The curtains are cracked just enough for sunlight to brush across the room, catching the soft brown curls on little Dick’s head. He’s maybe five — all sleepy smiles and the warmth of a child who knows he’s safe.
Arielle hasn’t even moved yet. She’s just watching him breathe, one hand tucked protectively over his back. His little voice comes out muffled against her nightshirt, drowsy and innocent:
“Mornin’, mommy…”
And that’s it. That’s the spark.
Her chest aches — that too-full, too-tender ache that only a mother knows. She cups his cheek, feels his skin warm and soft against her palm, and it just bursts out of her:
“You know what, baby? We’re going to Disney today.”
He blinks, confused. “Huh? Like… now?”
She’s already sitting up, sweeping him into her lap and peppering his face with kisses. “Yes, now! Why not? We’ll get dressed, call Alfred, and have breakfast in the car!”
Dick giggles so hard he hiccups. “But—but you said we were going grocery shopping!”
Arielle waves it off, grinning. “Groceries can wait. Mickey Mouse cannot.”
Within the hour, she’s got a bleary but amused Alfred packing snacks into a tote bag, Bruce getting an emergency call about “a very urgent matter involving mouse ears,” and little Dick spinning circles in the kitchen shouting,
“We’re going to Disney! We’re going to Disney!”
By 9:45 a.m., they’re pulling into Disneyland. Dick’s practically vibrating, his nose pressed to the window. He’s still in his little red sneakers and a “Grayson” hoodie Arielle grabbed on the way out.
Arielle steps out in oversized sunglasses, hair still slightly damp from a speed-shower, coffee in hand, radiating mom-on-a-mission energy. Alfred trails behind, tote bag in hand, muttering something about “Master Bruce will never believe this.”
Dick grabs her hand the second they’re through the gates. His eyes go huge at the sight of the castle.
“Mommy! It’s real! It’s actually real!”
Arielle’s grin softens. “Of course it’s real, baby. You think I’d take you anywhere less than magical?”
And then they’re off.
🎢 The Rides:
She screams on every roller coaster with him. Not polite mom-screams — real screams, the kind that make Dick laugh so hard he wheezes. She’s throwing her hands up, hair flying, yelling “FASTER!” like she’s the one who’s five.
On the teacups, Dick spins them until she’s laughing so hard she can’t breathe, begging him to stop. “Okay, okay! Mommy’s dizzy!” He doesn’t.
🎈 The Spoiling:
By noon, Dick’s got mouse ears, cotton candy, a balloon, two plush toys, and a lightsaber. Arielle doesn’t even pretend to say no — every time he turns those blue eyes on her, it’s an instant yes.
When Alfred raises an eyebrow at the growing pile, she just shrugs.
> “What? It’s Disney. He’s five. This is practically responsible spending.”
🍦 The Chaos:
Dick insists on ice cream for lunch. Arielle agrees before Alfred can protest.
Five minutes later, Dick drops his cone. She doesn’t even blink — crouches down, wipes his chin, and says, “Don’t worry, baby. We’ll get another. This time, two scoops.”
She gets one too. They sit on a bench, legs swinging in sync, sticky hands and sunshine smiles.
🎆 The Magic Hour:
By evening, Dick’s dozing against her shoulder, completely worn out. They’re sitting on the grass waiting for fireworks, his little hand still gripping her sleeve.
The sky bursts into color. Dick stirs, blinking up at her. “Mommy?”
She hums, running her fingers through his hair.
“This is the best day ever.”
Her throat tightens, and she kisses his forehead. “Good. Because we’ll have a million more, sweetheart.”
And that’s what she means — every word. For her, motherhood isn’t about the plans or routines. It’s about this — catching the little sparks of joy and turning them into firework memories.
----
The drive back from Disneyland is quiet, golden hour fading into twilight. Dick’s curled up in his booster seat, mouse ears still on, clutching his new stuffed Stitch like it’s treasure. His lips are sticky from churros and he’s humming a song he barely remembers.
Arielle’s watching him through the rearview mirror, that soft, worn-out smile that only comes from a day well spent. Her voice, low and warm:
“Did you have fun, baby?”
Dick blinks sleepily. “Best… day… ever.”
He doesn’t even finish the sentence before his head lolls to the side, out cold.
Arielle glances at Alfred in the passenger seat. “We did good today, Alfie.”
He sighs, but there’s the tiniest smirk. “Madam, you’ve single-handedly exhausted a child with the energy of a small lightning bolt. That’s no small miracle.”
She grins. “Miracles are my specialty.”
When they pull into the Manor’s drive, it’s late — maybe 10 p.m. Bruce is waiting at the door in pajama pants and a robe, arms crossed, the faintest smudge of a smile tugging at his mouth.
He takes one look at her — hair windswept, glitter on her cheek, cotton candy stain on her sleeve — and another at the mountain of souvenirs Alfred’s trying to wrangle.
“You went to Disneyland.”
“Spontaneously.”
“With no plan.”
“And a five-year-old.”
Arielle grins, utterly unapologetic.
“He said ‘morning, mommy,’ and I wanted magic. So we went.”
Bruce just stares at her for a beat, the corners of his mouth twitching like he’s trying very hard not to laugh.
“Of course you did.”
Then he looks at their son, completely asleep in Arielle’s arms. His mouse ears are tilted sideways; his cheeks are sun-pink and sticky. Bruce’s voice softens.
“He had a good day.”
Arielle nods, her voice a whisper. “He really did.”
Bruce steps closer, brushing a bit of glitter from her hair. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s why you love me,” she teases, half-asleep herself.
He leans in, pressing a kiss to her temple. “That’s exactly why.”
---
Later:
Dick’s tucked in, still wearing the ears, his plushies lined up neatly beside him. Arielle stands by the door, arms around herself, watching the slow rise and fall of his chest.
Bruce comes up behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist.
“He’ll remember this one,” he murmurs.
She smiles, leaning into him.
“So will I.”
----
The next morning
Sunlight spills into the Manor kitchen. It’s too bright for how tired everyone looks. Arielle’s at the counter in one of Bruce’s shirts, hair still smelling faintly of sugar and fireworks, sipping her coffee like a woman who’s fought and won a war.
Then — thunder on the stairs.
Tiny feet. Breathless excitement.
Dick Grayson Wayne — still in his pajamas, mouse ears back on — bursts in at full velocity.
“MOMMY! DADDY! DISNEYLAND WAS SO FUN AND MICKEY WAVED AT ME AND THE FIREWORKS—”
Arielle just smiles, exhausted but glowing. “Good morning to you too, baby.”
Bruce’s there already — not the tired, broody billionaire, but young Bruce: barefoot, grinning, alive. The kind of grin that shows dimples and makes you understand how Arielle fell for him.
He crouches to Dick’s level, eyes sparkling. “You know what I was thinking?”
Dick gasps — already knowing it’s trouble.
“What, Daddy?”
Bruce leans in, whisper conspiratorial:
“Disneyland was fun… but what if we flew to LEGOLAND this weekend?”
Arielle, mid-sip, chokes on her coffee. “Bruce!”
Bruce, completely unfazed, smirks.
“What? I can’t let you outdo me, sweetheart. You got him churros and Mickey — I’ll give him an entire kingdom of Lego.”
Dick’s eyes go huge.
“LEGO—LAND?! Like, all Legos?! Can I build a Batmobile?!”
Bruce ruffles his hair. “You can build ten Batmobiles, kiddo.”
Arielle glares, but there’s no real heat — just affection and mock indignation.
“You’re going to spoil him rotten.”
“He’s five,” Bruce counters easily, slipping behind her to kiss her cheek. “That’s our job.”
Alfred sighs deeply, entering just in time to hear that. “Indeed, sir. Shall I fuel the jet or the child first?”
Arielle laughs so hard she nearly drops her mug. “Both, Alfie. Both.”
---
Later that day:
They’re on the Wayne jet. Dick’s strapped in, clutching a tiny Batman plush. Arielle’s beside him, brushing crumbs off his shirt while Bruce is in the cockpit pretending to be a pilot for Dick’s amusement.
“Tower, this is Batplane One requesting permission to depart for LEGOLAND, over.”
Dick giggles uncontrollably. “Permission granted!”
Arielle rolls her eyes but can’t stop smiling. “My boys,” she murmurs, shaking her head.
Bruce glances back, winks. “You love us.”
“God help me, I do.”
---
The Great Legoland Expedition
The Wayne jet lands at a private airstrip not far from Legoland California. Bruce, already wearing aviators and that maddening grin, scoops Dick up with one arm while Arielle tries to wrangle the backpack full of snacks, sunscreen, and hand sanitizer.
Arielle: “Bruce, it’s a theme park, not a tactical operation.”
Bruce: “Tactical preparation is fun.”
Arielle: “Only for you.”
Dick: “We’re gonna build the biggest Batcave ever!”
---
🎢 At Legoland
By the second hour, the two Waynes are in full competition mode.
Bruce is crouched beside a mountain of bricks, blueprint-sketching on a napkin. Dick is beside him, tongue between his teeth in fierce concentration. The project? A fully functional, collapsible Lego Batmobile with rotating wheels.
Arielle leans on a bench, sunglasses on, sipping her lemonade. She’s watching her husband and son surrounded by toddlers, their pile of Legos rivaling a small fortress. A few parents whisper. One asks, “Is that Bruce Wayne?” Another adds, “Why is he arguing with a five-year-old about axle stability?”
Arielle: (muttering) “Because he’s Bruce.”
She stands, strolls over, and taps Bruce’s shoulder.
Arielle: “Sweetheart, maybe let the children build?”
Bruce: “He is a child!”
Dick: “And I’m winning!”
Arielle sighs, trying not to laugh. “You’re both impossible.”
Then Dick tugs her sleeve.
Dick: “Mommy, can you help me put this on?”
Arielle: “Of course, baby.”
She kneels beside him, helping him connect a piece that immediately snaps perfectly into place.
Bruce blinks, mock-offended.
Bruce: “You’ve been holding out on me.”
Arielle: “Please. I built the Lego Millennium Falcon while you were still brooding over blueprints.”
Dick: “Mommy wins!”
Bruce pretends to sulk, then scoops both of them up suddenly, making Dick squeal and Arielle laugh helplessly.
Bruce: “Fine. I surrender to my superior engineers.”
---
🍦 Later That Evening
They’re on a bench overlooking the miniature city. Dick’s asleep on Arielle’s lap, an empty ice-cream cone still in his hand. Bruce has his arm draped around her shoulders, the fading sunset washing the whole park gold.
Arielle: “You realize he’s going to expect every weekend to be like this.”
Bruce: “Good. Then I’ll have an excuse to do it again.”
Arielle: “You’re incorrigible.”
Bruce: “You love it.”
Arielle: (smiling softly) “I do.”
He kisses the side of her head. “Worth every mile.”
In the Wayne living room, back when Dick was maybe eight or nine — still her only baby, still small enough to curl perfectly under her arm. It’s movie night, a tradition she takes very seriously: homemade popcorn, blanket forts, and twinkle lights. Bruce had gone down to the cave for “a quick systems check.” (Translation: he’d be gone for hours.)*
---
Arielle: (innocently scrolling through channels)
Hmm… “Finding Nemo”… “Cinderella”… oh — what’s this one? “Something Strange in the Dark”? Sounds like a documentary.
Dick: (perched beside her with popcorn)
Mom, that doesn’t sound like a documentary.
Arielle:
Really? It’s got “Dark” in the title — sounds educational.
Cue five minutes later — eerie music, ominous doors creaking, flickering lights.
Dick: (slowly inching closer)
Uh… Mom?
Arielle: (pretending to yawn)
Hm? Oh, it’s not that scary, sweetheart. Just a little suspense—
A thunderclap. A jump scare. Dick yelps and burrows straight into her side.
Arielle: (fighting a smile, wrapping her arms around him immediately)
Oh, baby, it’s okay! See? Just silly special effects.
Dick:
You knew it was scary!
Arielle: (mock gasp)
Me? Never! I would never intentionally put on something spooky just so you’d snuggle with me all night.
Dick:
...You totally did.
Arielle: (grinning, kissing the top of his head)
Maybe a little. But can you blame me? My brave little acrobat grows more independent every day — I have to schedule my cuddles now!
Dick: (pouting but snuggling closer anyway)
You don’t have to trick me, Mom. I’d stay with you anyway.
Arielle melts completely, hugging him tighter. The scary movie forgotten, she lowers the volume, content with the steady rhythm of her son’s heartbeat pressed against her.
---
It’s years later. The older boys are out; the manor is quiet except for Damian reading on the couch and Arielle wandering in with a bowl of popcorn.
Arielle:
“Movie night, habibi. Just you and me.”
Damian:
“I am in the middle of a volume on Renaissance fencing forms.”
Arielle:
“And I am in the middle of missing my son. So that’s that.”
She drops beside him, already scrolling through the streaming menu.
Damian:
“Please tell me this is not another of your sentimental dramas.”
Arielle:
“Fine, we’ll watch something educational.”
(She clicks a documentary thumbnail that—unbeknownst to her—is three hours of whisper-narrated footage about sloths.)
Ten minutes later, Damian is frowning.
Fifteen minutes later, he’s dozing off against her shoulder.
Arielle’s smile spreads slowly. She adjusts the blanket, enjoying the quiet weight of him.
Arielle: (softly, to herself)
“Didn’t even need a scary movie this time.”
But just as she’s about to reach for the remote, a low voice murmurs:
Damian:
“You planned this.”
Arielle: (freezing)
“What?”
Damian: (eyes still closed)
“You chose something impossibly dull so I would fall asleep. Transparent tactics, Ummi.”
Arielle: (grinning)
“Caught me.”
Damian:
“…Do it again next week.”
A/N
PLEEEAASEEE DON'T BE GHOST READERS, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!, COMMENT!, EXPRESS YOUR THOUGHTS!, SEND REQUESTS!
ANYTHINGGGGGG
IT MOTIVATES ME
pretty please with Dami's katana on top ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)
The Waynes are hosting. The dining room table is long and elegant; Alfred has set everything perfectly.
Clark & Lois arrive with Jon.
Arielle greets Lois with an instant warmth, the two bonding like old friends within minutes, while Bruce and Clark exchange that subtle, mutual nod of respect between titans.
At the table:
Lois & Arielle chatter about their boys like proud moms.
Clark & Bruce keep it low but clearly enjoy their wives’ energy.
Arielle (smiling, after dessert):
“Why don’t you boys go upstairs and play? Damian, show Jon your room.”
Damian stiffens, clearly displeased.
Damian (flat): “Mother, that hardly seems necessary.”
Arielle (teasing, but firm): “Necessary? No. But it would make me happy.”
Damian glares, but at those words, he exhales sharply and pushes back his chair.
Damian (curtly to Jon): “Follow me, Kent. Don’t touch anything.”
Jon, completely unfazed, grins.
Jon: “Cool! Can I see your sword?”
Damian stops mid-step, closes his eyes as if praying for patience, then keeps walking.
Damian (muttering): “This is going to be insufferable.”
---
🕹️ Upstairs – Damian’s Room
Damian’s room is orderly, sharp, and decorated with training gear and books—definitely not a “kid’s” room.
Jon’s eyes widen.
Jon: “Wow… this is way cooler than mine. You’ve got a whole dojo in here!”
Damian (dryly): “It’s called discipline. Something you clearly lack.”
Jon just laughs it off and starts asking questions, wandering around like a curious puppy.
Jon: “So… what do you do for fun?”
Damian: long pause …
Damian (finally): “You’re looking at it.”
Jon giggles, flopping onto Damian’s chair.
Jon: “Man, we’re gonna be great friends.”
Damian folds his arms, lips twitching like he might scowl—yet deep down, he lets Jon stay. Only for Arielle.
---
Meanwhile, downstairs, Arielle and Lois are gushing like moms do, saying things like, “Oh, Damian never brings friends home, this is huge!”
---
🕹️ Upstairs – “Playtime”
Jon, ever the bundle of energy, is bouncing around Damian’s immaculate room like he’s stepped into a museum.
Jon: “C’mon, Damian, let’s play something! You got any games?”
Damian (flat, arms crossed): “This is not a kindergarten, Kent. I don’t waste time with toys.”
Jon looks thoughtful for a second, then grins and pulls a small box from his backpack.
Jon: “Good thing I brought one then. Uno!”
Damian blinks, visibly unimpressed.
Damian: “A peasant’s card game. Hardly worth my time.”
Jon (shrugging, cheerful): “Scared you’ll lose?”
That does it. Damian narrows his eyes, sits down, and snatches the deck.
Damian: “Prepare to be annihilated.”
Minutes later…
Jon (laughing): “Uno!”
Damian (slamming his cards down): “This game is rigged. Only an idiot would enjoy this.”
Jon grins.
Jon: “Guess that makes me the happiest idiot alive!”
Damian mutters something about “torture” but doesn’t send him away—because Arielle would be pleased that he’s “making friends.”
---
🍷 Downstairs – The Adults
The moment the boys vanish upstairs, Alfred reappears with perfect timing, carrying a polished tray with wine glasses and an expensive bottle already breathing.
Arielle (fondly): “Alfred’s a mind-reader. Or maybe just a miracle worker.”
Bruce and Clark exchange a glance. Clark doesn’t drink much, but he accepts a glass out of politeness.
Bruce (low voice, smirking just slightly): “So… parenting the super-sons. How’s that been?”
Lois chuckles, swirling her glass.
Lois: “Let’s just say Jon’s heart is in the right place, even if his powers show up at the worst times.”
Arielle’s eyes brighten, eager.
Arielle: “At least he wants to be a kid. Damian… he tries so hard to be older than he is.” (pauses, with that soft, maternal ache) “Sometimes I think he forgets he’s only ten.”
Lois leans forward, warm and knowing.
Lois: “That’s why Jon needs him, though. Jon keeps Damian grounded in childhood, whether he likes it or not.”
Clark nods.
Clark (genuine): “And Damian will keep Jon sharp. He needs that.”
Bruce watches Arielle as she smiles at that, her heart lighter knowing Damian has someone—even if Damian himself would never admit it.
The women are laughing, swapping stories like old friends. Alfred pours a little more wine. Bruce and Clark exchange that classic, quiet respect.
And upstairs? Damian’s trying not to flip the Uno table.
---
🕹️ Upstairs – Damian & Jon
They’re sitting cross-legged on the floor of Damian’s spotless room. The Uno game is in full swing, Jon grinning ear to ear while Damian looks like he’s enduring medieval torture.
Jon (grinning, laying down a card): “Draw four!”
Damian (flatly, glaring): “I despise you.”
Jon just laughs, totally unfazed. He looks around the room, then back at Damian.
Jon: “Y’know… your mom’s really pretty.”
Damian freezes mid-draw. Slowly, he sets the card down, eyes narrowing like a hawk.
Damian: “What did you just say?”
Jon (innocent, shrugging): “She’s nice! And really pretty. Like… model pretty.”
There’s a pause. Damian leans forward, voice cutting sharp and cold.
Damian: “Are you a pervert?”
Jon’s eyes widen, hands shooting up.
Jon: “Wha—no! No way! I just meant she’s… um… really nice and—uh—friendly?”
Damian (deadpan, disgusted): “Shameless.”
Jon scrambles to defend himself.
Jon: “No, seriously! I was just saying she looks like she could be in a magazine or something!”
Damian doesn’t blink.
Damian: “Pathetic. You are ten. Act like it.”
Jon groans, flopping onto his back.
Jon: “Man, you’re impossible. Why do I even try?”
Damian (calmly, smug): “That is the first intelligent question you’ve asked all evening.”
Jon throws a pillow at him. Damian doesn’t even flinch—he just lets it bounce off his shoulder, picks up another card, and says:
Damian: “Reverse. Your turn again, pervert.”
A/N
PLEEEAASEEE DON'T BE GHOST READERS, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!, COMMENT!, EXPRESS YOUR THOUGHTS!, SEND REQUESTS!
ANYTHINGGGGGG
IT MOTIVATES ME
pretty please with Dami's katana on top ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)
Random gift giving cause Batmom oc is benevolant and enjoys spoiling her children
Fluff
Damian with a highly dangerous weapon
It was one of those rare calm nights in the Manor. No patrols scheduled, no alarms blaring in Gotham. Arielle appeared in the sitting room with an almost mischievous smile.
Arielle:
“Boys, come here. I’ve got something for you.”
They glanced at each other—wary. When Arielle used that tone, it usually meant one of two things: they were in trouble… or about to be spoiled.
She set several carefully wrapped boxes down on the coffee table.
---
Dick
He tore into his first, of course, grinning like a little kid. Inside: a vintage custom acrobat’s trapeze kit, polished and safe to hang in the Manor’s training room.
Dick (eyes wide, stunned):
“Mom, this is—this is amazing.”
Arielle (smiling softly):
“You were my first little bird. I thought you should still have wings whenever you want them.”
He hugged her before anyone could make a joke, completely unashamed.
---
Jason
His was heavy—metal clinking inside. He opened it to find a set of custom high-powered handguns, sleek and modified to his taste, with his name engraved in subtle script on the grips.
Jason (whistling low):
“...Damn, Ma. These are fucking beautiful.”
Arielle (raising an eyebrow):
“Language.”
Jason (grinning, kissing her cheek):
“Sorry. These are freaking beautiful.”
---
Tim
Tim opened his to reveal a state-of-the-art computer rig, all custom hardware with advanced firewalls and tracking programs—upgrades even he hadn’t dreamed up yet.
Tim (quiet, stunned, running a hand over the sleek design):
“You… you had this built for me?”
Arielle:
“Who else deserves it? You work harder than anyone I know. Now you can actually enjoy it, too.”
Tim gave her a rare, genuine smile. “Thanks, Mom.”
---
Damian
His box was long. Narrow. Heavy. Everyone already looked suspicious.
Damian set down the wrapping with practiced neatness. Inside lay a katana unlike any he had ever seen, though he’d handled blades forged by masters across continents.
The steel shimmered faintly under the Manor’s lights, the ripples in its folded metal so fine it seemed alive. The tsuba (guard) was hand-carved with delicate Arabic calligraphy, and the silk-wrapped hilt bore the Wayne crest in subtle detail. Even the saya (scabbard) was inlaid with mother-of-pearl—artistry beyond function.
Damian’s fingers lingered just above it. For once, he didn’t immediately speak.
Jason (leaning over the couch, whistling):
“Tell me that’s not a diamond-encrusted murder stick.”
Tim (adjusting his glasses to look closer):
“It’s… custom. Old-world craftsmanship. That’s not from a shop. Someone made this for him.”
Dick (grinning at Arielle):
“Wow. You went all out, Mom.”
Finally, Damian lifted the katana. His grip was reverent, but practiced—like it belonged there. He tested its balance with one motion and exhaled through his nose, eyes wide despite himself.
Damian (softly, almost to himself):
“Ummi… this blade is… flawless. A true heirloom.”
Arielle (warmly, brushing his hair back as he tried not to flinch from the affection):
“It was commissioned years ago. I knew one day I’d give it to you. Because I also knew you’d honor it.”
Damian froze. Commissioned years ago? Meaning she had planned this—before she even met him? His throat tightened, but he covered it quickly.
Damian (straightening, regaining his arrogance):
“Of course you chose wisely. None of my brothers are worthy of such a weapon.”
Jason (instantly bristling):
“Oh, here we go.”
Dick (laughing):
“Careful, baby brother. Some of us were here first.”
Tim (deadpan):
“I’m shocked he hasn’t tried to cut us with it already.”
Arielle cut in before the bickering escalated.
Arielle (with that mom tone that could silence the whole Manor):
“Enough. Each of you got what suited you best. Damian’s blade isn’t about fighting—it’s about respect. And family.”
Jason opened his mouth to argue again, but Damian smirked smugly, holding the katana close.
Damian:
“Face it. I am the favorite.”
Arielle (gently, but firmly, pulling him into a hug despite his squirming):
“No. You’re my baby. There’s a difference.”
The room erupted in laughter—Dick nearly fell off the couch, Jason doubled over wheezing, and even Tim cracked a grin. Damian’s ears burned scarlet.
Damian (furious, squirming out of her embrace):
“Tch! It’s not befitting the heir to be called a baby!”
But later that night, when Arielle peeked into his room, Damian was sitting cross-legged on his bed—polishing the katana with quiet, almost tender devotion.
--
Then came the Katana Intervention
The katana sat displayed on Damian’s lap as he lounged smugly in the armchair, polishing the blade with expert precision. Arielle was perched on the armrest beside him, one hand ruffling his hair while her other arm hugged him close.
The rest of the family stood in the living room—each wearing varying shades of “Mom, are you kidding me?”
Jason (throwing his hands up):
“You bought the ten-year-old a death stick! Do you hear yourself?”
Tim (pinching the bridge of his nose):
“Not just a sword. A handcrafted, custom-forged, probably priceless katana.”
Dick (half laughing, half serious):
“Mom, come on. When I was his age, I got—what? A dog. And a pony. You gave him a murder blade.”
Damian (not looking up, smug):
“Because I am worthy of it, unlike the rest of you ingrates.”
Jason (snapping):
“See?! SEE?! This is why it’s a problem!”
Bruce finally stepped forward, arms crossed, voice low in that “BatDad scolding” way.
Bruce:
“Arielle. He already has an arsenal. Giving him something like this—do you know how dangerous—”
Arielle (cutting him off, hugging Damian tighter):
“He’s my baby. He deserves it.”
The brothers collectively groaned.
Jason (mocking):
“Oh, he’s your baby. Yeah, until he decides to ‘spar’ with me at 3 a.m. and I wake up missing a spleen.”
Damian (shooting Jason a smug glance):
“Perhaps you should train harder if you value your organs.”
Tim (muttering):
“Totally not terrifying at all…”
Dick (pointing):
“And look—he’s not even fighting you on this! He’s letting you hug him. That’s how you know he’s playing you!”
Arielle smiled and kissed Damian’s forehead. He scowled, trying to wriggle free, but his hands never left the katana.
Damian (grumbling):
“This is humiliating. Release me, Ummi.”
Arielle (softly, still clinging):
“Not a chance.”
Bruce sighed the long-suffering sigh of a man who patrols Gotham at night but can’t win a single argument at home.
Bruce (dead serious):
“If he stabs anyone in this house with that sword, I’m melting it down.”
Damian (indignant, clutching the blade tighter):
“You wouldn’t dare!”
Jason (smirking):
“Oh, I’d pay money to see that meltdown.”
The room descended into bickering—Jason and Damian exchanging insults, Dick laughing, Tim facepalming—while Arielle just kept hugging her youngest tightly, utterly unbothered.
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A/N
PLEEEAASEEE DON'T BE GHOST READERS, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!, COMMENT!, EXPRESS YOUR THOUGHTS!, SEND REQUESTS!
ANYTHINGGGGGG
IT MOTIVATES ME
pretty please with Dami's katana on top ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)
(The scene opens not in the sun-drenched halls of Auradon Prep, but in the dim, perpetually twilight hold of the Isle of the Lost. The air is thick with the scent of damp stone, stale seawater, and something else: a complex, layered aroma of four distinct Alphas and one, softer, sweeter note that binds them all together.)
Her name was Nyx, and she was theirs. Had been since the first time a scrawny, six-year-old Carlos De Vil, smelling of ozone and wet dog, had shoved a pilfered apple into her hands with a grunt, his small body trembling with the instinct to provide. Since a fierce, pint-sized Jay, scent like sun-warmed sand and stolen spices, had stood in front of her, baring his baby teeth at a Bargain Castle lackey who’d looked at her for too long. Since Evie, even then a vision in patched-up blue, had begun tailoring scraps of fabric to fit Nyx’s smaller frame, her scent of cold cream and ambition a constant, soothing presence. And since Mal, all sharp edges and dragon-scale green, had carved a crude ‘M’ into the rusted metal above their hideout, declaring in a voice that brooked no argument, “She’s ours. Our Omega. Our heart. Anyone touches her, they answer to me.”
They were a pack forged in grime and survival. Nyx was the soft center they all orbited, the calm to their storms. She was, in many ways, the stereotype: petite, with a gentle demeanor, nurturing to a fault, her scent a comforting blend of night-blooming jasmine and warm milk—a shocking tenderness amidst the Isle’s rot. And they had claimed her, thoroughly. Not just with words, but with marks. The claiming bite on her neck, right over her scent gland, was a collective masterpiece—four overlapping sets of teeth marks, a permanent, painful brand of belonging from each of her Alphas. They scented her constantly. A nuzzle from Carlos after he’d been tinkering, leaving the sharp tang of metal and static in her hair. Jay draping an arm around her shoulders, his possessive, earthy scent enveloping her. Evie kissing her temple, the floral notes of her perfume mingling with Nyx’s own. Mal, most possessive of all, would often grip Nyx’s chin, rub her wrist firmly over Nyx’s scent glands on her neck, rewriting the air around her with the dominant, smoky-green signature of a dragon’s heir. Mine. Ours.
(🔥)
The Night Before Auradon
The night before Ben’s limo arrived, the pack was a knot of tension in their loft. The unknown was an enemy they couldn’t fight with fists or tricks. “I don’t like it,” Mal growled, pacing like a caged panther, her scent spiking with aggression. “It’s an opportunity, Mal,” Evie reasoned, though her own scent betrayed her anxiety. Nyx sat curled on a moth-eaten couch, a silent ball of worry. The stress must have leaked into her scent—a sour note of fear cutting through the jasmine. It acted like a magnet.
Carlos was there first, kneeling before her, pressing his face into the crook of her neck, inhaling deeply. “Shhh, pretty girl. We’re here.” His tongue swiped a hot, wet stripe over her claiming mark, a grounding, intimate gesture that made her shiver.
Then Jay was behind her, his broad chest against her back, his arms wrapping around her waist. “No one’s taking anything from us, Nyxie.” His teeth grazed the shell of her ear, a promise and a threat. His hands slid under her threadbare shirt, calloused palms skating over the soft skin of her stomach, leaving trails of fire.
Evie joined, displacing Carlos to cradle Nyx’s face. “You are the most precious thing in this world,” she murmured, her lips a breath away from Nyx’s. “Our beautiful Omega.” She captured Nyx’s mouth in a deep, searching kiss, all silken persuasion and dominant need.
Mal watched for a moment, eyes blazing with violet intensity, before she stalked over. She didn’t ask. She simply took Nyx’s wrist from Jay’s grasp and pushed the sleeve up, exposing the delicate skin of her inner arm. With a low growl that vibrated through the room, Mal leaned down and bit down, not hard enough to break the skin anew, but with enough pressure to brand, to remind. As she did, she released a heavy wave of her Alpha scent—smoke, iron, and wild magic—directly onto the spot. Nyx cried out, a muffled sound against Evie’s mouth, her body arching between Jay’s hold and Mal’s claim. It was overwhelming, a tidal wave of possession that chased away all fear, leaving only the absolute certainty of her place: beneath them, between them, theirs.
The Gilded Cage of Auradon Prep
Auradon was sensory overload. Too much light, too much color, air so clean it felt thin. And the scents. Dozens of unfamiliar Alphas, Betas, and the rare, sheltered Omega. Nyx stuck to her pack like a shadow, her small hand often tucked into Carlos’s or Jay’s, Evie’s arm linked with hers, Mal always positioning herself between Nyx and the world.
But she was a novelty. A Villain Kid Omega, already claimed, marked by four of the most dangerous teens on the Isle. It was a challenge. A lure.
The problems started small. An Alpha from the tourney team, Chad Charming, would get too close in the hallway, his cloying cologne-and-ego scent making her nose wrinkle. “A shame such a delicate flower grew in such… rough soil,” he’d simper, until Jay appeared, sliding an arm around Nyx’s waist with a deceptively lazy grin that didn’t reach his cold eyes, his sand-and-spice scent flaring aggressively. Chad would retreat, muttering.
Then it was a young lord from a remote kingdom, who brought her overly-sweet pastries, ignoring her soft “no, thank you,” until Evie materialized, her smile icy. “My Omega has a refined palate. She doesn’t care for… cheap imitations.” Her cold cream and ambition scent would sharpen into something warning and metallic.
The pack’s scent-marking became more frequent, more blatant. Between classes, Carlos would corner her in an alcove, nuzzling and licking at her claiming bite until her knees went weak, ensuring she walked into her next class smelling unmistakably of him. Jay would pull her onto his lap in the common room, blatantly rubbing his jaw over her hair and neck, growling softly at anyone who looked too long. They were painting her in their signatures, a living canvas of their claim.
(🔥)
The most persistent suitor was Prince Alexander, a distant cousin of Ben’s from a northern kingdom. He was polite, handsome, and an Alpha with a calm, pine-and-snow scent that was somehow more irritating than Chad’s arrogance because it was nice. He sought her out in the library under the guise of studying Auradon history.
“The Isle must have been dreadful for someone like you,” Alexander said softly, his gaze lingering on the visible edge of her claiming mark above her collar. “So gentle. You must have been terrified.”
Nyx fidgeted, her scent spiking with anxiety. “I had my pack. I was safe.”
“Safety isn’t the same as… care. The right kind of care.” He leaned forward slightly, and his pine-snow scent intensified, trying to blanket hers. It was a subtle Alpha coaxing, an attempt to soothe and attract.
He never got the chance to continue.
The air in the library aisle suddenly grew thick and hot. A scent of ozone and furious static crackled first—Carlos, emerging from between two bookshelves, his eyes electric blue with rage. Then came the smell of sun-baked stone and imminent violence—Jay, blocking the other end of the aisle, cracking his knuckles. The aroma of frost-edged roses and cold steel—Evie—drifted from behind Nyx’s chair, a hand coming to rest possessively on her shoulder. Finally, the dominant, oppressive wave of dragon-smoke and wild magic—Mal—filled the space as she stepped into view, looking at Prince Alexander not as a prince, but as prey.
“You seem lost,” Mal said, her voice dangerously quiet. “This section is reserved. For our pack.”
Alexander paled, the combined force of four hostile, protective Alpha scents pressing down on him. He stammered an apology and fled.
But the pack’s fury wasn’t spent. The threat to their Omega had ignited something primal.
“Upstairs. Now,” Mal commanded, her voice leaving no room for argument. They had discovered a disused astronomy tower at the top of the library—their private haven in Auradon.
The moment the trapdoor shut behind them, Nyx was surrounded. Jay pinned her against the stone wall, his mouth descending on hers in a searing, punishing kiss. “Letting him talk to you,” he muttered against her lips, his hands gripping her hips.
“Smelling his scent on you,” Carlos snarled, burying his face against her neck, licking and biting over their shared mark as if to erase any trace of the foreign Alpha. His fingers worked at the buttons of her shirt.
Evie, with deliberate slowness, turned Nyx’s face towards her. “You are a queen among us,” she whispered, her kiss deep and claiming. “You do not take crumbs from princes.” She peeled Nyx’s shirt off her shoulders.
Mal watched, a conductor of their shared passion. When Nyx was bare before them, trembling with a mix of residual fear and building arousal, Mal stepped forward. She didn’t touch Nyx like the others. Instead, she looked at Carlos. “Carlos. Remind her who she belongs to.”
With a growl of approval, Carlos lifted Nyx effortlessly. She wrapped her legs around his waist as he carried her to a pile of old tapestries in the corner. He wasn’t gentle. It was a reclamation. Each thrust was a punctuation mark: Mine. Ours. Jay’s mouth was on her breasts, Evie’s fingers were tracing patterns on her skin, and Mal’s dominant scent blanketed them all, her eyes glowing with satisfaction as she watched their Omega come apart under their combined attention, sobbing their names into Carlos’s shoulder, her sweet jasmine scent exploding in the room, now hopelessly intertwined with the four she belonged to—a perfect, potent cocktail of possession.
The Breaking Point & The Choice
The incident with Alexander was a turning point. The pack became more isolated, more aggressive. Ben, trying to be a good king and friend, grew concerned. He called a meeting with Mal, alone.
“The other students are scared, Mal. The constant scent-marking, the aggression… it’s bordering on hostile. Nyx is a person, not just your Omega.”
Mal’s eyes flashed. “You have no idea what she is to us. You with your perfect kingdom and your single scent mark. She is our everything. We built ourselves around her. We will burn Auradon to the ground before we let anyone think they can have her.”
The tension was a live wire. Nyx felt it most acutely. The pack’s love was a fortress, but it was also becoming a cage. She loved them, worshipped them, needed their scents and touches like air. But for the first time, a tiny, traitorous thought whispered: What if I want to smell the flowers in the courtyard without Jay layering his scent over them first? What if I want to have a conversation that doesn’t end with someone’s teeth on my skin?
The breaking point came at the Enchanted Lake. She’d gone for a moment of quiet, but Chad and another Alpha had followed, surrounding her with their overpowering scents, their words lewd and threatening. The pack had descended like avenging furies. It wasn’t a fight; it was a brutal dismantling. When Fairy Godmother and Ben arrived, Chad was whimpering on the ground, and Nyx was curled in a shaking ball, surrounded by her four snarling, bloodied Alphas.
Suspended. All of them. Separated.
It was agony. A physical pain worse than any Isle hunger. In the sterile silence of her solitary dorm, her skin felt cold, her mark ached, and she was drowning in the absence of them—Carlos’s static, Jay’s warmth, Evie’s perfume, Mal’s smoke. She was a limb severed from its body.
Ben visited her. “Nyx, this… dynamic. It’s not healthy. You have choices here. You are more than their Omega.”
She listened, tears streaming down her face, her scent a pathetic wisp of sad jasmine. He was right. And he was so wrong.
The pack was given an ultimatum: undergo “integration counseling” and learn to control their possessive instincts, or be sent back to the Isle.
(🔥)
They were given one supervised hour together in a neutral room. The moment the door closed, they were on her.
It was a silent, desperate frenzy. No words were needed. Clothes were torn, not removed. Carlos was kissing her as if trying to drink her soul, his hands everywhere. Jay turned her around, bending her over the back of a couch, entering her in one smooth, claiming stroke that ripped a sob from her throat. Evie was in front of her, feeding her kisses and whispered devotions. Mal stood back for only a moment before gripping Nyx’s hair, forcing her head up to meet her gaze.
“Tell me,” Mal demanded, her voice raw. “Tell us who you are.”
Nyx, impaled on Jay, surrounded by them, their scents flooding back into her senses like a life-giving tide, broke. “Yours!” she cried out, the word a prayer and a surrender. “I’m yours! Your Omega! Your heart! Please, I can’t… I can’t breathe without you!”
It was messy, raw, and profound. It was four Alphas and their Omega re-weaving the bond that had been frayed by a world that didn’t understand it. When it was over, they were a tangled heap on the floor, breathing as one, scents so thoroughly merged it was impossible to tell where one ended and another began.
Nyx lay in the center, covered in their marks anew, their scents, their love. She looked at Ben, who had entered quietly at the end of the hour, his face a mask of pity and confusion.
She spoke softly, her voice hoarse but clear. “You see a cage, King Ben. I see… my home. They are my madness and my sanity. My protectors and my vulnerability. I am their Omega. Not a stereotype. Not a victim. Theirs. By choice. By blood. By scent.”
She took Mal’s hand, then Evie’s, then Carlos’s, then Jay’s. “We’ll take the counseling. We’ll learn to live in your world.” She lifted her chin, the claiming bite stark and proud on her neck. “But we will not apologize for what we are. And we will not be separated again.”
The pack stood as one unit around her, their scents—now calm, united, and fiercely protective—washing over her in a final, unbreakable declaration. They had faced the Isle. They would face Auradon. Together.
A/n what do y'all think?
SHOULD I WRITE A PART 2
yeah
Nah
Voting ended onMar 6
.
..
A/N
PLEEEAASEEE DON'T BE GHOST READERS, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!, COMMENT!, EXPRESS YOUR THOUGHTS!, SEND REQUESTS!
ANYTHINGGGGGG
IT MOTIVATES ME
pretty please with Dami's katana on top ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)
The Wayne Manor breakfast table looked less like a morning meal and more like a command center. Arielle stood over Damian like a general readying her soldier for battle-except instead of armor, it was school supplies.
Arielle (holding up his pencil case):
"Do you have your pencils? Pens? Eraser? What about your lunch money? No-scratch that, I packed you a full lunch just in case. And Damian, remember, if anyone is mean to you-"
Damian (flat, arms crossed):
"I will destroy them."
Arielle (gasping, horrified):
"No! You will ignore them. Or tell a teacher. No destroying anyone."
Tim, already in his school uniform, sat across the table trying not to laugh into his orange juice.
Tim (muttering):
"This is going to be fun."
Damian shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass. Arielle, oblivious, bent down to straighten Damian's collar for the third time.
Arielle (softly, fussing):
"You'll make friends, sweetheart. Just... try to smile a little, okay? And don't bring up swords. Or assassins. Or your father's hobby."
Damian (dead serious):
"Mother, I am the heir to the League of Assassins and the son of the Batman. Do you truly expect me to bond over juvenile subjects such as-"
Arielle (cutting him off, cupping his face):
"Yes. Exactly that. Bond over... juice boxes. Or trading cards. Or whatever it is ten-year-olds bond over these days. Please, Damian. Just try."
At the doorway, Bruce leaned against the frame, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold with a quiet smirk.
Bruce (low voice, half to himself):
"...It's like Dick's first day all over again."
Arielle looked up at him, wide-eyed.
Arielle:
"It is! You remember how nervous I was? He looked so small in that uniform, and I just knew the other kids wouldn't understand him, and-"
Bruce (fond, interrupting gently):
"And he was fine. He thrived. Just like Damian will."
Damian, unimpressed, slipped free of Arielle's hands and shouldered his backpack.
Damian (grumbling):
"I hardly require a babysitter's lecture. Let us depart before I am late."
---
The Car Ride
In the backseat of the sleek black town car, Tim scrolled casually on his phone while Damian sat rigidly, arms crossed. Arielle turned in her seat, looking back at her youngest with maternal worry written all over her face.
Arielle (softly):
"Sweetheart... just remember-you don't have to prove anything to anyone today. You just have to be you. And... if it feels overwhelming, take a deep breath, okay? You're not alone. Tim's there too. And I'll be right here waiting when the day ends."
For the briefest moment, Damian's hard expression softened. He looked at her, wide-eyed, the way only she ever got to see him.
Damian (quiet, almost a whisper):
"Yes, Ummi."
Tim glanced up from his phone, raising a brow.
Tim (teasing):
"Aw. He's nervous."
Damian (snapping back instantly):
"Silence, Drake, before I end you."
Arielle gasped.
Arielle:
"Damian! What did we say about threats?"
Damian (huffing, looking away):
"...They're only empty if I don't follow through."
Tim snorted. Arielle groaned. Bruce, driving them, hid a smile.
---
Drop-off (aka mistaken for a Velcro baby)
The Wayne car stopped in front of the academy. Kids ran off with backpacks bouncing, some crying into their parents, some practically sprinting toward freedom.
Inside, Arielle had Damian's collar straightened for the third time.
Arielle (fussing):
"Do not climb walls, do not threaten anyone, no batarangs, and no Latin insults. Please, baby, just... try to enjoy it."
Damian sat rigid, arms folded.
Damian (flatly):
"I have fought mercenaries twice my size, Ummi. I believe I can survive a classroom."
Arielle sighed, pulled him in, and hugged him tightly. He tolerated it-expression blank, but he didn't push her away. Tim, already standing outside, smirked knowingly.
That's when a cheerful teacher approached, clipboard in hand.
Teacher (warmly):
"First day, huh? Don't worry, sweetheart-we'll take good care of you."
Damian turned his head slowly, glaring.
Damian (cool, cutting):
"Do not address me as 'sweetheart.'"
The teacher chuckled, mistaking the attitude for shyness. She bent slightly, reaching for his hand.
Teacher:
"It's alright. You can hold my hand if you're nervous."
Damian stared at her hand like it was diseased.
Damian (deadpan):
"If you touch me, you'll regret it."
Tim snorted from the curb.
Tim (grinning):
"Yeah, he's really adjusting well."
Damian shot him a sharp look.
Damian (dry):
"Drake, you're proof that schools fail children regularly."
Bruce, watching from the driver's seat, muttered under his breath:
Bruce:
"This is Grayson's first day all over again."
Meanwhile, Arielle hugged Damian again, planting a kiss on the top of his head. He didn't flinch-he simply let her, still stoic.
Arielle (softly, emotional):
"My baby. You'll be fine."
Damian's gaze softened a fraction.
Damian (quiet, only to her):
"Yes, Ummi."
The teacher smiled tenderly, whispering under her breath:
Teacher:
"Such a little mama's boy."
Damian turned his head, eyes narrowing.
Damian (calm, but sharp as a blade):
"I suggest you rethink that statement."
The teacher blinked, frozen. Arielle laughed nervously, tugging Damian forward with one last kiss. Tim was practically doubled over in laughter as Damian walked off, straight-backed, refusing to look back.
---
In Class
The teacher led Damian into the bright, noisy classroom. Children laughed, swapped trading cards, and chattered about superheroes. To Damian, it sounded like the squawking of caged birds.
Damian (to himself, dry):
"Glorified daycare."
He sat at his desk, posture perfect, arms folded. He scanned the room-eyes sharp, cataloging every detail. Who was loud. Who was shy. Who carried themselves with confidence. Who tripped over their shoelaces.
A boy in front turned around, grinning.
Boy:
"Hi! I'm Josh. Wanna be friends?"
Damian blinked once, slowly.
Damian (flat):
"Friendship requires common ground. You chew your pencil."
Josh's grin faltered.
Josh:
"...Oh."
Damian returned to his notebook, sketching a near-perfect anatomical drawing of a falcon in flight.
Later, during math, the teacher posed a question about fractions. Dozens of hands shot up. Damian didn't move.
Teacher (calling on him anyway):
"Damian, would you like to try?"
He gave a flat stare, then rattled off the answer and explained three alternate ways to solve it, with perfect articulation. The room went quiet.
Teacher (blinking):
"Well. That's... correct."
Damian leaned back, unimpressed.
Damian (dry):
"Hardly worth the time."
At recess, a group of boys invited him to join a soccer game.
Boy:
"Hey, new kid! Wanna play striker?"
Damian looked at the ball like it was beneath him.
Damian:
"I've trained with Olympic athletes. Your game would bore me."
The kids booed him off, muttering "weirdo." Damian ignored them, climbing to the top of the jungle gym in seconds. He perched there silently, like a hawk, watching.
A girl walked over, clutching a book. She eyed his sketch of the falcon.
Girl (quietly):
"You draw really good."
Damian looked at her for a long moment. Unlike the others, she hadn't been loud, irritating, or demanding. Just... observing.
Damian (curt, but not cruel):
"Correct. I do."
She sat down near him, opening her book. Damian didn't chase her away. He simply returned to sketching. For him, that was acknowledgment enough.
Back in class, another boy tapped Damian's shoulder, trying to copy from his notes. Damian's pencil stopped mid-line.
Damian (low, dangerous):
"If you so much as breathe on my work again, you'll lose a finger."
The boy squeaked and turned away.
By the end of the day, Damian had made no "friends," but the entire class already knew: the new kid was brilliant, scary, and very much untouchable. Exactly as Damian preferred.
-
Time for the School Pickup
Arielle's heart swelled the second she spotted Damian leaving the school building, perfectly composed like he hadn't just finished his first day ever in a traditional classroom. She was on him in an instant, hugging him like he'd survived a war.
Arielle (squeezing him):
"My baby! I missed you so much, sweetheart!"
Damian stood stiffly, lips pressed in a thin line, but he didn't push her off.
Damian (flatly):
"Mother, this display is unnecessary."
She kissed his cheek anyway, beaming like the sun.
Meanwhile, Tim strolled up behind them, earbuds in, scrolling his phone. Arielle immediately reached out with her free hand, tugged him closer, and pressed a kiss to the top of his head without hesitation.
Arielle (warmly):
"And how was your day, Timmy?"
Tim didn't even flinch-he was used to it. Just mumbled, "Fine," while sliding into the car. But then, with a sly look, he decided to stir the pot.
Tim (smirking):
"Damian had quite the day, though."
Damian's head snapped toward him, glare sharp enough to kill.
Damian:
"Don't."
Tim (ignoring the warning):
"He didn't talk to a single kid, sat at the front of the class like he was CEO of Gotham Academy, and told the math teacher she was wrong. Oh-and when a kid tried to trade him a pudding cup, he said-" [drops into a mock Damian voice] "-'I do not sully myself with prepackaged desserts.'"
Arielle gasped softly, covering her mouth with her hand-half horrified, half amused.
Arielle:
"Damian! You didn't actually say that, did you?"
Damian (arms crossed, smug but unbothered):
"The statement was accurate. I will not apologize for upholding higher standards."
Tim snorted.
Tim:
"Yeah, okay, Prince Arrogance."
Before Arielle could scold, Damian smoothly leaned into her side in the car seat, tilting his chin up just so.
Damian (innocent tone, clearly testing his theory):
"Mother, you missed me today, didn't you?"
Arielle immediately softened, brushing her fingers through his hair.
Arielle (melting):
"Of course I did, sweetheart. Every second."
Tim groaned loudly from the other seat.
Tim:
"Unbelievable. He insults the teachers and still gets cuddles."
Damian (smirk, without looking at Tim):
"Known fact. I am the favorite."
Arielle swatted him lightly on the arm, smiling despite herself.
Arielle:
"You are not the favorite, Damian. You're just... my baby."
Damian's smirk faltered, his brows twitching in annoyance at the word-but Arielle immediately kissed the top of his head, pulling him close.
Damian (grumbling under his breath):
"I'm not a baby."
Tim (cackling):
"She literally called you a baby. This is the best day ever."
Damian's fist clenched at his side, but with Arielle's hand stroking his hair, he restrained himself-barely.
---
Back home
They had just sat down in the living room when Damian, perched with perfect posture in the armchair, folded his hands in front of him. His expression was cool, almost regal.
Damian (flatly, without hesitation):
"Father. Mother. I will no longer be attending those classes. My academic prowess far surpasses even the university level. Forcing me to sit through such primitive lectures is insulting, demeaning, and a gross misuse of my time."
Arielle, halfway through pouring herself a cup of tea, blinked at him.
Arielle:
"Damian-"
Damian (cutting in, tone sharp):
"One of my teachers miscalculated a theorem. A theorem, Mother. I corrected her. The class applauded. It was excruciating."
From the couch, Tim stifled a laugh.
Tim (mocking):
"Poor baby. Imagine being too smart for fourth grade."
Damian's eyes narrowed into daggers.
Damian (venomously):
"Imagine being sixteen and still second place."
Tim bristled, but Bruce's voice cut through before a fight could start.
Bruce (stern, calm):
"Damian. You're going back tomorrow."
Damian (snapping his head toward Bruce, incredulous):
"What purpose does it serve? I could run laps around every curriculum in Gotham. It is a waste of potential."
Arielle set her teacup down and walked over, kneeling beside his chair. Her hand smoothed over his hair, softening what was fast becoming a standoff.
Arielle (gently):
"It isn't about how fast you learn, sweetheart. It's about... adjusting. Socializing. Learning patience. You're ten. You need this experience."
Damian stiffened under her touch, jaw tight.
Damian (cold, clipped):
"My tolerance is already far beyond that of a ten-year-old."
Tim coughed loudly into his hand.
Tim:
"Yeah, except when someone calls you a baby."
Damian's glare nearly burned a hole through him.
Bruce (closing the conversation, tone final):
"You're going. That's not negotiable."
Damian turned his gaze back to Arielle, seeking any sign of reprieve. But she just smiled softly, cupping his cheek.
Arielle (soothing):
"I know you're brilliant, Ummi's proud of you. But sometimes being smart isn't the hardest thing. Sometimes it's learning how to be... with people."
Damian stared at her a long moment, the arrogance cracking just slightly before he leaned back in his chair, resigned but unbowed.
Damian (muttering, icy but controlled):
"Fine. I'll humor this charade. But only because you insist, Ummi."
Ooohhhh and also follow me cause i need to build a following lest my mom's gonna restrict my access to social media!
SHOULD I KEEP WRITING ONESHOTS LIKE THIS
YES YES YES
No, please don't..
Whatever idc (I TOTALLY CARE)
Voting ended onMar 1
A/N
PLEEEAASEEE DON'T BE GHOST READERS, TELL ME WHAT YOU THINK!, COMMENT!, EXPRESS YOUR THOUGHTS!, SEND REQUESTS!
ANYTHINGGGGGG
IT MOTIVATES ME
pretty please with Dami's katana on top ( ´◡‿ゝ◡`)
Does anyone have any fanfic recommendations like where they all love someone like obsessed with them but not too unrealistically and it still keeps track to it's original plot
Its an umbrella academy fanfic where the fem oc is number 8. Her power was painting/draw the future but couldn't see it until the future had happened but others could and she was very close friends (i think romantically involved?) with five before he vanished into the apocalypse and she also couldn't age, i think its cause of her powers. She was very flirty, bold, basically... HER and Reginald shipped off to an art institute where he occasionally visited for a painting. She was very influencial and charismatic and genuinely talented so she attended and taught classes (wasn't a main thing in the story tho). She was close to vanya like kept in touch with her and Alison but then in the cabin scene with vanya's powers going haywire and she slashed alisons throat she also slashed the oc's eyes.
I'm sure there's more but that's all i can remember about it, please help me with at least the title!! I've checked, REALLY hard.
✰ ৎ──────SYPNOPSIS: all you ever wanted was a purpose. something that would give meaning to your existence, your power. healing others was the only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed… until you ended up in that awful place.
✰ ৎ────── masterlist. | next.
There is only one thing you ever truly wished for in this life: a purpose.
Something that would justify your existence, that would give meaning to every breath, every wound, every sleepless night.
And you found it. Not in an empty promise or in the affection of others. You found it in your own power.
A selfish desire, yes, but undeniably yours. A purpose born not out of love, but out of need.
From that strange power growing inside you, the one that forced you to look at others’ suffering with cold, almost cynical eyes. As if every wound were a problem only you could solve. As if every scream of pain were a prayer meant solely for you.
You clung to that.
To the idea that your worth existed only in your abilities.
The ability to stop someone from dying in front of you. To rip death from their body with your own hands. To stitch broken flesh with threads that hurt, yes, but worked. That was the only thing that ever made you feel alive. The only thing that ever made you feel alive, needed.
For a while, it was enough.
For a long while, you were selfish.
It didn’t matter if they used you. It didn’t matter if it hurt.
If every healing left another scar on you.
If every salvation cost you a little more of the little you had left.
As long as you could keep doing it—healing, fixing, protecting— the price didn’t matter.
Because at the end of the day, you could lie down on that mattress of emptiness and tell yourself: “Today, I made it worth it.”
Your existence and your power meant something.
Of course, you didn’t have a mother to share secrets with, nor guardians who offered you love. Only faces that came and went, and the bitter understanding that you were just another burden in a broken system.
Until, by some twisted stroke of fate, you had the “pleasure” of meeting your biological father.
Bruce Wayne.
Billionaire. Philanthropist. Playboy.
Batman.
Even so, none of that really mattered to you. What truly hit you was learning that you had to leave everything behind and go to Gotham.
That cursed city, that concrete jungle drowned in darkness and crime. Where dreams go to die and bodies, if they’re lucky, go to sleep.
Gotham wasn’t a home. It was a prison for someone like you.
A place where meta-humans like you were enemies, threats, problems to be contained.
Your power, your only purpose, was stripped away with nothing more than a change of zip code.
And that was the cruelest part of all.
Not being able to use it.
Not being able to save.
Not being able to be useful.
Your existence, reduced to ashes, like the bodies of those you didn’t reach in time.
It must be poetic, right? The healer who cannot heal. The savior without faith.
They hate you. You've felt it. That visceral resentment from those who survived because of you, but still blame you for what you couldn’t stop. Screams, stares, choked pleas— all of them pierced your soul deeper than any weapon ever could.
For someone who once swore to save lives, it’s only natural that those you vowed and wanted to save now express their utter disgust and despair toward the false, horrific salvation you once offered them.
And now? Now you live among strangers.
An immense mansion full of absences. With brothers who seemingly don’t recognize you, and a father who doesn’t see you.
Your arrival in Gotham wasn’t exactly ideal, at least, that’s how you think you remember it.
It’s hard for you to remember that moment. You don’t hold on to unnecessary memories… none of it will make you feel alive again.
Apparently, your new father figure has several children. Some of them are already adults. With lives of their own far from the mansion, you don’t know much about them, they were almost always too busy to say anything to you.
You can’t understand them, can’t they come up with better excuses? You don’t want these people’s attention.
These people can’t help you with your abilities. They can’t make you believe you’re still allowed to use them freely.
No, these people are just strangers who stumbled into your life overnight and want nothing to do with the problem. Not even your new father had the decency or responsibility to try forming a bond with you.
Bruce Wayne was an absent father. Not in the way someone leaves and disappears completely, but in the kind of absence that feels stronger the closer the person is. A hollow physical presence, like a ghost made of flesh and bone. One who could look you in the eyes and still not see you.
He struggled to communicate, to make time for you, to even remember that there was now one more occupied room in that massive mansion of his.
He doesn’t know how to deal with you, and you don’t know how to deal with him either. At first, you wondered if the problem was you. If you had done something wrong. If the way you talked, walked—even breathed, was so bothersome that he’d rather bury himself in work than give you an hour of his time.
But soon, you realized something even crueler: You don’t need a father. You’re not looking for one. You’re not waiting for one.
What you need is a patient. Someone you can heal. Someone who needs you.
Because that’s what you’ve always done. Heal. And Bruce… Bruce simply refuses to be healed.
But he doesn’t understand.
When you approach him, when you seek him out, when you try to speak to him, all he does is throw up a wall made of cold words, as practical and impersonal as that damn business suit of his.
“I’m busy.”
“Not now.”
“We’ll talk later.”
“It’s for work.”
Always the same. Always excuses with the bitter taste of indifference.
Is this what having a father is supposed to feel like? Because if it is, then it doesn’t feel any different from your days in foster care.
At least there, you knew you were alone. Here, they make you believe you’re not… but you are, more than ever.
You’ve learned to observe the details, as always. It’s one of the few things you’re good at, aside from using your power.
You notice the tired look in his eyes, the dark circles underneath, the way his fingers tense around his pen like he’s trying to crush it. The stack of papers on his desk never gets smaller, it’s like it multiplies just to keep you at a distance.
And the subtle changes… that lower tone in his voice when he sees you, like he can’t even be bothered to raise it for you. The way his eyebrows furrow, not out of anger, just… annoyance. Irritation.
That’s what hurt the most.
So you stopped trying. Because if you kept going, you were only going to be reprimanded by the one you were supposed to please. You convinced yourself that you don’t need his approval. That you don’t need his love. That you’re better off without him.
But then, why is it that every time you walk past his office, you pause for a second, hoping that door opens, just once, without you knocking first?
Why do you still need him to see you?
Richard Grayson is the eldest. The first adopted son of Bruce Wayne. Everyone sees him as a beacon of hope, the moral compass of this family made of shadows and scars. And it makes sense. He has that bright smile, that genuine warmth the others can barely fake. He gives out hugs without being asked, listens patiently, laughs easily, and has that absurd gift of making anyone feel seen, at least, if you’re one of his.
Because with you, it was always different.
From the beginning, Richard seemed kind. Seemed. But between that warmth and you, there was always a distance, like someone had drawn a curtain between the two of you. You heard his apologies more than you heard his actual voice.
“Sorry, I have to head out right now.”
“Sorry, I was already on my way to Blüdhaven.”
“Next time, I promise.”
He was always rushing. Always busy. Always somewhere else. And you… you’re not someone who believes in empty promises.
At first, you thought it was just bad luck. That maybe if you insisted a little, if you found an excuse, if you caught him in the kitchen, he might stay for five minutes. Just five. But those minutes never came. And you started to notice a pattern. How his demeanor shifted the moment you walked into the room. How his smile became more diplomatic. More rehearsed. How his footsteps sped up when he thought you weren’t watching.
You didn’t want to admit it at first, but something inside you began to whisper an uncomfortable truth; He was avoiding you.
And then you understood. If Richard Grayson, the kindest, the most human, the most "big brother" of them all, couldn’t be around you, then what was the point of trying with the others? What could you possibly expect from Jason, who barely speaks to you? From Tim, who seems more invested in his computer than in actual people? From Damian, who can barely tolerate his own shadow?
So you did the same.
You avoided them. One by one.
You decided it wasn’t worth it. That if you weren’t going to be a real part of this family, you weren’t going to pretend.
It’s easier that way. It doesn’t hurt as much if you’re the one walking away first.
But sometimes, when you see them laughing together from the staircase, or hear Richard speaking so fondly of the others, a part of you wonders if it was ever really your choice to walk away, or if they’d been leaving you behind from the very beginning.
Your suspicions didn’t take long to confirm. All it took was talking to a few of your supposed brothers to realize the pattern repeated itself.
Jason, Tim, Damian…
Each one was a story unto themselves. Each one was a maze of traumas, masks, and poorly calibrated emotional responses. But if you had to describe them in one word, it would be: inaccessible.
The second of your brothers was Jason, and from what little you could gather, because no one seemed eager to talk about it much, Jason had died. And then he came back. It wasn’t a metaphor. It wasn’t an exaggeration. He had been buried, and now he was not. That simple statement was enough to provoke a morbid curiosity, almost scientific. What had changed in his body? Did he suffer from partial necrosis? Brain damage? Did his muscles regenerate? What residual effects did resurrection have on human physiology? Everything in you screamed to investigate. To dissect. To understand.
It was a dangerous thought. You knew that. You repeated it to yourself like a mantra: too tempting for your own good.
But what confused you the most wasn’t his condition, it was his behavior toward you. Jason had this aura of latent violence, like dynamite that could explode with the wrong spark. But that wasn’t what kept you away. Not entirely. It was his inexplicable rejection.
You didn’t understand it. You didn’t provoke him. You didn’t talk to him, you didn’t interfere, you didn’t cross the line. And yet, his gaze was always sharp. As if your mere presence triggered something in him. Irritation. Annoyance. Maybe even disdain.
You wondered if it was your fault. If the way you were, the way you spoke, the way you were, simply bothered him. But you couldn’t find an answer. And though you wanted to, you knew that getting closer would be too risky.
Because you’ve seen the broken walls. The misaligned doors. The tables split in two like they were made of paper. You’ve felt the tension in the air when Jason enters a room and isn’t in the mood. And you know, without needing confirmation, that his punches aren’t soft. That his rage doesn’t distinguish between the guilty and the witnesses.
So, you avoid him.
Not out of fear exactly, but out of caution. Self-preservation. You don’t want to be the next crack in the walls of this house.
Tim was a different kind of strange. More than Jason, though in a completely different way. His oddity didn’t stem from aggression or visible trauma. It was more subtle. More internal.
Almost clinical.
You observed him, like you observe everything. With that gaze of yours that searches for patterns, inconsistencies, vulnerabilities. And in him, you found many.
Surprisingly, Tim was brilliant. Not just "smart for his age," but one of those cases where the brain moves faster than the body. Too fast. So much so, that sometimes it seemed like his body gave up halfway through.
The dark circles under his eyes were a constant. His responses were slow, as if they had to pass through a filter of a thousand thoughts before being verbalized. He walked like his mind was too heavy for his spine to carry. A shadow carrying ideas. You were surprised he hadn’t fainted yet from the combination of insomnia, chronic stress, and mild malnutrition.
No one asked you.
No one thanked you.
But still, you started leaving him food. Food that could sustain him without causing a stomach collapse. Nothing too obvious, of course. A yogurt here. Cut fruits there.
Something easy to eat between keystrokes. You allied yourself with Alfred in that small act of silent intervention. The old butler seemed to notice, but he never mentioned it. And you never confirmed it.
Tim would probably assume it was all Alfred’s doing. In fact, you counted on it.
Not because you wanted to keep it a secret. But because you knew that if he suspected you were behind something so... "thoughtful," it would only make him uncomfortable. He doesn’t know how to respond to care, to the intention behind such detail. Tim doesn’t know how to handle it if that sincere gesture comes from you.
Just like you would if any of them ever tried it with you.
Alfred... Alfred is a different matter.
Of all the people in the house, he’s the only one who acts like your existence isn’t a miscalculation. But he doesn’t fool himself. He doesn’t offer you love, or tenderness. He offers you structure. Routine. Measured phrases and cups of tea.
It’s not affection between you.
It’s a sort of tacit alliance.
Two functional people in the middle of a broken ecosystem.
You know he tries. But you also know it’s not enough for you.
You’ve seen children like you. In hospitals. In refugee camps. In temporary homes. Children who cling to an adult figure as if their life depended on it, and are then destroyed when that figure leaves. Or worse, when they stay but stop looking.
You don’t want that for yourself.
You convince yourself this is better. A working relationship. A dynamic where each one fulfills their role and no one crosses the line into the personal. Because if you get attached, if you let yourself believe this could mean something...
You know how that ends. They can’t give you what you’re looking for.
They can’t give you purpose.
They can’t return what was taken from you when you understood that your value only exists if you can heal, if you can serve, if you can be useful.
You still don’t know who you are when you’re none of that.
Back to the subject of your "family," the last on the list of who your siblings were, was Damian.
The youngest of the group. The second biological son of Bruce Wayne.
You said it out loud once, casually: "Ah, so he is the real one."
No one found it funny.
Unlike the others, Damian didn’t need time to show you that you weren’t welcome. He didn’t bother to fake courtesy or neutrality. From the beginning, he made it clear that your existence was expendable.
Maybe it was your silence. Maybe it was your lack of reaction to his provocations. Maybe he just didn’t like you. But he pointed his katana at you the first month you arrived.
The blade against your neck wasn’t a metaphor. It was real, cold, intimidating contact. You felt a thread of power activate instinctively in your body, a reflex of defense, of desperation. If you had let it go, well, you wouldn’t be here, mentally recalling this account.
You didn’t. Not for him. For you.
Because it wasn’t worth it. Because using your power on someone in your “family” would mean admitting they were important enough to hurt you.
They weren’t. Not yet.
You can’t risk being discovered. No one can know that you actually have this power. None of them can know.
Bruce appeared just in time to prevent the confrontation from escalating. Did he protect you? Not exactly. He simply said something like, “Damian has a complicated history,” as if that justified a death threat in the family kitchen.
Is it common in Gotham to justify a child’s homicidal impulses if they've had a difficult childhood?
That was your question. You didn’t ask it out loud. No one would have liked the answer.
It was also that day you found out that Damian was Bruce’s biological son. And you couldn’t help but think about the irony of it all.
The same Bruce Wayne who, in the public eye, was a scandalous figure, a charming, charismatic playboy billionaire with endless parties, had exactly one biological child. One. Not five. Not a legion of illegitimate children scattered across the world. Just one.
That kid turned out to be a ticking time bomb with a traditional sword.
Everything fit so perfectly wrong that it almost seemed planned.
With the girls, it's complicated. Maybe even more so because, deep down, a part of you thought they could be different.
Stephanie. She was like a female version of Richard, a constant smile, a vibrant energy that everyone seemed to adore, except you.
She greeted you with empty enthusiasm, one that never went beyond the surface. It was easy to see that behind her good mood, there was a locked door she wasn’t going to open for you.
And you understood. Because you'd seen it before.
People who act as if everyone is welcome, except you.
Stephanie was just another confirmation that no matter how hard you tried to fit in, this home was already full. You weren’t in the original plan. You never were.
Barbara, on the other hand, was simpler. She was hardly ever at the mansion. You’d see her sporadically, a red ghost in the shadows of fleeting visits. And still, in that limited time, she always found a way to smile at others, share a joke, a quick conversation, a knowing glance… Never with you.
Not once.
It was as if your presence went by unnoticed, not even worth including out of courtesy.
Cassandra was the most honest, in a way. She didn’t pretend. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak.
She ignored your attempts to help with almost admirable efficiency. You could attribute it to her trauma, her history, her way of seeing the world… but that excuse starts to wear thin when it’s the only one left to justify everything.
Maybe you’re just not interesting. Maybe you don’t even stand out enough to be actively rejected.
Or is it because you don’t even deserve her attention?
It was easier to believe that they all had a reason not to see you.
Easier than admitting that maybe, you weren’t that hard to ignore.
What was dangerous about this family wasn’t the weapons, nor the katanas, nor the fists that had broken ribs more than once.
It was the mask.
It took you time to understand it. First, it was a hunch. Then a suspicion. Finally, a certainty: they were all vigilantes. Heroes of Gotham. The same ones who make your hands tremble when you try to use your power. The ones who make your gift feel useless. As if it were a mistake rather than a blessing.
The irony is so perfect it could almost make you laugh.
You can’t feel useful, can’t do the one thing you know how to do perfectly, because you’re surrounded by those who fight so that people and beings like you are neither necessary nor welcome.
And yet, you prefer them this way.
Cold. Distant. Detached. Unknown. Because connections are dangerous. Because memories weigh. Because at some point, someone taught you that affection is the hook that precedes the pain.
Because you know it better than anyone. When you get attached to someone, it’s not just pain that you feel when you lose them. It’s as if a part of you dies too. Not because you lose them, but because without your power, without that “usefulness,” you feel like you never deserved to have them in the first place.
In Gotham, you can’t do anything.
You can't heal.
You can't save.
You can't be useful.
You can't be loved. Or at least, that’s what they taught you to believe.
Here, you have no parts left that you can afford to lose. Not while you're trapped in this city that doesn’t need what you can give. A family that doesn't know what to do with you. You don’t know what to do with yourself either.
They can’t give you a purpose.
They never could.
They didn’t even try.
You expected so little, that not even that surprised you.
Until you found him.
The only living person who not only recognized your power, but accepted it for what you wanted it to be:
A miracle.
He called himself Doctor Masashi. A kind voice, a serene figure. But behind that calmness was surgical precision. He knew exactly how to shape you. How to rebuild you, only to destroy you again with elegance.
He was the only one who never lied to you about what you were:
A weapon.
A tool.
A precious jewel that only shines when it bleeds for others.
A perfect puppet.
And you, grateful for the strings.
He gave you direction when all you had was guilt.
He gave you structure when all you had was emptiness.
He gave you… meaning. A cruel meaning. A conditioned meaning. But still, you took it.
It can't be that bad, right?
Clinging to that.
Clinging to him.
Clinging to something that tells you that you can still be "something."
Because if someone, even just one person, can look at you and say that you are good for something, then you're not broken.
Then you're not alone. Then everything that hurt was worth it.
Even if guilt drowns you every night.
Even if the nightmares never rest.
Even if the hands you tried to save still drag you from their graves, begging for a second death.
It doesn't matter. As long as someone believes that keeping you alive makes sense... then that’s enough.
Right?
Maybe you're a weapon.
Maybe you're selfish.
Maybe you did it all just out of fear of disappearing, for that unbearable need to feel alive.
The need to feel that you matter. To have a place to fit in.
But at least you're something. In this shattered world, that's already more than many have.
But how much more can you take before you truly break? How much longer before you completely crumble, like so many times you did on the inside? How much will the price of his greed cost… and your desperate desire to remain useful?
Because in the end, it wasn't Bruce.
Nor your brothers.
Nor your sisters.
None of them ever knew who you were.
None of them understood.
Only him. Only Masashi.
That’s what scares you the most. Because if even he can make you believe that’s all you’re worth. If even he manages to make you cling to that idea, then maybe, you were never more than that.
Maybe you were never more than your power, and in Gotham, where you can no longer use it...
⸺ Summary ; Having only ever known neglect, you couldn’t turn away when someone finally offer to choose you. So you stepped forward without hesitation—into a new path that promised belonging, no matter the cost.
⸺ Authors note ; Yandere! platonic! batfam x Neglected! fem! reader. usage of y/n. English isnt my first language. wc: 2,1k. Not beta read.
⸺ directory ; previous, next
Time stopped meaning anything after a while.
Days blurred into one another, indistinct and slippery, like numbers rubbed off a clock face. Weeks—maybe more. You tried to count at first, marking moments by pain, by hunger, by the ache in your bones when you slept too long or not at all. But even that failed you eventually. The body forgets how to measure when nothing changes.
The room didn’t help. It was built to feel kind.
Soft lighting that never fully dimmed or brightened. Walls painted in colors meant to calm, meant to reassure. A bed that cradled you just enough to make resistance feel exhausting. Everything about the space whispered comfort while quietly denying you the one thing comfort requires—choice.
Your captor made sure of that.
Whenever you asked about the time, the answers came slippery and imprecise. Soon. Later. Does it matter? Always said gently. Always said like the question itself was childish, unnecessary. Like time was a privilege you no longer needed.
And maybe that was the point.
To unmoor you. To loosen your grip on before and after, until there was only now—this room, this quiet, this version of you he seemed so determined to keep intact. Preserved. Contained.
Without clocks. Without windows. Without certainty.
Just you, suspended in forced comfort, waiting for a moment that might never come.
It was another day. Or what passed for one.
The quiet was the same as always—thick, padded, deliberate. It pressed in from the walls and settled in your chest, heavy enough that even your thoughts felt muted. Silence wasn’t the absence of sound here. It was something curated. Maintained.
This time, though, he let you out.
The door opened without ceremony, and you followed because there was nothing else to do. No resistance left worth spending. The space beyond wasn’t what you expected—not stone corridors or sterile halls, but something carefully arranged to resemble a home. Not the manor. Never that.
Only your room had been recreated.
The rest of the house felt wrong in a way you couldn’t immediately name. Too unfamiliar. Too neutral. Like a stage set built around a single, stolen centerpiece. Furniture placed for function, not history. Hallways that didn’t echo with memory. No ghosts. No Alfred. No life.
Just structure.
And that realization sank its teeth in deeper than fear ever could.
Because your room was perfect.
Every detail matched—down to the placement of objects you didn’t remember ever showing nor telling anyone. The way the light fell across the desk. The angle of the bed. The things you kept hidden, and the things you left out. It was terrifying how precise it was. How intimate.
He knew your life.
Your routines. Your habits. Your schedules. He knew what your space looked like before you ‘died’.
You never asked how.
You didn’t want to hear the answer.
“You never told me your name, y’know.”
Your voice sounded small in the open space. Too loud. Too real. You didn’t turn when you spoke—you could feel him behind you without needing to look. That presence had become another fixture of the house. Constant. Watching.
When he answered, it came easy. Amused.
“You can call me anything you want, sweetheart. Names have never mattered to me.”
That smile was in his voice even before you saw it—the same one he always wore. Soft. Knowing. Like he was indulging you.
Sweetheart.
The word crawled down your spine, cold and unwelcome. You hated it. Hated the way he spoke to you like you were something fragile. Something kept. Like a daughter shaped by his hands rather than a person with a past that existed beyond him.
You hated it even more that he hid behind mystery so easily. That he could strip you of time, of place, of certainty—yet keep himself just out of reach. Undefined. Untouchable.
And worst of all—
You hated how powerless and dumb it made you feel.
After all, this should’ve been easy for you.
You were used to understanding people in seconds—trained yourself to, really. A glance, a tone, a hesitation, and the pieces would start lining up. You knew how to read what was said and, more importantly, what wasn’t. Names came first. Then habits. Then history. Friends. Teachers. Patterns that traced back as far as middle school if you cared enough to dig.
And you always cared enough.
You hated to admit it, but you were meticulous in the same way Tim was. Cautious. Analytical. You never walked away from an interaction without already pulling threads, without already cataloging weaknesses and motives in the quiet corners of your mind. Information was safety. Knowledge was leverage.
That had always been your edge.
But with him—
There was nothing.
No tells you could latch onto. No inconsistencies. No background noise to sift through. Every attempt to place him—to define him—slid off like water against glass. He gave you nothing to chase. Nothing to pull apart.
You couldn’t read him.
And that terrified you more than the locked doors ever could.
Because he knew you.
Not just your name, or your face, or the things anyone could learn with effort—but everything. Your rhythms. Your tells. The way you thought before you spoke. The things you hid and the things you pretended not to care about. He knew the shape of your life well enough to recreate it, piece by stolen piece.
And you had nothing in return.
No history. No trail. Not even a name.
Just a man who stood behind you, smiling like he already owned every answer you were desperate to find.
“Take a seat.”
His voice cut clean through your thoughts—too smooth, too certain. You hadn’t realized you’d stopped walking until you did. Until you were standing still in front of him, the room around you finally bleeding into focus.
Office wasn’t quite the word for it.
It was a space crowded with intention. Shelves lined with books that looked handled, not decorative. Stacks of files arranged with unsettling precision. Screens dark but waiting, wires disappearing into walls like veins. Gadgets sat half-assembled across surfaces, abandoned mid-thought rather than unfinished. It felt less like a workplace and more like the inside of someone’s head.
You obeyed.
The chair across from his desk accepted you with a quiet creak, the sound loud in a room that seemed to listen. You folded your hands in your lap out of habit, posture stiff, eyes flicking everywhere but him.
“Curious?” he asked.
The word landed lightly. Too lightly. Like he already knew the answer.
You exhaled through your nose and looked around again, letting your gaze linger this time. “What is this place?” you asked. “An office… or something else?”
He leaned back, unbothered, fingers steepled as if the question amused him. “Like I said,” he replied calmly, “names have never mattered to me.” His eyes never left you. “You can call me anything. You can call this room anything as well.”
That casual dismissal scraped against you.
You scoffed before you could stop yourself, the sound sharp in the stillness. “Quit the mysterious act, Mr. Unknown.” You rolled your eyes, jaw tight.
He’d insisted names didn’t matter.
So you gave him one.
Was it stupid? Probably. Was it lazy? Definitely. But you weren’t here to be clever. You were here to survive. And if he wanted ambiguity so badly, you’d throw it back at him.
“Mr. Unknown?” he echoed, testing it like a flavor. A low chuckle slipped from him, genuine—or close enough to pass. “That’s… something.”
Silence settled after that.
Not empty. Not comfortable. It pressed in, thick and deliberate, like it was waiting for one of you to make the wrong move.
Then he spoke again.
“You’ll learn more about me soon,” he said lightly. “Just not now.”
Your fingers twitched in your lap.
“Patience is key, after all.” He tilted his head, smile faint but knowing. “Though it’s never really been your specialty, has it?”
The words struck with surgical precision.
And once again, you were reminded of the imbalance—of how he sat there, relaxed and unreadable, while you were left guessing in a room full of answers you weren’t allowed to touch.
“Are you just here to insult me,” you snapped, the words spilling out sharper than intended, “or is that all part of the routine?”
For a brief moment, something unreadable crossed his face. Not anger. Not offense. If anything, it looked like satisfaction—quiet and contained, like you’d just proven a point he’d already settled long ago. Then it was gone, replaced by that same unnerving calm.
“No,” he replied smoothly. “Of course not.”
He leaned forward, folding his hands together atop the desk, posture relaxed in a way that felt deliberate. Controlled. “You’re here to learn,” he continued. “I’ve given you another chance after your… fall from grace.”
The words wrapped around your ribs and tightened.
“And I won’t allow you to waste it.”
Something cold unfurled at the base of your spine. Not panic—not yet. It was subtler than that. The creeping awareness that this wasn’t about punishment, or even rescue. This was about direction. About ownership disguised as guidance.
Plans, carefully laid.
“Scared?” he asked, his tone almost kind.
You hadn’t moved. Hadn’t said anything. And still, he knew.
“Don’t be,” he said, standing at last. The chair barely made a sound as it slid back. “My intentions toward you are anything but harmful.” A pause. Thoughtful. “At least… not in the ways you’ve been harmed before.”
He circled the desk slowly, each step unhurried, measured. Predatory without the need to bare teeth.
“I’ll give you everything you’ve ever wanted,” he said, voice lowering as he drew closer. “Attention.” One step. “You’ll never have to beg for it again.”
Another step.
“Family?” His smile was small, almost indulgent. “I’ll be your family. You won’t be left behind. You won’t be overlooked. Not ever again.”
Your throat tightened.
“Appreciation?” His gaze found yours and didn’t let go. “You won’t have to bleed for it. You won’t have to earn it. You’ll simply have it.”
The promises pressed in from all sides, heavy and suffocating. They didn’t sound like lies. That was the most terrifying part.
“In return,” he said softly, stopping beside you, “I only ask for your trust.”
His hand came up without warning, fingers curling around your jaw, tilting your face toward his. The touch wasn’t rough—but it wasn’t gentle either. It was precise. Claiming.
“And your growth,” he added. “I expect you to exceed what you thought you were capable of.”
Your pulse thundered, loud enough you were sure he could hear it.
“I want you,” he said quietly, reverently, “to become the person you were reaching for when you were still with them.”
The room seemed to close in.
Because suddenly, you understood.
He wasn’t offering you freedom.
He wasn’t saving you.
He was rewriting you—taking every fracture they left behind and shaping it into something that belonged to him.
And the most dangerous part?
A small, traitorous part of you wondered what it would feel like to finally be chosen—
even if it meant disappearing in the process.
Something inside you steadied.
Not healed. Not soothed.
Just… hardened.
You lifted your chin, meeting his gaze at last, and a smile curved your lips—slow, deliberate. It wasn’t joy. It wasn’t relief. It was the kind of confidence that comes from exhaustion finally giving way to resolve. From being too tired to keep begging for scraps.
You’d spent your whole life waiting to be noticed. Waiting for someone to choose you without hesitation. And now—now that the choice was being placed directly in your hands—you refused to flinch.
You were done hesitating.
Done wondering if you deserved it.
“I won’t fail you,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt. Quieter. Certain in a way that surprised even you.
The words tasted strange on your tongue. Final. Like a door closing behind you.
His hand loosened its grip on your face, but he didn’t step away. Instead, his thumb brushed along your jaw with something dangerously close to approval.
That was all he needed.
The room felt different after that—charged, almost expectant. As if something had settled into place. As if a decision had been made long before you ever spoke, and your agreement was merely the last piece snapping neatly into alignment.
You didn’t notice when the line was crossed.
Only that it was gone.
And for the first time in a very long while,
you weren’t invisible anymore.
@ TTDAMIAN. pretty please, translate and rewrite any of my works, or repost my works in any other platform without asking. (ts a joke get out)
a/n : lord its been so long since i wrote something for in your eyes.. i apologize, i just havent been motivated, and there was time i thought to stop uploading at a whole. But i also didnt want to leave a story unfinished.. So please leave some messages in inbox or questions so i can be more motivated.. (╥﹏╥). "Mr unknown" (i hate the name) is an oc, fyi specifically for this story.
Does anyone know the title to a dc verse fanfiction on Wattpad where the girl basically has a sad and pathetic life with dead family and often deludes herself by pretending the Wayne boys are her boyfriends but then on her birthday falls asleep and wakes up related to bruce wayne as his step daughter with her family still dead but in the au she woke up in everyone knows who she is and she basically has a celebrity reputation for disowning the wayne family and basically a bad rep. She's super depressed and realizes that the boys she fantasized about aren't all what they seem.
I'm not quite sure on the details cause i only read it once 2 or 3 years ago and I've been searching for it ever since, it was like a fever dream but real.
