The whole room stops, and Tim stares wide-eyed at the jar before backing away in slight disgust
Tim: What is that? Aren’t you supposed to be on bed rest?
Bruce: Your spleeeennnn
Tim: What?
Dick: What.
Bruce: You got sick last month, and it was bad… I felt bad… spleen…
Jason: *turning to Tim* You were missing your spleen? When the hell were you gonna tell anyone?!
Tim: Slipped my mind, anyway, how did you find out?
Bruce: I go into the League of Assassins servers and whatnot from time to time ever since Damian came into the family, no biggie
Duke: And you...?
Bruce: Infiltrated them about two hours ago to steal back your brother's spleen?
Bruce: Yes
Steph: Are you on drugs? You sound like you’re on drugs. What did Alfred give you?
Bruce: I don’t remember, something for my broken ribs
Cass: *standing up and leading Bruce to sit down in a chair* How many?
Bruce: Three, not a big deal. Anyways, spleen. *grins widely*
Jason: Wait... you infiltrated the League of Assassins while high
Bruce: *looks confused* What, like it's hard?
Damian: *had left the room earlier, is now back with a glass of cold water* Baba, please drink
Bruce: *takes glass and ruffles Damian’s hair* Thank you, baby, you’re so good to me. I love you so much *starts kissing his cheeks while Damian weakly tries to escape*
Dick: … *only slightly jealous* I’m calling Alfred
Duke: *poking Bruce’s forehead only to get a blinding smile back* Bruce is kinda cute like this, all dopey and stuff
summary: you're convinced your betrothed, damian wayne, despises or at most—tolerates you for the sake of his duty. it takes only one moron to try and steal your hand to prove that damian takes the promise of being your future husband as a role he will never let anyone else fulfill.
pairing: damian wayne x fem! reader
content: arranged marriage, protective and jealous damian!
"There you are, Beloved."
A trying suitor's expression falters at the sight of Damian, tall and imposing, wrapping his arm around your waist as if it had always belonged there.
"I was worried I had lost you." Damian murmurs aloud, though his gaze never leaves the suitor, sharpened into a knowing taunt.
It doesn't take long, it never does. Like a scurrying rat, he was gone in the blink of an eye.
"There's no need to call me that." Your plastered smile doesn't falter when your hand graces Damian's arm, leaning into his ear. To the other guests, it merely seems as if you were a fiancée whispering sweet nothings to your lover. "Your patronizing tone is more than enough to send them running away."
Damian's lips finally form its familiar, scathing smirk. "Would you rather I say it outright that you are to be my wife? I assume you'll find that more displeasing."
He is right. It infuriated you that he knew where to push your buttons.
"To-be." You remind him. "I wouldn't get so comfortable with addressing me as your wife so soon."
"Ah." He drawls. "Shame. I was ecstatic at the thought of rifling the crowd."
Rifling was an understatement. Despite his cold demeanour, Damian was a fan of dramatics. After all, the first time you had met your betrothed, he nearly ended your life.
You still remember your first glance of his forest green eyes, when he had pinned you down with a blade to the throat, believing you were an outsider to his territory. If the apprehending voice of Damian's grandfather had been a second later, he wouldn't have had a fiancée and you wouldn't have lived to see your seventh birthday.
His gaze when he had looked down at you all those years ago clings like an aching, never healing wound. Disappointment. He must've expected someone greater, who rivalled him in his physical prowess and intelligence. Instead, he had you pinned to the ground, shame colouring your features that silently screamed burden.
The worst part was that it was the complete opposite for you— because you admired him greatly. It didn't matter which version of him. Damian Al Ghul, who sharpened himself into a living weapon—a cold-blooded ruler, before he became the Bat's new protege. Damian Wayne, who somehow eased his way into less begrudging smiles, who fails to notice his pets' fur still clinging to the cuffs of his sleeves, who makes ill-timed jokes from his catalogue stolen from his older siblings.
That rare warmth he found here in Gotham hasn't and never will be extended to you. Still, you refuse to remain a burden, not to him.
You play your part as a useful shield in the one arena Damian still struggles to conquer—the social world. Despite his striking looks and quick wit, Damian's always held a shared disinterest in the politics of social snakes who mingled solely for their own selfish gains.
Maybe it was a guilty pleasure. For one single night, Damian was your betrothed, and you were his. Even if his fake smiles were plastered on too tight, or the brush of his fingers over yours set the scene of young lovers much too convincingly, you could let your mind rest and rely on his presence just this once.
His hand extends, placed at the small of your back as he leads you through the room to somewhere less crowded. Unconsciously, he occasionally rubs his thumb in comforting circles, sending goosebumps down your skin. It's easy to smile and exchange repetitive niceties while Damian's gaze remains locked ahead of his path. The polite act engraved into your bones, functions as your greatest defence for the both of you, slithering your way through.
You had already memorised the layout of the room before even entering it, and you know he knows that. So, Damian's decision to keep his skin in contact with yours, guiding you, must be purely performative. Skin-ship to lure the wolves into falling for the bait, as you eye many envious onlookers distancing themselves from Damian at the unseemly sight of his arm wrapped around your frame.
"Have you chosen a city for your further education?" Damian murmurs into your ear.
You have. Though you could never predict his line of thinking that could’ve possessed him to show vague interest in your decision. This wasn’t the first time his impulsive questions took you off guard from the routine you’re used to.
Your gaze narrows on him, trying to find his reasoning. "How I take my coffee in the morning wasn't enthralling enough for you?"
"Is Gotham one of your options?" He asks briskly.
Ah. Your gaze drops to the swallow in his throat, the tension in his question. He must be hoping you'd say no. Lesser the chances to be stuck in a suffocating room with you, performing duties for a faceless audience.
"If I say it is?" You test.
His gaze flickers, surprise adorning his features. It wipes itself away as quickly as it comes, and he gives a brief, imperceptible nod. "There are adequate institutions in the city. I can provide recommendations."
You raise a brow. "Of course, a future doctor already providing unneeded advice."
His expression thickens. “You think my chosen field does not suit me."
It blurts out before you can stop it. "No, I think it does."
He pauses. You wince.
"You do?" He asks, almost disbelieving.
"Is it that hard to believe?" You mutter, eyes fleeting around for a much-needed drink.
"I only wish to understand your sudden agreement." He pushes, unsatisfied with your vague answer.
"Damian." You sigh. "Of course you'll be an amazing doctor."
He watches you, trying to detect any deceit. His immediate suspicion triggers your nerves. You may not be able to stand him, but that didn't mean you were blind to his abilities or the empathy he tries to hide behind his permanent frown.
If he hadn't held a semblance of a heart, he wouldn't be here plastering on a fake mask much to his displeasure so you wouldn't bear the night alone.
He wouldn't be out at ungodly hours, working himself to the bone to ensure that there was always a protector in the night, to save someone's life so they could make it home.
He wouldn't have signed up for the most brutal course at Gotham's top medical university despite already having an inhuman schedule.
"If I thought you lacked the heart to save others, I would've laughed at your decision to remain with your father in Gotham." You don't know why you feel this need to explain yourself. It hardly mattered if you understood his decision. He wasn't someone who needed the approval of others before making his own.
"Gotham has changed you." You answer. "For the better. If I had to put my bets on anyone to be the best doctor in this entire city, it'd be you."
If it had been anyone else other than you, maybe they wouldn't have caught the parting of his lips, the rare astonishment in his eyes. It's brief, but enough to tell you that you have spouted enough nonsense for it to feel as if you ripped open a gaping wound for him to spit at.
"I need a drink." You mutter. "I'll be right back."
Your quick escape seems to have finally sent the message for a much-needed break from his presence. Compared to other occasions, he was—you wouldn't use the word 'clingy', but he was certainly acting as a guard dog around you tonight. Then again, there were newcomers at this ball who seem to be unaware that you're Damian's betrothed, opting to try for your hand whenever he was separated from you for too long. It should be a relief that he bothered to protect you—but it distracted your senses, being around him for too long.
It still stings that even after all these years, your complete belief in him hasn't faded at all. Or maybe it was the fact that he didn't even try to consider the possibility of you having faith in him.
Your glued frown finally serves a purpose, contrary to your mother's nagging, as it scatters the fidgety chickens around you to distance themselves, along with their prodding questions. Downing a glass of wine, it doesn't do its mandatory job of easing the vulnerability still pattering around in your chest.
"If it isn't the future Mrs. Wayne!"
It seems one wolf in particular has blinded senses of walking into the wrong territory.
Joaquin Reanes. A filthy, money-laundering jerk who pawns off his father's money from an instable empire that takes advantage of its many debtors to use as animals for unpaid labour.
"Reanes." You greet shortly, not even bothering to turn your body fully to grace him with your attention.
"I'm not surprised Damian's left you all alone, miserable at the bar." He sneers. "He's never been good company."
Your brow lifts slightly. "And what gave you the impression that you could talk down on my fiancé in front of me?"
"Admit it." He mocks coldly. "He's never going to go through with the engagement. Your finger will remain bare for as long as he desires, and from the looks of it, he doesn't seem so keen on having you as his."
Your grip on your glass tightens. A flash of his corroded hair, dead from extensive bleach, drowned in wine, appears in your mind. You swirl your glass once, considering.
"I, on the other hand—" His teeth gleams with predatory intent. "—wouldn't mind taking second-hand scrapes. How would you like to be a Mrs. Reanes?"
Your laughter, cold and piercing, echoes through the air. His smug expression falters.
"Over my dead body." You hiss, slamming down your glass to push your palm roughly into his chest, sending him stumbling back. "Even if Damian hadn't been my betrothed, I would rather die alone than end up with the miserable likes of you."
His mask drops, revealing an ugly wrath that matched his true colours. His hand swipes a free glass from the bar on instinct, as if he's done it many times before.
In a blink, a cold sensation drenches your shoulders. Your gaze drops down, unable to hide your disgusted shock. The bastard purposely spilled wine on you.
Your expression darkens, meeting his narrowed eyes that were filled with wicked intent.
"Oh, my apologies." His act doesn't even come close to the twisted excitement in his gaze. "My hand slipped."
To cause this display in a Wayne charity ball is declaring war. You didn't wait for any passersby to notice—no, you're fully prepared to start this alone. You can already imagine his rotten, bleached head smashed with glass and wine to match the stain on your shoulder, ruining his gleeful expression—only for a firm hand to wrap around your waist, brushing your drenched shoulder against a broad chest.
"Reanes." Damian's greeting barely registers past the goosebumps that spread along your exposed skin when you dare a glimpse of his expression. His eyes, swallowed by his darkened pupils and narrowed into sharpened blades, is filled with such loathing that even you're rendered speechless.
"Wayne." The slimy git greets, carefully manoeuvring his glass to hide his mocking smirk. "I was just having a lovely talk with your wife."
"Oh, wait." His pretence is an awful act. "My mistake. She is merely your fiancée. Has been for awhile according to the papers."
Damian's grip unconsciously tightens around you, puling you back discretely, his shoulder shielding you from the creep's intentional gaze.
"Having doubts, Wayne?" He taunts. "I've made my own concerns clear, though she seems to have mistaken my empathy. I was only conveying that if you take any longer to put a ring on her, it might suggest to others that she's easy to snatch away."
The atmosphere freezes. To say you're astounded at his audacity, his utter foolishness to not be terrified of Damian's wrath isn't enough. You're sure this moron has a death wish.
"Your confidence in your lacklustre charm is worth applause, Reanes." Damian's tone is so unbearably cold that it even makes you flinch. "Let's see if your will to survive is stronger than your pride."
"Is that a threat?" Reanes muses, but you detect his hesitation. "As the next Wayne heir, I doubt your decision to threaten me, a useful business partner, is particularly clever."
"You mean your tycoon built off your father's buried scandals and contributions to corruption with the previous Minister?" Damian announces casually.
Several figures within hearing distance have shifted their heads towards Reanes at the sound of Damian's accusation. Finally, sweat has begun to pool at the rat's brows.
"How did—" Reanes's attempt at recovery is poor, his face seizing into an awful mess in realisation of his mistake of trying to find Damian's weakness. "I have no idea what you're talking about."
"Yes, of course." Damian's glare has narrowed into what could only be his hunting eyes. "Hypothetically, let's say you were to ever come near my betrothed again. I will have every piece of evidence—invoices, letters, emails, phone calls—all prepared into a file sent to the GCPD by tomorrow morning. How long do you think your family has before they come knocking down the doors?"
Reanes's face has lost all its colour.
"You're bluffing." He stammers.
It was satisfying to see all of his obnoxious confidence shrink into oblivion.
"You made an advance on my wife. You made a pathetic attempt of a threat against me." Damian hisses. "I haven't thought of all the possible ways to make you suffer just yet, Reanes. Stripping you of your stolen power is only the start."
"Unlike your father and his poor disguise of power as his empire collapses on itself." Damian taunts. "I protect what is mine."
Dread fills Reanes's expression. "Wayne, I misspoke. I won't so much as look at her."
Damian doesn't look close to satisfied. There's a want in his gaze, to torment him further. "Apologise to her."
Reanes grits his teeth, shame flooding his vile features. Forcing himself to look at your feet—not daring to meet your eyes, he spits it out. "I'm sorry."
"You are to never show yourself in front of us again." Damian declares. "Consider your offered partnership declined."
Reanes's entire expression sours, but one flick of Damian's brow has him scurrying off into the crowd, not even bothering with apologies when dirty looks are casted on him for pushing his way out to escape.
Damian's glare is still pinned into the crowd, and you sense his restrained bloodlust, something you haven't felt to this degree in years. The boy you once knew, who harnessed the blade better than anyone in its ability to end a beating pulse, has sprung out with his fangs and claws.
You unconsciously place one hand onto his chest in an attempt to soothe him, guide his attention back to his own body. He flinches, as if he had forgotten he was in the very room.
His nearly feral expression finds its way to the state of your ruined dress, the stain on your shoulder. He lets out a short breath, rationality kicking the gears in his mind. "We need to get you cleaned up."
You nod discreetly, at a loss for words as his hand comes up to grab yours, intertwining your fingers together and leading you away to a desolate hallway.
His fingers, covered in rough scars from countless battles, are caressing yours more gently than you could ever imagine. He's still refusing to look at you, gaze pinned straight ahead to the nearest bathroom.
Pushing open a door with a sudden force, you're dragged in with such a swift movement, that you barely have time to scout the room before your vision is blocked by his gaze pinning you down.
The barely visible green in his eyes are swarmed by his dilated pupils, filled with bitter rage and conflict. You've never seen him this—unguarded. The events that unfolded earlier seems to have affected him more than you expected.
His lips part to say something, but his eyes flicker down to your drenched shoulder, covered in red. His eyes narrow into a vicious glare, and he lifts himself off the door, pulling something out of his pocket.
A napkin. He must've snatched it on the way without you noticing.
There's not enough shock generated in your veins to truly comprehend what just happened. Damian just called you his wife. It still rings in your ears like some prank that's been orchestrated to throw you off your beliefs on everything you were convinced he's thought about you.
"Damian."
He's turned towards the sink, running the napkin over running water, but his entire posture is off. Tense. Coiled into restraint that's bound to burst.
"I am fine." Even as the uncomfortable feeling of dried wine lingers on your skin, there's something about Damian's change in demeanour that pushes you to reassure him. You're not used to being unable to read him. "There’s no point of putting on an act here. I am perfectly capable of cleaning up after myself."
"Is that what you think this is?" He spits out, still refusing to look at you.
You freeze. His tone, which has always carried the Al Ghul's familiar patronisation, has descended into a cold rage that's never been directed on you before.
He exhales slowly, his mask slipping back into place as he turns around, cloth in hand as he approaches you slowly. Stopping in front of you, his eyes are narrowed—and the light in them has nearly extinguished. Leaving behind a darker shade of green that consumes you whole.
"He was looking at you like you were a piece of meat to consume." His voice has dropped several octaves, and his gaze is unfocused—still trapped in his wrath. "As if you weren't mine."
Your eyes widen, steps instinctively moving backward but his arm wraps around your waist before you can retreat any further.
He doesn't make a single sound as his fingers wrapped around the napkin comes to touch your shoulder, stained with dried wine. His touch is frighteningly gentle as he wipes your stained skin, his lip curled in displeasure.
It's horrifyingly intimate, and the sound of your own quickened breathing is mortifying on your senses—knowing he could hear the effects of his strange, impulsive behaviour on you so clearly.
"I can do it myself." It sounds weak coming out from your mouth, even to your ears.
"Yes, you would like that, wouldn't you?" He mutters, sounding desolate. "Never letting yourself depend on me."
You scowl. "Why would I depend on you?"
"As much as you would like to pretend it doesn't matter." He grits. "I will be your husband. I will be the one who will lay down my promises and swear my life to yours. Now and even in death."
Leaning in, you feel his breath tingle against your skin as he whispers into your ear. "Do you think I am someone who takes my promises lightly?"
You resist a shudder, your lashes fluttering involuntarily. "No."
He scoffs. "Yet, you question my choice to defend you."
His breath lingers over your skin, right over the spot he's just cleansed free of wine, still cool to the touch from the dampness of the cloth. The tension is thick, making it difficult to think clearly when he's all but crowded the remaining space between the two of you.
He's only irritated that he's been indirectly insulted when Reanes pulled that ploy on you. You know how this will go. He'll wake from his delirious temper, fold back into the cold statue you know to be your betrothed, and remember the line that has been established.
He won't cross it. The boundary that's been drawn by you from the very beginning, in respect for whatever remaining autonomy the two of you had left in this arrangement. You're sure of your predictions... till you spot his expression. It seems that only now—the lack of distance has kicked in for him. The sudden stillness of his frame reveals something you never thought you'd see in your betrothed. Hesitation.
Nothing could've prepared you for what comes next. Damian's entire body leans in, caging you against the door. Tentatively, he places a soft, almost imperceptible kiss on your shoulder.
The oxygen in your lungs vanishes. Speechless, you can do nothing but stare at him with widened eyes, unable to comprehend what he just did. What it means.
"If you still have doubts about my loyalty." He mutters, pulling back just enough to meet your gaze, an unfamiliar intensity sealed in his. "Consider that my mark of a promise, which I intend to fulfil for the rest of my life. It was my mistake to make it seem as if you were easy to steal—because that will be impossible starting today."
This up close, you can count the freckles dotted under his eyes. He's always been dangerously tempting, but now, after he's defended your honour and stands before you looking the most wrecked you've ever seen him—you want to do something foolish.
Something you might regret but have been wanting to do from the moment he marked you as his.
It's instinctive, almost natural when your lips press against his. It's brief, slotted at the wrong angle from his height that automatically has you wincing. You're quick to pull away, unprepared and desperately trying to come up with some excuse to forget the ordeal ever happened, when you see it.
The crack in his mask, over the single action of your lips pressed against his, unravels a devotion you've never seen before. Laying right in front of you, bared in the open. That is not the look of a man who despises you. If anything, he looks as if his restraints have finally snapped.
That brief glimpse is all you see before he pulls you in. His arms cage your body, drawing you towards him until your bodies press together. With no sense of hesitation from earlier when he had marked your shoulder, he presses you back against the door, and kisses you.
No, how could you have hallucinated his hesitation? The way he kissed you now, mapping your lips with devout intention, it's as if he's been wanting—waiting to do it for ages.
You didn't realise it either—how starved you've been for him till this very moment. You had been so focused on how trapped you felt under the expectations of your family, the firm belief that he felt the same way, that you buried the attraction that ran deep in your veins.
You hated it, that this kiss was the admission of how he was your weakness in the first place. That he knew exactly how to unravel you, turn your world upside down with his decisive behaviour that commanded the entire room. That the match between the two of you pleased you more than it should, driving you to push him away because... only he could invoke such insanity from your shattered composure.
"A few minutes ago, you couldn't even stand me." You manage out against a brief pause for breath, pushing your palm against his chest.
He pulls away just enough to cast you a look of frustration.
"What I couldn't stand was my betrothed always attempting to push me away." He reveals. "Do you understand the frustration you've caused me?"
His gaze flickers between your bitten lips and your half-lidded gaze, hunger bleeding through his eyes. "You see all of me. Without even trying to, it was as if you were placed in my life to be my one, singular weakness. You already had me wrapped around your finger, drawing all of my attention—making it impossible to forget you even for a moment."
"My wife." He says it slowly, as if savouring it. "It is only because of you, that it feels as if I've been waiting my whole life to say those words. So, forgive me, for finding it difficult to restrain my displeasure when the woman of my devotion acts as if she would rather be paired with any other man than me."
Your brows furrow together at his words. "Why would I want to be paired with anyone else?"
His gaze locked onto you, narrows. "You claimed our match was a disaster waiting to happen."
"Yes." Averting your gaze, your admission comes out frail. "...Because I was compromised from the beginning. Even before our families put us together, I admired you. When my personal feelings got involved, the arrangement felt like a punishment."
"To be paired with someone for life that wasn't of my choosing was one thing, but for that person to be someone that actually mattered?" You swallow. "I pushed you away, because it hurt less if I made the decision to do so, rather than having to see your disappointment. Instead of being left to wonder that if you ever had the choice, would you even glance twice in my direction?"
He stares at you incredulously. "You believed that I did not want you?"
You pause at his tone. You didn't know what to believe, not with his actions just mere minutes ago contradicting everything in your system. You had been so focused on keeping your walls high, that you never thought to truly look into his gaze and search for what he saw in you instead.
"There isn't anyone else in the world that I would've sworn my life to." He declares abruptly. "If I had been given the choice in the first place, I would still be here before you. Yours."
"If you want my decision, I'll state it outright." He says, fingers coming up to grasp your chin, forcing you to look into his eyes. "I choose you. I had long erased myself of the expectations of what others want from me. My life is led by what I envision for myself, and you are in it. You always have been."
“I don’t believe that the choices of others define us.” He answers. “Even if this marriage hadn’t been arranged, I would have chosen you. I would’ve come back for you over and over—and asked for your hand. If you had other suitors, I would’ve rid your mind of all possibilities but me, because there is no one for me but you.”
"So, tell me." He says, and there's a vulnerability you never thought possible in him, echoed in the softening of his tone. "If you will choose me too."
Had he always looked at you this way, in such a soft, yet unyielding manner, as if his gaze had already been attuned to you in habit?
“If you feel unsure, I won’t force you to decide.” He offers, but his crestfallen expression pleads otherwise. “I won’t let you be bound by the obligations of our families. I want you to choose me—willingly—just as I have chosen you."
Has that ever been a question for you? Even in your denial, your fear of being rejected by the one person you were meant to spend the rest of your life with, you never doubted that the side of your heart had already engraved his name in secrecy.
You had always been his, even when you weren't sure if he was yours.
"I choose you, Damian." Your answer feels akin to offering your beating heart, only to reveal that it had always known the very same truth uttered through your lips. "That's never been a question. It's always been you, from the start."
His expression, tightened in exact preparation of being wounded, finally softens. He lets out an unsteady breath, his forehead dropping to rest on yours. In the quiet of this moment, you realise Damian looks devastatingly beautiful like this. Soft, vulnerable, and completely yours.
"I would very much like to kiss you again." He admits. "May I?"
You finally break out your own smile, and you sense the tension in his shoulders drop at the sight. "Only because you asked nicely."
His fingers still caressing your chin gently lifts your lips to his. This kiss is different from the first. It wasn't an explosion, a burst of restrained emotions over years of pining. No, it was softer. Gentle, in a true attempt to memorise your lips against his, shaping into a quiet whisper of a promise that this won't be the last.
When he parts, there's a soft quirk in his lips, as if he can't help himself from feeling that warmth in his chest.
"I still can't believe you called me your wife." You mutter, still unable to wrap your mind around it. Lifting your empty hand, you can't help but tease. "You're going to start a rumour on how a Wayne can't afford to gift his own wife a ring."
"You are right." He mutters in displeasure, and you suspect his mind has already wracked on another situation steps ahead just from your words alone.
"I suppose we'll have to arrange a marriage ceremony soon." Damian decides casually. "The last thing we need is more wolves thinking they have even a chance of your hand."
You think he's joking. You certainly were.
Yet, looking at his gaze which has now flickered to your ring finger, already analysing the measurement, you think there's a miscalculated understatement about your soon-to-be husband's proactiveness.
"What's going to happen to Reanes?"
Damian's merciful act earlier did nothing to fool you. He wasn't the type to leave loose ends.
His gaze darkens immediately, but his expression doesn't so much as shift when he says. "He'll be dealt with."
"The Al Ghul way?" You lift a brow. "Or the Wayne way?"
His lips quirk up imperceptibly. "I'm sure my siblings have creative interrogation methods they've been meaning to find an outlet for."
Pressing a soft kiss to your forehead, he mutters. "...I'll just have a leading hand for tonight's patrol when we infiltrate Reanes's warehouse."
"So, the worst of both worlds."
A dark smirk crosses his lips. "Only what he deserves, Beloved."
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Smallvillers are Victorian children in that they'd explode if you showed them a spice rack and Gothamites are Victorian children in that they snort six lines before their 16-hour shift at the crime factory
