your temporary bed. Your small body was curled in a loose ball, one chubby cheek smooshed against the plush fabric. Your breathing was a soft, steady rhythm, a tiny engine of peace in the storm of quiet, clipped conversation. Your Imp plushie was clutched tightly to your chest, its felt horn tickling your nose with every exhale.
The voices of your parents wove around you, a low, rumbling tapestry of sound that meant nothing and everything.
"…primary residence will, of course, be with me," Cereza stated, her tone leaving no room for argument. It was the voice of a queen, not a supplicant. "The nature of my work and their… unique constitution requires it."
A deeper voice, a gravelly baritone that was Bruce's, responded. "Access. Unsupervised and regular. I will not be a footnote in their life."
You stirred slightly at the vibration of his voice through the floor, a tiny sigh escaping your lips. Your fingers flexed, tightening their grip on the Imp.
"Agreed," Cereza purred. "Though we will need to establish protocols. Your world is… fraught with perils. I will not have them exposed to the scum of your city until they are ready."
"Your world isn't exactly a playground, Cereza."
A soft, melodic laugh. "No. But I am its mistress. You are merely a guardian of yours. There is a difference."
The negotiation continued, a delicate dance of financial settlements—Cereza had scoffed at the initial number Bruce’s lawyer had proposed, naming a figure that made even the unflappable Alfred, who was silently serving a second pot of tea, raise an eyebrow—security details, and magical safeguards.
Through it all, you slept. A tiny, oblivious monarch between two titans. A silvery thread of drool escaped the corner of your mouth, darkening the velvet of the cushion. One socked foot kicked out, a sleepy twitch, knocking against the leg of the table where your mother had placed her teacup.
The movement was slight, but both of them noticed instantly. The conversation halted.
Bruce’s eyes, which had been narrowed in calculation, softened as he looked at your sleeping form. The fierce, almost desperate grip you had on that ridiculous, lopsided toy. The absolute trust in your slumber.
Cereza followed his gaze, her own sharp features gentling. She reached down, her movements unnaturally silent, and brushed a stray curl from your forehead. Her touch was feather-light, but it was enough to make you nuzzle deeper into the cushion, a contented little murmur bubbling up from your dreams.
The terms and conditions, the legalities, the logistics—they were important. They were the framework of this new, impossible reality. But in that moment, as they both watched you sleep, the most important term was silently agreed upon: this small, vulnerable, magical being was theirs. And that, more than any contract, changed everything.
***
The agreement, forged in the small hours of the morning amidst the scent of old books, cold tea, and powerful magic, was as unprecedented as the situation itself. Cereza, the Umbra Witch, would take up residence in the East Wing of Wayne Manor. It was the most isolated, easily warded section of the estate, and more importantly, it had a balcony that, according to her, "had acceptable access to the lunar currents." It was decided. She would remain, with you, until you were at least five years old and your own nascent magical core had stabilized enough to withstand the "randomized gravitational shearing and temporal flux" of portal travel on your own.
In practice, this meant Bruce Wayne now had a very hot, and very complicated, problem living under his roof, and it wasn't just the adorable, Imp-clutching toddler.
Cereza’s presence was a constant, low-grade seismic event in the Manor. She didn't just walk; she moved with a hypnotic, predatory grace that made the grandest halls seem cramped. Her chosen attire—a seemingly endless collection of sleek, impossibly tailored dresses, sharp-shouldered jackets, and thigh-high boots—turned the breakfast table into a runway and the library into a boudoir. She was six-foot-six of devastating confidence and otherworldly elegance, and she was utterly, infuriatingly unimpressed by everything.
The Batfamily, a group accustomed to instilling fear and awe, found themselves reduced to a state of perpetual, baffled arousal and nervous tension.
Dick Grayson, trying to do morning calisthenics in the conservatory, would find her there, performing a series of slow, fluid stretches that defied human anatomy, her body a study in power and line. He’d forget how to count reps.
Jason Todd, who had loudly proclaimed he "wasn't scared of no witch," nearly jumped out of his skin when he entered the kitchen one night to find her leaning against the counter, bathed in moonlight, slowly sipping a glass of red wine and staring into the middle distance as if perceiving the sorrows of the universe. He’d grunted a greeting, and she had merely slid her gaze to him, offered a slow, knowing blink, and said, "Your aura is very... shouty." He’d retreated back to his room, feeling strangely seen and insulted.
Tim Drake had attempted to research her, to build a profile. He’d found nothing but fragmented myths and coded references to a clan of witches who manipulated reality. He’d presented his findings to Bruce, who had merely stared at a point past Tim’s shoulder, a faint, unreadable expression on his face. "Don't bother," was all Bruce had said, his voice unusually tight.
And Damian... Damian was the most conflicted. He viewed you with a mixture of bewildered protectiveness and annoyance. But Cereza? He treated her like a volatile, high-value target that also happened to be a piece of art. He’d follow her at a distance, noting the way shadows seemed to cling to her, how the air chilled when she was deep in thought. He once found a single, perfect black rose petal on the staircase she had just descended. He’d pocketed it, then spent an hour trying to determine if it was a tracking device or a listening spell. (It was just a petal).
Bruce bore the brunt of it. The woman was a walking, talking distraction. A strategic nightmare. She’d appear in the doorway of his study as he was coordinating a Justice League alert, her hips cocked, asking in that purring voice if he’d finalized the "prenatal-to-preschool educational trust fund." He’d lose his train of thought entirely. She’d debate the merits of various pacifier brands with the same fierce intensity he used to debate tactical ethics with Clark.
The problem was multifaceted. It was her sheer physicality, an allure that was a weapon in itself. It was her power, a tangible force that made the very foundations of the Manor hum. It was the fact that she was the mother of his child, a child who was currently napping in a floating bassinet she’d conjured in the sunroom, guarded by a shimmering, barely-visible ward that looked like fractured stained glass.
He had a city to protect, a family to lead, and a global network of heroes to manage. And all he could think about, as he stared at the bank of monitors in the Cave, was the scent of bergamot and roses that had lingered in the hallway, and the memory of a time-warped night that had resulted in the most beautiful, complicated problem he had ever faced. A problem currently sleeping in the East Wing, holding a lopsided plushie, with a mother who looked like she could break the world and had decided, for now, to simply break the peace of mind of everyone in Wayne Manor.
***
Cereza was, to the immense and grudging surprise of the entire household, a spectacular mother. Her power, which could make the foundations of the Manor tremble, was also capable of the most exquisite fine control. She could summon a gale to clear the sky of clouds so you could see the stars, and in the next moment, use a wisp of shadow to gently retrieve a dropped Imp plushie from under the sofa without bending a perfect seam.
You were spoiled, undoubtedly. Your nursery in the East Wing was a marvel of temporal and spatial whimsy. Mobiles of tiny, orbiting moons and stars cast soft, real constellations on the ceiling. A menagerie of stuffed animals—not just the beloved Imp, but also a felt bat with lopsided wings and a plush hellhound that looked more cuddly than fearsome—held court in a padded corner. But the spoiling was not of the rotten variety. It was the spoiling of absolute security and boundless, focused love. When you fussed, she did not give you everything you wanted; she sang you ancient Umbra lullabies in a language that predated Gotham, her voice a resonant hum that vibrated in your very bones, soothing you into a peaceful quiet.
And she was fiercely, strategically insistent on Bruce’s involvement.
She did not simply allow it; she engineered it.
“Your progeny requires a nutritional intake,” she would announce, gliding into the Cave where Bruce was poring over satellite imagery of a Penguin arms deal. She would simply place you, wide-eyed and curious, into his lap, a warm bottle in your hand. “The process of feeding is, I am told, a critical bonding experience.”
Trapped, Bruce would have no choice but to halt his world-saving to watch you contentedly suckle, your large eyes staring up at him with a trust so absolute it was terrifying.
She scheduled “paternal enrichment time” with the same ruthless efficiency he used to schedule patrol routes. “It is three-thirty,” her voice would echo softly from the comms system he still hadn’t figured out how she’d hacked. “The heir apparent is awaiting their afternoon constitutional in the rose garden. Do not be late. The developmental milestones for spatial awareness are time-sensitive.”
But her most effective, most devastating campaign was linguistic.
She worked with you diligently, during your baths and while dressing you in tiny, impossibly soft clothes. She would hold you before one of the many grand mirrors in the Manor, pointing at your reflection, then at his, which she seemed to know how to summon in the glass even when he was standing behind her.
“Papa,” she would say, her voice clear and precise, shaping the word with her perfect lips. “Pa-pa.”
You, a clever mimic, would gurgle and try to form the sounds. “Ba… Ba-ba!”
“Close,” she would praise, a genuine smile touching her eyes. “Papa.”
And then, the moment arrived. Bruce had returned from a grueling 48-hour mission, weary to his soul. He’d shed the Batsuit and was heading for the coffee machine, his movements heavy with fatigue. Cereza was seated in the morning room, you on her knee, playing a game of patty-cake with your tiny hands.
He paused in the doorway, a silent shadow. You looked up, your large eyes locking onto his. A brilliant, toothy smile broke across your face. You raised one chubby hand, pointing directly at him.
“Papa!” you declared, your voice a perfect, ringing, cherubic imitation of your mother’s crisp British accent. “Papa!”
The word hung in the air, sweet and clear as a bell. It shattered his exhaustion, bypassed the Batcomputer’s analyses, the mission reports, the weight of the cowl. It was a direct hit.
Bruce Wayne stood frozen, the coffee forgotten. Across the room, Cereza did not smirk in victory. She simply met his gaze over your head, her own expression one of serene, unassailable satisfaction. She had given him a child, upended his life, and moved into his home. But in that single, perfectly pronounced word, she had just ensured he would never, ever want her to leave. The most powerful magic, it seemed, wasn't in the portals or the summoned demons. It was in the voice of a child calling for their father.
***
The Batcave was a cathedral of shadows and cold, hard certainty. The steady hum of the supercomputer, the soft drip of water in a distant cavern, the gleam of polished metal and glass—it was a realm of order, of mission, of grim purpose.
And then there was you.
Seated on a thick, sterile med-bay sheet that had been spread over the stone floor for precisely this reason, you were a splash of chaotic, brilliant color. Your chosen tools were not batarangs or forensic kits, but a fistful of chubby, child-safe crayons in violently bright colors. Your canvas was a large roll of architect's paper Alfred had procured, now covered in a magnificent, swirling scribble of lime green, fuchsia, and sunbeam yellow.
Bruce was at the main console, his back to you, trying to track a series of strange energy fluctuations in the Diamond District. But his focus was a frayed thread, constantly being tugged by the happy, nonsensical narration coming from behind him.
"Papa! Papa mama pwetty!" you babbled, your voice echoing sweetly in the vast space. You were drawing a large, lopsided circle with what you deemed were "hair." "Mama... shiny. Hair... pwetty."
A small, almost imperceptible smile touched Bruce's lips. He didn't turn, but his shoulders lost a fraction of their tension. He could picture Cereza in his mind, the way she seemed to capture and bend the light around her.
You paused, crayon hovering over the paper, your large eyes shifting from your drawing of your "pwetty" mama to the broad, dark-clad back of your father. Your brow furrowed in deep, toddler concentration. The word "pwetty" had served you well, but it didn't seem to fit the solid, immovable mountain of a man before you.
"Papa pwetty too!" you announced, testing the theory. Then you immediately shook your head, your soft hair swishing. "No..."
Bruce slowly swiveled in his chair, drawn in by your silent debate. He watched you, utterly captivated. You were chewing on your lip, your Imp plushie lying on its back beside you, as if also pondering the lexical dilemma.
You looked him up and down, from his booted feet to his slumped shoulders. You took in the sheer scale of him, the width of his back, the way he seemed to fill the space around the console. Your eyes widened as you arrived at your conclusion, a flash of pure, unadulterated toddler genius.
"Papa no pwetty," you declared with finality, pointing the fuchsia crayon at him like a tiny professor making a groundbreaking discovery. "Papa BIG!"
The word exploded in the Cave, simple, profound, and utterly true. It wasn't an insult. It was an observation of pure fact. He wasn't aesthetically "pwetty" like Mama. He was foundational. He was a force. He was BIG.
Bruce felt the breath catch in his throat. The energy fluctuations in the Diamond District were completely forgotten. All the words ever used to describe him—The Dark Knight, The World's Greatest Detective, a brooding vigilante, a billionaire playboy—none of them held a candle to the devastating accuracy of that single, shouted syllable.
BIG.
He was so captivated he didn't even notice the faint scent of ozone and roses until Cereza spoke from the staircase entrance, her voice a low, amused purr that wrapped around the word you had just gifted him.
"It seems," Cereza said, a genuine, warm smile playing on her lips as she leaned against the stone archway, "our child is already an excellent judge of character." Her gaze met Bruce's, and in it, he saw not mockery, but a shared, awe-struck understanding. You saw the world in its purest forms. And to you, he was simply, wonderfully, BIG.
***
The cavernous, often chilly master bathroom attached to the East Wing had been transformed. Steam, thick and fragrant with the scent of night-blooming jasmine and black lotus, curled towards the vaulted ceiling. The air was warm and heavy, a tropical grotto conjured in the heart of Gotham's stone and gloom.
You were a flushed, pink ball of pure, giggling contentment, perched on the wide, heated edge of the sunken marble tub. The magical bath had been an experience of swirling, iridescent bubbles that popped with soft chimes and water that changed temperature and color at your mother's whims, from a soothing cerulean to a playful, sparkly pink.
Now, in the aftermath, the real rituals began.
Both you and your magnificent, six-foot-six mother were swaddled in plush, Wayne-monogrammed towels. A larger, bath-sheet was draped over your head like a royal cape, and a smaller hand-towel was arranged as a regal turban on Cereza's black hair. Upon both your faces were cool, gel-based sheet masks—yours decorated with tiny, smiling cartoon bats, hers a stark, sophisticated black.
Cereza was reclined elegantly against a stack of pillows she had arranged on the floor, two chilled cucumber slices resting over her closed eyelids. You sat cross-legged beside her, your small body leaning against her solid, warm side, mimicking her serene posture.
"Now, little one," she murmured, her voice a hypnotic hum even through the mask. "A witch must tend to her vessel. From the crown..." Her long, elegant fingers, still radiating a gentle warmth from the bath, dipped into a crystal jar of unscented, magical-grade moisturizer. She dabbed a tiny amount on your forehead. "...to the toes."
You squirmed with delight as her touch traced the line of your nose, your chubby cheeks, your chin. She was meticulous, ensuring every inch of your skin was hydrated. The sensation was soothing and ticklish all at once, and your giggles echoed softly in the steamy room.
"Arms," she commanded softly, and you obediently stuck out a damp, slightly pruny arm. She glided the moisturizer from your shoulder down to your wrist, then took each of your tiny fingers, massaging the cream into each minuscule knuckle. You watched, mesmerized, as her own mask, a stark contrast to her pale skin, remained perfectly still. She was a statue of maternal pampering.
Then it was down to your toes. She lifted one of your feet, and you let out a squeal of laughter as she carefully rubbed the lotion into your sole, your arch, and then each individual, perfect toe. "Even the smallest phalanges require protection," she stated with grave seriousness, though you could hear the smile in her voice.
By the time she was finished, you were a glistening, rosy-cheeked, and supremely moisturized child, smelling faintly of magic and aloe. The sheet mask was removed, revealing your dewy, bright-eyed face. Cereza peeled off her own mask and removed the cucumbers, her skin glowing with an otherworldly luminescence that had little to do with the skincare.
She looked down at you, at your blissful, towel-crowned face, and her heart, a organ most believed was made of ancient stone and colder magic, swelled with a ferocity that dwarfed any spell. You were her greatest creation, her most vulnerable, and most powerful anchor to this strange, new world.
Just then, the bathroom door creaked open a fraction. Bruce, having come to deliver a report on the Diamond District energy spikes (and, if he was honest, to check on the strange, delightful sounds emanating from the room), froze in the doorway.
He took in the scene: the steam, the towels, the discarded cucumber slices, and the two of you—the impossibly sexy witch and her tiny, moisturized acolyte, both glowing with post-spa serenity. You turned your shiny face towards him, your large eyes crinkling in a smile.
"Papa! Big!" you declared, pointing a glistening finger at him.
Cereza didn't even turn her head. "The fortress is sealed during restorative rituals, Bruce," she purred, though there was no real annoyance in her tone. "Unless you'd care to join us? I have an extra mask."
Bruce, the Big, the Dark Knight, simply stared for a moment longer, then slowly backed out of the room, pulling the door shut with a soft, definitive click. Some battles, he knew, he was not equipped to fight. And some sights were far more disarming than any rogue's gallery.
***
The click of the grandfather clock in the main hall was a stately, metronomic sound, one that had measured the quiet dramas of Wayne Manor for generations. It was a sound you were growing accustomed to, just like the way the afternoon light slanted through the stained-glass windows, painting the marble floors in jewel tones.
Your little feet, clad in soft-soled shoes, made a quiet pitter-patter on the stone as you made your solemn journey from the sunlit conservatory, through the grand hall, and into the one place in the vast house that always held the promise of warmth and sustenance: the kitchen.
Alfred Pennyworth was at his usual post, a bastion of order in a crisply pressed waistcoat, meticulously polishing a set of silver tea strainers that had likely seen service before the Manor itself was built. He did not startle as you appeared in the doorway, though a faint, almost imperceptible softening around his eyes betrayed his pleasure.
You came to a halt before him, your large, earnest eyes looking up at the formidable but kind figure. In your two small hands, you clutched your favorite sippy cup—a surprisingly tasteful, BPA-free model in a deep navy blue that Cereza had deemed "aesthetically acceptable."
You took a small, preparatory breath, your little chest puffing out. Your mother’s linguistic lessons, combined with the inherent Britishness of your primary environment, had produced an accent that was, as Dick had once marveled, "posher than the Queen's."
"Alfred!" you announced, your voice clear and precise, despite the toddler lisp that softened the harder consonants. You held the sippy cup aloft like a knight presenting a chalice. "P'ease... mo' teata?"
Alfred paused his polishing, setting down the strainer and cloth with a deliberate slowness that conveyed the immense importance of your request. He bent at the waist, bringing his kind, lined face level with yours.
"More tea, young master/mistress?" he inquired, his own Received Pronunciation a perfect mirror to your fledgling attempt.
You nodded vigorously, your soft hair bouncing. "Teata," you confirmed. Then, remembering the crucial specifics your mother had drilled into you, you added, "Wit' Mik. P'ease." A final, politeness-after-the-fact appendage was tacked on with a winsome smile. "An'... tanku."
The request, in its entirety, delivered with such impeccable manners and devastating cuteness, was a weapon against which Alfred Pennyworth had no defense. The fact that the "tea" in question was, in reality, a concoction of lukewarm chamomile and a splash of milk mattered not a whit. The ceremony was everything.
"Of course," Alfred said, his voice warm with a sincerity he usually reserved for confirming that Master Bruce's cape was free of shuriken tears. "One tea with milk, coming right up."
He took your sippy cup with the same reverence he would a Waterford crystal tumbler. He moved to the kettle—already hot, because Alfred was always prepared—and performed the ritual. The hot water, the chamomile teabag given a dignified dip, the careful pour, followed by a precise splash of milk from a small porcelain jug.
He screwed the lid back on with a firm, final twist and presented it to you with a slight, formal bow. "Your tea, young master/mistress."
You accepted it with both hands, a look of profound satisfaction on your face. "Tanku, Afed," you lisped, beaming up at him before turning on your heel to toddle back to your important business, the sippy cup clutched to your chest.
Alfred watched you go, the ghost of a smile touching his lips. He returned to his silver polishing, the steady *tick-tock* of the clock once again filling the silence. The Manor had seen many things, but he mused, it had never before housed an Umbra Witch, a time-warped toddler, and a request for "teata wit' mik" delivered in an accent that could cut glass. And, he decided as he gave a final buff to a spoon, it was all rather an improvement.
***
The sound of your determined little footsteps was becoming as familiar in the halls of Wayne Manor as the whisper of the wind through the gothic eaves. This time, your mission had a specific target. You’d spotted him from the top of the grand staircase, a flash of dark hair and a bright, easy smile in the television room below.
You navigated the stairs with the careful, bottom-shuffling technique you’d perfected, your Imp plushie tucked securely under one arm. Once on solid ground, you picked up speed, your small form a dart of purpose across the Persian rug.
Dick Grayson was lounging on one of the large sofas, scrolling through his phone. He looked up as you barreled into the room, a grin instantly spreading across his face.
You came to a halt directly in front of him, tilting your head so far back to look up at him that you nearly toppled over. You pointed a chubby finger.
"Richard!" you declared, your voice ringing with the same crisp, British-inflected authority you used for "Papa" and "Alfred."
Dick’s grin widened. He’d been trying for weeks. "Hey, kiddo. You know you can just call me Dick. It's easier. Dick." He said the name slowly, clearly.
Your brow furrowed. This was a familiar, and frankly illogical, exchange. Your mother had been very clear about names. Bruce was Papa. The butler was Alfred. The serious one was Timothy. The loud one was Jason. The small, fierce one was Damian. And he was Richard. It was orderly. It was correct.
"Richard," you repeated, with finality, as if correcting a fundamental error in his understanding.
He chuckled, a warm, open sound. "Okay, okay. Richard it is." He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees. "What's up, little dude?"
You thrust your Imp plushie towards him. One of its felt horns was looking slightly frayed. "Fix," you commanded. "P'ease."
It wasn't a request; it was an appointment. You had identified Richard as the household's premier acrobat and, by your toddler logic, that made him the most qualified for delicate plushie-repair operations. Bruce was too "BIG," Jason was too loud, Tim was always looking at screens, and Damian… well, Damian had once tried to fix it with a needle and thread and it had looked… stabby.
Dick’s heart melted a little. He took the proffered Imp with the gravity it deserved. "Ah, I see. Structural integrity of the left horn is compromised. A serious issue." He examined it closely. "I think I have some special, extra-strong thread in my room. We'll have this good as new."
You watched him, your large, serious eyes filled with absolute trust. "Tanku, Richard."
He reached out and ruffled your hair. "Anytime, kiddo. Anytime."
As he headed off to find his sewing kit, he couldn't suppress the smile. He’d been a superhero, a leader, an acrobat who defied gravity. But here he was, officially appointed "Richard," Head of Imp Plushie Rehabilitation for the time-warped toddler of a cosmic witch. It was, he decided, one of his better titles.
***
The cavernous silence of the Batcave was a living thing, broken only by the hum of servers and the distant, rhythmic drip of water. Bruce was deep in the digital entrails of a new encryption protocol, his focus a laser, his world narrowed to lines of code on the main monitor.
Then, a sound pierced through the stillness. It wasn't an alarm. It was smaller, brighter, and far more potent.
"Papa! Papa!"
The words, shouted in that unmistakable, cherubic British accent, echoed from the top of the stone staircase leading down to the Cave. Bruce’s hands stilled on the keyboard. He didn't turn, not yet, but every muscle in his back tightened, his focus shattered.
The pitter-patter of small, frantic feet on stone followed, a rapid, descending rhythm that made his heart clench with a mixture of dread and involuntary delight. He finally swiveled in the massive chair, his cape rustling softly.
There you were. You had just reached the bottom step, your little chest heaving with the effort of your sprint. Your face was a picture of pure, unadulterated triumph, your large eyes shining like polished stones. You were holding up one hand, your index finger extended proudly towards the heavens—or, in this case, the Cave’s stalactite-studded ceiling.
"Papa!" you gasped again, skidding to a halt in front of his chair, nearly tripping over your own feet in your excitement. "Am one!" you declared, shoving your upheld finger almost directly into his face.
For a moment, Bruce Wayne, the Batman, was utterly disarmed. The encryption, the protocol, the lurking threat in the Gotham underworld—it all evaporated into a meaningless fog. His entire universe was this small, breathless child announcing a fundamental mathematical breakthrough.
You were one. One year old.
He looked at your extended finger, so small and perfect. He looked at your face, flushed with pride and the thrill of finding him to share this news. The Cave, with all its grim purpose, felt suddenly, profoundly different.
A slow, deep breath escaped him. It wasn't a sigh of exasperation. It was the sound of a man recalibrating his entire reality around a new, central truth.
He reached out, his gloved hand enormous next to your tiny one. Gently, he enclosed your upheld finger in his, his thumb brushing over your knuckle.
"Yes," Bruce said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that was somehow softer than it had ever been. "You are one."
The confirmation was all you needed. Your triumph complete, you launched yourself at his leg, burying your face in the tough fabric of his Batsuit, your "one" finger now pressed against his armored thigh. He placed a massive, careful hand on your back, feeling the rapid, bird-like beat of your heart.
In that moment, he wasn't the guardian of a city. He was the witness to a miracle. And the most important case file in the Batcomputer now simply read: "One."
The single, triumphant declaration of your age still hung in the Cave's air, a bubble of pure joy in the gloom. Bruce's quiet, rumbled affirmation had been the seal of approval on your newfound state of being. One.
But in the brilliantly direct logic of a one-year-old, a state of being was not merely to be acknowledged. It was to be celebrated. It required a ritual. And you knew, with every fiber of your being, what that ritual entailed.
Your face, still smooshed against the hard plating of his leg, tilted upwards. Your large eyes, which had moments ago shone with the pride of numerical achievement, now took on a new, potent expression: hope, mingled with an unshakable certainty. You had delivered your fact. Now, it was the world's turn to deliver its consequence.
"Den cake?" you asked, your voice a little muffled by his suit. You pulled back just enough for the words to be clear, deploying the ultimate weapon in your tiny arsenal. "P'ease?"
The word was a silken garrote around Bruce's resolve. It wasn't a demand; it was a politely stated, perfectly reasonable conclusion to the syllogism you had just constructed. I am one. Ones have cake. Therefore, cake must appear.
Bruce looked down at you. He saw the absolute, unclouded faith in your expression. You weren't asking the Batman, the scourge of Gotham's underworld. You were asking Papa, the provider, the solver of all problems, big and small. The problem currently being a distinct lack of confectionery.
He was utterly, completely helpless.
His mind, a supercomputer capable of running thousands of scenarios for any combat situation, could only produce one outcome: Acquire Cake.
A flicker of movement at the top of the staircase caught his eye. Cereza stood there, having clearly followed your headlong dash. She wasn't smirking. She was observing with a look of profound, maternal amusement, her arms crossed over her chest. She offered no assistance, merely raised one perfectly sculpted eyebrow as if to say, ‘Well? The logical progression seems sound to me.’
Bruce’s gaze returned to your pleading, upturned face. He let out a breath, a sound that was half surrender, half the beginning of a plan.
He reached up, his gloved fingers tapping the commlink in his ear. The channel crackled to life, not to the Justice League, not to the GCPD, but to the true master of the Manor.
"Alfred," Bruce said, his voice low and even more gravelly than usual, as if he were reporting a Class-A threat. "We have a… situation in the Cave."
A moment of static, then Alfred’s impeccably calm voice replied. "Indeed, sir? Of what nature?"
Bruce’s eyes never left yours. "The… celebratory confectionary variety. Immediate deployment is required."
There was the briefest of pauses on the other end, the only sign of Alfred’s surprise. "Understood, sir. The 'situation' will be resolved post-haste."
Bruce looked back at you, your small hand now patting his leg impatiently.
"It's handled," he murmured.
Your resulting smile was brighter than the Bat-Signal. You had stated a fact, made a request, and the universe, in the form of your very BIG Papa, had complied. The world, you decided, was a wonderfully orderly place. Now, there was only one thing left to do. You looked up at him, your eyes wide with the next, crucial question.
"Choc'lit?"
The celebratory chocolate cake, a magnificent, single-tiered masterpiece procured with astonishing speed by Alfred, had been a thing of beauty. It now existed primarily in a state of glorious ruin, and that ruin was you.
You sat in the center of the Cave’s med-bay area, the epicenter of a delicious disaster. The plate before you was a smeared landscape of dark brown crumbs and ganache. Your face, from your forehead to your chin, was a mask of chocolate, with two distinct, clean circles around your eyes where you had blinked. Your chubby hands were coated up to the wrists, fingers slick and sticky. Your once-pristine onesie was a testament to your enthusiastic, utensil-free approach to dessert. Even your beloved Imp plushie, sitting loyally by your side, had not escaped unscathed; one of its felt ears was now dipped in chocolate.
You were, in a word, blissful. A low, contented hum vibrated in your chest as you examined your messy fingers with deep satisfaction.
This was the scene your mother, Cereza, descended upon.
Her heels made no sound on the stone floor, but you felt her presence the moment she reached the bottom of the stairs. The very air in the Cave seemed to still, the hum of the computers fading into a respectful hush. You looked up, a fresh, chocolate-smeared smile breaking across your face.
"Mama! Cake!" you announced, proudly presenting your messy hands as evidence.
Cereza came to a halt a few feet away. She did not gasp. She did not sigh. She did not utter a word.
She simply looked at you.
It was not a look of anger. It was something far more potent. It was The Mother Look. It was a complex, silent transmission that contained millennia of Umbra discipline, maternal disappointment, and an unshakeable expectation of better decorum. Her head was tilted just so, her crimson lips pressed into a thin, unamused line. Her eyes, sharp and intelligent, traveled slowly from the top of your chocolate-caked hair, down over your destroyed onesie, to your sticky, outstretched hands, and finally to the chocolate-dipped ear of your Imp.
In that single, silent look, you were assessed, judged, and found wanting in the department of civilized dining.
Your triumphant smile faltered. The happy hum died in your throat. Your chocolate-smeared fingers slowly curled inward. You looked from her impassive face down to your own messy state, as if seeing it for the first time through her eyes. A single, large crumb of chocolate cake chose that moment to detach from your chin and plop softly onto your knee.
Bruce, who had been observing from the console, wisely chose to remain absolutely silent, becoming one with the shadows. This was a battle even Batman knew not to enter.
Cereza’s gaze finally lifted from the carnage and met your now-worried eyes.
"Little one," she said, her voice dangerously soft, a low purr that promised imminent cleansing. "We do not eat like barbarians. And we most certainly do not commit such atrocities upon a defenseless plushie."
You let out a small, uncertain gurgle.
"The bath," she declared, the words a final, inescapable verdict. "Immediately. And the Imp requires a full decontamination ritual."
With a sigh that spoke of a long future of managing the messes of her small, chaotic miracle, she stepped forward, her expression shifting from disappointment to resigned affection. The cake, it seemed, had been a victory. But the aftermath was a war she was always prepared to fight.
The weight of Cereza’s silent, maternal judgment had been heavy enough to crush your chocolatey joy. But as she stepped forward, her gaze shifted from your messy form to the shadowed figure at the console. The air, which had been still, now crackled with a different kind of energy.
“Bruce.”
His name was a single, soft note, but it carried the force of a gavel. He emerged from the shadows, the great Batman looking, for all the world, like a schoolboy caught passing notes. The sheer, formidable bulk of him seemed to shrink under her discerning gaze. He glanced at you, a chocolate-smeared monument to his indulgence, and then back at her.
“It was their birthday,” he said, the gravelly defense sounding weak even to his own ears.
Cereza arched one perfect eyebrow. She did not need to raise her voice. Her quiet tone was somehow more scathing than any shout. “A fact which does not necessitate the abandonment of all table manners, or the transformation of our child into a confectionary swamp creature.” She gestured elegantly to your disastrous state. “You indulge them, darling. You see those large eyes and your logic evaporates.”
A faint flush crept up Bruce’s neck. He looked… sheepish. It was an expression so foreign on his face that had any of his children seen it, they would have questioned reality. His shoulders slumped a fraction. He had faced down Darkseid with more bravado.
“They… asked nicely,” he mumbled, the defense growing feebler.
“They could ask nicely for a live grenade, and you would be halfway through the pin-pulling instructions before considering the consequences,” she countered, her voice still that low, chiding purr. She reached you, bending to scoop you up with a sigh, holding you at arm's length to avoid the worst of the chocolate. You, sensing the shift in power, went limp in her grasp, a picture of pathetic, sticky remorse.
Bruce had no retort. He simply stood there, the mighty Bat, chastised. He watched as she turned, carrying you, the guilty prize, towards the stairs for your promised decontamination.
“We will discuss appropriate portion control and utensil implementation later,” she threw over her shoulder, the sentence a promise of future, tedious negotiations.
Bruce remained rooted to the spot, the ghost of a sheepish look still on his face, the empty plate and the lingering scent of chocolate the only evidence of his paternal crime. He had faced down the universe’s worst, but he was utterly defenseless against the combined forces of a chocolate-caked toddler and their righteously unamused mother.
***
The silence of the West Wing library was a brittle thing, meticulously maintained and rarely broken. It was Damian’s sanctuary, a place of ordered knowledge and quiet contemplation, far from the chaotic, sugary anarchy that had recently taken root in the Manor.
That silence was shattered by the frantic, pitter-patter of small feet and a voice, high with desperation.
"Bwother! Bwother!"
Damian, who had been perfectly replicating a 15th-century Persian calligraphy technique, did not flinch. But the tip of his brush paused, a single, perfect drop of black ink pooling on the parchment, ruining the line. A tiny, almost imperceptible tic started in his jaw.
You skidded to a halt in the doorway, your small chest heaving. Your face was a tragic mask of distress, your large eyes shimmering with unshed tears. In your hands, you clutched your beloved Imp plushie. The situation was dire. During a particularly vigorous game of "airplane," the final, fraying thread holding its left horn had given way. The horn now dangled by a few desperate fibers, swinging forlornly with every movement.
You held the wounded Imp out to him like a surgeon presenting a critical patient. "I nee' help!" you wailed, your voice cracking with genuine emotion.
Damian Wayne, heir to the Demon, trained assassin, master of a dozen lethal arts, looked from your tear-streaked face to the decrepit, lopsided plushie. A war raged behind his eyes. On one side, a lifetime of discipline that scoffed at such sentimental trivialities. On the other, the undeniable, unsettling pull of a title he had never asked for and a duty he didn't understand: Bwother.
He had gruffly informed you, on multiple occasions, that his name was "Damian." You had ignored him with the same implacable force with which you ignored all of Gotham's unspoken rules.
He sighed, a short, sharp exhalation. "Tt. What is it now?" he grumbled, setting his ruined calligraphy aside with more force than necessary.
You scrambled forward, thrusting the Imp into his hands. "Horn! Broke!" you explained, pointing a trembling finger at the calamity.
Damian examined the plushie with a critical, tactical eye. The structural failure was evident. The stitching had been subpar to begin with, the fabric worn thin from obsessive cuddling. This was not a job for Grayson's haphazard sewing. This required precision.
"Remain here," he commanded, his tone leaving no room for argument. "Do not touch anything."
He stood and marched to a locked chest in the corner, retrieving a small, lacquered box. Inside, nestled in velvet, was a professional-grade suture kit, complete with surgical-grade needle and silk thread. He returned to the table, cleared a space, and laid the Imp upon it, positioning a high-intensity lamp over the "operating table."
You watched, utterly mesmerized, your tears forgotten. Your breathing slowed to match the intense focus of his. He worked with a quiet, unnerving grace, his small hands steady and sure. The needle flashed in the light, the silk thread weaving a neat, incredibly strong lattice that not only reattached the horn but reinforced the entire area.
In under two minutes, it was done. The horn was secure, standing prouder and straighter than it had in weeks. He snipped the thread with a definitive *snip*.
He handed the Imp back to you. "There. It is stabilized."
You took the plushie, your eyes wide with awe. You touched the newly repaired horn, testing its strength. A beatific smile broke through the last of your distress.
"Tanku, Bwother!" you chirped, and before he could react, you launched yourself at his legs, wrapping your arms around them in a sticky, chocolate-scented hug.
Damian froze, his arms held stiffly at his sides. He looked down at the top of your head, a profound and confusing warmth spreading through his chest. He grunted, a non-committal sound.
"See that you are more careful with its structural integrity in the future," he muttered, his voice slightly hoarse.
You just squeezed tighter. "Okay, Bwother."
He did not correct you.
***
The nursery in the East Wing was a pocket dimension of soft light and quieter air, a sanctuary woven from Cereza’s magic and Wayne wealth. The afternoon sun, filtered through gossamer curtains, cast a warm, dappled glow on the thick, cream-colored rug where you sat.
Before you was a sprawling, magnificent chaos of brightly colored wooden blocks. They were not just cubes; there were arches, cylinders, and triangular prisms, all sanded to a satin finish and stained in jewel tones. This was your kingdom-in-progress.
Your mother, Cereza, sat with you. Her imposing six-foot-six frame was folded with an impossible, elegant grace, her legs tucked to the side. She had shed her dramatic outer layers, remaining in a simple, sleek black tunic and soft trousers, her platinum hair pulled into a loose, low knot. This was a different version of her—softer around the edges, her focus entirely, unreservedly yours.
You were building a "towah." Your small hands, still clumsy in their coordination, stacked a blue cylinder on a red square. The tower wobbled precariously.
"Carefully, little one," Cereza murmured, her voice a low, soothing hum. "Feel the balance." Her long fingers hovered near your work, not touching, but guiding the very air around the blocks, lending them a subtle stability. The tower steadied.
You beamed up at her, then turned back to your task, your tongue peeking out from the corner of your mouth in concentration. You added a green arch, a triumphant "Aaah!" escaping you as it held.
This was your dialogue. The rustle of her clothes as she shifted, the solid *thock* of a block being placed, your happy, nonsensical narration. You pointed to a yellow triangle. "Mama, sun!"
She smiled, a true, unguarded smile that lit her sharp features from within. "Yes, my sun. A perfect sun for your castle."
You worked in harmonious silence for a moment, the structure growing, becoming more abstract and magnificent. It was a lopsided palace of pure imagination, a testament to a mind unburdened by physics or reason. Then, your ambition outpaced your fine motor skills. You reached for a purple block on the far side of the rug, your knee knocking the foundation.
The tower teetered. Your eyes went wide. Cereza’s hand twitched, magic ready to freeze the collapse in mid-air.
But she didn't.
Instead, she watched as the blocks tumbled, a colorful cascade of failure, clattering softly onto the rug.
For a second, your bottom lip trembled, the shock of the destruction threatening to bring tears.
And then Cereza laughed. It wasn't a mocking laugh, but a warm, rich sound of genuine delight. "Oh! What a magnificent crash!"
She reached out and didn't magic the blocks back together. Instead, she picked up a square and a cylinder, stacking them simply. "And now," she said, her eyes sparkling, "we build an even better one."
The threatened tears vanished, replaced by a new determination. The collapse was not an end; it was a new beginning. You scrambled for the blocks, your small hands eager to start anew, the sound of your mother's laughter and the simple, profound lesson of resilience the only things filling the quiet, sunlit room.
***
The Manor was never truly silent, but this silence was different. It was a deep, resonant quiet, punctuated only by the sigh of the ancient plumbing and the distant tick of the grandfather clock. The heart of the house—the Batfamily—was gone, pulled away by a city-wide crisis. Even Alfred was attending to an off-site Wayne Enterprises matter. Your mother, Cereza, was deep in her sanctum, the air around the East Wing thick with the scent of ozone and old roses, her concentration absolute as she wove a complex temporal ward.
You, however, were on patrol.
Your small feet were bare, making no sound on the cold marble as you toddled through the grand hall, your Imp plushie clutched in the crook of your arm. You were the sole guardian of the fortress, a solemn duty you took with immense seriousness. You checked behind curtains, under tables, your large eyes scanning for… well, you weren’t sure. But you’d know it when you saw it.
And then you saw it.
A man, dressed in dark, nondescript clothing, was silently jimmying the lock on one of the French doors leading to the veranda. He was thin, wiry, his movements quick and furtive. He slipped inside, closing the door behind him with a soft click.
He froze when he saw you.
You froze, too, staring at the intruder. He wasn't supposed to be here. This was your castle. Your Papa's castle. A hot, fierce feeling bubbled up in your chest, a protective instinct as pure and sharp as a diamond.
You raised your free hand, pointing a tiny, imperious finger directly at him. Your brow furrowed in a perfect mimicry of Bruce’s most intimidating scowl.
"Bad pewsen!" you declared, your voice ringing with toddler outrage in the vast hall. "Get out!"
The intruder blinked, then a slow, ugly smirk spread across his face. A kid. A baby, really, in a onesie, holding a stuffed toy. He took a step forward, his intent clear and menacing.
That was his mistake.
The air in the hall grew cold. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to deepen, to pulse. The man’s smirk faltered as a low, guttural growl echoed from a place that had no right to produce such a sound.
It came from the plushie in your arms.
The lopsided, felt Imp, with its button eyes and stitched-on smile, was moving. Its head swiveled towards the intruder, and where there had been simple black thread, two pinpricks of hellish red light now glowed. Its stuffed body seemed to swell, the fabric straining as something within stirred to life.
The man stumbled back, his eyes wide with disbelief and terror. "What the—"
He didn't get to finish.
With a sound like tearing fabric, the Imp launched itself from your grasp. It was no longer a toy; it was a blur of felt and fury, expanding mid-air into a nightmare of shadow and teeth. It slammed into the intruder’s chest, knocking him to the ground. A maw, far larger than should have been possible, lined with jagged, ethereal teeth, gaped open, poised to close over the man’s head.
The intruder screamed, a high, thin sound of pure, unadulterated terror.
The sound echoed, and a moment later, the heavy door to the East Wing flew open. Cereza stood there, her aura crackling with unleashed power, her eyes blazing. She took in the scene in an instant: you, standing your ground, pointing. The would-be thief, pinned to the floor, about to be devoured by a manifestation of childhood imagination and ancient, protective Umbra magic.
"Enough," she commanded, her voice slicing through the chaos.
The Imp-like creature froze, its monstrous form flickering. It let out a disappointed, rumbling gurgle before shrinking, condensing, and falling to the floor with a soft plop. It was once again just a lopsided, inanimate plushie.
Cereza strode forward, her gaze sweeping from the sobbing, terrified man to you. She scooped you up, her touch firm and safe. She looked down at the intruder, her expression one of cold, utter disdain.
"It seems you have chosen the wrong house to burgle," she said softly, before magically binding him with bands of solidified shadow.
She then looked at you, tucked safely against her shoulder. Her stern expression melted into one of awe and a flicker of maternal concern. She brushed a curl from your forehead.
"You are full of surprises, little one," she whispered, her voice filled with a strange mix of pride and the dawning realization that your inheritance was more… *immediate* than she had anticipated. The Manor’s defenses, it turned out, were not just electronic or bat-shaped. They were also small, fiercely loyal, and wielded a deceptively cuddly, man-eating familiar.
The debriefing in the Batcave had a new, and utterly unprecedented, agenda item. The mainframe’s giant screen, which usually displayed schematics of Penguin’s latest weapon or profiles of Arkham’s escaped inmates, was dark. The focus of the entire Batfamily was instead directed at a small, pajama-clad figure sitting proudly on the edge of the med-bay cot, legs swinging.
You had the floor.
“An’ den,” you announced, your voice pitched high with excitement, “my fwend came to life!”
You held up your Imp plushie for the entire room to see. It looked as it always did: lopsided, slightly frayed, and utterly harmless. The Batfamily, still in various states of disarray from their own mission, stared in stunned silence. Only the soft, rhythmic drip… drip… from the cavern depths could be heard.
Dick’s mouth was slightly agape. Tim was rubbing his temples as if fighting off a migraine. Jason just stared, a single eyebrow arched so high it was in danger of vanishing into his hairline. Damian’s arms were crossed, his expression a mask of intense, analytical scrutiny directed at the plushie. Bruce stood slightly apart, his cowl down, his face an unreadable granite mask, but his eyes were fixed on you with an intensity that bordered on awe.
“It got all big,” you continued, spreading your arms wide to demonstrate the impossible scale, nearly toppling backward. Cereza, standing behind you, placed a steadying hand on your back, her own expression one of serene, almost amused, confirmation. “An’ it had teef! Big, shiny teef! An’ it went GRRRR!” You let out a ferocious, if squeaky, growl.
You pointed a chubby finger at the magically bound and thoroughly traumatized burglar, who was currently shivering in a holding cell in the corner, refusing to look in the Imp’s direction. “An’ it wanted to eat the bad pewson! NOM NOM NOM!”
You mimed the eating with great enthusiasm, making loud chewing sounds.
The silence that followed was profound. It was broken by Jason letting out a short, sharp bark of laughter that he quickly stifled into a cough. Dick slowly turned to look at Bruce, his expression asking a thousand unanswerable questions.
Tim finally found his voice, though it was a bit hoarse. “So… let me get this straight. The Manor’s primary defensive measure against a Class-B intruder was… a possessed stuffed animal?”
“It is not ‘possessed,’” Cereza corrected mildly, her fingers gently stroking your hair. “It is imbued with a protective sentience. A familiar bond, responding to a direct threat against its charge. A perfectly natural reaction.”
“Natural?” Dick squeaked, his voice cracking.
You nodded vigorously, hugging the Imp to your chest. “He’s a good fwend. He protec’s.”
Bruce finally moved. He walked forward, each step slow and deliberate, until he was standing before you. He knelt, bringing himself to your eye level, the cape pooling around him like a puddle of night. He looked at you, then at the plushie, then back at you. His gaze was heavy, processing a reality where his one-year-old child had summoned a miniature kaiju from a toy to defend their home.
He reached out, not towards you, but towards the Imp. His gloved finger gently bopped its felt nose.
“Good… friend,” Bruce rumbled, the words foreign and strange on his tongue, but utterly sincere.
In that moment, the official report was filed away in every Bat-computer. The incident was logged, not as a security breach, but as a testament to the new, unpredictable, and terrifyingly adorable power that now resided in Wayne Manor. The best defense, it turned out, wasn't a better alarm system. It was a toddler with a very loyal, and very hungry, plushie.
***
The Batcave was a place of shadows and severity, a temple to mission and consequence. But for you, it had also become the world's most fascinating, if dangerously calibrated, playground.
Your father, the BIG one, was a man of immense control. But even his control had a soft, mushy center named Y/N. And so, a carefully curated, heavily modified selection of Bat-gadgets had been deemed, under strict supervision, "safe" for your amusement.
It was the best thing ever.
Your favorite was what you called the "Sticky Wope." It was a modified grapple line, its propulsion charge reduced to a comical pffft sound and its adhesive tip replaced with a large, rubberized suction cup. You would stand in the middle of the Cave's training mat, your face a mask of concentration, and fire it at a padded target Bruce had set up. It would hit with a satisfying THWACK and stick fast. You'd then spend the next ten minutes reeling it in, hand over fist, with the grim determination of a deep-sea fisherman landing a marlin.
Bruce would watch from the console, the corner of his mouth twitching as you grunted and pulled, your little body straining against the motor's gentle resistance.
Then there were the "Glowy Cubbies." These were decommissioned Kryptonite containment cells, their radioactive cores long removed. Alfred had polished them to a mirror shine. You loved stacking them, crawling inside the largest one, and declaring it your "spaceship," babbling commands to your Imp plushie, who was your first officer.
But the crown jewel of your collection was the "Bouncy Balls." These were the spherical, non-lethal concussion grenades Bruce used for disorientation. Their explosive cores had been replaced with a complex gyroscopic mechanism that, when the button was pressed, made them vibrate and hop around the floor in a wildly unpredictable pattern.
You would shriek with laughter, chasing the erratically bouncing silver spheres across the Cave floor, stumbling and giggling as they zigzagged away from your grasping hands. The sound of your pure, unadulterated joy was a strange, new frequency in the Batcave, one that somehow made the shadows feel less deep and the air less cold.
Bruce would sometimes pause in his work, not to correct you or to ensure safety, but simply to listen. To watch the most feared vigilante in Gotham's arsenal of crime-fighting technology be reduced to a set of glorified, super-powered toddler toys.
It was a surreal sight: the future heir to the mantle of the Bat, rolling around on the floor with a bunch of hyper-advanced, repurposed grenades, while the Dark Knight himself looked on, his heart feeling too big for his chest. In these moments, the mission could wait. The most important work was right here, ensuring the "Bouncy Balls" had fresh batteries.
***
The door to Bruce’s study was a fortress of dark, aged oak, designed to mute the chaos of the world and allow for singular, uninterrupted focus. It was no match for you.
It creaked open just enough for your small form to slip through. Bruce was at his desk, the green glow of the financial reports from Wayne Enterprises casting sharp lines across his face. He didn’t look up immediately, assuming it was Alfred.
The silence stretched, and then he felt it—a small, persistent presence. He lowered the papers.
You were standing there, just inside the room, your Imp plushie dangling from one hand. Your large eyes were wide with a seriousness that went beyond a request for a snack or a lost toy. This was the expression you wore when you had observed a fundamental flaw in the universe and had come to report it.
"Papa," you began, your voice quiet but firm.
Bruce set the papers down, giving you his full attention. "What is it?"
You took a few steps closer, your little brow furrowed. "Mama is a'one."
He blinked. "Alone?"
You nodded, a single, decisive dip of your chin. "In the... the sun woom. She is a'one. She is... quiet." You said the word as if it were a symptom of a grave illness.
Bruce leaned back in his chair, studying you. Cereza, quiet, was not necessarily a cause for alarm. It often preceded a particularly complex bit of spellwork or a moment of deep contemplation.
You, however, had diagnosed the situation with a toddler's profound and unshakeable logic. You stepped right up to the desk, placing your free hand on its carved edge, looking up at him with an earnest intensity.
"She need hug," you stated, as if reading from a clinical checklist. "An' kiss." You paused, your eyes searching the air for the right word, the final, crucial prescription. Your face lit up as you found it. "An'... an' 'ttention!"
The word burst from you with the force of a revealed truth. That was the medicine. That was what was missing.
Bruce stared at you, completely disarmed. The quarterly earnings, the board meeting disputes, a nascent threat in the Bowery—it all evaporated. His child, his one-year-old, had just conducted a psychological assessment of his… partner? Co-parent? The mother of his child? The terms were still a tangled mess, but your diagnosis was crystal clear.
You looked at him, waiting for him to enact the cure. When he didn't move immediately, you grew impatient, pointing a stern finger back towards the door. "Papa. Go."
A slow, deep breath escaped Bruce. He looked from your determined face to the mountain of paperwork, then back to you. The priorities, in that moment, were irrefutable.
He stood, the chair groaning softly in relief. He came around the desk, his shadow engulfing you. He didn't say a word. He simply reached down and took your small, waiting hand.
Satisfied, you turned, leading him with the authority of a tiny general. You tugged him out of the study, down the hall, towards the sunroom where a certain witch was, indeed, sitting too quietly. Your mission was clear: you had identified a deficit of 'ttention in the household, and you were deploying the biggest, most effective source you had at your disposal—your Papa. It was, you were certain, the only logical solution.
The efficacy of your toddler-wingman operations became stunningly apparent the very next morning.
Bruce Wayne, a man whose emotional baseline was calibrated somewhere between "granite stoicism" and "active volcano of repressed trauma," was stunned. He moved through the early hours of the Manor with a distinct, uncharacteristic air. It wasn't just exhaustion; it was a dazed, shell-shocked quietude, as if he'd witnessed a fundamental rewriting of the laws of physics.
He was in the kitchen when you toddled in, Alfred deftly preparing your "teata wit' mik." Bruce was simply staring into the depths of his own black coffee, not drinking it, his gaze distant and slightly unfocused. When Alfred placed your sippy cup in your hands, you turned and trotted over to him, the very picture of innocence.
You tugged on the leg of his trousers. "Papa?"
He looked down, and the sight of you seemed to sharpen his focus, though a profound, bewildered softness remained in his eyes. He reached down and lifted you, settling you onto his hip with a practiced ease that was still a relatively new development.
You studied his face, your head cocked. You didn't have the words for the specific, complicated peace you saw there, the shattered and reassembled look in his gaze. But you understood cause and effect. You had identified a problem (Mama, a'one) and you had deployed the solution (Papa, with instructions for hugs, kisses, and 'ttention).
A slow, knowing smile spread across your face. You patted his cheek with your soft, slightly sticky hand.
"Mama not a'one now?" you asked, your tone suggesting you already knew the answer.
Bruce’s breath hitched, just slightly. He looked over your head, through the doorway, towards the East Wing where Cereza still resided. A faint, almost imperceptible flush touched his neck. The memory of the previous night—of a "conversation" that had stretched long past midnight, without a single sharp word or veiled threat, filled not with negotiations but with a quiet, startling understanding—was vivid in his mind.
"No," he rumbled, his voice even deeper and more gravelly than usual. He adjusted his grip on you, his large hand splayed across your back. "No, she's not."
You beamed, supremely satisfied. You had fixed it. You took a loud slurp from your sippy cup, the sound of a job well done.
When Dick wandered in a few minutes later, yawning, he took one look at Bruce—at the way he was holding you, at the distant, softened set of his jaw, at the complete absence of the usual morning tension—and froze.
"Whoa," Dick said, his voice a low whisper. "What happened to you? You look like you got hit by a truck full of... I don't know, contentment. It's weirding me out."
Bruce didn't even glare. He just took a slow sip of his coffee, his eyes meeting Dick's with a calm that was utterly alien. "Nothing happened," he said, which was the biggest lie he'd told all week.
But you knew. You snuggled against his chest, your Imp plushie squished between you. You had done your duty. The 'ttention had been successfully administered. And the results, judging by your Papa's thoroughly stunned and pacified state, had been spectacular. You were, without a doubt, the best wingman the Bat-family would ever know.
***
The moment was one of those rare, fragile instances of perfect, domestic peace. Bruce and Cereza were in the main sitting room, a fire crackling in the hearth. They weren't arguing over security protocols or magical theory. They were simply... existing. Bruce was reading a file, Cereza was idly tracing patterns in the condensation on her glass of wine, her gaze distant but calm. A silent, comfortable understanding had settled between them, a direct result of your previous " 'ttention" prescription.
You had been playing quietly at their feet, building a fortress for your Imp plushie out of embroidered cushions. The peace was a lie. You had been plotting.
You suddenly popped up between them, a small, determined force of nature, sending a cushion tumbling. Your large eyes were alight with a new, brilliant scheme. You planted your hands on your hips, looking from one to the other with an expression of absolute certainty.
"We nee' a weddin'!" you announced, your voice ringing through the quiet room.
The effect was instantaneous. Bruce’s file lowered a fraction of an inch, his eyes widening just a hair behind the pages. Cereza’s finger stilled on her glass. Her sharp, perfectly sculpted eyebrows drifted upwards towards her hairline. The comfortable silence shattered, replaced by a thick, stunned stillness.
You, oblivious to the seismic shockwave you had just unleashed, barreled ahead with your platform. This was not a request; it was a manifesto.
"I wan' cake!" you declared, spreading your arms as wide as they would go to illustrate the necessary scale. "Big cake!" Then, you delivered the non-negotiable core of your policy. "Choc'lit!"
Bruce slowly lowered the file completely, his gaze shifting from your earnest face to Cereza’s. He found her already looking at him, a slow, deeply amused, and dangerously speculative smile beginning to curve her lips. It was the same look she got when considering a particularly interesting spell or a flaw in his armor's design.
"You heard the child, Bruce," she purred, her voice a low, velvety challenge. "It appears a formal union is required. The reasoning, I must admit, is sound."
Bruce opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His mind, a tactical supercomputer, was desperately trying to process the leap from "comfortable co-parenting" to "wedding" via the intermediary of "choc'lit cake." He looked back at you, your face the picture of hopeful, cake-fueled anticipation.
In that moment, he was not the Dark Knight. He was a man being expertly maneuvered into matrimony by a one-year-old pastry enthusiast. The path of most resistance, he knew, was futile. You had already proven yourself a master strategist.
He let out a long, slow breath, the sound of a man surrendering to the inevitable.
You, seeing his lack of immediate refusal as a resounding yes, clapped your hands together. "Yay! Weddin'!" you cheered, already dreaming of the chocolate avalanche to come. The matter, as far as you were concerned, was settled.
***
The grand wedding of Bruce Wayne and the enigmatic Cereza was the social event of the decade, a breathtaking fusion of old Gotham money and ancient, otherworldly elegance. The cathedral was a symphony of white roses and shadowy, exotic blooms that seemed to drink the light. The guests were a who's who of global elite and, in a discreet balcony, a collection of heroes trying very hard to look like normal, if unusually fit, attendees.
And you, in the heart of this stunning tableau, were a sugar-fueled gremlin.
The ceremony itself had been manageable. You, the ring bearer, had toddled down the aisle with grim determination, clutching the velvet pillow so tightly your knuckles were white, your Imp plushie tucked under your other arm for moral support. You had delivered the rings to a stoic Bruce without dropping them, a monumental success.
But then came the reception at Wayne Manor. And the cake.
It was a masterpiece. A towering confection of dark chocolate and silken ganache, adorned with sugar roses that seemed to mimic the real ones from the ceremony. It was the "big cake" you had demanded, the very foundation of this entire union. And you had claimed your tribute.
Your tiny tuxedo/dress , so pristine hours before, was now a canvas of chocolate smears and powdered sugar. Your carefully combed hair was sticking up in wild tufts, a casualty of your enthusiastic digging into the top tier. Your face was a mask of blissful, unadulterated chocolate, from the tip of your nose to the collar of your little shirt.
The elegant string quartet sawed away at a Vivaldi piece, but you were dancing to a different beat—a frenetic, sugar-high rhythm that only you could hear. You weaved through the forest of expensive gowns and tailored trousers, a tiny, chaotic pinball leaving a trail of crumbs and startled gasps.
"WHEEEEE!" you shrieked, launching yourself at Dick Grayson's legs, leaving two perfect chocolate handprints on his immaculate dress pants.
You then attempted to climb the leg of a Justice League ambassador, mistaking his ceremonial armor for a new jungle gym.
Spotting Damian across the room, you charged, arms outstretched for a sticky hug. He sidestepped with the grace of a trained assassin, and you plowed directly into a towering ice sculpture of a bat, which wobbled precariously. Alfred, with preternatural timing, caught it without spilling a single drop of his champagne tray.
Through it all, your parents watched.
Bruce, usually a statue of controlled intensity, had a look of dazed, profound surrender. He stood with his new wife, his hand resting on the small of her back, and simply observed the chaos his heir was unleashing. There was no attempt to control it. This was the natural consequence of "choc'lit" cake. He had accepted this.
Cereza, resplendent in a gown that seemed woven from midnight and starlight, watched you with an expression of rapturous pride. Her magic could command time and reality, but this—this pure, untamable, joyous havoc—was a force of nature she revered. A slow, delighted smile spread across her face as you tripped over your own feet and rolled, giggling maniacally, into a pile of discarded ribbon.
You were a disaster. A magnificent, chocolate-smeared, sleep-deprivation-inducing disaster.
And as you finally collapsed, a spent, sticky little heap of happiness, curled up on a velvet settee using your Imp plushie as a pillow, Bruce and Cereza looked at each other. The unspoken understanding passed between them. This was their life now. A life of cosmic power, gothic drama, and a tiny, sugar-fueled gremlin who had, with a single demand for cake, orchestrated the whole thing. It was, without a doubt, the best wedding either of them could have ever imagined.
***
The last of the chocolate-fueled manic energy had finally, utterly, drained away. The grand ballroom was a beautiful wreckage of confetti, discarded champagne flutes, and the lingering scent of celebration. The elegant guests had departed, leaving only the core inhabitants of the Manor to survey the quiet aftermath.
They found you in the library, a room that had thankfully escaped the worst of your gremlin rampage. The search ended not with a sight, but with a sound: a soft, rhythmic, unmistakable snore.
There, in a pool of moonlight cast through the great bay window, was Titus. The great, noble Doberman was lying with his head on his paws, his expression one of profound, long-suffering exasperation. He had the weary air of a knight who had successfully defended his castle from a tiny, chaotic dragon, only to have the dragon decide to use him as a bed.
You were sprawled on your stomach across his broad, warm back, your limbs flung out in every direction like a starfish. Your face, still smudged with the ghost of chocolate, was smooshed against his short fur. With every one of his deep, patient breaths, your small body rose and fell. With every exhale, you emitted a tiny, whistling snore. Your Imp plushie was clutched loosely in one hand, dangling precariously over Titus's side.
The Batfamily gathered in the doorway, a silent, weary audience to the scene.
Dick had a hand over his mouth, his shoulders shaking with silent laughter. Jason simply shook his head, a gruff, "Of course," muttered under his breath. Tim was leaning against the doorframe, too tired to even process the absurdity. Damian, arms crossed, surveyed his loyal hound with a mixture of pity and respect.
Bruce and Cereza stood at the back, looking over their family. Bruce’s earlier look of stunned surrender had softened into something deeper, something settled and content. Cereza leaned her head against his arm, a faint, tired smile on her face.
No one moved to separate you. It was a lost cause. Titus, with a resigned sigh that ruffled the hair on your head, closed his eyes, accepting his fate as the designated bed for the Manor's smallest, most unpredictable resident.
The wedding was over. The cake was eaten. The gremlin was asleep. And all was right in the world.
Note: I'm thinking of making it a multipart series with different heros and villains! You can suggest what heros or villains you want to be with you!
The air in the museum’s sealed antiquities wing was still thick with the dust of ages, stirred into a lazy dance by the shattering of glass. You began not with a cry, but in the silence that followed the destruction of the Umbral Jar, a relic of a forgotten people. Jason Todd, the Red Hood, hadn’t meant to wake a goddess; he’d been trying to stop a black-market auction. His gloved fingers had pried the lid open, and from the swirling obsidian mist within, a woman formed—not of flesh, but of starlight and shadow, her eyes holding the cold fire of dead suns.
She was Anath, the Sleeper in the Dark, and she was grateful. Her voice was like stone grinding against stone, yet it held a terrible, ancient music. She spoke of a slumber of millennia and a debt owed to her liberator. Before Jason could utter a word of refusal, a word of confusion, she leaned forward, her form shimmering, and pressed a kiss to his lips. It was not a kiss of passion, but of transference, a seal of a covenant he never agreed to. A shock of pure, unadulterated life jolted through him, a sensation so foreign and overwhelming it stole his breath.
And then it was over. Anath began to fade, her corporeal form dissolving back into motes of light. But as she did, she spoke the words that would define your existence. "Revered hero, take upon thee this child, for they shall be thine." From the dissipating cloud of her essence, a soft, round bundle of woven moonlight and shadow coalesced. It was gently placed into Jason’s arms, which moved on instinct to receive it, his mind a roaring static of disbelief.
The weight was solid, real. The mystical wrappings shimmered and then faded, revealing you.
You were, in Jason’s utterly biased and immediately certain opinion, the single most beautiful baby ever to exist in the history of the world. Your face was a perfect, squishy circle, with a complexion that held a healthy, rosy glow. You had a head covered in a dark, downy fuzz that already hinted at the stubborn curl of Jason’s own hair. And the chins. You had a magnificent, glorious cascade of triple chins, each one a soft, creamy roll of baby fat that folded into the next. Your eyes, wide and alert, were the exact shade of cerulean blue that stared back at Jason from the mirror on his rare, unguarded mornings.
He was frozen, a 6-foot-tall pillar of muscle, Kevlar, and trauma, holding a swaddled infant that looked like someone had taken a photograph of him as a baby and rendered it in 3D. The Red Hood’s helmet, with its blank, white lenses, was tipped down, staring at the impossible reality in his arms.
The other occupants of the room—a handful of terrified, tied-up auction-goers and a few of Gotham’s less fortunate thugs—gawked. The silence was broken by a low, incredulous whisper from one of the bound gangsters. "Did… did the ghost lady just give Hood a baby?"
You, Y/N, chose that moment to make your presence truly known. You didn’t wail. You let out a small, gurgling coo, a tiny, bubbly sound that was absurdly loud in the tense quiet. One of your pudgy, starfish hands escaped the swaddling, waving aimlessly before your fingers closed around the strap of Jason’s chest armor. You held on with a surprising, instinctual strength.
Jason’s brain, which had been expertly trained in combat tactics, ballistics, and urban warfare, short-circuited. Fatherhood. Goddess. Baby. My face. How? The questions were a frantic, overlapping stampede. He looked from your impossibly small hand on his armor strap to your face, and you blinked slowly, your blue eyes focusing on the red helmet with a look of pure, uncomplicated curiosity.
He had to get out of there. Now. With a grunt that was more shock than exertion, he adjusted his hold on you, one large hand splayed across your back, supporting your head with a care that was entirely automatic. He turned, his leather jacket creaking, and strode towards the shattered skylight he’d used as an entrance, ignoring the stunned murmurs behind him.
The journey back to his safehouse was a blur. You were remarkably calm, nestled against the hard plane of his body armor, lulled by the rhythm of his grapple line and the rush of the wind. He moved through the Gotham night, a specter of violence carrying a bundle of new life.
Inside the sparse, utilitarian safehouse, the reality of the situation crashed down on him. He laid you carefully on his stripped-metal table, the surface usually reserved for disassembled firearms and first-aid kits. He finally, hesitantly, removed his helmet. His own face, usually set in a grimace of perpetual anger or weary cynicism, was soft with a bewilderment so profound it bordered on fear.
He stared at you, and you stared back. You were his. Created from a kiss, a reward from a forgotten goddess, a debt paid in flesh and blood. You were Y/N Todd, and your story, born from shattered glass and divine magic, was just beginning.
***
The sterile, cavernous air of the Batcave was thick with a silence rarely heard. It was usually filled with the hum of supercomputers, the clang of training equipment, or the low murmur of tactical debate. Now, it was broken only by the soft, gurgling coos of a baby hovering upside down four feet off the concrete floor.
You, Y/N Todd, were the source. At a mere day old, you defied every known law of pediatric development and, more pressingly, gravity. Your chubby, triple-chinned face was serene, your cerulean blue eyes wide with fascination as you observed the stalactites from your unique vantage point. A tiny, pudgy hand reached out, making grabbing motions at the distant, bat-shaped silhouette of the main computer.
Damian Wayne, Robin, stood with his arms crossed, his small frame radiating a potent mixture of disgust and disbelief. His nose was slightly wrinkled as if smelling something foul. He had been in the middle of honing his katana when his father had returned from a fraught meeting with the Red Hood, carrying not a new case file, but a swaddled infant. The story that followed was so absurd Damian had initially assumed it was one of Grayson’s poor attempts at humor.
He was wrong.
"So..." Damian's voice cut through the quiet, sharp and unimpressed. "Now you are a father... and we are expected to provide childcare for this... thing?"
The "thing" in question, you, let out a happy burble and did a slow, lazy somersault in mid-air, your dark, downy hair floating gently.
"Apparently," Damian concluded, his tone flat and final, "we are doomed."
The others in the Cave were a study in stunned paralysis. Tim Drake, the current Red Robin, had frozen in the act of sipping his coffee, the mug hovering an inch from his lips. His analytical mind, capable of deconstructing complex criminal networks in seconds, was utterly failing to process the data before him. Infant. One day old. Levitation. Defies all known biological and physical constraints. Conclusion: Error.
Dick Grayson, Nightwing, had a hand clamped over his mouth, but his shoulders were shaking. It wasn't quite laughter, not yet, but a tremor of pure, unadulterated shock that was threatening to evolve into hysterics. His eyes, visible above his mask, were wide as saucers, darting from your hovering form to Jason, who stood a few feet away, looking like he'd been hit by a freight train made of responsibility.
Jason had his arms crossed tightly over his chest, the red bat symbol on his leather jacket seeming to mock him. He hadn't wanted to come here. He'd only brought you to the Cave because you'd started making the lamps in his safehouse flicker, and he was desperately out of his depth. He'd expected judgment, interrogation, maybe even an attempt to take you into "protective custody." He hadn't expected... this.
"Do not be so dramatic, Damian," Bruce Wayne's voice rumbled from the platform by the Batcomputer. He was the only one who seemed remotely composed, though the slight tightening around his eyes betrayed his own profound bafflement. He was studying you with the same intense focus he usually reserved for crime scene photos and alien invasion schematics. "The child is... robust. And alert."
"Robust?" Tim finally managed, lowering his coffee mug with a shaky hand. "Bruce, it's defying gravity. Most one-day-olds can't even hold their heads up. This one looks like it's about to start reciting the periodic table."
As if on cue, you gurgled again, a string of bubbly, nonsensical sounds. A small, shimmering orb of soft golden light, no bigger than a marble, popped into existence near your waving hand. You swatted at it, and it vanished with a faint pop.
A fresh wave of stunned silence washed over the Cave.
Dick finally lost his battle with composure, a choked snort escaping. "Okay. Okay. So. Jason's a dad. The mom is a... revived goddess. And the baby... the baby can fly and make sparkles." He ran a hand through his black hair. "This is the weirdest Tuesday we've ever had."
Jason finally found his voice, a low growl. "Shut up, Grayson." His gaze, however, remained fixed on you. There was a raw, terrified protectiveness in his eyes that warred with the sheer absurdity of the situation. You were his. A magical, floating, spark-producing baby that looked exactly like him. He was doomed, just as Damian had said. But as he watched you right yourself in the air and fix your bright, curious eyes directly on him, a tiny, impossible smile gracing your chubby face, a part of him, buried deep beneath the anger and the armor, knew he was irrevocably, terrifyingly, and completely yours as well.
***
The solution, after the first week of chaotic, magical infancy, was the Nursery.
It wasn't a cage. Bruce Wayne had been very specific about that, his voice a low, legalistic rumble as the schematics were drawn up. It was a "controlled environmental containment unit," designed not to imprison, but to protect. You, and everything around you. The result was a magnificent, hexagonal chamber constructed in a disused, reinforced section of the Batcave, walls made of a transparent, crystalline polymer developed by Wayne Enterprises' R&D division. It was clearer than glass and could withstand a direct hit from a tank shell. From the outside, it looked like a pristine, scientific exhibit. From the inside, it was your entire world.
The League of Assassins had less thorough contingency plans for metahuman threats than the Bat-Family now had for you.
Your development was not charted in milestones like "first steps" or "first words," but in "first manifestation" and "successful countermeasure implementation."
The first major countermeasure was the goggles. They were custom-made, tiny and padded, with lenses that could auto-tint from a soft neutral gray to an opaque, reflective black in nanoseconds. The reason for them became apparent on Day Five, when you, frustrated that the mobile of little stuffed bats was just out of reach, had stared at it with intense concentration. Your cerulean eyes had flashed with a brilliant, molten gold light, and the mobile had not just moved; it had ignited, dissolving into a puff of scented ash in milliseconds. After that, the goggles were a permanent fixture, only removed under strict, supervised conditions. You didn't seem to mind them, often reaching up to tap the flexible frame with a pudgy finger.
The Nursery itself was a masterpiece of adaptive engineering. The floor was a soft, temperature-reactive gel that cushioned your frequent, unplanned landings. When your emotions spiked—a gurgle of joy, a frustrated whimper—the room responded. A surge of childish delight might cause the air to fill with floating, holographic butterflies that you would try to catch. A moment of upset could make the walls shimmer with a calming, aurora-like light show, a preemptive measure to stop you from accidentally phasing through them again, a trick you'd discovered during a particularly exciting game of peek-a-boo with Dick.
Your family became your dedicated, and perpetually bewildered, research and development team.
Bruce and Tim spent long nights at the Batcomputer, analyzing the energy signatures your powers emitted. They cataloged everything: the telekinetic pulses that let you float your rubber blocks in complex patterns, the minor reality-warping that turned your pureed peas into a shimmering, if inedible, emerald mist, the thermal energy you radiated when you slept, which required a special cooling system in your crib.
Dick and Cassandra were the hands-on specialists. Dick's role was "Emotional Regulation and Acrobatic Distraction." He would spend hours in the Nursery with you, his natural grace allowing him to dodge the small, localized gravity wells you sometimes created. He taught you clapping games, his movements slow and exaggerated, hoping to channel your focus. Cassandra, with her preternatural understanding of body language, could sense a power surge in you before it even happened. A subtle tension in your shoulders, a specific blink—she would calmly reach out and adjust your goggles or offer you a specially designed, nearly indestructible teething ring, effectively grounding the building energy.
Damian, despite his initial proclamation of doom, had a unique role. He was, to everyone's surprise, the most effective at getting you to sleep. He would sit cross-legged outside the glass, sketching in a large pad. He didn't draw cartoons or simple shapes. He drew detailed, anatomically correct illustrations of animals—Titanis walleri, Smilodon, Daeodon. He would hold them up to the glass, and you would watch, mesmerized, your golden-hazed gaze fixed on the powerful lines of the prehistoric creatures until your blinks grew longer and you finally drifted off, curled up on your gel-floor, your breathing soft and even.
And Jason. Jason was your anchor. He was there every day, his large, calloused hands looking impossibly gentle as he fed you, changed you, or simply held you against his chest, his leather jacket swapped for a soft cotton hoodie. He was the one who learned the difference between your "I'm bored" gurgle and your "I'm about to short-circuit the Cave's power grid" gurgle. When a new, terrifying power manifested—like the time you sneezed and temporarily turned everything in a ten-foot radius a vibrant shade of pink—it was Jason's voice, a low, steady murmur, that could calm you down. "Easy, kiddo. Easy. Daddy's here. Just... maybe don't do the rainbow thing again, okay?"
You would look up at him, your features—his features—soft in the filtered light of your glass world, and you'd coo, a tiny, trusting sound. In those moments, the fear and the absurdity would melt away, replaced by a fierce, overwhelming love. You were a magical, chaotic, wonderful problem, and you were safely, adorably, and irrevocably his.
***
The six-month mark brought a subtle but significant shift. The chaotic, unpredictable geysers of raw power that had characterized your infancy began to recede, replaced by something far more deliberate: focus.
It started with the blocks. Previously, they would either float in a frantic, uncontrolled orbit or be transmuted into puffs of scented smoke. Now, you would sit on the soft gel-floor of your Nursery, your goggled gaze fixed on a single, red block. A tiny, pudgy hand would rise, fingers splayed with intense concentration. The block would tremble, then lift, not in a jerky lurch, but in a smooth, steady ascent until it hovered at eye level. You'd hold it there, a tiny tremor in your arm mirroring the mental effort, before letting it gently settle back down. Then you'd let out a soft, triumphant "Ba!" and move on to the blue one.
This newfound control was a massive relief to your ever-vigilant family. The goggles came off for longer periods during supervised play, though a pair was always kept close at hand. The crystalline walls of the Nursery shimmered less frequently with emergency containment fields. You were learning. You were, in your own unique way, maturing.
Yet, this cognitive leap forward highlighted another, more puzzling aspect of your existence: your physical growth was progressing at a glacial pace.
At six months old, you were still the same superbly chubby, triple-chinned baby you had been at one month. Your limbs remained deliciously roly-poly, your cheeks the perfect pillows they had always been. You had not noticeably lengthened. The finely knitted sweaters Alfred had procured still fit perfectly. The tiny, custom-made sneakers Dick had bought you in a fit of optimism remained comically large.
This biological stasis became a new data point for the family's ongoing research.
Bruce and Tim had re-calibrated the Cave's medical scanners a dozen times. The results were always the same. Your cellular structure was... stable in a way that defied explanation. There was no evidence of decay or senescence, but the rampant cellular division that should have signaled rapid growth was absent. It was as if your body, a construct of divine magic, was prioritizing the immense task of mastering its own power over the mundane process of getting bigger.
"You are simply marinating, little one," Alfred would muse, watching you carefully guide a spoonful of apple puree to your mouth with a nudge of telekinesis, barely spilling a drop. "Allowing your essence to properly steep before you see fit to grow."
Jason felt this paradox most acutely. The pride he felt watching you consciously dim the golden light in your eyes to a soft glow was immense. He'd cheer you on, his voice a low, encouraging rumble. "That's it, Y/N. You got it. Nice and easy." But that pride was tinged with a deep, nagging worry. He'd find himself comparing you to developmental charts on the Batcomputer, his heart sinking at the ever-widening gap. He'd run a gentle thumb over the sole of your foot, noting that the tiny lines and creases were exactly the same as they were months ago.
It created a strange, disjointed reality. You were an infant in body, a chubby, cooing bundle that still fit perfectly in the crook of his arm. But in your eyes, there was a growing awareness, a cognizance that was far beyond your apparent age. You understood cause and effect. You recognized the different tones in his voice—the praise, the caution, the love.
During one of his visits, Damian observed this with his typical clinical detachment. "Tt. Its mind is a sapling growing in a pot that is too small. The roots are searching for room that does not exist." He said it without malice, merely as a statement of observed fact.
Dick, ever the optimist, tried to frame it differently. He'd sit with you in the Nursery, helping you stack your blocks not with your hands, but with your mind. "You're just taking your time, kiddo," he'd say, grinning. "Why be a boring old toddler when you can be a super-advanced, super-cute baby?"
You would respond with a gurgle, your focused gaze on the teetering tower of blocks. With a final, precise nudge of power, you placed the last block on top. The tower stood, perfect and steady. You looked up at Jason, your cerulean eyes (currently their normal, non-glowing state) wide with expectation.
A wave of pure, unadulterated love washed over him, momentarily drowning the worry. He scooped you up, and you nestled into his chest with a contented sigh, your small hand patting the symbol on his jacket.
You were his baby. A six-month-old who was mastering telekinesis, whose growth was measured not in inches but in control, and who, for now, was perfectly, wonderfully, and perplexingly small.
***
The sound cut through the low hum of the Batcave’s servers and the soft, rhythmic clack of Cassandra practicing her forms. It wasn't a gurgle, or a coo, or a babble. It was a word. A perfect, unmistakable, two-syllable declaration.
"Dadaaaaaaa!"
The voice was high, clear, and brimming with triumphant joy. It echoed slightly in the vast space, and for a single, frozen heartbeat, all activity ceased.
Jason had been on the other side of the Cave, his back to the Nursery. He was cleaning his guns, the methodical disassembly and reassembly a familiar, calming ritual. The moment the word left your lips, his hands stilled. A pin he was holding slipped from his grease-blackened fingers and clattered onto the metal workbench, the sound unnaturally loud in the sudden silence.
He turned, slowly, as if moving through deep water. His heart was a frantic drum against his ribs.
You were there, in your crystalline Nursery, standing on your own two feet—a feat you’d only recently mastered—and holding onto the transparent wall for support. Your tiny, starfish hands were pressed flat against the polymer. The ever-present goggles were pushed up on your forehead, a small act of rebellion Alfred had allowed during a recent feeding. Your face, with its magnificent triple chins, was split into a wide, toothless grin. Your cerulean blue eyes, clear and focused, were locked directly on him.
"Dada!" you squealed again, louder this time, bouncing on your chubby legs with uncontainable excitement.
The world narrowed to that single point. The Cave, his family, the guns, the weight of his own past—it all faded into a dull, distant hum. The only thing that was real was you, beaming at him, bestowing upon him a title he had never, in his darkest or most hopeful dreams, imagined would be his.
A sound escaped him, a choked, half-gasp, half-sob. He saw Dick, who had been spotting Cassandra, slowly lower his hands, a look of pure, unadulterated wonder on his face. Tim had swiveled in his chair at the Batcomputer, his jaw slightly agape. Damian, who had been meticulously sharpening a throwing star, had paused, his brow furrowed not in annoyance, but in a rare, contemplative silence.
But Jason saw them only in his periphery. His entire being was focused on you. He took a step forward, then another, his movements clumsy, his usual predator's grace gone. He crossed the distance to the Nursery in a daze, his boots echoing on the stone floor.
He reached the transparent wall and dropped to one knee, bringing his face level with yours. The hard lines of his face, so often set in a scowl or a mask of weary cynicism, had gone soft. His eyes, the same shade of blue as yours, shimmered with unshed tears.
"Hey," he breathed, his voice rough with an emotion so vast it had no name. He pressed his own large, calloused hand against the wall, mirroring yours. "Hey, kiddo."
You giggled, a sound like tiny bells, and pressed your forehead to the cool, clear surface, your eyes crinkling at the corners. "Dada!" you said a third time, as if confirming it, making it real.
A single tear finally escaped, tracing a clean path through the grime on his cheek. He didn't wipe it away. He just knelt there, his hand against the wall, separated from you by only a few inches of unbreakable polymer, yet feeling more connected to you than he ever had before.
You had manifested telekinesis, thermokinesis, and minor reality warping. But this—this single, perfectly articulated word—was the most powerful magic you had ever performed. It had not moved objects or bent physics. It had shattered the last of the walls around Jason Todd's heart and filled the empty spaces with a light so brilliant he was nearly blinded by it.
You were his baby. And you had just called him Dad.
***
The world outside the crystalline Nursery was a symphony of sensation, and you were its most enthusiastic conductor. Jason, his heart still performing a warm, steady rhythm against his chest where your tiny form was securely tucked in a custom-made baby carrier, had decided it was time. You had control. You had said "Dada." You deserved a field trip.
The location was a secluded, sun-drenched clearing in the heart of Robinson Park, far from prying eyes. The grass was soft and green, dappled with light filtering through the canopy of ancient oaks.
Jason had just unclipped the carrier, intending to set you down for some supervised tummy time on a thick blanket. But you had other ideas.
The moment you felt the open air around you, your little body went buoyant. It wasn't the frantic, uncontrolled floating of your earliest days. This was deliberate. A soft, golden haze, no brighter than sunlight, shimmered around your outline. You rose into the air, hovering about three feet off the ground, your chubby legs drawn up beneath you.
Jason’s breath hitched, his hands coming up instinctively, ready to catch you. But you weren't falling. You were… bouncing.
"Dada bu!" you babbled, your voice a bubble of pure joy.
With a gentle, mental push against the air itself, you bobbed upward another foot. Then you descended, only to bounce back up again, like a perfectly buoyant balloon filled with nothing but happiness. Your triple-chinned face was tilted up to the sky, your eyes (sans goggles, for this carefully vetted excursion) wide with wonder. Each soft bounce made the dark, downy curls on your head jiggle.
"Bu!" you declared again, pointing a pudgy finger at a fat bumblebee buzzing near a patch of clover. You bounced in its direction, your trajectory gentle and swaying.
A laugh was torn from Jason’s throat—a raw, startled, and utterly joyous sound he hardly recognized as his own. He followed your floating, bobbing path, his hands still raised, not in panic anymore, but as a spotter, a guide.
"That's it, kiddo," he murmured, his voice thick with awe. "You're flying. Well, bouncing. You're… bouncy-flying."
You gurgled in agreement, executing a slow, mid-air spin. The golden haze around you pulsed gently with the effort. You were doing it. You were not just levitating; you were navigating. You saw a bright yellow butterfly and changed your bobbing course to follow it, a slow, serene pursuit that took you in a wide, drifting arc.
Jason walked beside you, his heavy combat boots silent on the soft grass. He was your anchor, your tether to the earth. The sight was beyond surreal: the Red Hood, a man who wore violence like a second skin, gently shepherding a magically floating, cooing baby through a sunlit glade.
You tired quicker than you expected. After a few minutes of sustained, controlled bouncing, the golden glow around you flickered. Your happy babbling turned into a yawn, and you began to sink, not like a stone, but like a feather.
Jason was there. His large, sure hands slid beneath your arms as your feet gently touched the grass. You wobbled for a second, the effort of your aerial adventure clearly having drained your small reserves, and then plopped down onto your well-padded bottom on the blanket.
You looked up at him, your eyelids suddenly heavy. "Dada," you sighed, the word soft and full of trust, as you reached a sleepy hand toward the red bat symbol on his chest.
He knelt, gathering you into his arms. You immediately snuggled into the hollow of his neck, your breathing already evening out into the soft, rhythmic pattern of sleep. The scent of sunshine, grass, and your unique, powdery-baby smell filled his senses.
He held you there, in the quiet of the park, your magical flight over. In that moment, the slow growth, the terrifying powers, the constant vigilance—it all fell away. There was only this: his child, safe and sleeping in his arms, having just called him "Dada" under an open sky. It was more than he’d ever dared to hope for. It was everything.
***
The sight of you two became a new, bizarrely normal sight in the Batcave: Jason Todd, on the move, with a tiny, floating shadow.
The "leash," as Dick had immediately and gleefully dubbed it, was born of necessity. Your control over your levitation was impressive, but it was like a toddler's control over their legs—present, but prone to sudden, unpredictable bursts of speed or distraction. One moment you'd be bobbing serenely at Jason's shoulder, the next you'd see a sparkle on the Batcomputer and zip towards it like a tiny, chubby missile.
The solution was a harness. It was a masterpiece of WayneTech engineering, of course. Constructed from a dark, flexible polymer webbing, it was strong enough to restrain a metahuman ten times your size yet soft and padded against your rolls of baby fat. It fastened securely across your chest and between your legs, and from the back, a sturdy, retractable tether cord, thin as a fishing line but unbreakable, connected to a clip on the belt of Jason's cargo pants.
And the goggles were back, firmly in place. The risk of an accidental ocular energy discharge mid-float was deemed too high.
So, Jason went about his business in the Cave, and you went with him. The retractable cord gave you a generous fifteen-foot radius of freedom. As he walked to the weapons locker to check inventory, you floated alongside him, upside down, babbling at the ceiling. When he stopped to talk to Bruce, you would drift in lazy circles around them both, your goggled gaze fixed on the giant penny.
But the most common sight was Jason walking in a straight line, focused on a task, with you floating horizontally behind him, dragged through the air like the world's most adorable and slightly resistant parade balloon.
Your little arms would be outstretched, your hands making grabbing motions at the air as if you were swimming. The tether would be at its full extension, pulled taut. Sometimes you'd be on your back, staring up at the Cave's stalactites with a thoughtful expression. Other times you'd be on your stomach, your head lifted as you observed the world zooming past from your unique vantage point.
"Dada, guuu!" you'd command, one of your few clear words, kicking your feet in the air to encourage more speed.
Jason, for his part, had developed a sort of sixth sense for your aerial antics. He could feel the subtle tugs and pulls on his belt, the slight change in resistance when you decided to suddenly change direction. He'd walk, not even turning his head, and call out, "Y/N, reel it in," and give the tether a gentle tug. You'd giggle and float a few feet closer, before inevitably getting distracted again and drifting back to the end of your line.
It was during one of these "dragging" sessions that Tim looked up from his computer, a deadpan expression on his face. "You know, from a certain angle, it looks like you're walking the world's most powerful, floating, baby-shaped dog."
Jason didn't break stride, merely grunting as he adjusted his course toward the training mats, your floating form swaying in his wake. "Heels, Y/N," he said, the ghost of a smile on his lips.
You, of course, paid no mind, too busy trying to telekinetically nudge a stray Batarang from a nearby table. The Batarang wobbled but didn't lift, your power still not quite that fine-tuned. You let out a frustrated grunt.
Jason stopped, feeling the change in tension. He turned, walking back to you. He unclipped the tether, letting you float freely for a moment as he picked up the Batarang. "This? It's heavy, kiddo. And sharp. Not a toy." He held it out, letting you look but not touch. Your goggled gaze was fixed on it, mesmerized.
He reclipped the tether. "C'mon, balloon baby. Let's go see if Alfred has your lunch ready."
And with that, he turned and resumed his walk toward the elevator, your floating, goggled form once again trailing obediently—or at least, physically—behind him, a silent, surreal testament to the fact that the Red Hood's life was now, and forever, wonderfully, bizarrely tethered to yours.
***
Lunchtime in the Wayne Manor kitchen was a spectacle of focused, joyful destruction, and you were its star performer.
Seated in a high-chair that had been reinforced with the same polymer as your Nursery, you were a portrait of culinary enthusiasm. A soft, silicone bib emblazoned with a tiny bat-symbol was tied around your neck, already bearing the colorful evidence of your efforts. Before you, on the tray, was a small bowl of Alfred’s famously smooth sweet potato puree and another of tiny, mushy peas.
But you weren't just eating. You were devouring, with a gusto that was eerily, wonderfully reminiscent of your father.
Stephanie Brown, having volunteered for feeding duty, sat across from you, a spoon in one hand and her phone in the other, discreetly recording for the family group chat. Her face was lit up with a delighted grin.
"Okay, Y/N, open up the hangar!" she chirped, bringing a spoonful of vibrant orange puree toward your mouth.
You didn't just open your mouth. You lunged for it, your whole body leaning forward with a happy grunt, your triple chins squishing against your chest. The puree disappeared with a loud, appreciative "Mmmm!" Your little legs, too short to reach the footrest, kicked enthusiastically under the table.
"Look at you go!" Stephanie cooed, her voice dripping with affection. "You eat just like Jason. It's all or nothing with you Todds, huh?"
As if on cue, Jason himself leaned against the doorway, arms crossed, watching the scene with a mixture of pride and amusement. He’d just finished a workout, his hair still damp with sweat. He saw the way you smacked your lips together, your cerulean eyes fixed on the next spoonful with an intensity usually reserved for tracking armed felons.
Stephanie offered you a pea. You scrutinized it for a half-second before decisively opening your mouth like a baby bird. The moment the spoon was in, you clamped down, making a satisfied "Ah!" sound as you swallowed.
"This is the neatest you've ever been, you know," Steph commented, expertly catching a drip of puree with the spoon before it could roll down your chin. "Remember when you used to just telekinetically fling the entire bowl at the wall when you were done?"
You babbled around a mouthful of food, a non-committal response, your attention already on the next bite. The process was messy, but it was a controlled, happy mess. There was no food on the ceiling today. No spoons bent into pretzels. This was pure, unadulterated baby hunger, executed with Todd-level fervor.
Jason pushed off the doorway and walked over, his large presence making the high-chair seem even smaller. He stood behind Stephanie, looking down at you. You spotted him immediately, your face breaking into a puree-smeared grin.
"Dada!" you declared, a piece of mushy pea stuck adorably to your cheek.
"Hey, kiddo," he rumbled, his voice soft. He reached out a single, calloused finger and gently wiped the pea away. "Making a good mess, I see."
You cooed in response, then immediately opened your mouth wide for Stephanie's next offering, not wanting to break your eating rhythm. Jason watched, a deep, quiet contentment settling over him. This was normal. This was a father watching his child eat lunch. The fact that you could, on a whim, probably liquefy the high-chair with a glance, was momentarily irrelevant. In this moment, you were just his kid, eating with gusto, covered in food, and being cooed over by a blonde vigilante.
It was perfect.
The moment Jason leaned in closer, his proud paternal smile faltered as he was met with an immediate and visceral reaction from you.
Your happy, food-smeared grin vanished. Your entire, roly-poly body tensed. Your nose, a perfect miniature button version of his own, wrinkled up in an expression of profound disgust. Your cerulean eyes, which had been sparkling with delight, squinted shut as if you’d just bitten into a lemon. You let out a short, offended "Bleh!" and your head retracted down into the pillowy softness of your triple chins, your shoulders hunching up to your ears in a full-body scrunch of rejection.
You were a compact, disgusted little ball of baby.
Stephanie, who had been about to offer you another spoonful of peas, burst into uncontrollable laughter, lowering the spoon as her shoulders shook. "Oh my god, he can't stand your smell!"
Jason froze, his finger still hovering where he'd wiped the pea from your cheek. He was utterly bewildered. "What? What is it?"
You cracked one eye open, peered at him, and then scrunched up again, letting out a low, gurgling groan of protest. One chubby hand flapped vaguely in his direction, a clear signal for him to go away.
It was then that he processed it. The workout. The sweat. The grime of the Cave. He’d come straight from the sparring mats, still wearing his damp t-shirt and cargo pants, smelling distinctly of sweat, leather, and what Alfred would politely call "vigilante effluvium." To your incredibly sensitive senses, honed by your divine heritage, he must have been absolutely rank.
A flush crept up his neck. He, the Red Hood, had been personally and publicly rejected by his own infant son for being stinky.
"Okay, okay," he muttered, taking a full step back and raising his hands in surrender. "I get it. I'm ripe."
This seemed to appease you slightly. You un-scrunched a little, eyeing him warily from your high-chair throne. Stephanie was still giggling, wiping a tear from her eye.
"You've been deemed too stank for the baby, Todd," she managed between laughs. "That's a new low."
Jason shot her a mock glare, but the corner of his mouth twitched. He looked back at you, your face still pinched in disapproval. The sheer, unfiltered honesty of your reaction was both humbling and hilarious.
"Alright, you little critic," he grumbled, his tone fond. "I'm going. I'm going to shower. You," he pointed a finger at you, "enjoy your gourmet mush."
As he turned to leave the kitchen, he heard you let out a happy, relieved coo, followed by the sound of you eagerly accepting the next spoonful from a still-chuckling Stephanie. He shook his head, a wry smile finally breaking through. He’d faced down psychopaths, aliens, and death itself, but the judgment of a six-month-old food critic was a new kind of defeat. And strangely, it was one he didn't mind at all.
***
The Batcave was steeped in its usual atmosphere of focused intensity. Bruce Wayne stood before the massive holographic display of the Batcomputer, his silhouette broad and imposing against the shimmering light of a crime scene analysis. His brow was furrowed in concentration, the weight of Gotham’s endless night evident in the set of his shoulders.
Then, you chirped.
"Gahpa!"
The word was clear, bright, and utterly unexpected. It cut through the low hum of the servers and the soft click of keystrokes from Tim’s station.
Bruce’s entire body went still. The lines of tension on his face didn’t so much vanish as they were momentarily frozen in a state of shock. He slowly turned from the screen.
Jason was there, holding you in his arms. You were facing Bruce, your tiny body wriggling with excitement, one hand outstretched toward the dark-caped figure. Your goggles were pushed up on your forehead, revealing eyes that were wide and shining.
"Gahpa!" you repeated, more insistently this time, your chubby fingers making a grabbing motion.
A profound, almost comical silence filled the Cave. Tim had stopped typing, his fingers hovering over the keyboard. Damian, who had been practicing his throwing form, lowered his Batarang, his usual scowl replaced by a look of pure, unadulterated astonishment. From the training mats, Dick and Cassandra both paused, their heads turning in unison.
Jason’s expression was a complex mix of pride and wry amusement. He hadn’t coached you on this. This was all you.
Bruce’s gaze, which could make hardened criminals confess, was now locked on your small, eager face. The word, a baby’s attempt at "Grandpa," seemed to hang in the air, dismantling decades of his carefully constructed persona. The Batman. The Dark Knight. The feared urban legend.
"Gahpa."
He took a single, slow step forward. Then another. He reached out, his gloved hands—hands that could shatter brick and deliver precise, nerve-striking blows—looking impossibly large as they gently took you from Jason. He held you with a practiced, if slightly stiff, care, supporting your head and back.
You beamed up at him, your triple-chinned smile radiant. You patted one of the hard, armored plates on his chest with a soft,pat-pat-pat. "Gahpa," you murmured contentedly, as if bestowing a title upon him and finding it perfectly suitable.
Bruce Wayne looked down at the baby in his arms. The baby of divine origin. The baby who could float and create sparkles and whose growth was a mystery. The baby who had just, with a single, mispronounced word, carved a new and entirely unexpected role for him.
He didn’t smile. A full smile from Bruce Wayne was a rare event. But the harsh lines around his mouth and eyes softened into something unmistakably gentle. The intensity in his blue eyes shifted from the analysis of violence to a quiet, profound wonder.
He adjusted his hold, bringing you just a fraction closer. "Hello, Y/N," he said, his voice a low, gravelly rumble, but softer than anyone in the Cave had heard in a long, long time.
In that moment, Batman was gone. There was only a man, holding his grandchild, being called "Gahpa" for the very first time. And the Cave, for all its shadows and cold, hard surfaces, felt just a little bit warmer.
***
The soft, golden haze of your levitation field was the only light source in the crystalline Nursery, casting shifting, ethereal patterns on the transparent walls. You were the centerpiece, floating serenely in the middle of the room, rotating in a slow, lazy pirouette. Your arms were outstretched, and your goggled gaze was fixed on the ceiling high above, a look of quiet fascination on your chubby face.
On the other side of the polymer, Tim Drake was a study in focused intensity. He had three different holographic displays active from his wrist computer, each one streaming data. A specialized scanner, looking like a bulky silver hair dryer, was in his hand, and he was slowly panning it over your rotating form, his brow furrowed in concentration.
"Okay, Y/N, just keep doing what you're doing," he murmured, his voice calm and analytical, a stark contrast to the magical scene before him. He was talking more to himself than to you, dictating notes for the log.
"Log Entry 743. Subject: Y/N Todd. Age: Approximately seven months. Physical development: Static. Power manifestation analysis, ongoing."
He watched as you completed one rotation and began another, perfectly stable.
"Primary Power: Controlled Levitation. Field is self-generated, non-telekinetic in nature. Subject is not manipulating the air or themselves with a force, but rather altering their own relationship with gravity. Energy signature is consistent, stable. No strain detected."
As if on cue, you decided to experiment. Your rotation slowed, then stopped. You tilted until you were floating horizontally, like you were lying on an invisible bed. You brought one of your pudgy knees up towards your chest, then the other, in a slow, floating bicycle kick.
Tim’s eyes flicked to one of the displays, watching the energy readings spike and modulate. "Exhibit A: Mid-air repositioning. Demonstrates fine motor control within the levitation field. It's not just on/off. They're learning to pilot."
Then, you giggled. It was a soft, bubbling sound. A single, shimmering orb of light, the size of a marble and the color of a summer sun, popped into existence just above your nose. You crossed your eyes to look at it.
Tim’s scanner whirred, and he leaned forward. "Secondary Power: Photokinesis. Manifestation of discrete, tangible light constructs. No thermal radiation detected. Purely luminous. Purpose appears to be... entertainment." He allowed himself a small, dry smile as you batted at the light orb with a soft hand, causing it to bob away before zipping back.
Your attention shifted again. You noticed Tim through the glass, and your head tilted. The light orb vanished. A faint, visible heat shimmer, like the air over a hot road, radiated from your body for a split second.
The temperature sensor on Tim's display flashed a warning. "Tertiary Power: Unconscious Thermokinesis. Minor ambient heat fluctuation. A byproduct of emotional or focus-based shifts. Not yet a directed ability." The shimmer faded as quickly as it came.
Finally, you seemed to tire. Your levitation field flickered, the golden glow dimming. You began to sink, slowly and gently, towards the soft gel-floor. You landed on your well-padded bottom with a soft plop. You immediately yawned, a huge, jaw-cracking yawn that made your whole body tremble, and then you toppled sideways, curling into a ball, your eyelids fluttering shut. The goggles sat askew on your face.
Tim finished his scan, the displays on his wrist winking out. He looked from your sleeping form to the compiled data.
"Conclusion," he dictated softly, a note of awe breaking through his clinical tone. "Subject is not merely manifesting powers. They are actively, consciously, and playfully integrating them. They are practicing. This isn't chaos. It's... training. And we have no idea what the curriculum is."
He took one last look at you, a magical, napping baby in a high-tech cage, a living puzzle box of divine origin. Shaking his head in quiet wonder, he turned and headed back to the Batcomputer, already mentally drafting his report.
***
The regular scene of you napping in the Wayne Manor nursery was one of practiced, domestic tranquility. Soft, afternoon light filtered through the window, illuminating the mobile of stuffed bats that spun in a lazy circle. You were lying on the changing table, your chubby legs kicking idly in the air while Jason, having just successfully navigated the perilous straits of a particularly messy diaper, was in the final stages of the operation.
He had, just moments before, pulled up a "Essential Newborn Care" video on his phone for a quick refresher on securing the tabs of the fresh diaper just right. The chipper voice of the instructor was still echoing in his head: "And remember, a snug but comfortable fit around the legs is key to preventing leaks!"
He had the new diaper positioned beneath you, one hand gently holding your ankles. With his other hand, he reached for a container of baby powder. It was in this moment of quiet focus that it happened.
It wasn't a sound so much as a sensation. A soft, almost delicate pffft vibrated against the palm of the hand holding your ankles.
Jason froze. His eyes, which had been narrowed in concentration, widened. The container of baby powder hovered, forgotten, in mid-air.
You, feeling the strange and novel release of pressure, stopped kicking. Your cerulean blue eyes, which had been wandering the room, snapped down to your own diapered region with a look of profound and utter shock. Your little body went rigid. Your triple-chinned face morphed into a comical mask of pure, unadulterated surprise, your mouth forming a perfect, tiny 'O'.
A beat of silence hung in the sunlit room.
Then, a slow, deep, rumbling chuckle started in Jason's chest. It built, growing louder and more unrestrained, until he was throwing his head back and laughing, a rich, full-bodied sound that filled the nursery. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes.
The shock on your face melted away, replaced by a gummy, triumphant grin. You seemed to understand, on some primal level, that you had done something truly magnificent. You let out a gleeful squeal, your legs starting to pump with renewed vigor.
"Was that you?" Jason managed between laughs, his voice thick with amusement. "That was you! Your first toot! A real, honest-to-god fart!"
He finished securing the diaper with a swift, practiced motion, his shoulders still shaking. He scooped you up from the changing table, holding you aloft. You giggled, delighted by his reaction, your arms and legs wiggling.
"That's my kid," he declared, beaming with a pride that was entirely disproportionate to the event. "Even your farts are legendary. We gotta mark this on the calendar. 'Y/N's First Rip.'"
He brought you down, cradling you against his chest, his laughter subsiding into a warm, contented chuckle. He pressed a kiss to your downy-soft hair, inhaling the clean, powdery scent. In a life filled with cosmic threats and divine baby powers, it was this—this perfectly normal, hilariously human milestone—that felt like the most incredible magic of all.
***
The first time it happened, Jason wrote it off as a fluke. He’d fallen asleep on the large, leather couch in the library, you curled up like a warm, chubby starfish on his chest, both of you lulled to sleep by the crackling fireplace. He woke sometime later to an… atmosphere. A distinct, surprisingly potent aroma of steamed broccoli and something vaguely sulfurous had settled in the immediate vicinity of his face. He’d blinked, disoriented, and gently lifted you—still fast asleep and utterly angelic—to air out the space, assuming it was a weird draft from the Manor’s ancient ventilation.
The second time, in the media room, the scent was muskier, with a hint of overripe banana. He’d frowned, sniffing the air, before his gaze landed on you, snoozing peacefully in the crook of his arm. A slow, dawning horror began to creep in.
By the third time, there was no denying it. The two of you were napping in his old room at the Manor, you sprawled on your back beside him, one tiny hand resting on his bicep. He was pulled from a deep sleep by a sensation of warmth and a smell so potent and uniquely yours that it could only be one thing. He opened his eyes to find the comforter tented over the two of you, creating a perfect, contained microclimate. And that microclimate had been decisively, unforgettably, seasoned.
It was a Dutch Oven. A masterfully executed, baby-delivered Dutch Oven.
He lay there for a moment, trapped, the evidence undeniable. It was you. It had always been you. Your divine little digestive system, processing Alfred’s gourmet purees, was producing a gas of mythic quality and endurance. And while you slept, safe and content in his presence, your body would simply… release it, with the unassuming finality of a judge dropping a gavel.
A strangled, disbelieved laugh huffed out of him. He was the Red Hood. He’d faced down the Joker, the League of Assassins, and death itself. And now, he was being systematically gassed in his sleep by his own infant.
He carefully, so as not to wake you, lifted the edge of the comforter, ushering in a wave of fresh, cool air. You stirred slightly, a soft sigh escaping your lips, a blissful, innocent smile gracing your face. You had no idea of the olfactory warfare you were waging.
He didn’t have the heart to be mad. How could he? This was, in its own bizarre way, another form of trust. You were so completely relaxed and secure with him that your body saw no reason to hold anything back. It was the most disgusting, humbling, and strangely affectionate form of bonding he could ever have imagined.
From then on, it became a secret, unspoken part of their routine. He’d settle down for a nap with you, and a part of him would wonder what today’s "scent" would be. A hint of sweet potato? A bold, cheesy note? He learned to sleep a little lighter, to be ready to perform the discreet "burp and air" maneuver the moment he detected the first, tell-tale warmth.
He never mentioned it to the others. This was his and Y/N’s thing. A silent, smelly pact between father and child. And as he looked down at your sleeping, peaceful face, knowing the potent little cloud you were capable of producing, he could only shake his head in a mixture of awe and resignation. His kid was full of surprises, right down to their very last gasp.
***
The opportunity presented itself in the Cave with the perfect, petty alignment of the stars. Damian had been insufferable for days, critiquing everyone's technique with a level of condescension that was impressive even for him. The final straw was a particularly cutting remark about Jason’s "blunt-force trauma approach" being "the intellectual equivalent of a caveman clubbing his prey."
Jason saw red. But instead of a retort or a thrown punch, a truly devious idea, born of sleep-deprivation and countless secret naptime gassings, bloomed in his mind. He gave Damian a slow, nasty smile.
"You know what, brat? You're right. My methods are primitive." He turned and walked towards the corner where your stroller was parked. You were awake, gurgling softly and chewing on the edge of your indestructible bat-plushie.
"Hey, kiddo," Jason cooed, his voice dropping into the soft, gentle tone he used only with you. He unclipped the safety harness. "Daddy needs a little favor. You feel one of your... special sleepy-time clouds coming on?"
You blinked your big blue eyes at him, then let out a small, contented burble. Jason took that as a yes. He scooped you up, holding you close against his chest, your back to his front. He made a show of adjusting his grip, but his real goal was to position you like a tiny, organic cannon.
He sauntered back towards Damian, who was now sharpening his sword with an air of supreme boredom. "I've been working on a new tactical approach," Jason announced, his voice laced with false camaraderie. "Something a little more... nuanced."
Damian didn't even look up. "Tt. I doubt you are capable of nuance, Todd."
"This one's called the 'Toddler Toxin Takedown'," Jason said, now standing directly in front of him.
That got Damian's attention. His head snapped up, his brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you babbling about—"
It was in that exact moment that Jason gave you a subtle, almost imperceptible bounce. It was the naptime signal. On cue, your little body tensed for a second. There was no sound, but a wave of heat radiated from your diapered region, carrying with it the distinct, potent, and uniquely soul-withering aroma of digested peas and prunes that had been fermenting in your divine little gut for a good two hours.
It hit Damian like a physical blow.
His eyes, previously narrowed in disdain, shot wide open. His nostrils flared, then twitched violently as his brain attempted to process the olfactory assault. The color drained from his face, replaced by a greenish pallor. He made a choked, gagging sound, stumbling back a step and dropping his whetstone with a clatter.
"By the gods...!" he gasped, clamping a hand over his nose and mouth. "What vile... What is that?!"
Jason, his face a mask of pure, unadulterated triumph, gently patted your back. "Good job, Y/N. That's a direct hit." He beamed down at you, then back at Damian's horrified expression. "See? Nuance. It's all about knowing your weapons."
You, utterly pleased with the reaction you'd caused, let out a happy squeal and waved your bat-plushie at the retching Robin.
From across the Cave, Tim, who had witnessed the entire exchange, slowly lowered his coffee mug. His expression was one of horrified respect. "Jason," he said, his voice barely a whisper. "You weaponized the baby farts."
"Damn right I did," Jason said, smugly repositioning you on his hip. "And don't you forget it."
Damian was still sputtering, fanning the air in front of his face. "This is a new low, Todd! Even for you! Using an infant as a chemical weapon!"
"Hey," Jason shot back, walking away with his tiny, giggling WMD. "All's fair in love and war, brat. And you started it." He headed for the elevator, leaving a stunned and slightly nauseated silence in his wake. It was, he decided, one of his most satisfying victories to date.
***
The quiet, dignified silence of the Wayne Manor kitchen was a sanctuary, meticulously maintained by its stalwart guardian, Alfred Pennyworth. He was gliding past the island, a silver tray balanced perfectly on one hand, when the small, hopeful voice stopped him in his tracks.
"Alpa! Nom nom?"
Alfred froze. The formality of his posture did not change, but his entire being seemed to soften, the starch in his spine yielding by a fraction of a degree. He turned, his sharp, kind eyes finding you immediately.
You were secured in your high-chair, having just finished your lunch. The evidence—a few smears of carrot and a single mushy pea stuck endearingly to your cheek—was still present. You had spotted him, the bringer of all good things: warm bottles, delicious purees, and the occasional, carefully vetted biscuit. Your tiny body was leaned as far forward as the safety straps would allow, your chubby hands gripping the tray. Your eyes, wide and cerulean, were fixed on him with an expression of pure, unadulterated hope. The word "Alpa" was your unique, baby-fied title for him, a name that held more affection than any formal address ever could.
The "nom nom" was a universal plea, one he understood perfectly.
A slow, genuine smile, a rare and precious thing, touched Alfred’s lips. He set the silver tray down with a soft click and approached your throne. He pulled a crisp, white handkerchief from his breast pocket with a flourish.
"Master/Mistress Y/N," he said, his voice the warm, steady cadence of a perfectly steeped tea. "I do believe our scheduled luncheon has concluded. However," he added, gently dabbing the stray pea from your cheek, "a final course may be negotiable."
You watched his every move, utterly captivated. The simple act of him folding the handkerchief and tucking it away was a source of fascination. "Alpa," you repeated, this time with a confident nod, as if confirming a business deal.
From the doorway, Jason watched, leaning against the frame with his arms crossed. He saw the way Alfred’s usual impeccable composure melted into something far more grandfatherly. He saw the way you looked at Alfred not as a butler, but as a source of infinite wisdom and, more importantly, infinite "nom noms."
Alfred turned to the counter and selected a small, specially formulated teething rusk from a ceramic jar. He presented it to you with a slight bow. "A petit four, to ensure the inner child is suitably settled."
You took the rusk with both hands, a look of solemn gratitude on your face. "T'ank oo," you babbled around the biscuit already in your mouth, your manners, somehow, impeccable.
"You are most welcome, my dear," Alfred replied, his smile deepening. He rested a hand on your head for a moment, a gentle, affirming weight, before retrieving his tray and continuing on his way, the ghost of his smile lingering in the room.
Jason pushed off the doorframe, a low chuckle rumbling in his chest. He walked over and ruffled your hair. "Sucking up to the boss, huh? Smart kid."
You just grinned up at him, a mess of crumbs and happiness, utterly pleased with your successful negotiation with the highest authority in the house. In the hierarchy of Wayne Manor, you had just proven you knew exactly who held the real power.
***
The scene was one of Jason’s rare, completely relaxed moments. He was sprawled on the thick rug of the Manor’s main living room, with you sitting squarely on his chest, facing him. The late afternoon sun streamed through the windows, glinting off the tiny, almost-invisible drool spot on his shirt.
“C’mon, kiddo,” he coaxed, a wide, encouraging grin on his face. He was trying to recapture the magic of your first “Dada.” “Say it for me. Da-da. You can do it.”
You stared down at him, your expression utterly placid. Your cerulean eyes, so like his own, held a look of profound, almost ancient, unimpressment. Your little mouth was a firm, neutral line. One of your pudgy hands was curled around the neck of your indestructible bat-plushie.
“Da-da,” Jason repeated, slower, tapping a finger on his own chest for emphasis. “I’m Da-da.”
Your eyes narrowed just a fraction. The silence stretched. You were not in the mood for linguistic lessons. You were in the mood for chewing on your bat’s wing and contemplating the physics of the ceiling fan.
Jason, misinterpreting your thoughtful silence as a struggle to form the word, decided to up the ante. He made a silly face, crossing his eyes and sticking out his tongue. “Daaaaa-daaaaa!”
That was his mistake.
The sheer, undignified absurdity of the gesture seemed to break the last of your patience. Your placid expression didn’t change into a scowl. It simply solidified into one of serene, decisive judgment.
With a speed that defied your chubby, seemingly clumsy limbs, your free hand—the one not holding the bat—shot out. It wasn’t a wild flail or a baby’s uncoordinated swipe. It was a clean, precise, and remarkably powerful open-handed slap.
SMACK.
The sound was shockingly loud in the quiet room. It connected squarely with the side of Jason’s face, the impact stinging with a surprising amount of force for such a small limb. His head snapped to the side a good two inches.
For a full three seconds, there was absolute silence. Jason remained frozen, his silly face wiped clean, replaced by pure, unadulterated shock. He could feel the warm, tingling imprint of your tiny hand on his cheek.
He slowly, very slowly, turned his head back to look at you.
You had already returned to your previous activity. You brought the bat-plushie’s wing to your mouth and began gnawing on it with focused intensity, as if the entire interlude had never occurred. Your expression was once again one of peaceful contemplation, though there might have been the faintest hint of smug satisfaction in the set of your jaw.
From the doorway, Dick Grayson, who had just walked in, let out a sound that was halfway between a gasp and a strangled choke. He clapped a hand over his mouth, his eyes wide as dinner plates.
Jason brought a hand up to his stinging cheek, his fingers gingerly probing the skin. He didn’t look angry. He looked… awestruck. A slow, proud grin spread across his face, completely undeterred by the reddening mark.
“That’s my kid,” he breathed, his voice full of reverence. “Perfect form. Pivot from the shoulder, follow-through with the hip. No telegraphed movement. A perfect, tactical strike.”
You ignored him, chewing thoughtfully on the bat’s wing.
Dick finally managed to speak, his voice trembling with suppressed laughter. "They just slapped the daylight out of you, Jason.”
“Yep,” Jason said, still grinning like a fool. He reached up and booped you gently on the nose. “And they did a damn good job. Didn’t you, you little menace?”
You paused your chewing, looked him dead in the eye, and let out a single, decisive, “Ba.”
It wasn’t “Dada.” But in that moment, for Jason, it was infinitely better.
***
The chaos began subtly. It was first noticed by Cassandra, whose preternatural perception picked up on the minute shift in your energy. You weren't just floating in your Nursery; you were *vibrating*, a low-frequency hum that made the air around you shimmer. Your usual, serene bobbing had been replaced by frantic, zig-zagging patterns, your goggled head whipping back and forth as you tracked three different light-constructs you'd spontaneously generated.
Then, the giggling started. It wasn't your normal, bubbly coo. It was a high-pitched, manic, continuous giggle that echoed off the crystalline walls. You did a sudden, mid-air cartwheel, followed by another, and then a third, spinning so fast you became a blur of chubby limbs and dark, whipping hair.
Jason, who had been cleaning his guns at the workbench, froze. He knew that sound. It was the sound of pure, unadulterated sugar rush.
"Uh oh," Tim muttered from the Batcomputer, his eyes glued to your vitals monitor. "Heart rate's spiked. Neural activity is off the charts. What did they get into?"
The answer came when you zoomed past the glass wall, leaving a faint, sticky, purple smear in your wake.
Dick, who had been about to enter the Nursery for playtime, skidded to a halt. He leaned in, sniffing the smear. His eyes widened in horror. "Grape," he announced, his voice grim. "That's... that's grape soda."
A stunned silence fell over the Batcave. It was a universally understood rule, as fundamental as "don't touch the big red button" or "never let the Joker monologue." No sugar for Y/N. The combination of your divine metabolism and nascent reality-warping abilities made the prospect of a sugar high a Category 5 metahuman event.
"Who," Jason said, his voice dangerously low as he stood up, the cleaned gun forgotten, "was the idiot who gave my baby a sugary drink?"
All eyes turned to Damian. He had the good grace to look slightly defensive, crossing his arms. "Tt. It was an experiment. I wished to observe the effects of a simple sucrose solution on their power modulation. The data is... robust."
"Robust?!" Jason roared, gesturing wildly at you, who was now trying to see how many times you could telekinetically bounce a Batarang off the ceiling in a second. "They're painting the walls with purple light and gravity wells, Damian!"
As if to emphasize the point, you squealed with delight and, with a concentrated burst of will, turned the entire contents of your sippy cup—which had been filled with water—into a bubbling, bright green liquid that promptly evaporated into a cloud of lime-scented mist.
Bruce’s voice cut through the chaos from the upper platform, his tone the kind of calm that presaged a storm. "Damian. My study. Now."
As Damian slunk away under the weight of his father's gaze, the rest of the family sprang into action. It was a well-rehearsed, if rarely used, drill.
Dick became "Distraction." He entered the Nursery, his movements an exaggerated dance, trying to lure your hyper-focused energy into a game of follow-the-leader. Cassandra took up a position as "Spotter," her body poised to intervene if you suddenly decided to phase through the floor. Tim started running calculations on a potential sedative counter-agent, just in case.
Jason marched to the edge of your Nursery, his hands on his hips. "Alright, Y/N. Fun's over. Time to power down."
You stopped mid-zoom, hovering upside down in front of him. Your goggles were askew, revealing eyes glowing with a feverish golden light. A wide, sticky, purple grin was plastered across your face. You let out another peal of giggles and blew a raspberry at him, a tiny, shimmering bubble of pure sugar energy popping in the air between you.
Jason sighed, running a hand down his face. It was going to be a long, long night. And he was definitely going to hide all of Damian's left shoes as payback.
The "Great Grape Soda Incident," as it would be forever known in Bat-Family lore, reached its crescendo hours later. The manic zig-zagging had finally given way to a droopy, overstimulated lethargy. You were floating listlessly in the middle of the Nursery, your golden glow flickering like a dying lightbulb. The entire Cave bore the evidence of your sugar-fueled rampage: faint purple smears on the walls, a stack of reports now permanently tinted lime green, and a faint, saccharine smell that clung to everything.
Jason was inside the Nursery with you, sitting cross-legged on the gel-floor. He had managed to coax you into his lap, your warm, heavy weight a stark contrast to the frenetic energy of before. You were almost asleep, your head lolling against his chest, your thumb tucked securely in your mouth.
"See?" he murmured, gently rubbing your back. "All worn out. Just gotta ride the crash, kiddo."
That was when it happened.
A deep, resonant gurgle started in your stomach, a sound that promised consequences. Your eyes, which had been at half-mast, shot wide open. Your body went rigid in his arms. Jason had just enough time to think, Oh, crap, before your mouth opened.
It wasn't a burp. It was an event.
A cloud, the exact shade of the offending grape soda, billowed from your lips. It wasn't just air; it was thick, shimmering, and smelled overwhelmingly of artificial grape and pure, concentrated sugar. The cloud expanded rapidly, engulfing both of you in a sweet, violet haze.
For a moment, Jason could see nothing but purple. The stuff coated the inside of his mouth and nose, a cloying, sugary film that made him sputter. You, however, seemed immensely relieved. The tension drained from your little body instantly, and you let out a soft, final sigh, your eyes fluttering shut as you fell into a deep, motionless sleep in his arms.
The purple cloud began to slowly dissipate, settling as a fine, glittering dust over everything in a ten-foot radius. Jason sat there, covered in grape-scented glitter, holding his peacefully sleeping, sugar-crashed child.
The silence that followed was profound.
From outside the glass, Dick whispered, "Did... did they just burp a glitter bomb?"
Tim, typing frantically, added, "Correction. A scented, grape-flavored glitter bomb. I'm adding 'Aerated Confective Projection' to the power list."
Jason looked down at your serene, sticky face, then at his own purple-dusted arms and shirt. He was exhausted. He was covered in glitter. He probably smelled like a child's birthday party for the rest of the week.
But you were asleep. The storm was over.
He carefully stood up, cradling you close, and walked out of the Nursery. He left a trail of faintly glittering purple footprints on the Cave floor. He didn't say a word to the others, just cast a single, withering glare in the general direction of the Manor, where Damian was undoubtedly still in Bruce's study.
He carried you up to the quiet of his room, laid you gently in your crib, and then looked at his own reflection in the dark window. He was a 6-foot-tall, heavily muscled vigilante, speckled head-to-toe in purple glitter.
It was official. Fatherhood was the weirdest, stickiest war he had ever fought. And as he watched you sleep, completely innocent of the purple chaos you had unleashed, he knew he wouldn't have it any other way.
***
It was an unforeseen side effect. The divine powers, the slow growth, the reality-warping farts—none of it prepared Jason Todd for this particular development. You, Y/N Todd, were a bona fide, unstoppable lady magnet.
It started subtly. A waitress at the diner near his safehouse, who usually slid his coffee across the counter with a grunt, would suddenly appear with a complimentary cookie, her eyes soft as she cooed, "Oh, what a serious little face! Look at those cheeks!" She’d be talking to you, but the warm, approving smile was all for Jason.
Then it escalated.
He’d be in the park, your tiny form secured in the baby carrier on his chest, and women would materialize as if summoned.
"Excuse me," a woman in yoga pants would say, her voice dripping with sympathy and interest. "I just had to say, your baby is absolutely precious. It's so wonderful to see a father so... involved." Her eyes would linger on him, taking in the broad shoulders, the careful way he supported your head.
Another would approach while he was trying to buckle your floating, wriggling form into the stroller. "Oh, let me help!" she'd chirp, holding a strap he didn't need help with. "You're doing such a great job. It's so hard doing it alone, isn't it?"
Jason, who faced down Intergang enforcers without breaking a sweat, would find himself flustered, mumbling a gruff "Thanks," before making a tactical retreat. You, of course, were the perfect wing-baby. You'd blink your big blue eyes, let out a soft, charming gurgle, and sometimes, if you were feeling particularly potent, conjure a tiny, shimmering heart that would float in the air between you and the admirer, sealing the deal.
The pinnacle of this phenomenon occurred in a upscale Gotham baby store. Jason was there under duress, needing a specific type of leak-proof sippy cup you hadn't yet been able to telekinetically explode. He was scowling at a wall of pastel-colored cups, you perched on his hip, when he felt a presence.
"Well, hello there."
He turned to find one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. She had flowing auburn hair and a smile that could disarm a bomb. And she was looking directly at you, her expression one of rapturous delight.
"Aren't they just the most beautiful thing?" she breathed, reaching out to let you grasp her finger. You, the little traitor, grinned your gummy grin and obliged.
"Uh, yeah," Jason managed, his brain short-circuiting.
"They just melt your heart, don't they?" she said, her gaze finally lifting to meet his. It was warm, appreciative, and held a clear, unmistakable interest. "It's so rare to see a man so comfortable with a baby. It's very... attractive."
Jason felt his ears grow hot. He was the Red Hood. He was a creature of violence and night. And he was being hit on in a baby store because of his magically-conceived, floating child.
You chose that moment to unleash your ultimate weapon. You looked at the beautiful woman, let out a happy squeal, and then buried your face shyly in Jason's neck, peeking out at her with a coquettish smile.
The woman actually put a hand over her heart. "Oh, you're killing me. Both of you." She slipped a business card into the pocket of your diaper bag. "Call me. Maybe we can set up a playdate."
She winked and walked away, leaving Jason standing shell-shocked amid the rattles and onesies.
Later, back at the Cave, he was relaying the story to a cackling Dick Grayson. "I'm telling you, it's the kid. They're a magnet. I've had more numbers in the last month than in my entire life."
Dick wiped a tear from his eye. "It's the combo, Little Wing! Big, tough guy with a soft spot for a cute baby? It's a classic! And Y/N is, like, weaponized cute. They're your ultimate wingman."
From his seat at the Batcomputer, Tim nodded sagely. "The data doesn't lie. Your public interactions with a positive outcome increase by 400% when Y/N is present. It's a measurable phenomenon."
Jason looked down at you, currently trying to stack blocks with your mind. You looked up at him and blew a raspberry, a tiny bubble of light popping on your lips.
He sighed, a long-suffering sound, but he couldn't fight the smile tugging at his mouth. He was a walking, talking cliché, a magnet for female attention he didn't want, all because of the tiny, divine, chaos-generating baby in his life.
Damn if you weren't a lady magnet. And damn if he didn't, secretly, love it just a little bit.
***
The first birthday of Y/N Todd was an event the Bat-Family had prepared for with the strategic precision of a military campaign. The Manor's main living room was decorated not with loud, primary colors, but with a tasteful array of silvery balloons and a banner that read "Happy 1st Birthday" in elegant script. Your high-chair was positioned at the head of a table laden with a smash-cake meticulously prepared by Alfred to be both photogenic and, more importantly, magically inert.
You were the center of attention, sitting proudly in your chair, wearing a tiny, dark blue onesie with a red bat symbol stitched on the front. You looked exactly as you had at six months old—the same roly-poly limbs, the same magnificent triple chins, your growth still mysteriously paused. But the awareness in your cerulean eyes was undeniably older, taking in the scene with quiet, perceptive joy.
The gift-giving was a solemn affair. One by one, your family presented you with offerings. A set of indestructible, non-toxic stacking rings from Bruce. A tiny, padded practice Batarang from Dick. A beautifully illustrated book of prehistoric animals from Damian. You accepted each with a polite, curious gurgle.
But then it was Jason's turn.
He knelt before your high-chair, a large, clumsily wrapped box in his hands. He looked more nervous than he did facing down a room full of armed mercenaries. "Alright, kiddo. Got you something... special."
He placed the box on your tray. With a look of intense concentration, you placed both hands on the paper and gave a small, telekinetic shove. The paper tore cleanly away, revealing a plain cardboard box. Jason lifted the lid.
Inside was a plushie. But it wasn't a bat. It was a perfect, stuffed replica of a Red Hood helmet. It was made of the softest black and red velour, with white, embroidered lenses and a tiny, stitched-on domino mask.
For a moment, you were perfectly still. Your eyes widened, your mouth forming a small 'o' of disbelief. You looked from the plushie to Jason's face, then back to the plushie.
Then, your expression shattered into a look of pure, unadulterated ecstasy. A sound of sheer, overwhelming joy erupted from you, a squeal so high and happy it made the silver balloons tremble. You lunged forward, wrapping your arms around the plushie and burying your face in its softness.
The emotion was too big. The love, the happiness, the sheer perfection of the gift—it overflowed.
A soft, golden glow enveloped you and the single plushie. There was a sound like a gentle pop-pop-pop-pop, a rapid series of soft concussions in the air.
And then, there were more.
One Red Hood plushie became two. Two became four. In the span of a single, breathless second, a dozen identical, velour Red Hood helmet plushies tumbled into existence around you, spilling out of the high-chair and onto the floor in a soft, cuddly avalanche.
The squealing stopped. The room was silent.
You looked around, your head swiveling, your eyes like saucers. A dozen white, embroidered lenses stared back at you. A slow, wondrous smile spread across your face. You were in heaven. You let out a blissful sigh and gently toppled sideways, disappearing into the pile of plushies with a soft whump. All that was visible was one chubby leg kicking happily in the air from within the mountain of red and black velour.
The Bat-Family stared, utterly speechless.
Dick was the first to break, his laughter bursting forth. "He multiplied his own present! That's the most Todd thing I've ever seen!"
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose, but the gesture was fond. "We'll... need to update the power list again. Spontaneous Object Replication triggered by intense positive affect."
Jason just knelt there, stunned. He watched as you re-emerged from the pile, clutching two of the plushies to your chest, beaming at him with a love so bright it was almost blinding. He reached into the pile, pulled out one of the duplicates, and held it. It was perfectly real, perfectly soft.
He looked at the mountain of plushies, then at your utterly joyful face, and he started to laugh, a deep, rolling laugh of pure happiness. His kid had loved his gift so much they had literally made more of it.
It was, without a doubt, the most successful birthday in the history of ever.
***
The Cave was quiet, bathed in the soft, blue-tinged glow of the inactive Batcomputer. It was late, the kind of deep night where even Gotham’s perpetual murmur seemed to still. Jason was sprawled on the worn leather couch, you curled up on his chest, a warm, heavy weight. The harness and goggles were long gone, replaced by footie pajamas covered in tiny, smiling bats. One of your dozen Red Hood plushies was clutched in a death-grip under your arm.
You were fighting sleep, your eyelids drooping, then fluttering open, determined not to let the day end. Jason’s large hand was splayed across your back, feeling the steady, slow rhythm of your breathing. He was half-asleep himself, lulled by your warmth and the profound peace of the moment.
Then, you stirred. You lifted your head, your dark, downy hair a mess, and blinked your sleep-blue eyes at him. Your expression was soft, utterly unguarded, filled with a trust so absolute it still, sometimes, stole his breath.
You reached up a pudgy hand and patted his cheek, the touch feather-light.
"Dada," you murmured, your voice thick with sleep, but clear as a bell in the silent Cave.
Jason’s eyes opened fully, his gaze meeting yours. "Yeah, kiddo?" he whispered. "I'm here."
You smiled, a slow, sleepy, gummy smile that crinkled the corners of your eyes. You patted his cheek again, this time leaving your hand there, cupping his stubbled jaw.
"Dada nuni," you cooed, your voice the softest sound in the world.
Nuni. Your word. The word you had invented, a secret that existed only between the two of you. It had first appeared when you were cuddling after a nightmare. It had been whispered into his neck when he’d carried you home from the park. It was the word you used when the feeling was too big for "ba" or "go" or "Alpa." It was your word for love.
The air left Jason’s lungs in a quiet rush. The words landed not as sound, but as a physical warmth that spread through his chest, melting the last of the cold, hard places that had lived inside him for so long. He’d been called many things in his life—street rat, Robin, the Red Hood, a disappointment, a killer. But this… "Dada nuni." This was the title that redeemed all the others.
He couldn't speak. The lump in his throat was too large. So he did the only thing he could. He leaned down and pressed a firm, lingering kiss to your forehead, inhaling the scent of baby shampoo and your own unique, sweet smell.
When he pulled back, your eyes were closed, a serene, contented expression on your face. The fight was over. You had delivered your message. Your hand slid from his cheek and you snuggled back into his chest, your breathing immediately deepening into the rhythms of true sleep.
Jason stayed there, holding you, long after your grip on the plushie had loosened. He stared up at the cavernous, shadowed ceiling, but he didn't see the darkness. He saw only the memory of your sleepy, trusting face, heard the echo of your voice.
Dada nuni.
In a life forged in violence and resurrected in pain, this was his true resurrection. This was the miracle. Not the divine magic that had created you, but the simple, human love you gave him so freely. He was Jason Todd. And he was nuni’d. It was the greatest power he had ever known.
