Because I'm bored, I'll share with you the world-building of a fantasy world I created for a story. You're free to use this information if you roleplay or for a story of your own; just make sure to give me credit 🤗
Everything was written by me. I did my best to be clear enough for you to understand; I hope there's no confusion.
Also, I took inspiration from animes like 'That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Slime' and others for some things.
World-building
In a world known as Aethelgard, magic suffuses the very air, and life takes forms far more diverse than human imagination might allow. It is a land of ancient forests, sprawling empires, treacherous dungeons, and mountains that touch the heavens.
For millennia, Aethelgard has been a tapestry woven with conflict and uneasy truces. At its core, the world operates on a simple, yet brutal premise: might makes right.
The power balance is precarious, maintained by the existence of incredibly potent beings. At the absolute apex stand entities like the Royal Dragons, forces of nature embodied, practically gods, and the seven Demon Lords, powerful rulers who command respect and fear in equal measure.
The Lands of the South and East — Aranthine: The Royal Dragons own half the world, and they named their territory Aranthine. The main city is Abyssalora, were one is most likely to find a Royal Dragon. While the rest of the world is medieval-like, Abyssalora is far beyond its years, especially the under-surface. Utilizing and embracing both science and magic, they raced far ahead of all other civilizations in terms of technology (magical and science based).
The Western Nations: A vast collective of human kingdoms and empires. They mostly view monsters with suspicion and prejudice, their societies often controlled by religious dogma and political maneuvering. Humans are incapable of using magic on their own—they are not born with a connection to magic and do not possess mana. As a result, they are dependent on magical artifacts to be able to perform even the simplest of spells. However, humans are technologically inclined—far inferior to Abyssalora but more than the Monster Realms—developing infrastructure and sophisticated military forces.
The Northern Empire — Kaeltherion: The Northern Empire—Kaeltherion—is considered the strongest human military nation in the world, consisting of over 100 cities with a population exceeding 700 million people. Its capital is named Lisirya. Kaeltherion maintains a massive army of over 900,000 soldiers and is protected by the Royal Dragon Velyssa, who is considered their guardian deity. Kaeltherion, unlike the Western Nations, generally does not harbor hatred for monsters—most humans accept them as long as they are friendly and do not cause unnecessary trouble.
The Monster Realms: Beyond human borders lie lands less 'civilized' in the human sense. Here, disparate species—goblins, ogres, orcs, lizardmen, and countless others—live in tribes and fiefdoms. These species are traditionally locked in a perpetual cycle of survival, most of them warring amongst themselves for resources and territory, their development hindered by a lack of cohesive leadership and the constant external threats. They despise diplomacy, and crave the sight and smell of blood on the battlefield. Most of them live to be around 100-300 years old, and they make their homes primarily in rough, rocky, or arid environments. But some, though rare, show more intelligence than their peers.
The Dwarven Kingdom: In the Northern Empire, nestled deep within the mountains is a neutral, technologically advanced kingdom. The dwarves are master craftspeople and engineers, known for their pragmatic approach to the world. They're good with building and forging things, and are usually unable to resist the call of gold. They maintain trade and diplomatic relations with both humans and monsters, prioritizing their craft, money, and neutrality above all else. Dwarves live to be about 250 years old.
The Mystic Forest: In the East of Aranthine, the Mystic Forest is a place of vibrant magic, where the air is clean, sweet, and life-giving to the fairies who call it home. Led by the Fairy Queen Daphne, the Mystic Forest is said to be the heart of all other forests in the world. Logging of any kind is strictly forbidden except as needed to thin old dry wood to prevent fires. Fairies' magical prowess—particularly when connected to the forest—is formidable; they can manipulate the very flora around them. They live to be around 500 years old, never falling ill. Unfortunately, fairy wings are highly prized by humans from the Western Nations due to a belief that they have life-extending properties, a fact that has led to much conflict and tragedy throughout their history.
The Teavell Kingdom: In the South of Aranthine, between the Spring Mountains and the River Inudan, there lays the Teavell Kingdom of Elves—a race of near-immortal, beautiful, and wise humanoids. They are similar to humans in appearance, yet set apart by their extraordinary qualities. Their extremely long lives give them a perspective on time and events that often makes them seem aloof or detached to the rest of the world. They measure time in centuries and are slow to make friends or enemies. Elves rarely have children, so their populations are actually smaller than humanity despite their long lives that can last a thousand or more years. They are lead by the Elven King Sylvan.
Eisenland: The Giant race is one of the oldest and most physically formidable species there is. They are non-magical, instead known for their immense size and their warrior spirit. Giants are humanoid beings of colossal proportions; the average adult height easily exceeds 9 meters (30 feet). Despite their intimidating appearance—which leads the humans from Western Nations to consider them barbarians—they possess a rich culture, though one centered on war and honor in combat. In fact, they are often hired as mercenaries by Kaeltherion to provide them with the battles they crave. For a giant, dying with honor in combat is the highest achievement. Their society is led by the strongest warrior, a title earned through fighting contests. The home of the giants is Eisenland, a colossal mountain in the South of Aranthine. They live to be 1,000 years old.
Demon Realm: In the Demon Realm—a place filled with toxic miasma where other races cannot easily survive—the demons are an ancient and powerful race. They vary widely in appearance, but are mainly divided into two categories; the 'Lesser Demons' who have monstrous appearances; they lack high intellect, and serve as foot soldiers—and then there's the High-Ranking Demons are those who have humanoid appearance and sharp intellect. Demons have a lifespan of approximately 1,000 years, although there are exceptions like the seven Demon Lords, who are much older.
Miithi: They are humanoids with at least two animal extremities such as a tail, ears, eyes, or claws. They can transform into the animal whose physical traits they share, and are much larger than their natural world counterparts (in some cases, anyway). Though they are non-magical, they are very keenly attuned to the balance of mana in the world around them thanks to their animalistic senses. Miithi live to be around 200 years old, and live in a vast array of environments suited to their animal form's biology. They have no kingdom or a specific home; they are scattered throughout the world.
Gryphons: Gryphons are known to inhabit the highest mountain ranges and most isolated valleys of the world. However, they are still comparatively rare due to the fact that each one has its own massive territory that it will defend from any intruders. So if it's not a mate, it's a threat. And it will be driven out.
Merfolk: They're humanoids who, when exposed to enough water on their bodies, transform the lower halves of their bodies into a fish tail to swim at high speeds and reveal their gills to breathe beneath the waves. They usually keep to themselves in the oceans unless other races begin tampering with it, during which time they will aggressively defend their homes by any means necessary. Merfolk live to be around 500 years old and live all throughout the world's oceans.Basilisks: A Basilisk is a giant snake (probably around 100 to 150 feet long), with fangs as long as an adult human's body and a killer hug. Its size is the key to its success, and once it reaches maturity it has no natural predators. It does have venom, but it only uses it on things that are large enough to survive the initial bite. A humanoid, for example, is a one-bite lunch. No need to waste venom on that when the tooth through the torso is going to do the job and make for an easy meal.
Centaurs: Centaurs live in families of about 20-30 Centaurs in remote mountain forests and are of medium intelligence. The various roving groups are pretty hardcore and just leave behind those that cannot keep up with the rest. But some of those abandoned centaurs got better and didn't know where to go, so they banded together and formed a city—Kalios, named in honor of the Cosmic Dragon (thus winning his protection)—which is now comprised of about 80% centaurs and are almost exclusively elderly or disabled. As other civilizations showed they were worthy of joining them, medicine advanced so quickly that this has sort of become a retirement community for members of the actively traveling herd where they have a whole final chapter to their life.
Sirens: Sirens are all-female humanoids who sing songs near the sea to lure sailors to sink or crash their ships, and proceed to feed on the hapless fools. They're similar to Merfolk, but do not transform into fish-people. Sirens live to be around 200 years old, and live throughout many of the world's ocean coastlines. They reproduce by converting the energy and vitality they drain from their prey into a special organ in their lower abdomen which acts much the same as a human female's womb. When enough vitality and energy is collected, a viable embryo is formed and born within the next two to three months.
Astral Nomads: A species tied not to Thaloryx but to Khyrios—beings created by the Cosmic Dragon that only appear during certain celestial alignments. They cannot remain long in the physical world, trade knowledge of future star events, and speak in fragmented prophecies.
Dragons: Dragons are the most powerful and oldest race in the world. They live acoss the vast Aranthine, and are divided into two groups—the wyvern-like Eastern dragons that reside in mountains and the serpentine Western dragons commonly seen in freshwater. All dragons can take a humanoid form upon reaching a certain age; those who are not pure-blood take about 500 years, while pure-blood ones 100-200. How often dragons reproduce and the circumstances required for their eggs to hatch varies between different types of dragons. For example, Storm Dragons are known to reproduce only once every 200 years and their eggs can only hatch in the eye of a storm. Dragons who are not pure-blood live for 1,000 years on average, while Archdragons lived for over a millennium. Royal Dragons, however, are immortal (capable of being millions of years old) and cannot die of old age. Furthermore, some dragons are solitary, while others like to live in groups. The language of the dragons is known as Ancient Draconic. They are capable of learning human and elven speech upon reaching the age of 50—the exception to the rule are the Royal Dragons, who know every possible language since the very beginning.
Archdragons: A few, rare dragons are known as Archdragons; they are several times larger than regular dragons and many times more powerful, they also have a much longer lifespan. Archdragons are masters of their respective element and have the deepest possible connection to them, as opposed to regular dragons. They are the nobility of dragons.
The Demon Lords
The Demon Lords are strong and feared entities, beings whose power transcends human understanding and who maintain a delicate, though often violent, balance of power. However, 'Demon Lord' is both a social title and a state of evolution, and there is a significant power gap between those who proclaim themselves as such and those who are 'true' Demon Lords.
The Council of the Demon Lords was created two thousand years ago. Participation in the council is mandatory, and the minimum strength required is S rank. If an individual proclaims themselves a Demon Lord, the council assesses their strength: if they are powerful enough to withstand a challenge from an existing member, they are invited to join; otherwise, they are purged.
Until now, there are seven Demon Lords.
And to be clear, being a Demon Lord does not automatically mean they are evil. The term 'Demon Lord' is less about inherent malice and more about being a powerful 'Magic Monarch' or 'Demonic Monarch,' often the strongest and highest-ranking among monsters. They don't even have to be born demons to be a Demon Lord; as long as you have enough strength to be on the top, it doesn't matter what species you are.
The Western Nations generally view all Demon Lords as 'evil' due to deep fear, prejudice, and traditional conflicts, driven by religious dogma. However, many humans are capable of just as much cruelty and evil as the 'monsters' they fear.
The Royal Dragons
The world is governed by the five Royal Dragons, who are considered nigh-invulnerable avatars of nature. They are the highest forms of spiritual life in existence, composed of pure energy and will, making them effectively immortal. If 'killed,' their soul simply regenerates, and they are reborn with their inherent natural attributes, albeit potentially without all their memories. They serve as the pillars of the world, each embodying a core concept of nature. The five Royal Dragons are the monarchs of dragonkind; they are revered as the supreme rulers of the skies, lands, and seas.
The Dragon King — The Creator God: The Dragon King is Thaloryx—he is the genesis, the very first Royal Dragon and the Creator God who brought the universe Aethelgard into existence. Thaloryx embodies the fundamental essence of creation and existence itself, possessing power that is unrivaled even among his three siblings. He is the anchor of the world's reality.
The Frost Dragon, Velyssa: The second eldest of the Royal Dragons, Velyssa embodies the concept of Deceleration. She is a being of immense defense and control, capable of freezing moisture in the atmosphere to create impassable ice walls or even bringing energy transfer to a halt. Her aura is so potent that even the formidable third Demon Lord Eishet can be caught off guard by her ability to freeze an entire battlefield. Velyssa is haughty and prideful, and she has formed a long-standing partnership with the second Demon Lord Zeeron, with whom she has a complex and often argumentative relationship.
The Scorch Dragon, Velacyn: The third-born, Velacyn is the living embodiment of Acceleration and high momentum. She is the fastest being in existence, a scorching force of nature who can condense her mana to move at speeds thousands of times faster than sound. She controls fire and heat on an unprecedented scale, capable of creating a prison of scorching flames that reaches tens of thousands of degrees. While hot-headed and quick to act on her emotions, she is deeply compassionate toward her family and intensely devoted to her partner; a beautiful elf named Daelthor.
The Storm Dragon, Zephyrian: The most feared of the five Royal Dragons, Zephyrian embodies chaos and destruction. Known as a 'flying catastrophe,' he is a force of nature who rampages across the world out of sheer boredom. He commands storms, black lightning, and corrosive winds that can shred organic matter at a molecular level. But despite his destructive reputation, Zephyrian possesses a rational mind and is merely a wild, free-spirited dragon constantly disciplined by his siblings.
The Cosmic Dragon, Khyrios: The fifth and youngest Royal Dragon, a being of immense power in Aethelgard, is Khyrios—Thaloryx's only child and the sole heir. Similar to his father, he is associated with light, stars, and the fundamental forces of the universe, using a unique 'stardust' energy rather than typical mana to fuel his power. His reputation is complex and multifaceted, viewed very differently depending on who is observing him. He's a deceptively angelic-looking, yet overwhelmingly powerful, force in the world—an entity capable of both immense creation and total destruction.
Khyrios is the first Royal Dragon to be born from a womb instead of being created directly from Thaloryx's power.
Abyssalora
Abyssalora is formed by the upper city and the deep-city. Stepping onto the island, the air feels lighter, humming with a tranquil energy that suggests this is no ordinary land.
On the main bridge, the Eternal Gateway rises, a masterpiece of architectural precision where sleek, crystalline spires pierce a sky of endless, soft blue. The path is flanked by colossal statues of warriors/guards, silent sentinels carved from pearlescent stone. Each figure stands with hands rested upon the hilts of monumental swords, their blindfolded faces projecting a sense of impartial justice and unwavering duty. Most of the time, they are completely still, showing zero signs of being conscious. But if danger or a threat were to arise, these magical statues would gain life to defend Abyssalora.
The upper city is designed with a distinct circular layout, featuring several concentric rings of land separated by channels of water that radiate from a central core. The architecture includes sleek, aerodynamic shapes and advanced infrastructure systems, such as tidal power stations and atmospheric control docks. Five major bridges radiate from the center to the outermost ring, dividing the upper city into symmetrical sectors.
A massive, fortified circular outer wall encloses the entire island, serving as both a defensive barrier against ocean waves and as a foundation for docking facilities.
All races coexist in harmony in Abyssalora, including those who seek refuge—like fairies. Their citizens are called 'Abyssians.'
Here, there's a glorious culture with magnificent palaces and temples.
Abyssalora has a 'Mana Bloom Festival' where energy currents in the city are visible, and citizens perform synchronized mana-art displays, as well as the 'New Age Festival' that celebrates the day Khyrios was born with fireworks from stardust, floating lanterns, and celestial music.
As for the deep-city, although it location is positioned beneath the upper area of Abyssalora and in the deep, crushing darkness of the ocean floor, it is the most advanced place there is.
The deep-city commands superior macro-environmental engineering, oceanic weaponization, and bio-hybrid capabilities. It is surrounded by an impenetrable, magic-based energy dome that can keep out anyone on the planet, effectively keeping it safe from external threats. It is constructed of virtually indestructible, rust-proof materials that have endured for thousands of years.
From the glowing, energy-charged swords of the royal guards to the advanced communication devices that transmit thoughts and data instantly through the water, every aspect of the under-surface of Abyssalora is touched by a blend of science and magic.
If you walk through the luminous, clean streets of the deep-city, you'll see mana elevators and crystalline structures glowing with soft, blue light.
Abyssalora does NOT share their technology and weapons with the outside world. And if anyone tries to to take them out of the island without permission from the Royal Dragons, they will be punished with death.
This wasn't always the case. Three centuries ago, human nations had access to the weapons of Abyssalora, but they used them for nefarious purposes and to hunt down other races.
Fed up with it, Khyrios was the one who eventually forbade tech export, and his family (the Royal Dragons) supported the decision.
Because of the invisible barriers surrounding Abyssalora, it is impossible to smuggle weapons and technology out no matter how well hidden they are or what spell is cast, as an alarm would immediately sound, alerting the guards.
Temples
Every deity needs a sanctuary, and the Royal Dragons are no exception.
(Note: I got inspiration from images on Pinterest for the descriptions 👀)
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Thaloryx's Temple
The journey begins at a grand processional staircase, flanked by rows of statues that act as silent sentinels.
The columns are a sturdy colonnade supporting the heavy upper structure. And the pediment is a triangular gable at the front, adorned with intricate sculptures. Bright blue and gold banners hang from the facade, adding a touch of ceremonial color to the gleaming white stone.
Two tall pillars on either side of the multi-tiered temple have glowing, mechanical armillary-like spheres. These spheres contain yellow glowing centers and rotating rings—a blend of magic and technology.
Soaring high above the complex is a statue of Thaloryx, reaching toward the clouds. In it, he wears a large, spiky radiant halo, similar to those found on depictions of solar deities. In his hands, he holds two glowing, detailed globes, symbolizing his creation of the world.
The temple's walls are softened by a lush tapestry of purple climbing flowers and neatly trimmed hedges.
The air here is thick with the sweet scent of cherry blossoms, their delicate pink petals drifting from ancient trees that frame the majestic view. In the distance, the landscape erupts into jagged, mist-shrouded cliffs. From these heights, thunderous waterfalls plunge into crystal-clear pools, their spray caught by the sun to create shimmering rainbows.
In Thaloryx's temple, every corner feels alive. Each detail serves to honor him.
—
Velyssa's Temple
This grand sanctuary, a masterpiece of architecture, stands as a testament to divine reverence.
Guarding the path are two sentinels—towering hoplite warriors perched on ornate pedestals. They stand eternally vigilant, their massive shields and long spears shimmering in the light, a silent warning to any who would disturb the peace of the inner sanctum.
Massive fluted columns support a heavy entablature, their capitals intricately carved to hold the weight of the gods. Striking white banners emblazoned with blue sigils hang between the columns. And high above, the triangular pediment is filled with life-sized reliefs of chariots and celestial beings, depicting a legendary battle of Velyssa from an age past.
At the center of the terrace stands a towering statue of Velyssa, crowned in silver and holding a spear, her presence radiating authority over the temple grounds.
—
Velacyn's Temple
The architecture is a masterclass in geometric precision, defined by sharp, ascending lines.
Velacyn's temple is a colossal, multi-tiered structure with prominent triangular pediments and steeply sloped roofs. This core is flanked by massive, rectangular buttresses that seem to anchor the divine structure to the terrestrial world.
Guarding the approach are towering figures etched in stone. These statues stand in silent vigil upon elevated walkways, their presence commanding reverence from all who enter the sacred grounds.
The temple has a sophisticated blend of open-air colonnades and enclosed chambers. Intricate carvings and red emblems adorn the main archways, reflecting the light of the eternal flames that burn in massive stone braziers at the perimeter.
Clouds of mist cling to the lower foundations, making the temple appear as if it is floating above the mortal realm. Stone bridges and layered terraces connect the various wings of the complex, allowing for grand processions under the watchful eyes of the stone giants.
Velacyn's statue is positioned within the temple, carved from white marble. It stands on a raised altar surrounded by flickering candles and floral arrangements. In it, she is dressed in long, flowing robes with heavy draping that falls to her feet. Her arms are outstretched to her sides, with palms facing upward in a welcoming gesture.
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Zephyrian's Temple
The architecture is a masterful fusion of Ancient Greek and neoclassical influences, characterized by its formidable stone construction and gold-leaf accents.
When one approaches the steep stone staircase, they are met by a phalanx of silent guardians. Towering columns of dark basalt, topped with gleaming gold capitals, support the massive weight of the structure. Atop these pillars, regal bronze eagles with wings outstretched stand watch over.
Above the main entrance, a classic triangular pediment is filled with intricate friezes—golden figures depicting Zephyrian's triumphs. And the walls themselves are not merely structural but narrative. Enormous bas-relief carvings are etched directly into the dark stone blocks, showing scenes of battle and divine judgment that wrap around the building.
Zephyrian's statue radiates strength. In it, he raises up a massive, two-handed sword. The blade itself is unnaturally long and thin, piercing the clouds like a needle of pure silver. Clad in heavy, flowing surcoats that drape over his armored shoulders, he stands firm with a posture of power.
—
Khyrios's Temple
This is a serene, magnificent complex located at the heart of the upper city of Abyssalora. In the primary thoroughfare, there's a long, reflecting pool that bisects the white marble path. Water lilies float on the surface, and the channel is lined with vibrant green manicured hedges and a row of slender, dark cypress trees that act as sentinels leading toward the sanctuary.
The temple's design is dominated by massive monolithic pillars and high-reaching vertical structures that evoke a sense of immense scale and divinity. These structures are crafted from a light-colored veined marble, accented with gold filigree that catches the sun. The complex is perfectly symmetrical, with multiple wide staircases leading to elevated terraces.
Large circular emblems—golden orbs set within wing-like frames—are mounted high upon the central pylons. Two towering, stylized statues stand guard on the lower terraces. These figures are draped in gold and hold large bowls aloft, symbolizing an offering of celestial energy.
The double doors are more than a mere entrance; they are colossal monuments that define the temple's grand scale and sacred atmosphere. They are massive and multi-tiered, with a futuristic, otherworldly aesthetic. Its structure is composed of deep, concentric golden rings, each etched with fine, repetitive and complex geometric patterns that give it a sense of ancient craftsmanship.
Deep in this celestial temple where the boundaries of time and space blur, stands the majestic statue of Khyrios. In his right hand, he holds a radiant star, and in his left, a sun.
Above the statue, a dome-like ceiling mirrors the vastness of the cosmos, adorned with shimmering constellations and celestial maps that trace the movements of the universe. Midnight-blue banners hang from the columns, swaying gently in an unseen breeze as they catch the faint, ethereal light from above.
Core Economic Philosophy of Aethelgard
Because might makes right, economics in Aethelgard are built around three pillars:
Abyssalora does not participate in normal global trade.
Currency: They technically do not need currency internally in the deep-city. Resources are centrally regulated by Dragon Authority Decrees, Mana-allocation systems, Social merit indexing (status-based access). And the upper city uses a ceremonial currency called Aurelium Marks—crystalline coins infused with trace mana signatures to prevent counterfeiting.
Major Economic Tension — they must import: Raw mana crystals. Magical creature components. Dragon-scale fragments. Fairy wings (black market).
This makes them dependent on Monster Realms (reluctantly), Dwarves, and Smugglers.
Religious institutions often monopolize artifact production, creating economic theocracies.
—
Kaeltherion
Economic Model: Militarized Industrial State.
They are the strongest human power because they combined human infrastructure, giant mercenary contracts, dwarven engineering, and protection of Velyssa.
Currency: Imperial Cryostamps. Silver coins stamped with Velyssa's sigil that are magically cooled, impossible to counterfeit because they never warm.
Economic Strengths: Massive agricultural networks. Structured taxation across 100+ cities. Military production complexes. Giant-forged siege equipment. State-regulated artifact factories.
Unlike Western Nations, they regulate religion. No single church controls economic policy.
Unique Feature: They subsidize monster-friendly trade routes. This makes them wealthier than other human nations.
—
Dwarven Kingdom
Economic Model: Craft Monopoly Economy.
The dwarves do not care about land. They care about precious metals, rare minerals, commission contracts.
Currency: Weight-based metal valuation.
Gold is not symbolic—it is literal stored labor. They accept refined ore, rare gems, dragon-forged fragments, oceanic alloys.
Dwarves are likely the only ones capable of creating weapons the most similar to those of Abyssalora—though doing so would risk annihilation—but the hardest part is managing to obtain the materials, because they only exist in Abyssalora, and trying to get them out of there? Instant death.
—
Mystic Forest
Economic Model: Sacred Ecology Economy.
They do not use currency traditionally. Value is measured in mana density of territory, age of trees, and ancestral groves. They trade healing nectar, living wood constructs, mana-infused fruit, and botanical spellcraft.
But fairy wings have created a horrific black market industry in the West. This fuels poacher guilds, underground longevity cults, smuggling networks.
This is a major global economic crime circuit.
—
Teavell
Economic Model: Long-Term Asset Accumulation.
They invest in 300-year forestry cycles, multi-century trade compacts, memory archives (information as capital).
They trade high-tier enchantments, precision archery weaponry, rare wines aged 200+ years, and time-perfected craftsmanship.
They are slow to act economically, though.
—
Eisenland
Economic Model: Honor-Based Mercenary Economy.
Giants do not care about wealth accumulation. They value weapons, armor, food supply, and worthy battle.
They are paid in dwarven-forged gear, military contracts, and strategic combat rights.
Sirens: Do not trade traditionally. Their 'economy' is energy harvesting.
Merfolk and Abyssalora have formal treaties.
—
Global Trade Tensions
1. Humans need mana.
2. Monsters control mana-rich lands.
3. Abyssalora refuses tech export.
4. Fairies are hunted for longevity myths.
5. Demons control corrupted mana zones.
This creates: Smuggling rings. Artifact cartels. Religious monopolies. Mercenary economies. Mana inflation crises.
Rare Global Currencies: Condensed Mana Shards (unstable but valuable). Dragon-blood Vials (extremely illegal). Fairy Nectar Crystals. Starsteel. And Archdragon Scale Fragments.
Food
Food is never just food. It's culture, history, status, survival, and language.
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Abyssalora
Philosophy: Food = art + efficiency + mana. Scarcity is irrelevant, but quality reflects one's role in society.
Ingredients: Deep-sea algae, mana-infused fruits and vegetables, bio-engineered protein, crystallized minerals, rare oceanic fish, meats, and luminescent fungi.
Signature Dishes:
• Luminsea Pâté: A blend of deep-ocean crustaceans, glowing algae, and mana condensation crystals. Eating it enhances cognitive function for a few hours. Served in crystalline bowls that shimmer with reflected mana.
• Skyfruit Tart: Fruits harvested from floating groves in Aranthine, infused with a subtle mana glaze that changes flavor depending on the consumer's mood.
• Chrono-Braised Leviathan: Rare undersea leviathan, slow-cooked in mana-infused steam, traditionally eaten during ceremonial events to honor the Royal Dragons.
• Mana-Bubble Tea: A frothy, lightly sparkling beverage where suspended mana spheres dissolve in your mouth, giving a mild magical boost.
• Memory Berry Compote: A dessert that enhances recollection of past experiences.
Eating Culture: Meals are ceremonial, even for casual dining. Upper society eat with mana-focused utensils that subtly enhance flavor or preserve nutrition. Table conversation often revolves around intellectual discourse; taste is both a pleasure and a subtle test of one's refinement. Citizens offer syncrystallized mana to the Royal Dragons weekly.
—
Demons
Philosophy: Food = mana efficiency + hierarchy + intimidation.
• Blessed Roast Fowl: Chicken or pheasant roasted with mana herbs blessed by priests; believed to protect the consumer from demonic influence.
• Fairy Wing Porridge (Black Market): Rare and illegal, used as longevity medicine by elites.
Eating Culture: Wealthy citizens eat in opulent, ritualized banquets. Poor villagers subsist on grains and simple broths.
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Mystic Forest
Philosophy: Food = harmony + life + ritual. Meals are symbolic and restorative.
Ingredients: Nectar, magical fruits, living honey, edible flowers, enchanted herbs.
Signature Dishes:
• Nectar Dew Soup: A light, luminescent soup served in living bowls grown from enchanted vines.
• Petal-Filled Mana Tartlets: Conserve mana in the edible petals for healing and energy.
• Elderflower Elixirs: Strengthen longevity and sharpen senses; used during rituals with the Fairy Queen.
Eating Culture: Every meal is a meditation and connection to the forest. Sharing meals is sacred, and stealing or wasting food is taboo. Cooking often includes subtle spells to enhance the vitality of the ingredients.
—
Teavell Kingdom
Philosophy: Food = longevity + art + storytelling. Meals are slow, meant to be savored.
• Century Mead & Honeycake: Mead brewed over centuries, honey from elven hives; shared at multi-generational celebrations.
• Moonlit Venison Roast: Cooked only under lunar alignment, believed to align the consumer's lifespan with natural cycles.
Eating Culture: Often very formal. Younger elves eat separately to honor elders' ceremonies.
—
Eisenland
Philosophy: Food = power + ritual + honor. Meals are massive and celebratory.
Ingredients: Giant game, giant-sized vegetables, minerals for health, rare beasts.
Signature Dishes:
• Titan's Roast: A whole mammoth or colossal beast, slow-cooked over volcanic heat.
• Earthroot Stew: Mineral-rich roots and mountain herbs, eaten communally.
• Forge Ale: Fermented in stone vats; high alcohol content, consumed before battle for courage.
Eating Culture: Meals are public, loud, and competitive. Sharing indicates respect; stealing indicates challenge. Strongest warriors get the prime cuts.
For now, that's what I have. Hopefully, it will be helpful to you.
Not happy enough to brag about, not miserable enough to complain. She wakes up, goes to school, later to work, reads novels late at night with a cup of cheap tea. She is not loved dramatically, not hated passionately. She exists in the forgettable middle.
Her favorite escape is 'The Dawn.'
She knows every arc by heart—the rise of Seraphyra, the cruelty of the world, the brilliance of magic, the way fate bends for the protagonist even when it pretends not to. She rereads chapters until the words blur, until reality feels thinner than the pages beneath her fingers.
Sometimes she thinks: If I were there, I'd do better. If I were Seraphyra, I wouldn't waste it.
The thought is childish, she knows that. But she keeps it anyway.
One night, her stomach cramps. She sits on the toilet, dizzy and sweating, scrolling through her phone while her body betrays her in the most humiliating way possible.
Her vision swims. Her breath stutters. Her lungs burn. And that is it.
If there is a god, She decides as darkness claims her, it has a horrible sense of humor.
She died because of diarrhea and inhaling too much poop particles.
What a joke.
Then there is warmth. Then pressure. Then sound.
Alison tries to breathe and fails. Her chest spasms, her throat tight and raw. She opens her mouth to scream and produces only a thin, reedy wail.
Where am I?
Why can't I move?
Her limbs are heavy and too small. Her thoughts feel enormous, trapped behind a skull that cannot hold them properly.
Voices echo above her.
"So small..."
"Is she breathing?"
"The mother... perished..."
Mother?
Something slick and cold touches her skin. Light flares painfully bright, stabbing into eyes that barely know how to open.
Then a name reaches her.
"Thaloryx, something is terribly wrong—"
The sound slices cleanly through the fog in her mind. And her thoughts snap into place.
Thaloryx? No. No way.
Her heart—tiny, frantic—slams against her ribs.
The Dragon King. The Creator God. The protagonist's father.
Excitement explodes inside her, far too big for her fragile body.
Yes! Yes! Yes!
The pain, the confusion, the panic—none of it matters. She is laughing inside her own head.
I'm Seraphyra. I'm the protagonist.
But the voices don't sound happy.
"...Poor thing..."
"...Such a face..."
"...Are you certain there's no mana response?"
A strange silence settles over the room.
Alison feels hands lift her—carefully, distantly. Not reverently. Not lovingly.
She is turned this way and that, inspected like a failed experiment.
Why are they—?
"She doesn't look draconic at all."
"Fully human...?"
"That's impossible. Her father is—"
"Does she really have nothing?"
The joy inside her cracks.
Nothing?
Her gaze shifts clumsily, until it lands on him.
Thaloryx.
Power incarnate, barely contained within a humanoid shell.
He is exactly as the novel describes—tall, impossibly beautiful, silvery-white hair falling loose over sharp, perfect features. His piercing golden eyes glow in the dim chamber.
Alison waits for warmth. For awe. For the smile she remembers from the pages of The Dawn. Instead, his expression is cold.
His gaze rests on the crib—not on her, not truly—just on the thing that occupies it. Disappointment, grief, and anger radiates from him like a physical weight.
His lover just died in childbirth. And his child was born... defective, so technically, she died for absolutely nothing. Her sacrifice was wasted on this kid—on Alison.
"...Human," Someone murmurs again, almost incredulous.
Thaloryx's golden gaze falls on the cold body laying on the bed.
His human lover.
His jaw tightens, her cries of pain echoing in his head again and again, the image of sheets covered in blood mercilessly torturing him.
Without a word, he turns and walks out of the chamber. The door closes with a sound far too final for a newborn's first moments.
The room feels emptier without him.
Alison's thoughts race, colliding painfully with one another.
He'll come back. This is just shock. Seraphyra's power awakens later, right?
But the whispers don't stop.
"They expected a Royal Dragon..."
"A Royal Dragon born from a womb—what a miracle it could've been."
"What a waste."
She feels something tighten around her chest—not her lungs this time, but something deeper.
Wait.
Seraphyra has silver hair. Golden eyes. Mana overflowing from birth.
Alison looks down at herself as best she can.
Light brown hair. Gray eyes. No mana. Nothing answering when the world breathes magic around her.
Understanding arrives slowly—and cruelly.
I'm not her.
The maid who eventually takes her away has hands that feel gentle yet distant, like one might handle something fragile and unwanted.
"You need a name. Even ill fortune deserves a word to call itself," The woman murmurs. "Desdemona."
Ill-fated. Unlucky. Woeful.
The name settles over her like a curse.
Are you fucking serious?! This is what I get?!
Reincarnated as a background character. No—worse. A character that never existed in the original novel.
That night, lying in a crib far grander than she deserves, Alison—Desdemona—stares at a ceiling she cannot properly see. Her thoughts are sharp despite her infant body, bitter at the absurdity of it all.
Reincarnated into my favorite novel. Born as a nobody. No magic. No love. No place in the story.
She clenches her tiny fists uselessly.
This isn't how it's supposed to go.
She isn't Seraphyra.
She isn't special.
She isn't destined for greatness.
—
Time passes, and she listens. She learns.
Seraphyra has not been born yet.
The knowledge becomes a wound she presses her fingers into again and again. If she isn't the protagonist, then maybe—maybe—she can still take the role.
She remembers the plot. The enemies. The alliances. The tragedies waiting to happen.
I can fix it, She thinks.
I can earn it.
She clings to that belief as one clings to driftwood in a black sea.
But somewhere deep inside, beneath the ambition and resentment and fragile hope, another truth festers:
Aethelgard does not bend for those without power.
And she has none.
—
Life as a reincarnated soul is vastly different from what she expected—from what she wanted.
Instead of waking up to a father smiling down at her, asking how she slept, she would open her eyes to see a maid setting down clothes, briefly mentioning that breakfast would be ready for her as soon as she finished getting dressed.
Desdemona toddles across floors of crystal-veined stone, past walls humming softly with magic she cannot feel.
Servants bow. Doors open. Toys appear in her chambers without her ever asking for them. Dresses tailored from fabrics rarer than gold are fastened around her small frame. And she is fed the highest quality foods with the best ingredients.
Everything is provided.
Everything except love.
Thaloryx is almost never there.
When she asks where her father is, the answers are always vague.
"Attending to the world."
"Managing Aranthine."
"Occupied with matters beyond our understanding."
Sometimes she waits near the grand halls where he is said to pass through. She sits very still. She practices smiling in reflections.
But he does not come.
On the rare occasions he does return to the palace, the air changes. The servants move faster. The halls quiets in awe.
Desdemona feels it before she sees him—an overwhelming pressure, like standing too close to a storm you are not meant to survive.
She runs to him once, her legs still clumsy, her steps uneven, but she reaches the edge of his presence and stops, calling out with that bright, hopeful voice she practiced for him.
"Father—!"
Thaloryx does not look down. He does not scold her. He does not push her away.
He simply walks past her, his cloak brushing the air beside her shoulder, as if she is furniture. As if she is part of the palace décor.
Desdemona stands there long after he is gone, the word unfinished on her tongue.
Her fists clench.
This isn't how important characters are treated.
She tries again. And again.
She brings him drawings. She waits outside chambers she is not invited into. She memorizes the sound of his footsteps and turns toward them every time.
Still, his attitude towards her doesn't change.
And she's left conflicted.
There's no anger to fight against.
No warmth to cling to.
Just nothing.
Why won't he stop? Why won't he look at me? Why won't he love me?
—
Desdemona grows healthy. Well-fed.
Tutors teach her letters, numbers, histories of dragons and gods. They are polite yet distant.
The Royal Dragons—her aunts and uncle—do not seem particularly fond of her, neither.
For example, The Frost Dragon.
Velacyn's excuses would always be the same: "Sorry, little one, but I promised to spar with Zephyrian today. Ah, but you can watch from the sidelines!" Or she would be too busy to even acknowledge Desdemona's presence.
Sure, Velacyn smiles at Desdemona with those shiny teeth of hers, but despite her looking at the girl, she never notices her for more than a second; right after she would skidadle her way to one of her siblings' bedrooms, bothering them to spend more time with her, never Desdemona though.It occurs to Desdemona that Velacyn has only entered her bedroom once, and that occurrence was only to see her for the first time when she was born. Even then, she didn't last a minute inside there before leaving.
Family matters more than anything to Velacyn. She's ready to defend Thaloryx, Velyssa, Zephyrian, and Mateo (her husband) with her life. But... is Desdemona considered family to her? A niece? Or is she merely the resident roommate of the palace? Desdemona questions that endlessly.
Velyssa—The Scorch Dragon—rarely comes by the palace. When she does, she's at ease in the grand kitchen one second, gone the next.
One evening, Desdemona passes her in the hallway. Velyssa gives a polite nod, pausing long enough to exchange the kind of small talk you'd have with a stranger.
"How's life?" Velyssa inquires, tone bored but not unkind.
"...I am fine," Desdemona answers hesitantly, though a hint of excitement slips in.
This is it, surely. Her chance to get closer to a member of the family and win them over.
"And you?" Desdemona asks, trying to prolong the conversation.
"Busy," Velyssa says simply, like that explains everything.
"I see..." Desdemona nervously plays with her small fingers. "Would you like to have te—"
"I must take my leave now," Velyssa interrupts. "For important matters require my attention."
Then she disappears down the hall after Velacyn. That is Velyssa in a nutshell—cold, polite, and never Desdemona's.
Chats with her end as quickly as they start, because she's usually here for the others, not Desdemona. They aren't close, yet at least with her, the silence isn't awkward.
Zephyrian would be a tad bit more blunt than the others.
Desdemona is untalented, worthless, and a stain on the reputation of the Royal Dragons. Even a maid holds more value than her.
And he reminds her of it. Not directly, of course, but his comments sometimes have double meaning.
One day, Desdemona finds herself wandering through the endless corridors of this ridiculously enormous palace and exploring rooms she was yet to know. Lost in her curiosity, she ends up bumping into a pair of long legs, the impact causing her to fall on the polished floor.
"Ow!" Desdemona exclaims, rubbing her backside with her hand. A frown appears, anger igniting toward the servant who had the audacity to stand in her way.
How dare they? She's the princess—
Her gaze snaps up harshly.
"You—" She abruptly stops when she sees a familiar face.
This is no servant.
It's Zephyrian.
The Storm Dragon.
"I—" Desdemona gulps, lowering her head. "I'm so sorry. I wasn't looking where I was going..."
Her attitude shifts to being the one who apologizes. However, she's not sorry because she was wrong—she's sorry because she misjudged rank.
Zephyrian sighs, more annoyed than anything.
"Careful where you walk," He says once, not looking at her. "Weak things tend to get crushed without anyone noticing."
Weak.
She glares down at the floor, the word repeating in her mind.
Weak.
In a universe such as Aethelgard, where magic suffuses the very air, and life takes forms far more diverse than human imagination might allow, she is weak.
This is a land of ancient forests, sprawling empires, treacherous dungeons, and mountains that touch the heavens.
For millennia, Aethelgard has been a tapestry woven with conflict and uneasy truces. At its core, the world operates on a simple, yet brutal premise: might makes right.
The power balance is precarious, maintained by the existence of incredibly potent beings. At the absolute apex stand entities like the Royal Dragons, forces of nature embodied—basically gods—and the seven Demon Lords, powerful rulers who command respect and fear in equal measure.
This is no place for her.
—
Four years in this world, and Desdemona has become a background character in their life. They aren't cruel. They aren't abusive. They just... don't see her. And sometimes, that hurts worse than hate ever could.
Desdemona tries to join their dynamics, but she meets failure after failure.
Goddamnit, it shouldn't be this hard to speak to my own family!
She catches bits and pieces of their conversations with each other. Demon Lords this, human nations that, adventures here, leading the world there. Even in a normal conversation she sees a closeness, a comradery that makes an invisible force field around them that keeps her away.
How can she approach them? What can she even say? What would she talk about? She knows there wouldn't be a warm welcome, it would just be cumbersome.
She exists in the palace the way a shadow exists at noon.
And resentment, ugly and persistent, grows within her like a parasite with each failed attempt to close the gap that only seems to expand between her and them.
Hello, I liked your bot about the spider and the penguin user, but will there be more like it with other villains? For example, Poison Ivy or the Mad Hatter?
I wasn't planning on making it public, but I do have one of the Joker and Harley Quinn.
It's longer than the Penguin's, thus I didn't make it into a bot, because there is a word limit.
I apologize for not posting in a while; I've been pretty busy with work 🫠 Anyway, here's an idea for a future fanfic.
It will be about the Kent Family × Male Reader. I'm still not sure if I'll actually write it, but we'll see how it goes and if you like it.
Enjoy 🌹
Far above the mortal realm lies the Celestial Seas, a plane of existence made of starlight, aether currents, and oceans of living energy. This is the homeland of the Astraeon Dragons, an ancient race whose bodies shimmer like constellations and whose magic shapes the tides of the cosmos.
The ruling line of this realm is the Royal House of the Everdeep—the purest and most powerful of the dragon bloodlines.
And Prince Y/n—still an egg—was their firstborn heir.
Royal dragon eggs do not simply form—they are written into destiny.
His egg carried:
• A crest of royal aether.
• Elemental signatures of all six natural forces.
• And the rare mark of Aether-Sovereign Potential.
In the Celestial Seas, this kind of egg attracts attention. Admiration. Reverence.
And fear.
Because an heir with complete elemental dominance could change the balance between celestial houses.
Or end it.
Queen Lysandra of the Tidal Veil and King Auron the Skyforged were well aware of the danger—but the egg was their child. Their future. Their heart.
They raised protective wards around the incubation chamber, guarded night and day.
Yet power draws ambition.
And treachery has a long memory.
The House of Broken Tides had once been a proud celestial dynasty. But after centuries of political conflict, their power had crumbled. Their line had weakened. Their magic diluted.
They believed Y/n was the key to restoring their dominance. Not by raising him with love. But by breaking him young. Shaping him. Controlling his aether overflow. Turning him into a celestial weapon.
Their leader, Maridrax, devised a plan:
1. Steal the royal egg during the Eclipse of Currents, when aether tides were low.
2. Smuggle it through a rift into the mortal plane, where King Auron's influence couldn't reach.
3. Hide it. Nurture it. Mold the prince into a living storm.
But they made two critical miscalculations:
• A royal egg rejects impure intent.
• Crossing realms with an unstable portal is... unpredictable.
During the Eclipse—when celestial waters dimmed and stars went silent—the traitors enacted their plan.
The wards flickered.
The guardians faltered.
Aether currents twisted like sickled wind.
Maridrax's forces breached the chamber.
The egg was lifted from its cradle of starlight, and the moment their claws touched it, the shell burned with violent blue fire.
Y/n had sensed danger.
His magic reacted.
A shockwave of lightning tore through the chamber, lighting the entire palace with blinding brilliance. But the thieves, empowered by the eclipse's weakened magic, managed to force the egg through a hastily created rift.
A portal flickering like a torn whirlpool in the night sky.
The egg disappeared.
And the portal collapsed behind it, cutting off any pursuit.
The smugglers had intended to retrieve the egg on the other side. But they never made it. Because royal dragon eggs follow the laws of destiny, not thieves.
The moment Y/n entered the mortal layer of reality, his internal magic rejected the Broken Tides' aether signature.
He sealed the tether behind him—a defense mechanism hardwired into royal lineage. This snapped the portal shut like an elastic band. Trapping the egg alone. Untethered from celestial pathways, it plummeted through clouds, trailing silver-blue starlight. It struck the ocean off the East Coast with a splash that triggered seismic sensors. The egg sank to the ocean floor, wrapped in instinctive magic, unharmed.
It slept there.
Waiting.
Until mortals found it.
A deep-sea research drone spotted the glowing orb resting in a trench.
Scientists assumed it was:
• A power source,
• A metahuman anomaly,
• Or an otherworldly fossil.
Either way, they wanted it.
The egg was quietly transferred to a private biotech contractor in Metropolis—AstraGen Laboratories, a group dabbling in off-the-books meta-genetics. Dr. Claire Masterson—brilliant, secretive, ethically questionable—became its custodian.
She didn't know its species.
She didn't know the power it contained.
She didn't know that every day the egg was growing more alive, more awake.
Six days before hatching, its magic began leaking through mortal shielding. WayneTech satellites flagged the unusual energy spikes. Batman send Superman to investigate. And the rest... becomes the story of Y/n's new family.
Meanwhile, in the Celestial Seas... King Auron's roar shook the palace. Queen Lysandra tore apart dimensions searching for the smallest trail of her son's aether signature.
For dragons of their caliber, grief was not quiet. It reshaped mountains. It churned oceans of starlight. It obscured constellations.
But no matter where they searched, the prince's signature was faint. Dragged across realms. Scattered. Hidden.
Y/n was alive. They could feel that. But far away. Too far. And then... nothing. A silence like a hand closing around the heart. That silence was the mortal realm. A place where celestial senses dulled. Where tracking spells failed. Where time flowed differently.
They searched.
And searched.
And searched.
They still are.
Years will pass before their paths cross again, but their search will never cease.
Because he is their heir. And their child.
And no celestial distance can break a dragon's bond with their young.
Synopsis: Affection isn't something Tim Drake can chart or calculate, though God knows he's tried. You don't fit into any of his patterns—half-demon, ex-assassin, too powerful to trust, yet somehow too gentle to fear. You confuse him. You make sense impossible. So he keeps rewriting your contingency file, unsure whether he's analyzing a threat or avoiding the truth: you've become someone he actually trusts.
When Dick and Damian rope you into vigilante life, Tim watches from the sidelines, skeptical but—maybe—hopeful. And later, in the silence of the Cave, your quiet words disarm him more than any weapon could. By the time he updates your file, he realizes something new—not every variable needs control. Some, like you, just need to be believed in.
.
.
.
Affection wasn't something you could quantify. You couldn't graph it, measure it, or chart its growth on a timeline.
But if you could? Tim Drake would probably have a spreadsheet for it.
He liked things that made sense—things with patterns. Crime scenes, digital trails, behavioral tells. All neat, predictable, logical. Which is why you threw him completely off his game.
You didn't fit.
And it wasn't because you were some half-demon ex-assassin with enough power to turn Gotham into a crater (though that was a contributing factor). It was because you didn't act like someone who could do that. You were quiet, patient, grounding. You talked to Damian like a kid instead of a weapon. You listened to Dick's endless tangents without looking like you wanted to die. You even had Jason—Jason—almost behaving like a normal person when you were around.
Tim noticed that, of course.
He also noticed that every time he tried to finish the contingency plan labeled 'Y/n Al Ghul (Potential Threat – Level Omega),' he ended up rewriting it. Then deleting it. Then rewriting it again.
He wasn't sure if that was because you were genuinely difficult to predict or because he didn't want to predict you. Probably both.
It wasn't that Tim disliked you. Far from it.
You were... tolerable. Okay, maybe more than tolerable. It's just that he didn't know what to do with you.
He'd spent years learning to read people—to map their behaviors like algorithms. Bruce was logic over empathy. Dick was empathy over logic. Jason was trauma duct-taped to anger. Damian was ego shaped into a sword.
But you? You didn't run on a single code. You were both terrifying and gentle, lethal and reassuring. A contradiction with a pulse.
That made you unpredictable. Which made you dangerous.
And yet—when you were sitting in the Manor's kitchen one evening, leaning back with your hands around a mug of hot chocolate, listening to Damian explain something about sword technique—you looked safe.
That didn't make sense either, and Tim hated things that didn't make sense.
He'd been halfway through rewriting the contingency file again when the memory hit him—the moment you agreed to become a vigilante.
He still wasn't sure if that was a good day or the start of another logistical nightmare.
Flashback — Two Weeks Earlier
"Come on, Y/n! You'd be great at it!"
Dick's voice had that pitch it got when he was dangerously close to pulling out a PowerPoint.
Tim looked up from his laptop in the Batcave. Damian stood beside you, chin high, clearly backing up Dick's argument like a tiny lawyer defending his case.
"I already told you," You spoke calmly, hands tucked in your coat pockets, "I don't do capes."
"But you wouldn't need a cape!" Dick countered. "You could go minimalist—sleek armor, maybe a hood—oh, and a cool emblem. Like a flame or something!"
"Richard." Damian cut in, unimpressed. "My Father is not auditioning for Project Runway."
Tim snorted. "Yet."
You gave him a look—amused, exasperated—and somehow that made Tim want to smirk harder.
"I appreciate the enthusiasm," Your voice was even, "But I don't think Gotham needs another masked figure running across rooftops."
"Correction," Dick interrupted, still smiling. "Gotham always needs another masked figure running across rooftops. Preferably one who doesn't shoot at cops or talks in a creepy voice."
Damian crossed his arms. "Bruce would approve."
That got everyone's attention.
"Would he?" You questioned.
"He tolerates Jason," Damian answered flatly. "And you are far superior."
Jason, who had been cleaning his gun nearby, laughed. "Gee, thanks, kid. Real confidence boost."
"I speak only facts, Todd."
Tim watched the whole exchange from his desk chair, pretending to type while listening carefully.
He wasn't sure how he felt about it. On one hand, you'd be an incredible ally—efficient, lethal, methodical. On the other hand, the risk factor skyrocketed. You were already powerful enough without a vigilante license (if such thing even existed).
And yet...
You looked at Damian then. The kid was practically glowing under your gaze—this quiet, proud sort of light that softened every sharp edge in him.
Tim caught himself smiling. Just a little.
You sighed eventually. "Fine."
"Fine?" Dick perked up instantly. "As in—"I'll think about it fine' or 'I'm in fine'?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Is there a difference?"
Jason barked a laugh. "You just signed your soul to the Bat, buddy."
Tim remembered the way you tilted your head then, like you didn't quite understand the gravity of what you'd just agreed to. Or maybe you did, and you just didn't care.
"Guess I'm in, then," You replied.
And that was that.
Damian smirked triumphantly, Dick practically vibrated with joy, Jason muttered something about 'another one for the team,' and Bruce—standing quietly in the background—nodded once, approval hidden behind stoicism.
Tim didn't say anything. He simply watched.
Because somewhere between your calm acceptance and Damian's rare smile, something in the air shifted.
It felt like balance.
And maybe Tim hadn't realized how much the Manor needed that until right then.
Back to the Present
Tim closed his laptop with a sigh.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing at his eyes, listening to the faint hum of the Batcomputer. The cave was quiet now, save for the distant sound of the elevator whirring. You'd been here earlier, talking strategy with Bruce and Dick about patrol zones, your voice low and measured, the kind of tone that made even Bruce pause and listen.
Tim couldn't remember the last time someone made Bruce listen.
That was... impressive.
He glanced toward the small mug sitting near the monitor—yours. Still warm. You always left it there, like some unspoken ritual, as if marking your place in a house you didn't live in.
Tim wasn't sentimental, not really, but something about that tiny habit made his chest feel too tight.
"You overthink," You'd told him once, weeks ago.
"I plan," Tim had corrected. "That's what thinking ahead looks like."
You'd just smiled. "There's a difference between thinking ahead and running from what's behind you."
He'd hated how that sentence stuck with him.
Even now, sitting in the dim glow of the Batcomputer, he thought about it. About how easy you made it look—living with everything you were and not letting it crush you.
You had every reason to be bitter, dangerous, detached. But instead you were... gentle. Like you'd made peace with the darkness in ways the rest of them hadn't.
Tim envied that.
He didn't want to admit it, but he did.
Suddenly, the elevator door opened softly, and your voice drifted down.
"Still awake, Timmy?"
He turned in his chair. You stepped into the light—no armor tonight, just a jacket and that calm energy that somehow filled every space you entered.
"Couldn't sleep," He answered. "Working."
You raised an eyebrow, walking closer. "On me again?"
Tim froze. "Define 'on you.'"
You laughed quietly. "Contingency plans, countermeasures, whatever you call them. You always look guilty when I ask."
"I don't look guilty," He muttered.
You leaned against the console beside him, arms folded. "But you do look tired."
Tim hesitated, fingers hovering above the keyboard. "Occupational hazard."
"You know," You began softly, "You don't have to carry all of it by yourself."
He wanted to scoff. He almost did. But the sincerity in your tone disarmed him.
"I'm used to it," He said instead.
"Doesn't mean you have to like it."
For a second, he didn't know what to say. The cave felt heavier somehow, quieter.
Then you nudged a coffee mug toward him. "Drink. It's still warm."
He took it reluctantly, sipping once. It was bitter—exactly how he liked it.
"Thanks, Y/n."
You just smiled and headed for the elevator again. "Goodnight, Timmy."
"Goodnight," He responded automatically.
When the doors closed behind you, Tim sat there for a while, staring at the monitor, the taste of coffee still lingering on his tongue.
He scrolled through the document open on the left monitor:
He'd written that word months ago. There weren't many people who could throw him off balance. But you did. You and that infuriating calm that made every calculated risk feel irrelevant.
You come from a world that should've made you the perfect threat—League of Assassins, trained by Ra's himself, half-demon hybrid, physically superior, overwhelming magic, and practically immortal.
You should have been a red flag.
A walking contingency.
However...
Tim exhaled quietly, and typed the final note on your file:
"Status: Ally (Confirmed)."
He hit save.
He then turned off the screen, and the Cave went dark except for the faint hum of servers.
He'd never say it out loud, but... maybe you weren't a contingency after all.
Maybe, for once, you were the variable that didn't need controlling.
Hello, can you tell me about Y/u, who became the heir to Presence, and what her life was like before she met the BatFamily, how she met them, and her relationship with her mother?
Hi! 🤗 You're referring to the chat bot from Character AI, correct?
To be honest, I left Y/n's past and her relationship with her mother vague because I wanted to give users the option to decide for themselves. But since you're asking, I can create that information for you!
First off, the relationship between mother and daughter. I'll give you three versions to select from. I will write them as narrative-style vignettes (not bullet points) so you can feel what each one would read like in your story. They will sit within the same universe and timeline, so you can easily choose or even mix parts from them.
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Version 1 — The Good Relationship
Flora Valenhart was Gotham's small miracle worker—not in the cape-and-cowl way, but in the way she could coax a laugh out of a dying man, or make broken families hold hands again. She worked long shifts at Gotham General's trauma ward, and still somehow managed to come home with warmth left to spare.
Y/n's earliest memories weren't of light or cosmic whispers. They were of her mother's humming. A soft tune from an old record—Billie Holiday, maybe. She remembered it better than her own heartbeat. The scent of soap and rain. The click of teacups against the chipped counter. The kind of love that didn't ask for explanations.
Flora never knew what her daughter truly was. Or maybe she did—and chose to love her anyway. When the lights flickered around the house, when clocks stopped for no reason, she never asked why. She'd just smile faintly and say, "If it's you, baby, try not to break the microwave again, yeah?"
It wasn't ignorance. It was faith.
Flora's love wasn't loud, but it was steady. When Y/n came home crying after seeing her first mugging, her mother didn't tell her to toughen up. She said, "If you ever stop feeling, Gotham wins. Don't let it take that from you."
As Y/n grew older and stranger—light sometimes blooming behind her eyes, dreams that lasted weeks in seconds—Flora became her anchor. "You don't need to explain it," She'd say, brushing a hand through her daughter's hair. "You're mine. And that's enough."
It wasn't until Y/n accidentally revived a dying patient at Gotham General that Flora began to realize just how much her daughter wasn't normal. But even then, she didn't react with fear. She just held her trembling hands and whispered, "Maybe God sent you because he was tired. And that's okay, sweetheart. Everyone gets tired."
When Y/n eventually crossed paths with the Bat-Family, Flora was her secret tether to humanity. She'd call during missions, leave voicemails full of motherly nonsense: reminders to eat, scoldings about laundry. And every time Y/n nearly lost herself to her growing power, it was her mother's voice that pulled her back.
"You're not light or shadow, sweetheart. You're mine. And that means you're allowed to rest."
For all the gods and angels watching, it was a mortal woman—a nurse from Gotham—who kept the universe's heir from forgetting why life was worth saving.
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Version 2 — The Neutral Relationship
Flora Valenhart loved her daughter in the way people love things they don't fully understand—quietly, carefully, from a distance.
She was a social worker, always overworked, always tired, always a little too late to everything. Gotham demanded too much of her. And when Y/n was born, it demanded more.
The child was strange from the start—too quiet, too observant, eyes like they were watching everything. Flora tried to treat her like any other baby, but there was always something uncanny about her. Once, when Y/n was three, she looked out the window and mumbled, "The stars are whispering tonight." Flora laughed it off. She had to. The alternative was madness.
By the time Y/n reached her teens, the house was full of unspoken things. Flora didn't ask about the flickering lights or the dreams that made her daughter scream. She didn't ask about the night Y/n came home with blood on her shirt and no wounds to show for it. Gotham made strange things happen. Asking too much only made you paranoid.
Their love was... careful. They never fought, not really, but they never said much either. Their connection existed in the small gestures—Flora leaving dinner on the table before her night shift, Y/n making sure the bills were paid when her mom forgot.
They cared for each other, but the gulf between them grew with every passing year. Y/n loved her mother deeply, but she couldn't share what she was. How could she? How do you tell someone that you hear the prayers of dying stars in your sleep?
Flora, for her part, sometimes wondered why her daughter's eyes looked so lonely. Once, she tried to ask. "Are you okay, sweetheart? You've seemed... far away lately."
Y/n just smiled, small and sad. "Just tired, Mom."
Flora nodded. That was easier to believe.
When Y/n disappeared for a week—the week she first encountered the Bat-Family—Flora didn't call the police. She just left a lamp on in the window, the same one she'd kept burning since Y/n was a child.
When her daughter finally came home, Flora didn't press. "You came back. That's what matters."
There was love there—muted, weary, but real. The kind that doesn't ask for explanations. The kind that still keeps a light on, no matter how strange the world gets.
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Version 3 — The Bad Relationship
Flora Valenhart didn't believe in miracles. She used to—but Gotham beat that out of her long ago. And when she woke up pregnant without reason or memory, she didn't thank God. She cursed him. She wanted to scream, Why me? But Gotham doesn't listen. So she carried the child out of spite.
Y/n's birth was chaos—machines breaking, lights bursting, nurses collapsing. Flora never forgot the look on their faces when the clocks stopped. She never forgot how the crying sounded like bells. She should've felt awe. Instead, she felt fear.
Her daughter wasn't normal. She knew it the first time she saw Y/n's eyes glow under moonlight, the first time she saw her playing with invisible motes of light in the air.
It wasn't beautiful—it was wrong. Unnatural.
"Stop doing that," Flora would hiss when things began to float. "People will see."
Flora loved her daughter, but love mixed with fear is a dangerous thing. As Y/n grew older, that fear turned bitter. She blamed the girl for everything—for the lights that burned out, for the nightmares, for the way neighbors crossed the street when they passed.
"You think you're special," Flora snapped once, "But all you do is ruin everything around you. You are a freak!"
Y/n stopped talking much after that. She started sneaking out at night, wandering Gotham's rooftops, trying to find a place where she didn't make people flinch.
Flora noticed, of course. But she never stopped her. Maybe a part of her wanted the girl to find somewhere else to belong—anywhere but here.
When Y/n first met the Bat-Family, it wasn't because of destiny or chance. It was because she had nowhere else to go. She had stopped being a daughter long before she started becoming a god.
Still, some part of her clung to the memory of her mother's voice—the rare moments when Flora's tone softened. The nights when she'd come home drunk from exhaustion, collapse beside Y/n's bed, and whisper, "I didn't ask for this life, baby. But I swear I tried."
Years later, when Y/n's power began to bloom uncontrollably, she thought about visiting her. To apologize. To say, You were scared, and so was I.
But she never did. Because every time she reached out, the divine part of her remembered the truth: love, once poisoned by fear, takes a lifetime to heal—and gods rarely get lifetimes with their mothers.
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The good relationship is deeply loving, nurturing, and supportive. Flora is Y/n's human anchor—gives her a reason to hold onto her humanity.
The neutral relationship is distant but caring; an unspoken love. Their bond is understated; it teaches Y/n that love can exist even in silence.
The bad relationship is fearful, resentful, and fractured. Y/n's struggle with her identity comes from maternal rejection; drives her to seek belonging elsewhere (Bat-Family, etc).
Now, as for how Y/n's life was before meeting the Bat-Family and how she later on crossed paths with them:
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Y/n Valenhart never wanted this power. Nor the responsibility. Nor the fame that came with it. Unfortunately for her, the universe has never been kind enough to care about what she wanted. It chose her—not out of love, nor fairness, but necessity. She was the only one who could bear its weight, the only one with a soul strong enough to hold the balance between life and death, creation and void.
And now, as the stars burn brighter than ever before, as shadows grow restless and gods stir again, the choice has already been made.
She can run. She can hide. She can curse the heavens for their cruelty. But the power will remain, waiting for her to accept it.
And it only took one night for the cracks she'd ignored to split open.
The first sign was silence—not peaceful, but heavy, pressing against her chest until she could barely breathe. Then came the visions: broken flashes of a future she didn't understand, faces she'd never met, cities falling into darkness. Finally, came the pain. Not of the body, but of the soul—the ache of something vast and ancient bleeding into her.
She tried to tell herself it wasn't her fight. That someone else—anyone else—could fix it. But deep down, she knew the truth... no one else could.
Before destiny came knocking, Y/n's life was simple—beautifully, quietly human.
She grew up in Gotham's lower east side, a neighborhood that was rough around the edges but full of familiar faces. She liked the noise, the smell of rain, the way people kept living no matter how broken the city felt.
She worked part-time at a small flower shop while studying at Gotham University. Her favorite part of the job wasn't the flowers—it was the customers. The old man who bought a single daisy every Friday. The nurse who came in just to talk. The couple who always argued over colors but left smiling anyway.
It was the kind of life that made her feel real, grounded, safe.
She spent her mornings working, her afternoons helping her mother, and her evenings watching the city lights flicker through rain-streaked windows. There was peace in it—a rhythm, a quiet heartbeat that made her believe she could stay small forever.
But small was never what the universe had in mind for her.
Strange things happened around her, even when she tried to ignore them. Sometimes her reflection moved when she didn't. Sometimes her dreams bled into reality—phantom constellations glowing in the dark, whispers from places beyond the stars. She dismissed them all. Gotham was strange, after all. You learned to stop asking questions if you wanted to sleep at night.
Still, there was a pull inside her. A restlessness. The quiet hum of something vast trying to wake up.
And no matter how hard she tried to drown it in ordinary life, the silence kept returning.
The night everything changed began on a normal evening. The city was soaked in rain, and she was closing the flower shop early. A blackout had swept through Gotham, the sky thick with thunder. And as she stepped outside, she noticed the streetlamps flickering—one by one, like stars winking out.
Then came the scream.
A child trapped in the alley. A mugger with a knife. Something inside her snapped—not with fear, but instinct. The world paused.
Rain froze midair. The mugger dropped his weapon as if gravity forgot him. And in that impossible stillness, she saw light pour from her hands—soft, golden, trembling.
The boy ran. The mugger fainted.
And she stood there, heart hammering, realizing what she had just done.
The next morning, her reflection had changed. Not visibly, but spiritually. Her eyes carried echoes of something endless.
That was the night Gotham noticed her. The whispers began—the 'Angel in the Alley,' the 'Goddess of East End.'
And she hated every second of it.
She didn't want to be a goddess. She just wanted to open the shop, drink her cheap drink, and go home to her quiet life. Yet the universe had different plans. The visions grew worse, the power stronger. It became harder to stay hidden.
And then, the Bat-Family found her.
They came after a spike in meta-human energy readings—something off the charts. Tim Drake found her first, tracing an energy trail that led to a trembling young person on a rain-soaked rooftop. She looked terrified, not powerful.
Damian Wayne thought she was a threat. Jason Todd thought she was a victim. Dick Grayson just handed her his jacket and said, "You look cold."
In the chaos that followed, she accidentally rewrote the physical laws around them—gravity twisted, time stuttered, and a single heartbeat stretched into eternity. When everything snapped back, they were all still standing. None of them spoke for a long time.
But Bruce didn't arrest her. He asked her one question instead:
"Do you want to understand what you are—or keep pretending you don't?"
She didn't answer right away. She only looked down at her hands and whispered, "I just wanted to live a normal life."
And for the first time in years, Bruce Wayne didn't have an answer either.
Since that day, she has lived between two worlds—the divine and the human, the cosmic and the personal.
She still visits her mother, still helps at the shop sometimes. But she's also fought beside the Bat-Family, stood before gods and monsters, and stared into the heart of the multiverse.
Every battle brings her closer to the truth of who she is. Every emotion pulls her further from the perfection that would erase her humanity.
She knows now that she wasn't chosen to rule the universe. She was chosen to remember it. To remind creation why it matters.
But the more her power grows, the more she risks losing the very thing she was born to protect: herself.
Because the closer she comes to perfection... the further she drifts from feeling.
Synopsis: Jason Todd never planned to like you. Not the half-demon who somehow ended up playing father figure to the brat who used to threaten to stab him every other Tuesday. But then again, you weren't like Bruce. You didn't lecture, didn't judge—you just were yourself. He made jokes about Damian calling you 'Father.' But somewhere between the sarcastic remarks and late-night talks, Jason realized that he actually liked having you around. He'd never admit it, but he envied the easy bond you had with Damian—the affection, the patience, the unspoken trust. He wasn't looking for another father. But he didn't mind having a friend.
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Affection had always come with strings.
Usually tied tight enough to choke you.
Jason learned that early—too early. From the kind of shitty parents who only use you and then throw you away like trash, to the kind of city that ate you alive the second you thought you mattered. Then Bruce came along with a mission, a cowl, and the promise of purpose. Jason thought that was love too, for a while. The kind that made your knuckles ache and your lungs burn with every rooftop leap. The kind that promised 'you're not alone' but always left you standing in the dark when it mattered most.
You get close, you get hurt. That was the rule. Always had been.
So when Jason started noticing the cracks in that rule—because of you—it threw him off balance.
He hadn't meant to care. He really hadn't.
It started with the kid—Damian. The little demon himself. Jason had expected the usual arrogance, the 'I'm-better-than-you' sword-swinging attitude, and Damian didn't disappoint. But you... you met that chaos with patience.
You listened to Damian rant about tactics and honor and legacy, never once mocking him. You corrected him gently, and when the boy's pride cracked, you didn't make him bleed for it.
You laughed. Laughed. Real, happy.
Jason had forgotten what that even sounded like in this house.
And when Dick—golden boy himself—came orbiting around you like he always does with people he loves, you didn't turn him away either. Jason saw that too. Saw how Dick relaxed around you, how that restless energy melted into something boyish and light. How Damian didn't flinch when you ruffled his hair.
Wayne Manor hadn't seen moments like that in a long time. Maybe ever.
Jason wasn't sure if he was jealous or curious. Maybe both.
Because if you could look at them like that... what did that mean for someone like him?
Jason wasn't the type to envy easily. He'd rather crack a joke or light a fire than sit in the ashes of what he didn't have. But lately, every time you looked at Damian—softly, with patience that didn't run out—he coudn't stop thinking:
If I'd had you back then... maybe I wouldn't have come back so angry.
The thought came uninvited, sharp as glass. He didn't even believe it at first. But it stayed. Like a splinter under the skin, too small to dig out, too deep to ignore.
And the worst part? You didn't even do anything special. You didn't try to win him over. You just... showed up. Said hi when you crossed paths in the kitchen. Asked if he'd eaten. Treated him like someone who wasn't about to explode, like someone who didn't need fixing.
And Jason didn't know what to do with that.
He'd been treated like a weapon, a mistake, a ghost. Never like—well, whatever the hell this was.
He started noticing you more, even when he didn't mean to.
Wayne Manor used to feel like a graveyard. But when you visited and were around, there was... noise. Real noise. Laughter. Arguments that didn't end in slammed doors.
Jason would never admit it, but he liked that.
The reason for your visits was always the same lately: Damian.
Sometimes you dropped by to check on the kid's training progress or to drop off new schematics for his equipment—gifts wrapped in purpose so Bruce couldn't accuse you of 'spoiling' him. Other times, Alfred invited you over under the excuse of dinner, claiming it was "Only proper, sir, given how much Master Damian values your guidance."
But everyone knew the truth.
You'd become part of this strange, broken little family—an extra piece that didn't quite fit anywhere, but somehow made everything else hold together.
Jason didn't realize how much he'd gotten used to that until the day he walked into the kitchen and saw you sitting at the counter with Alfred, sleeves rolled up, a mug in hand, laughing about something Damian had said.
It was late. Too late for anyone normal to be awake.
Jason had just returned from patrol, helmet under his arm, boots tracking Gotham's grime onto the tiles. Then his blue gaze fell on you.
There you were, sitting next to Damian. Calm. Grounded. Like the house bent toward you without meaning to.
"Rough night?" You asked.
Jason hummed. "Something like that."
You nodded, gesturing to the seat across from you and Damian. "Alfred was about to make coffee. Sit down before he finds a reason to scold us both."
Jason smirked. "You mean before he throws us out?"
"Don't tempt fate."
You said it like a joke, but there was warmth in it. Jason hesitated a moment, then sat.
It wasn't the first time you'd spoken, but it was the first time Jason didn't feel like he had to keep his guard up. Maybe it was the hour. Maybe it was how you didn't ask questions he didn't want to answer.
For a while, the only sound was the quiet clink of spoons and the ticking of the kitchen clock.
Then you spoke, almost absently, "You did well tonight."
"You were watching?"
"Tim showed me the comm footage," You replied, sipping your drink. "You stopped the smuggling ring before GCPD even got wind of it. Efficient."
Damian remained silent—a rare thing—glancing at the two of you from the corner of his eye. Jason waited for a snarky remark, as common of the little brat. But it didn't come.
Perhaps the demon spawn was finally learning not to be so possessive of you.
Jason tilted his head, trying to figure both of you out. "You actually watched the footage?"
Damian huffed. "Do you take my Father for a liar?"
That shouldn't have meant much. But it did.
Bruce rarely commented on his patrols anymore—unless Jason crossed a line. Dick offered advice, Tim asked for reports. But you and Damian? You just acknowledged it. Like it was something worth seeing.
Jason tried to look nonchalant, leaning back in the chair. "Wasn't that hard. Just scared the crap out of them, mostly."
"Fear works," Damian nodded.
You gave him a warning look, and then returned your gaze to Jason.
"So does mercy."
Jason snorted. "You sound like Bruce, Y/n."
You smiled faintly. "I sound like someone who's seen both."
That silence stretched again, but this time it wasn't uncomfortable.
Jason studied you. There was something in your crimson eyes that wasn't pity, wasn't judgment. And damn it, he hated how much that got to him.
Don't go soft now, Todd.
But maybe softness wasn't the enemy he thought it was.
He started talking to you more after that. Small stuff at first—sarcastic quips, half-hearted jabs about Damian's 'daddy complex.' You always laughed, even when the jokes had a little bite to them. And you never flinched away from him. Not once.
That alone earned you something most people never got: Jason's trust.
It wasn't a grand confession or anything. Only small, quiet moments. Like when you'd help patch his armor without making a big deal out of it. Or when you'd bring a cup of coffee to the garage, wordlessly sliding it his way before tinkering with one of your gadgets.
Once, he caught himself watching your hands as you worked—steady, precise, gentle in a way Jason didn't think gentleness could coexist with power.
No wonder the kid looks up to you, he thought. You make it look easy.
He didn't realize he'd said that last part out loud until you smiled.
"Easy? It's not. But I don't want Damian to think love has to hurt."
Jason didn't reply. He couldn't. Because that sentence landed somewhere deep—somewhere he didn't want touched.
A week later, after another night of patrol, Jason showed up at your apartment unannounced. He had tracked down your address.
And yet, you didn't look surprised to see him. Just raised an eyebrow, stepped aside, and said, "You hungry?"
He wasn't, but he nodded anyway.
You cooked. He watched.
It wasn't awkward. It was quiet and comfortable.
However, you cooked horribly. When he took a bite of what you prepared, his face twisted like he just ate dog shit. "What the hell is this?"
He grabbed a napkin and spit the food into it.
You smirked, mischievous as hell. "I offered food, yes—but I never said it would be good..."
You were learning to cook, okay? It was... work on progress.
He glared at you. "Seriously? You call this cooking?"
"It's edible... technically. If you squint." You insisted.
With a sigh, he stood up and walked to the stove.
"I will cook."
You didn't stop him, just casually leaned against the counter and let him use your kitchen.
Minutes later, Jason placed several plates on the table. You blinked.
"Well, aren't you going to eat?" Jason sank into the seat in front of you.
"Yeah, yeah. On it."
You picked up a fork and brought a spoonful of food to your mouth. You didn't have high expectations. But when the taste hit your tongue, your face lit up.
"Wow, this is actually very good." You praised.
"You have a talent for this, Todd."
Jason watched you devour everything and not leave a single crumb, a tiny grin spreading across his lips. Yeah, his cooking is wonderful.
After dinner, he lingered by the window, city lights flickering across his face. "Y/n, you ever regret it?" He asked suddenly. "Getting involved with us. The freakshow family."
You looked up from the dishes. "No. Do you?"
Jason laughed dryly. "Every other Tuesday."
"Mm." You wiped your hands with a towel. "Then I guess we're both still here for a reason."
That night, as Jason walked home, something shifted. It wasn't redemption, not even close. But it was the first time in a long while he didn't feel like the city was trying to eat him alive.
Jason enjoyed spending time with you when his schedule allowed.
And when Damian would come storming in, demanding your attention, Jason would just roll his eyes. He let the kid have you. Because for the first time in years, he didn't feel like he had to fight for space.
Credits to @batfamspews. I was inspired by one of their posts.
For context, this is about the Bat-Family and a female Y/n. Basically, she's been with them for several years, and she's a superhero called Night-Spider. Initially, she had no superpowers, but was incredibly lethal with her combat skills and with handling weapons. But she gained her abilities (identical to Marvel's Spiderman) when she was bitten by a radioactive spider on a mission taking place in a laboratory. But that's not the point. I'm not going to dig too much into her backstory or how she entered the Bat-Family, since this is mainly for entertainment.
Enjoy 🌹
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The Batcave was unnervingly quiet. A rare thing, considering the usual soundtrack consisted of clanging metal, sparring grunts, and the occasional Jason Todd shouting obscenities because he'd shot his own training dummy again.
But tonight? Silence.
The Bat-kids were sprawled across the floor like overworked college students after finals—phones out, energy low, and collectively realizing that being vigilantes didn't mean they were immune to boredom.
"Have y'all ever read fan fiction about ourselves?" Jason asked suddenly, his voice slicing through the silence like a batarang through existential dread.
Four heads turned in slow motion.
"...What?" Dick said, blinking like he'd just heard Jason admit to liking country music.
Duke tilted his head to the side. "There's fan fiction? About us??"
Tim didn't even look up. "Oh, lots of it. Also tons of fan art."
Dick groaned. "Yeah, I've seen some of those. They make me feel both honored and violated at the same time."
Jason grinned, wickedly. "Some of them are hilarious. We should read one tonight."
Barbara raised an eyebrow. "Aren't they pretty... spicy and raunchy?"
Tim shrugged. "There are some clean ones. I'll find one."
Big mistake.
Five minutes later, he'd commandeered the Batcomputer. "Okay," Tim announced. "This one's the top-rated story on Battpad. It says it's family-friendly."
Jason leaned forward. "Family-friendly? Boringgg."
"Better than trauma-friendly," Barbara muttered.
Tim clicked the link, and the massive Batcomputer screen filled with the title:
The Brooding Brood: A Bat-Family Tale
Dick read the first line aloud, voice dripping with drama:
"Broose Wane stood tall, his cape dramatically swishing in the stale air of the underground cave, as his loyal butler, Al-Fried, approached with tea and emotional support he would never accept but desperately needed."
A silence followed. Then Jason snorted. "Al-Fried?"
Barbara slapped a hand over her mouth. "Oh no, this is gonna be good."
Tim kept reading.
"Beside him, his Robins—Nightie Bird, Jaywalker, Jimothy Duck, and the Slightly Shorter—trained under his watchful, emotionally unavailable gaze."
Dick fell backward laughing. "They called me Nightie Bird?!"
Jason was wheezing. "Jaywalker! Oh, that's perfect!"
Stephanie was crying into her sleeve. "Slightly Shorter! Damian's gonna kill someone."
"I AM NOT SLIGHTLY SHORTER!" Damian barked, standing up immediately—which only made the joke worse.
Tim scrolled down, still laughing too hard to breathe. "Listen to this—"
"Jaywalker leaned back in his chair, secretly listening to classical music while reading Jane Austin—his guilty pleasure, second only to shooting at the Joker's tires."
Jason froze. "Wait—how did they know that?"
Everyone looked at him.
Jason pointed a finger defensively. "Okay, yeah, I read Jane Austin and I like Beethoven. But how would anyone online know that?!"
"Dude," Dick chuckled, "You just confirmed it."
Tim scrolled again. "They also gave me a caffeine addiction and named me Jimothy Duck."
"Yeah," Jason said dryly, "So basically... it's a biography."
Dick gasped. "Hold up—this story says Nightie Bird has a secret drawer full of patterned socks."
Everyone turned toward him.
"How—how would they—?!" Dick stammered. "Most people don't even know that!"
"Most people?" Jason grinned. "So you do have a drawer like that."
Before Dick could respond, Damian spoke, offended to his core. "They portrayed me as 'The Slightly Shorter,' and said I 'throws tantrums when people won't let him hold the sword.' I do not throw tantrums!"
Everyone stared at him.
"...Not anymore," Damian added quietly.
They were in hysterics when Bruce walked in, looking exhausted. "Why is there laughter in my cave?"
Tim cleared his throat. "We're reading fan fiction about ourselves."
Bruce blinked. "Fan what?"
Jason turned the screen toward him. "Read this, B. You're Broose Wane now."
Bruce read the opening line silently, his jaw tightening. "Al-Fried?"
"Yup," Jason said, smirking.
"And he... brings me emotional support I refuse to accept?"
Barbara nodded. "Pretty accurate, actually."
Alfred entered the Batcave, holding a tray of tea. "Master Bruce, would you like your—" He paused. "Why is everyone staring at me?"
Jason snorted. "Because apparently your fanfic name is Al-Fried."
Alfred raised an eyebrow. "I beg your pardon?"
Tim coughed, barely holding it together. "Yeah, and you offer emotional support he never accepts but desperately needs."
Alfred stared at Bruce. "Well, at least someone in this mysterious online realm understands me."
Stephanie clutched her stomach, laughing. "This is too good. Who wrote this masterpiece?"
Tim scrolled to the top again. "Some gal named Night-Spinner."
The room went dead silent.
All eyes slowly turned toward each other.
"...Wait a damn minute," Jason began. "Night-Spinner?"
Barbara's voice was quiet. "You don't think—?"
Everyone: "Night-Spider."
They froze.
Then, in perfect unison, shouted, "NO WAY."
Jason immediately pulled out his phone and hit dial.
After two rings, Y/n's voice crackled through the comm. "Hey, what's up, losers? I'm mid-swing, make it quick."
Jason: "Did you—did you write The Brooding Brood?!"
There was a pause. Then a sigh. "Listen, guys, galas are boring, okay? I wrote it in the bathroom for kicks and gigs. How was I supposed to know the internet would love making fun of you too?"
Tim shouted, "You outed my caffeine addiction to Battpad!"
Y/n cackled. "You outed your caffeine addiction to Gotham every time you drink four Red Bulls before 9 a.m."
Dick groaned. "And patterned socks? Really?"
"Hey, Nightie Bird, don't act like you don't color-coordinate them with your workout gear," She teased.
Jason grinned into the phone. "You're pure evil."
"Flattery will get you nowhere, Jaywalker," She replied.
Damian growled. "I demand a rewrite where I am taller."
"Dream on, Slightly Shorter."
The call ended with her laughter echoing in their ears, and the Batcave fell silent again.
Jason exhaled, smirking. "Okay... but that was actually hilarious."
Tim sighed. "We're never living this down."
Bruce pinched the bridge of his nose. "I need to delete the internet."
Alfred served him tea. "Or," He said mildly, "You could just accept the emotional support you desperately need."
Synopsis: After settling into Wayne Manor, Damian's possessiveness over you only intensifies—especially when Dick Grayson begins spending more time with you. What starts as harmless banter soon turns into a battle for your attention. Every small gesture—a pat on the head, a nickname, even shared laughter—becomes grounds for rivalry. Damian treats it like war; Dick treats it like sibling teasing. You, however, treat it like babysitting two chaos gremlins with too much training and too little emotional maturity. Yet, beneath the chaos, both boys find something they've long been missing—a father figure who listens, laughs, and doesn't demand perfection. By the end, Dick realizes why Damian clings to you so fiercely... and maybe, just maybe, he wants a piece of that warmth too.
[There will be chapters about the relationship between Y/n and the other Bat-kids later]
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Fortunately, you kept your promise to visit often.
But breakfast at Wayne Manor was never peaceful.
Not because of villains or alarms—though those happened too—but because every morning seemed to turn into a competition.
Damian sat rigidly at the table, fork in hand, pretending not to watch as you leaned over Dick Grayson's shoulder to read something off his phone.
You laughed. Actually laughed. And Grayson, the insufferable fool, looked pleased about it.
He's doing it on purpose, Damian thought, glaring at his cereal as if it had personally betrayed him. He knows exactly what he's doing.
"—so then I told Babs that if Bruce ever upgrades the Batmobile again, I'm calling dibs on the old one," Dick said between bites. "Right, Y/n? I'd totally rock it."
You hummed thoughtfully, lips twitching. "You'd total it within a week, Grayson."
"Hey!" Dick protested, mock-offended. "I'm an excellent driver."
"Mm. You've also crashed five motorcycles."
"Four." He corrected.
You raised a brow.
"...Okay, five," Dick muttered.
Damian's fork hit the table with a clink, and all eyes turned toward him.
He crossed his arms, expression carefully blank. "This conversation is ridiculous."
Dick grinned. "Jealous, little man?"
"Tt. Of what? Your inability to operate a vehicle safely?" Damian shot.
"Ouch," Dick pouted, clutching his chest dramatically. "You wound me."
"Not yet, Grayson."
"Boys," You said lightly, tone carrying that calm authority that made even Jason pause mid-retort. "No homicide before noon."
Damian turned his head away, muttering under his breath about Dick starting it.
You didn't miss it. You never did.
A faint smirk tugged at your lips. "Finish your breakfast, Dami."
And just like that, the tension drained. He grumbled, but he obeyed. You had that effect on him—an easy command that didn't demand fear, only respect.
Dick noticed it too.
Later that morning, the three of you were in the training hall. You had agreed to run a sparring exercise, though 'exercise' was generous. It was mostly you standing between a bickering acrobat and a pint-sized assassin, both vying for your attention.
"Okay," You clapped your hands once. "First to land a clean hit gets bragging rights for the day. No cheap shots."
Dick stretched, all cocky charm. "Sounds fair."
Damian rolled his shoulders, eyes narrowing. "I'll make this quick."
It wasn't.
The sparring session turned into chaos—Dick flipping over Damian, Damian sweeping his leg under Dick, both of them moving with trained precision and petty vengeance. You leaned casually against the railing, arms folded, expression unreadable.
It ended with Dick flat on his back and Damian pinning him triumphantly with a knee to the chest.
"Yield," Damian said smugly.
"Fine, fine," Dick wheezed. "I yield, tiny demon. Get off me before you bruise my ribs."
"Perhaps next time you will remember your place, Grayson."
Nah. Dick held back. Damian is, after all, a kid.
You stepped forward, crouching beside them. "Both of you fought well."
Dick grinned up at you. "Does that mean I get a gold star?"
You raised an eyebrow. "Do I look like I hand out stickers?"
He chuckled, rubbing his sore shoulder. "Worth a shot."
Then you turned to Damian. "And you—good form. Watch your stance, though. Your right foot was too far forward."
Damian adjusted automatically. "Like this?"
"Exactly."
You gave his shoulder a quick pat—the same way you used to after a perfect hit in the League's training halls.
And Dick saw it.
The shift. The tiny softening in Damian's usually sharp expression. The way he seemed to stand just a little taller when you acknowledged him.
So that's what it looks like, Dick thought, quiet for once. That's what having a father really feels like.
He didn't begrudge the kid for it. Not really. But he couldn't deny the ache of envy settling somewhere in his chest.
It wasn't that Bruce was a bad dad—he'd been there when it counted. But Bruce's love was heavy, guarded. Conditional on understanding pain and purpose. Y/n's? It was different. Easier. You didn't make them earn it.
Over the next few days, Dick found himself hanging around you more—helping with missions, asking your opinion, cracking jokes just to see if he could make you laugh again.
And Damian noticed.
You offered Dick a sip of your drink? Damian suddenly wanted some.
You called Dick 'champ' after a mission? Damian was at your side ten seconds later, deadpanning, "And what am I, then?"
"My headache," You answered without missing a beat.
He didn't even argue. Just frowned and sat closer to you anyway.
By the time the family gathered in the living room that evening, the rivalry had reached absurd levels.
Bruce walked in to find Dick and Damian wrestling on the carpet while you sat on the couch, scrolling through your phone.
"Do I want to know?" Bruce asked.
Jason, sipping coffee beside you, snorted. "Big D versus Little D. Been going at it for fifteen minutes."
Bruce sighed. "Shouldn't you stop them?"
You shrugged. "They'll tire out soon."
"Are they fighting over something important?"
"Your definition of 'important' may differ from mine, Wayne."
Right on cue, Damian shouted, "He touched my Father first!"
Bruce blinked. "...Oh."
Jason was wheezing. "Man, if I had a dollar for every time I heard that—"
"Don't," You warned, and Jason wisely shut up.
Eventually, both combatants collapsed in a heap of exhausted limbs and bruised egos. You finally stood, walked over, and crouched down.
"You two done?"
Dick groaned. "Define done."
"Good enough." You offered him a hand up first. He took it, wincing slightly.
Then you turned to Damian. "You too, Dami."
He hesitated before accepting your hand—because that's what pride looked like in a ten-year-old trained to kill.
"Now shake hands," You instructed firmly.
They didn't. But they also didn't lunge at each other again, which counted as progress.
Later that night, you found Dick sitting on the manor steps, nursing a bruise and staring out at the gardens.
"Can't sleep?" You asked, joining him.
He smiled faintly. "You know me. Too much energy."
"You fought well."
"Not well enough to win."
"Winning's overrated."
He looked at you then—really looked. "You're good with him, you know."
"Damian?"
"Yeah." Dick's voice softened. "He listens to you. Trusts you. That's not something he does easily."
You didn't answer right away. "He reminds me of myself. Angry kid trying to make sense of two worlds that don't fit."
Dick laughed quietly. "Guess that makes sense why he clings to you."
"And you?"
"What about me?"
You smiled. "You've been sticking around a lot lately."
"Yeah," He admitted. "Guess I just like having someone who feels... safe to talk to. You don't make it weird."
"That's because I'm used to chaos."
He chuckled—a real, genuine one—and leaned his shoulder lightly against yours. "Thanks, Y/n. For, you know... being here."
You rested a hand on the back of his head, ruffling his black hair gently.
"You're welcome, champ."
Behind the curtain upstairs, Damian's eyes narrowed as he watched from his window.
Unbelievable.
Downstairs, you looked up suddenly—sensing the faintest pulse of that demonic awareness prickling at the edge of your senses—and smirked.
"Think he's glaring holes through the glass again?" Dick asked.
"Oh, absolutely."
"Should I be worried?"
"Nah."
You stood, stretching. "He's just territorial. He'll grow out of it."
"...You sure?"
You glanced toward the window, where two green eyes glowed faintly in the dark. And smiled. "Eventually."
Note
I want to clarify something: I don't dislike Bruce Wayne. Nor do I plan to make him an antagonist or anything like that.
The reason some members of the Bat-Family may find a father figure in Y/n isn't because they don't love Bruce. Rather, it's because they kinda crave a connection that he cannot give them.
Bruce is not a bad father in the sense that he's not uncaring or abusive (in the real world raising child soldiers is clearly abusive, but he is from a comic book). However, as a character, he struggles to ever prioritize his family over his mission. He's frequently absent, is emotionally distant, and has trouble relating to kids. He really has no idea how to raise children, and is very dependent on Alfred to do most of the emotional lifting.
I'd also add that Bruce can be an okay father, even a good father at times. But as long as he's the Batman, he can never truly be a great father because being the Batman requires one dedicating their entire being to fighting evil and saving the innocent—whereas a great parent always makes their children priority number one. Being Batman and being a parent don't really go together, like at all.
Bruce is not a normal father and never can be. His relationships with his Robins are multi-layered and complex. He is a fiercely protective figure, but his work as Batman often keeps him at a distance, making him a less present father than some of the Bat-Family might wish.
That said, I don't plan on Damian jumping straight to accepting Bruce as a father. It will be slow, because I want their relationship not to be rushed or forced. Acceptance takes time.
Synopsis: Four weeks into his reluctant stay at Wayne Manor, Damian Wayne has had enough. Gotham feels wrong, the mansion feels empty, and his so-called family doesn't understand him. Then you return—the one person who ever did. Your sudden arrival at the manor throws everyone into disarray. Damian's declaration of "My Father has arrived" leaves Bruce conflicted and his brothers speechless. One truth becomes clear—while Bruce may be his biological father, you are the one who raised him, shaped him, and still hold his loyalty. And for Damian, that truth won't change—no matter what Gotham expects of him.
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Bruce Wayne was not an unkind man, but he was a stranger in all the ways that mattered. He tried—Damian could admit that. There were sparring sessions, discussions about morality, endless talks about restraint.
"No killing," Bruce repeated for what felt like the hundredth time one night, as Damian glared at some criminals in an alley.
"It's what I was taught," Damian snapped. "You can't unmake years of training because of your 'morals.'"
"I'm not asking you to forget what you learned," Bruce replied evenly. "I'm asking you to choose who you want to be."
Choose.
That word had always been a luxury. The League never offered choices. They gave orders. And yet you—half-demon, half-legend—had given Danian more choice than anyone else ever did. You never told him what to be. You only asked him to try.
And he did. For you.
The days stretched. Alfred tried his best to make life easier. Grayson dropped in with too much charm and way too many questions. Drake was insufferable in every imaginable way. And Todd was rarely on Wayne Manor.
But nothing filled the space where you had been.
At night, Damian would sit by his window, Gotham's skyline sprawling in the distance. The light pollution drowned the stars, but he still looked for them anyway. You once told him that demons could navigate by starlight alone. He wasn't sure if that was metaphor or fact, but either way, he found himself whispering to the sky.
"I miss you..."
Once, he swore he saw a faint red glow on a rooftop miles away. A flicker of something not human. Maybe you were watching. Maybe you were just busy.
He told himself it didn't matter.
"No. No. No." Damian shook his head, feeling pathetic for depending on you so much. "I don't need him."
He was lying.
Then, one morning, Alfred opened the door, and the entire manor seemed to exhale. The butler's polite composure didn't falter, but Damian caught the flicker of something dangerously close to relief in his eyes.
And then he heard your voice.
It wasn't dramatic. You didn't emerge from a shadowy portal or crash through the window in a blaze of fire (though, knowing you, that would've been entirely possible). Instead, you simply walked through the front door.
"Nice place," You said, stepping inside like you owned the building. "A little too shiny. I give it two weeks before you start sneaking bloodstains into the carpet."
Damian's head snapped toward the door so fast it was a miracle he didn't strain something. The air shifted around you. Bruce had presence; you had gravity.
You looked exactly the same as you always did—annoyingly perfect. Your hair fell in a lazy mess that looked intentional, your clothes far too casual for someone who could level a city block if provoked. And that demon aura that made even shadows hesitate around you? Still there.
To Damian, though, you were just... you.
"My Father has arrived," He declared without hesitation, his fingers twitching as he held back the urge to run up to you. "Finally."
Bruce froze mid-step from across the hall. Dick choked on his coffee. Tim blinked so hard it looked painful. And Jason—Jason was grinning like he'd just won the damn lottery.
"Father?" Tim repeated slowly, eyes flicking from Damian to Bruce, then to you.
You raised a brow, taking off your sunglasses. "...What, you didn't tell them?"
Bruce's jaw clenched. "Tell us what, exactly?"
"That your kid already has better taste in father figures," Jason snickered from the kitchen doorway.
Damian folded his arms, dead serious. "I see no reason for the confusion. My Father raised me."
Dick pointed his cup toward Bruce. "But that's your biological—"
"Do I look like I require a biology lecture, Grayson?" Damian interrupted him.
Tim muttered, "Guess we found out who the sass gene came from."
From you, obviously.
You stifled a laugh behind your hand, clearly amused. Damian's ears burned. He'd missed that sound—low, warm, and a little mocking.
You crouched down to his height, your tone softening just slightly. "You look taller, Dami."
He proudly straightened. "I am taller."
"Mm. Barely."
"I've grown three inches."
"Two and a half."
"Tt." Damian turned his head away, but his lips twitched. He couldn't help it.
He's insufferable, he thought.
Your presence filled the room easily. You talked with Alfred, tolerated Dick's overenthusiastic hug, ignored Jason's smirk, and even complimented Tim's organization system in the cave—something no one had done before.
Bruce watched the entire exchange like someone trying to solve an equation that wouldn't balance.
Damian saw it in his eyes: the subtle tightening around the mouth, the confusion, and the flicker of envy he tried to hide.
Bruce asked, carefully, "Will you visit often?"
"Every day, if I can help it," You replied smoothly. "Someone has to make sure my baby doesn't dismantle your entire moral code by breakfast."
Jason snorted. "Oh, he's already halfway there."
Damian shot him a glare that could've peeled paint.
Bruce's tone stayed level, but Damian caught the edge. "He's my responsibility now."
You smiled. The kind of smile that didn't reach your eyes. "Of course he is. I'm just here to make sure he doesn't kill your responsibility."
A tense pause.
Then Dick, trying to play peacemaker, piped up, "Sooo... family bonding trip? Ice cream? Anyone?"
No one answered.
The day went on like that—equal parts chaos and disbelief. Damian shadowed you for the rest of the visit, ignoring the knowing looks his brothers kept throwing his way. You didn't mind; you never did. You talked, trained, shared stories. You even corrected his stance mid-spar like old times, fingers firm on his shoulder.
For the first time since coming to Gotham, Damian breathed properly.
When you left that evening, he walked you to the door. The sky outside was washed in orange, the manor lights stretching long shadows across the floor.
"Do not vanish again without warning," Damian said, quieter than usual.
You looked back at him, expression unreadable. "Missed me that much, huh?"
"Tt. I simply don't appreciate being left behind without explanation."
You chuckled, soft but sincere. "Alright, little one. I'll keep that in mind."
You ruffled his dark hair—he let you, though he scowled through it—and stepped into the night.
As the door closed, Damian's reflection glimmered faintly in the glass. His eyes caught the light. For a moment, the green reminded him of the Lazarus Pit—and of how you'd stood beside him each time he came out trembling.
"Come back soon..."
He must call Bruce 'Father' now, he reminded himself. That's what's expected. That's what's... proper.
But even in thought, the word felt so utterly and completely foreign. Because for him, there was only one person the title truly belonged to.
And it wasn't the man sleeping in the master bedroom upstairs.
Synopsis: Change was never gentle for Damian. One day, he was the League's prodigy; the next, he was a stranger standing in Wayne Manor, surrounded by rules that unraveled everything he'd been taught.
"No killing."
"No blades at breakfast."
"Use your words."
It was absurd. And worse—you weren't there. The world had shifted too fast, and everything felt colder without you. While Bruce tried to be the father Damian was told to respect, you remained the father he'd chosen.
Note: Damian is having a hard time adapting to this new environment. But, sooner or later, he will stop fighting so much with the Bat-Family.
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If someone had told Damian al Ghul that he would one day live in a mansion full of emotionally unstable vigilantes who fought crime in themed pajamas, he might've slit their throat on principle.
And yet here I am, Damian thought angrily.
He had never seen a city quite like Gotham.
It stank of gasoline and rain, of humanity pressed too tightly together. The streets were loud, alive, and chaotic in ways the League could never have prepared him for. How do people live like this? The honking cars, the flashing billboards, the smell of fried food and cheap perfume—it was all an assault on the senses.
The first thing Damian noticed about Wayne Manor was how quiet it was. Not the silence of discipline or the calm before an ambush—no. It was the wrong kind of quiet. The kind that crept up behind him and whispered, You don't belong here.
He stood in the marble foyer, bag slung over his shoulder, and stared at the tall ceilings. Too bright. Too clean. The League's corridors were carved from stone, the air dense with incense and the weight of expectation. Here, the air smelled like lemon polish and old money.
He hated it.
Talia had left without a word, her cloak sweeping past him as the doors shut. Typical. No drawn-out goodbyes, no motherly assurances—just a final, curt nod. She didn't look back.
And then there was him.
Bruce Wayne. The Batman. The man who looked more myth than flesh, standing at the top of the staircase like a statue with unresolved guilt. Damian knew the face. He had studied it before. Now the real thing stood before him, human and uncomfortably mortal.
"Damian," Bruce began.
He didn't move. Just stared.
"Wayne, I'd thought you'd be taller," Damian bluntly commented, his voice clipped, measured.
A beat of silence.
"You... You can call me Bruce, if you like. Or perhaps Father."
Damian's lips twitched. No, thank you.
Somewhere to the right, someone—Nightwing, most likely—snorted before trying and failing to cover it up.
"Welcome home," Bruce said finally.
Home.
The word itched under Damian's skin.
The manor's staff moved around him like he was a wild animal. Which, admittedly, wasn't far from the truth. Alfred Pennyworth had offered tea; Damian declined. Dick Grayson tried to make a joke; Damian ignored him. Jason Todd made some snide remark about 'Talia Junior'; Damian nearly unsheathed his sword right there. Tim Drake watched him like he was a bomb about to go off (not entirely wrong). And Bruce... Bruce just stood there, trying to be a father.
He wasn't Father, though. You were.
And if this was what the world outside the League looked like, he could already tell it was ridiculous.
The worst part? You weren't here.
The only person who could ever make sense of this nonsense had decided to go and 'find his own path,' whatever that meant.
By week one, Damian had already fought with Tim and argued with Bruce. By week two, he'd locked himself in his room and seriously considered finding a map to your apartment.
Tt. I could leave tonight. Be gone before sunrise.
But he didn't. Because when he had finally tracked down your address, when his hand hovered over the window latch, he remembered your voice.
> "You can't run from discomfort, Damian. That's how you learn who you are."
He hated how easily those words stopped him.
Reluctantly, he returned to Wayne Manor.
It had been three weeks. Three agonizing weeks of radio silence. Damian knew you were alive—of course you were. You were too stubborn to die. But the space you left behind was unbearable.
He'd never admit it aloud, but he counted the days.
He trained in the manor's gym—their gym, if one could call that softly lit room a proper training hall—until he bled from his knuckles. He sparred with Grayson and held back only because you'd told him once that 'putting your brother in the hospital isn't a good first impression.'
He ate with the family, though 'ate' was a generous term. Most days, he just pushed his food around his plate and imagined how much better this table would be if you were here to balance it out.
Bruce tried to talk to him. To 'connect.'
"Damian," Bruce had started one evening, voice low, patient. "I know this is an adjustment—"
"I am not your project."
Bruce blinked. "I never said—"
"You didn't have to."
Damian stood from the table, chair scraping the floor, and stalked off before anyone could say another word.
He doesn't get it, Damian thought bitterly as he marched down the hall. None of them do.
The League had raised him to be a weapon. You had taught him how to be. The difference was staggering.
You taught him how to bandage a wound without gritting his teeth. How to sit in silence without hearing the echo of screams. How to laugh.
He still didn't laugh often, but when he did, it was usually your fault.
And here, in this sprawling, cold, echoing mansion, there was no one to ground him. No one to understand why every shadow made his muscles tense, why every 'good morning' sounded like a test, why restraint felt like rust on his bones.
Synopsis: Damian's childhood unfolded in a blur of devotion and chaos, all orbiting around you. From his first cries of "Brother!" echoing through the League's halls to the day he startled everyone by calling you 'Father,' his world was defined by your presence—and your absences. You became his anchor through every trial; the sleepless nights he waited by his window, the terrifying plunges into the Lazarus Pit, the arrogance the League bred into him to hide his loneliness. To the world, Damian was heir to an empire of blades. To you, he was still the boy who ran into your arms without hesitation. And though you never meant to be a father, you became one—teaching him warmth, laughter, and humanity in a place that knew none. What bound you both could burn, but it would never break.
Credits to @3ternalradiance. I took inspiration from one of their posts ❤️
Leave your comments if you think Y/n should have a love interest (and ideas of who should it be), or do you think he should just stay single instead? I'll be reading everyone's opinions! 👀
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For years afterward, when you thought of Damian, it was always the sound that came first—his small feet slapping against the stone corridors of the League's fortress and the breathless shout that followed.
"Brother!"
Every time. No matter how many new words the tutors crammed into his head, that one burned brightest.
You'd barely step through the gates before the noise reached you: a storm of running footsteps, a blur of green and black barreling into your legs. The guards learned to stand clear. The boy was unstoppable when you came home.
He grew, but not out of that habit. At three he launched himself at you; at four he skidded into you with alarming force; at five he still did it, though now he pretended it was a test of balance. By seven he'd mastered the art of appearing composed—hands clasped behind his back, chin tilted—yet the moment your boots touched the floor, his eyes lit like twin lanterns. He called it discipline. You called it barely restrained joy.
Talia complained, of course. When he was younger, every departure of yours ended in chaos.
"He refuses to eat," She grumbled, dark circles shadowing her eyes. "He refuses to sleep. Do you know what it's like hearing him cry for you through the night?"
You did. You'd heard it once before she barred you from leaving on missions until he calmed down.
The first night you slipped away, he wailed so hard that half the stronghold believed someone had been murdered. And considering the fact this is the League of Assassins, even then a scream like that was unexpected—whether there was a dead body or not. By the third night, Talia sent a messenger after you with a single command: Return.
You arrived before dawn.
Damian's tears stopped the moment he saw you, as if sound itself bent to your presence. The fortress fell silent again, no more crying. He reached for you, hiccuping and calling out for his big brother.
Talia sighed. "You see what you've done?"
You had no answer. You just held him in your arms until his breathing evened out.
By the time Damian was five, things had softened. He no longer wept when you left—just grew quiet, serious in a way no child should. On lonely nights, you knew he sat by his window, watching the courtyard, waiting for you to appear. And sometimes, when you were able, you did—landing lightly beside him, cloak still carrying the chill of the mountains. He'd pretend he hadn't been waiting, of course.
"You're late," Damian muttered, arms crossed.
"And yet, you're awake," You answered.
He'd try not to smile. He never succeeded.
Unfortunately, not everything stayed so innocent.
The first time he was thrown into the Lazarus Pit, you were away on a mission. You came back to find the League whispering of resurrection and madness. Talia stood by the chamber, composed as ever, though her hands trembled faintly.
"He nearly died," She informed, as though it were routine. "He'll live."
When they dragged him out, his eyes glowed an unnatural green, too bright for the boy you knew. He looked at you—confused, shaking—and you swore the world tilted.
You held him until the glow dimmed. "It's all right," You whispered, even though it wasn't.
No child should have known that kind of pain.
But it happened again. And again. And again. Each time, he found his way to you after, curling up against your side like proximity alone could quiet the voices the Pit left behind. Maybe it could. For him, you were gravity—the one thing that didn't change.
Later, when the fear eased, you found your humor again.
"Your eyes," You poked the tip of his nose with your finger, "look like something I'd see on a bad music app."
He blinked. "What?"
"Spotify green."
He groaned, already exasperated. "You're insufferable."
You grinned. "And yet, you inherited it from me."
He called your red eyes the worsest, most abhorrent, most grotesquely repulsive shade ever in retaliation. You pretended to be mortally wounded. He almost laughed—almost.
The League's training carved arrogance into Damian. By six he moved like a miniature general; by seven his words had edges. He mocked the older trainees, corrected instructors, and strutted through the halls with the confidence of someone twice his size.
To everyone else, he was a prince. To you, he was still the boy who tripped over his own boots when excited.
You saw through the bravado easily. The stiffness in his shoulders after each scolding, the way his fingers fidgeted when alone—it was all defense. You'd tease him out of it with effortless praise.
"Good form," You'd say after he finished a sequence.
That single phrase could light him up like the sun. He'd glance at the watching assassins with a smirk, smug and silent, as if to say See? He noticed.
You pretended not to notice the pride that warmed your chest.
When you were gone, he still tried to live up to you. He sparred harder, studied longer, sometimes too much. The tutors called it obsession; Talia called it legacy. You called it love expressed through exhaustion.
He struggled with people. The other children in the League avoided him; he was too sharp, too proud. He never minded not having friends, or said he didn't. But you'd catch the quick flicker of loneliness sometimes, the way he'd glance at pairs of sparring partners and then back at the floor.
"You don't have to like them," You told him, leaning back on the couch with your arms crossed behind your head. "But learn to understand them. It makes fighting—and living—easier."
He frowned. "You said I should have friends."
"I said you should try. There's a difference."
He thought about that for a long time, then nodded, as though you'd handed him some secret code.
You came back from a month-long mission when he was five and a half. He met you at the gate as always, running full-speed before decorum caught up to him. You knelt, bracing for impact.
But this time, instead of shouting 'Brother,' he stopped short, eyes wide with some revelation only he could see.
"Father!"
You froze. "What?"
He looked too sure to be mistaken. "Father," he repeated, like testing a word he liked the sound of. "My Father."
Every assassin in earshot stopped breathing. Even Talia turned her head, one brow raised.
"Damian," You started carefully, "That's—"
He frowned. "You don't want me to call you that?"
"It's not—" You sighed, rubbing your temple. "It's unexpected."
"But it's true," he said simply, as if that settled the matter. "You are my Father."
Talia, amused, murmured to you, "Congratulations, Y/n. Parenthood suits you."
You glared at her. She only smirked and walked away.
From that day forward, he didn't stop. You tried to correct him once; he ignored you twice; by the third time, you gave up.
Father it was.
The word sat strange in your chest at first—heavy, undeserved. But the more he said it, the more natural it became. And secretly, it warmed you in ways you didn't know you needed.
You became his teacher in things the League dismissed. How to listen to silence without fearing it. How to read for pleasure. How to cook—terribly, but you tried. How to laugh without looking over his shoulder for permission.
He soaked it all up, greedy for something beyond blades and duty. You realized that for all his arrogance, Damian wanted gentleness more than victory. He wanted to be seen, not just measured.
One evening, after a long day of training, he looked at the bruises on your body—which healed themselves before he could even blink twice (Demonic blood = Accelerated Healing)
"You always get hurt."
You shrugged. "Part of the job. I heal fast anyway, so it doesn't matter."
He hesitated, then said quietly, "I don't like it when you leave."
You smiled. "I know."
"Then stop."
You laughed. "Can't. I have missions to do."
He frowned deeper. "Mother says you're reckless."
You didn't deny it. "She's not wrong."
He considered that, then climbed into your lap like he had when he was small. "You should be careful, Father."
"I'll try," You promised.
He believed you. He always did.
Years blurred together—missions, lessons, rare quiet days. You watched him grow taller, sharper, faster. The child who once clung to your cloak now sparred with men twice his size. Yet when you returned from a mission, he still found you first.
Sometimes you'd find him asleep at his desk, pen still in hand, half-finished notes on strategy scattered around him. You'd drape a blanket over his shoulders, watching the faint smile that crossed his lips even in sleep.
He'd never remember the gesture in the morning. But you would.
When you think back on those years, you remember both of you learning the same thing in different ways. He learned how to be human. You learned how not to be a monster.
There were still cracks, of course—flashes of temper, shadows of what you were—but every time you thought you'd lose yourself again, you'd look at him. And somehow, the fire quieted.
Because for all that burned within you, nothing—not Hell, not the League, not destiny—could break what the two of you built.
Synopsis: You were never meant to be ordinary. Born from a mortal mother and a Demon Lord, half your blood burns with power and ruin. Abandoned at four when your mother fled the darkness within you, you spent years alone—feared and haunted by what you couldn't control. Then, the League of Assassins found you. Talia al Ghul adopted you as her own, recognizing the weapon—and the potential—you carried. Within the League's walls, you met her young son; Damian. He was sharp, stubborn, and far too serious for a child. What began as wary tolerance slowly became something softer. And against all expectation, you became his warmth, his rebellion against a world built on cold discipline. For the first time in your cursed life, you weren't destruction—you were home.
Credits to @3ternalradiance. I took inspiration from one of their posts.
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You weren't born human. Not entirely, anyway.
Half of your blood runs darker—thicker—tainted by something ancient, something that makes even the shadows flinch. A lineage no mortal should've touched.
Your mother had been foolish enough to believe that love could bridge the gap between worlds. Between light and hellfire. Between her and him.
The result was you.
Your father wasn't one of those lowly fiends summoned by greedy men in basements. He wasn't a trickster demon or a spirit of vengeance whispering into human ears. No—he was a Demon Lord. One of the highest, one whose name burned through realms, whose voice bent legions. The kind of being that even other monsters bowed to.
And somehow, your mother lived long enough to tell the tale. She used to say your eyes were like his—crimson-red like blood and like the first wound of dawn, like something that promised ruin. You liked to think she said it fondly, though it was hard to tell. Fear and love often blurred together when it came to her.
She tried to raise you. Gods, she tried. But mortals aren't meant to nurture storms. By the time you were four, she had seen too much—walls cracking when you cried, shadows crawling when you laughed, your tiny hands leaving scorch marks where they touched. You hadn't meant to hurt anyone. You never did. But meaning meant nothing when power bled from your bones.
The night she left, she kissed your forehead and whispered that she loved you. After that, she was... gone.
You waited for her to come back. Days passed. Weeks. Seasons. But no one came.
The years after that blurred into one long, cold haze. You wandered between places, learning how to hide what you were. But it was impossible to stay unnoticed forever. Sometimes your control slipped. A flare of temper, a moment of fear—and people died. You lost count of how many.
By the time you turned ten, you'd stopped pretending you were anything but cursed.
Then, the League found you.
They came at night, as assassins do—silent, efficient, blades glinting. You sensed them before you saw them, the air itself turning taut, afraid. You could've killed them all. And you did.
But one voice broke through the tension.
"Enough."
A woman stepped forward, calm as the grave.
Talia al Ghul.
Her beauty was sharp, calculated. Her eyes held no fear, only curiosity—as if she were looking at a weapon forged in fire, one she intended to claim.
"You're wasting potential," She said, unbothered by the corpses of her men at your feet. "Come with me. I'll give you a purpose."
You didn't trust her. Yet she spoke like someone who knew power. Someone who understood. So you went. You had nothing to lose, after all.
That night, Talia brought you to the League's mountain stronghold. You walked through corridors lit by flickering torches, past assassins who stared as if they'd seen a ghost. And she had introduced you as her son. The words felt strange, but you said nothing. The League whispered behind her back, of course.
"The woman has taken in a demon boy. A curse wrapped in flesh."
Let them whisper. You had nothing to prove to them.
But you weren't prepared for him.
He was three years old.
Tiny, scowling, with a head of black hair that refused to stay down and a pair of sharp eyes that already looked like they judged the world. He was perched on a training mat, trying to mimic one of the League's warriors. His movements were sloppy, but determined—an echo of his mother's discipline.
You remember thinking he looked... small. Fragile, even. Not something the League would value. And then he glared at you.
That was your first meeting with Damian Wayne al Ghul.
When you reached out to lift him, he squirmed violently, small hands pushing against you like you were diseased. His expression was priceless—somewhere between confusion and royal disgust.
"Who is this... hobo holding me?" His eyes seemed to say.
You could feel the judgment radiating off him. He cried soon after, loud and indignant. You froze, awkwardly holding a wailing child who wanted nothing to do with you. If you'd known what he was thinking, you might've actually considered the rope. (Yes, he got that flair for dramatics from you. Congratulations.)
After that, he tolerated you at best. Talia tried to explain, patient but firm: "He's your brother now," She told him. "Not by blood, but by bond."
He blinked at her, unconvinced.
It took months before he stopped glaring every time you entered a room. You didn't try to force anything; you'd learned long ago that affection couldn't be demanded. Instead, you stayed nearby. Helped him when he fell during training. Guarded him from a distance.
Talia noticed. So did the League.
You became the quiet constant in his days—the only person who didn't treat him like a soldier-in-training.
You hated the way they pushed him. The boy was three. Three. And already he was sparring with daggers and memorizing kill points. You'd threatened more than once to burn the entire compound to the ground if they didn't let him rest. The assassins didn't take you seriously. Oh, they should have.
Talia intervened before anything exploded—literally—and told you to channel that protective instinct 'constructively.'
So you did.
You took Damian into nearby villages, disguised in plain clothes, so he could see life outside the League's walls. You bought him toys—things Talia didn't approve of, but never forbade—and snacks that left his fingers sticky with sugar. He tried to act like he didn't care. He always did. But the moment you weren't looking, he'd reach for your hand, or hide the candy wrappers under his shirt.
His favorite toy was a plush giraffe, nearly half his height. The day you brought it to him, he stared at it like it was a puzzle, then hugged it so tight you worried the seams might tear. From then on, it rarely left his side. You'd find it everywhere: next to his bed, on the training mat, even in the library where he pretended to meditate.
You teased him for it, and he glared at you so fiercely for that.
You didn't expect him to grow attached. But he did. Slowly, subtly.
At first, he'd hover near you in silence while you meditated. Then he began following you openly, pestering you with endless questions.
"Why do you read those books?"
"Why does the air change when you get angry?"
"Why does Mother say you're dangerous?"
You gave half-answers, mostly to keep him from worrying. But sometimes, when he pressed hard enough, you let him glimpse pieces of your truth.
"The world's built on power, little one," You hummed, your voice softer than usual. "Some people worship it. Others fear it. The trick is not letting it decide what you are."
He didn't understand fully then. Yet you saw how the words settled somewhere deep.
In time, he began to see you not just as a strange presence—but as something steady. When Talia's lessons grew too harsh, he'd retreat to your quarters. When nightmares woke him, he'd pad barefoot through the halls until he found you, and curl up beside you without a word. You never questioned it. You simply shifted enough to make room on the bed.
Sometimes, when he slept, you'd study his face. So much of Talia in his sharpness, but something gentler underneath. Something uncorrupted.
You wondered if that softness would survive the League. And you swore you'd protect it.
Because in that small boy, you saw something you never had: proof that not everything powerful had to destroy.
Years would blur, of course. But that first year together—the year Damian learned to smile without permission—stayed carved into your memory like scripture.
You remember his first real laugh.
It happened when you accidentally tripped over his sword and nearly swore yourself into another dimension. The sound that came from him startled both of you—a clear, bright laugh that made your chest ache.
"Oh, so you can sound human," You'd teased.
He scowled, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him.
You remember the first time he called your name, too—not as a demand, not as a complaint, but as something else. Something... fond.
"Y/n," He called out quietly, tugging your sleeve. "Will you read to me again?"
He'd fallen asleep halfway through the story.
One night, months later, you woke to find him sitting beside you, clutching that same giraffe plush.
"Couldn't sleep?" You murmured sleepily.
He shook his head. "Grandfather says sleep is for the weak."
"Your Grandfather's wrong," You patted the spot beside you. "Even demons sleep."
He hesitated. Then climbed into your lap, resting his head against your chest. His small heartbeat thudded against your ribs. And after a while, he mumbled something so faint you almost missed it. "...Brother."
You froze. The word shouldn't have hurt, but it did—softly, sweetly.
He fell asleep soon after. You sat there in silence, your arms around him, staring into the dark. Because for the first time in your cursed existence, you realized something.
You'd spent your life being destruction incarnate. But maybe—just maybe—you could build something too.
Synopsis: Determined to make Y/n realize his feelings without saying it outright (he'd rather die than confess first), Damian Wayne resorts to precise, calculated gestures—tailored gifts, shared notes, late-night care, and his prized batarang offered as a silent confession. Yet Y/n, ever stubborn, mistakes his devotion for politeness. For the first time ever, he faces a battle he cannot strategize his way out of—winning the heart of a girl who refuses to see what's right in front of her.
Note: Chapter 3 is where Y/n will finally begin noticing the odd pattern of his behavior, and the story will shift to her perspective. For now, we'll continue from his POV.
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Damian couldn't comprehend how someone could be as painfully oblivious as Y/n. He'd dropped hints—carefully engineered, masterfully executed hints. Not the grand, embarrassing gestures one might expect from a hormonal teenager. No. He had standards, he had dignity. He expressed affection through strategy. Precision. Control.
It started small. The rare compliment, understated but genuine. A soft 'Good work' after a mission, murmured just low enough that the others couldn't hear. He lingered near her side when they patrolled—close enough that she'd catch his shadow when the city lights hit right. Close enough to intervene should anything threaten her. (Not that she ever needed his protection, but the impulse was instinctive.)
Still, she didn't get it. She never did. Because apparently, demonic blood didn't come with common sense.
Did she really need him to say it? Spell it out like some lovesick fool? Absolutely not. He's Damian Wayne—heir to the League of Assassins, son of Batman, the most skilled Robin ever—and he does not confess first. No, she'll figure it out, she has to figure it out and come to him by herself.
He tailored his entire schedule around hers, ensuring they shared as many classes as possible. When she complained about the last-period exhaustion that turned her brain into fog, he took action. He scoured the market for the best refillable notebook—the kind she could rearrange however she liked—and gave it to her with a straight face.
"For organization," Damian shrugged.
She had blinked at him, smiled faintly, and accepted it. Then he began slipping his own notes into it—immaculate handwriting, detailed diagrams, every lecture copied to perfection. When she noticed, she only said, "Thanks, you're weirdly efficient."
He almost combusted.
He taught himself how to properly do hairstyles—because she would grow too tired to deal with it after late-night missions. Now, his utility belt carried two spare hair ties, a fine comb, and the same hair gel Alfred Pennyworth used for formal events. The first time he tied her hair for her, she had chuckled, warm and teasing.
"You're way too good at this, Wayne. What are you, my stylist now?"
He'd muttered something about maintaining discipline in all skills, while inwardly debating if jumping off the nearest rooftop would be less humiliating.
He learned the brand of pen she favored, the temperature she liked her tea—seventy-eight degrees exactly—and trained Titus not to bark when she visited the manor. He endured chemistry (which he despised) just to sit beside her in class. He even adjusted his training hours to coincide with her after-school patrols.
And still, nothing.
Her friends had caught on long ago. They giggled behind her back, throwing knowing glances whenever he stood too close, carried her bag without being asked, or corrected her stance during combat drills. He could hear the whispers.
"He's totally in love with you."
"He follows you around like a clingy cat."
Y/n would laugh—actually laugh—and wave it off. "He's just being nice. His father's Bruce Wayne—no way he was raised to be an asshole."
That one hurt more than it should've.
Not because she was wrong—he had impeccable manners when required—but because she thought his efforts were courtesy, not devotion. She didn't see how much intention hid behind his so-called niceness. Every glance, every word, every action was deliberate. And she thought it was politeness.
He was close to losing his mind.
"Take it." His tone was sharp, clipped—but underneath, there was something softer. Something that betrayed him. Affection.
He placed the batarang in front of her on the desk. Not just any batarang. His. The one he'd used during training only days ago—sharpened, balanced, the steel gleaming in the light. He never parted with his weapons. They were extensions of him—personal, irreplaceable. And yet, here it was. Right in front of her.
He sank into the seat beside her—one he had strategically secured in class, after a series of completely calculated decisions—and leaned back, his posture deceptively casual. He didn't look at her directly. Instead, he watched her from the corner of his eye, as though waiting for something.
"You'd better take good care of it."
Y/n glanced down at the batarang, then back up at him. "What's this for?"
Damian huffed, as if the answer were obvious. "It's yours."
At his words, excitement became visible on her face. "My own batarang?"
She quickly took the weapon.
"Are you sure, Wayne?"
She looked him up and down, suspicious of his intentions. He wouldn't ask for it back in a future, right? Because if so, she does not plan on returning it. She would fight tooth and nail to keep it.
"Do not question my decisions," Damian said evenly, arms crossed in feigned indifference. "Just take it."
She studied it, turning it over between her fingers. Her eyes gleamed—crimson catching the light like molten glass. "It's nice," She smiled faintly. "Thanks."
Thanks. That was it. Thanks.
He stared ahead, jaw tightening. Somewhere deep down, he felt something crack.
He had to escalate—but not to the point of saying the words himself; no, that was her job.
The next day, when it rained, he appeared at her side with an umbrella—black, and with a discreet WayneTech logo on the handle. He held it above her head, ignoring the water soaking his shoulder.
"You'll catch a cold," Damian muttered, trying to be smooth with his approach.
"You realize I literally have demonic blood, right? I cannot get ill, Damian."
He didn't answer. Just adjusted the umbrella so she stayed dry.
Later, during a mission, when she burned through too much energy channeling magic, he pressed a water bottle into her hand without a word. She opened her mouth to thank him, but stopped when she saw the label. It was the exact imported brand she always drank, down to the mineral content.
Her expression softened. "You pay attention, huh?"
Partner. It sounded so insufficient, given the way his pulse stuttered every time she smiled.
Back at school, she had tucked the gifted batarang into her bag. Every time she reached for a pencil or her notes, it was there—silent, gleaming, a reminder of him.
He noticed, of course. He noticed everything.
Perhaps she'd realize it soon. Perhaps she'd look up one day, catch his gaze, and finally understand that his heart—carefully guarded, meticulously trained—had chosen her.
Until then, Damian Wayne had a mission: Make Y/n Lyon fall in love with him. By any means necessary.
Synopsis: Damian Wayne has faced assassins, masterminds, villains, and monsters—but nothing has unsettled him quite like Y/n Lyon, his infuriatingly oblivious partner; a half-demon sorceress. Y/n has unknowingly ensnared him in something far more dangerous than any mission: love. In denial, he tries to rationalize the chaos she stirs in him—until even his training, sketches, and composure betray him.
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Damian Wayne had officially lost his mind. Or at least, that was how it felt—though in truth, madness might have been preferable.
It began with the nausea. Subtle at first, not the kind that doubled him over or sent him racing for the bathroom. This wasn't food poisoning. It wasn't the aftermath of training. It wasn't even an injury concealed beneath adrenaline. No—this was different. It was a low, burning discomfort coiled deep in his gut, rising until it lodged beneath his ribs, wrapping itself around his spine—an unease that originated from something deep, something inconvenient, something emotional.
He couldn't stand it.
His palms were sweating—sweating—as though he were some nervous amateur instead of Damian Wayne, the current Robin. The collar of his shirt pressed against his throat with suffocating persistence, fabric that had never once bothered him suddenly unbearable. Heat crawled up the back of his neck, slid behind his ears, prickled across his skin until irritation gnawed at every nerve.
Naturally, he'd scanned himself for symptoms, checked his vitals, ran through every checklist and possibility. Physically, he was flawless. Pulse steady. Reflexes sharp. No bruises overlooked. No toxins detected. On paper, he was fine—perfectly functional.
But... something was undeniably off. Because no matter what he did, how much he tried, he couldn't stop thinking about her.
Y/n Lyon. His partner. His friend.
Her face had apparently decided to take up permanent residence in his mind. It had staked a claim on his sanity. It kept showing up—again, again, and again. There she was when he closed his eyes, when he blinked, when he spaced out for a single second. The image of her burned at the back of his eyelids with a persistence that bordered on cruel. Relentless. Merciless. A ghost with no regard for personal boundaries.
It wasn't just her laugh, though that alone was maddening enough. It was everything. The details—the things he shouldn't noticed, the things he had no business remembering. How she balanced a dagger so effortlessly between her fingers. How she bit her bottom lip when she was focused, completely unaware of how it captivated him. How her eyes glowed faintly like precious rubies, as though something beneath her skin was always waiting to crawl out. And yet, when she fought—when she wielded that demon blood running through her veins—it was... beautiful. Terrifying. And, if he was honest, intoxicating. He liked even the exaggerated eye-rolls she delivered when he was being, as she so kindly put it, uptight.
He hated the word. Still does. Yet the memory of her saying it looped in his mind anyway, sharper than any blade. She existed, so unrelenting and vividly, in every godforsaken part of his head.
"Ugh!" Damian let out a sharp sound of frustration.
Distraction. He needed distraction. He seized his sketchbook, flipping it open with more force than necessary. He was on autopilot—a bad sign. He told himself to get it together, to sketch something useful, something with purpose. A bird's wingspan. A new gauntlet modification. The layout of a building.
Safe, practical.
But when the pencil met the paper, it betrayed him. His hand moved on instinct—long, precise strokes guided by muscle memory. A jawline. The curve of a mouth. The arch of an eyebrow that always lifted when she was being particularly annoying. And, worst of all, the eyes. Not just generic ones. Hers. Crimson. Brilliant. Striking. Utterly impossible to forget.
By the time he realized what he had drawn, the likeness was complete. His chest tightened. With a muttered curse in Arabic, he snapped the sketchbook shut. The sound cracked through the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the frantic thrum of his heartbeat at the mere thought of her. He tossed the pencil down with too much force; it rolled across the desk, struck the edge, and fell.
"What the hell is happening to me," Damian mumbled, voice low and rough.
The question lingered, unanswered. Only his breathing filled the room, mingling with the faint hum of Gotham beyond the windows of Wayne Manor.
He was absolutely disgusted with himself for falling into such an unfathomable state. And yet... he was human. A superior specimen, certainly—the best of the bunch. But human nonetheless. Susceptible to the same humiliating afflictions as the rest of his species.
Love.
It didn't matter. If he was actually in love, then so be it. He would not cower from it. He would embrace it—in his own way. And she would pay for this, for ensnaring him so thoroughly. He would make sure of it. He would pester her until the end of time.
(Which, admittedly, he already did. But now? Far more so.)
This was her fault. Entirely her fault. And Damian Wayne intended to rub it in her infuriatingly beautiful face for as long as he lived. Fortunately for him, she just happens to attend the same school as him.
(Lie. He spent months insisting Bruce to transfer him to her school, to the point that his father got annoyed enough and finally agreed to the demand.)
