#seeing as Damian was grown in an artificial pit womb

[puppetmaster13u]

Prompt 75

Jason wakes up from his pit-rage cranky, hungry, and exhausted. He’s really craving some churros or chili dogs or even some of that hot cocoa Bruce had always made for them after a nightmare. He’s in one of his bigger safehouses, his head is pounding still, and his domino mask is still on but he’s too grumpy to take it off. He’s not expecting Talia’s kid to be sitting at his table alongside Talia herself, who is casually sipping at some tea. His good tea. Blugh. He does not want to deal with this after a pit episode…

[dairy-farmer]

What if Damian wasn't grown in an artificial womb?

What if Damian was, in fact, grown inside little Tim Drake's fertile womb, out of Talia and Bruce's genetic material, so Ra's al Ghul can have an heir of his line and Wayne blood, grown inside the womb of his favorite little Detctive, even if he IS a teenager.

Just, Tim in his Brucequest, takes so long to get Bruce back because he has to spend a year as a breeding slut for the League of Assassins. And that's when the Old Pervert has an idea. Since his daughter doesn't want a pregnancy to keep her out of the field for the duration of it, he'll simply implant the fertilised egg into Tim's womb and let the boy carry the child to term

THEN they can put the baby in a growth pod, and age him up as needed.

Tim spends his year of servitude with not a single stitch of clothing on his body, always ready for whoever will slip into his room for "stress relief".

He gets real good at delivering blowjobs and eating pussy until his current lover can't take anymore. Ra's agents aren't ones to balk at being able to use the little chained slut, so either he learns to worship, or they'll take their pleasure from him.

More come to visit the rounder his belly gets. They keep calling him all kinds of sweet nicknames while leaving his pussy leaking with cum, and painting his skin with it.

When Tim wakes up with a clear head and empty womb, he's back in his uniform and stumbling into Bruce.

It's only years later that he remembers his time with the League...

When the littlest Robin is bending him over an A.C unit on a random rooftop, muffling Red Robin with his own panties and telling him how the only one fit to bear Damian al Ghul Wayne's heirs is the very same womb that birthed the Heir to the Demon's Head.

They leave that rooftop filthy, the A.C unit covered in suspicious stains, most of them from Tim.

Damian doesn't have the same technique his former League lovers had, and certainly not the centuries of skill his Grandfather has.

But he's eager to prove himself. Eager to earn his love and affections, and has plenty of stamina to burn through.

It's no wonder when Tim's stomach starts swelling with a baby like it did back in the League. Unfortunately, unlike the worship of the League's assassins, Damian becomes feral whenever he sees Tim naked, and absolutely HAS to use him until they're both sore and can't cum anymore.

Dick would like them to NOT have a baby together.

Too bad for him, this go around Tim is the favorite, and his womb is so so good at making al Ghul babies, that Damian can't help himself.

A naked Tim is a Tim that just HAS to be bred then and there.

Jason thinks the situation feels familiar, but his memories from that are fuzzy from the Pit Rage. All he's getting is flashes of the best fuck he's ever had. Half a second images of a round belly, hips marked with handprints, and a pretty throat bared for him to suck hickeys into.

damitim

😍😍😍😍😍!!!!!!! i love this SO MUCH!!!

damian wanting the same womb that birthed him to carry his children!! obsessed with tim being the incubator for bringing damian into the world while getting fucked by the league and JASON!!!!!

he was one of the league members to regularly go and visit tim during his pregnancy only he doesn't remember it that well because being in the pit impacted his memory AHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!1 THIS IS SO GOOD!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

[electricprincess96]

Demon Brat fans are mad at me on another site cause apparently if you like Jason you MUST like the Demon Brat.....

Nope. Not how that works.

Their stories are not as similar as some people would lead you to believe. Outside of dying (where one had a prolonged and tangible impact on the world and the characters and the other was used for shock value and promptly forgotten) and a tendency towards violence they are not as alike as some people really want to make them seem.

People who say they are similar think Jason's story started with the Lazarus Pit. It didn't. Jason's trauma doesn't even start with his death.

But their biggest difference is their differences in motivation for why they are heroes in the first place.

Jason and Damian couldn't have had two drastically different childhoods and upbringings if they tried. Jason was a poor kid, abusive dad and drug addict mother, he seen the darkness of Gotham first hand, those streets raised him that's why when Jason decides to become a hero (and an anti-hero fuck even when he was a crime lord it worked) it made sense because he had a personal reason, through his backstory, for why he'd want to make the streets of Gotham safer.

Damian wasn't even born naturally, he was grown in an artificial womb, he was raised to believe he was entitled to everything, and sure he was abused cause the very nature of the League is abusive, BUT nothing of his abuse or his backstory gives him a reason to want to be Robin other than "it's my birthright". Why does Damian want to be a hero when he is first attacking Tim to try and claim Robin from him? The League don't agree with Batman and his methods so why does Damian want it so much?

But fans and writers see "both OK with killing" and write them as if they are the same character in different fonts. Except DC will never slap the "Batman's Greatest Failure" onto Damian the way they do Jason. Which is funny cause all the shit they claim Jason was as Robin (angry, violent, disobedient) Damian actually IS.

[risingmoonyue]

Old Soul

Summary: Talia always said Damian was an old soul. She just didn’t realize how right she was. 

Fandom: Batman

Genre: Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Word Count: 3779

Trigger Warnings: Character Death, Depression, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Cutting, Child Abuse

Notes: This is a reincarnation fanfiction about Damian. It is to be noted that the reincarnated person does not know about Batman from their past life. There are a few religious hints in a place or two, but if you don’t like it you don’t have to read it. It’s also pretty easy to skip over. I am also ignoring the whole Ric Grayson thing and probably have gotten the timeline wrong, but neither of those really matter a whole lot for this fic. 

On a separate note, I finally found the Keep Reading button. Beat that Tumblr!

Talia always said Damian was an old soul. She just didn’t realize just how right she was.

XXX

Damian al Ghul was born on a warm August night out of an artificial womb in a cold, cold room. Somewhere far away, nine months before, a talented young girl died far before her time. Somehow, that girl was aware of both these events. 

She wailed as she was pulled out of a glowing green tube.

She was so cold.

XXX

Time passes, and she learns more. Her name is Damian. She’s a he now. He didn’t mind too much. Sympathy for both sides now, he supposed. She always went with the flow in the Before, and he would too in the Now. 

He contemplated how different—how advanced, if he’s grasped his current surroundings well enough—his biology must be for him to be able to comprehend everything in the Before and Now when he was one. (He didn’t think he should ask.)

He learned his family legacy at two. 

He officially met his grandfather at three. 

He was trained since he was able to walk. 

His first kill was the nursemaid his mother deemed too close to him after he learned basic Arabic. 

He learned he could not be as he was when he met his mother. 

In his previous life, Damian had been an actor. Who-he-was-Before had trained endlessly for years with a passion unlike any other. She was the best at what she did, and everyone knew it. 

To survive, Damian-in-the-Now realized he needed a mask. A role to play.

At two years old, Damian donned the mask of “Ibn al Xu’ffasch”. 

At two years old, Damian started the riskiest play he will ever act in either lives. 

At two years old, Damian’s tears and screams silenced. 

He felt so numb.

XXX

“Ibn” was a little snot. He was self-entitled, spoiled, and had a superiority complex. 

Despite everything though, “Ibn” just wanted acknowledgment, being someone raised in a loveless environment. He had soft spots, but if he felt threatened, he fell onto the instincts brutally beaten into him and attacked.

He was a child raised in a horrible environment that adapted the best he could.

This was the character Damian made.

This was “Ibn”.

XXX

At five years old, Damian played “Ibn” constantly. The stage was set, he had memorized his lines, and it was far too late—far too dangerous—to back out now. 

If he stopped, he knew, he would break into thousands of tiny pieces. 

(He didn’t want to be doing this for nothing.)

(Maybe, maybe if he did this long enough, he would finally get to exit stage left, and go far, far away.)

(Maybe he’d get to act for fun again.)

(He liked that thought.)

Damian could only come out when he was safe, when there was an intermission in this big, long play. 

Damian was never safe. 

XXX

At eight years old, Damian completes the Year of Blood. He prays for forgiveness to God, even if he’s certain at this point he would never deserve anything close to it. He prays that the souls he so mercilessly slaughtered would find peace, even if he burns in hell forever for everything he’s done. 

Damian feels dirty. 

He has never wanted to cry more in the years of playing “Ibn”. 

But Damian is never safe. 

So “Ibn” must stay on—a mask that never leaves. 

He was slowly starting to forget the life Before; starting to lose himself to “Ibn”. 

He didn’t want to forget—he didn’t want to become “Ibn”. He’d rather die. 

Was it bad that Damian wanted to die?

XXX

At ten years old, Mother sends Damian—sends her son “Ibn”—to his father. Damian was expecting a detective, one who could fight well enough to impress Mother and Grandfather.

That is not what he sees. Oh, the man is still a seasoned fighter and a brilliant detective. That much is true. But...

His father is a grown man who dresses like a bat. His father is a furry. And, supposedly, a superhero. Which was weird, because he didn’t realize superheroes were real. (Then again, at this point he had found enough differences to establish that he was from an alternate universe.)

Mother left these bits out when she spoke with “Ibn” about him. 

He supposed it was just his luck he was reborn into a family full of assassins and furries. 

Damian wasn’t quite sure what to think about that. Regardless, it likely doesn’t matter what Damian thinks of the man. His father had—had sexual intercourse with Mother of all people, who has been pit-mad for as long as Damian can remember. (And God, wasn’t that an image he wanted out of his head.)

Surely his father was just like Mother?

After all, it’s all he’s ever known in this cruel world. 

No, much better in the long run for “Ibn” to stay on, even as Mother leaves him cold and alone in Gotham. 

Father may not say it, but he knows he’s unwanted. 

XXX

Damian doesn’t understand. He doesn’t understand anything here. 

Back in his previous prison abode home, the rules were clearly defined. The stage was set, the props were up, the script was written, and “Ibn” was made for center stage. 

Bat Father didn’t want “Ibn”. 

As “Ibn”, he was a burden. Unuseful. A monster in human skin. 

There was no way to accept “Ibn” in his life. 

Damian wanted to cry. He couldn’t switch masks, he couldn’t. If he did, he would break. Shatter into a thousand tiny pieces cutting into his flesh and bones. 

He couldn’t subject himself to that. 

Damian didn’t want to be here. 

Damian didn’t want to be anywhere. 

Damian wanted to die. 

But he couldn’t.

Mother and Grandfather would bring him back in the pits whose water already stained his eyes green. 

And he would break. But this time there would be no escape.

Damian wonders why he was even born. 

XXX

Damian had the feeling that if he were born here, he would have loved them—been a real family, like he can foggily remember having in the Before. 

Father is large and strong, an unchanging pillar in a mess of chaos. Despite his furry status (which he will never ever speak of out loud), he has proven to be a reliable man and an even better fighter. Damian respects him so much. Especially his no-kill policy.

Grayson is a smiling, warm light that Damian desperately wanted directed at him. The man had a temper, but did his best to treat him kindly, even with Ibn being an unwanted mess in their lives. He reminds Damian of an acrobat—a fellow showman—Who-he-was-Before knew in life. He was always smiling and finding a reason to laugh. Damian wonders what he’s doing now.

Drake is a certifiable genius, who also happens to be around the same age as Who-he-was-Before. He thinks that it would’ve been fun to talk with him, pick his brain, and make stupid Gen Z jokes no one else got to make. Damian was sad that Ibn had to take such a negative light on him. He thinks they could’ve been close if they met in the Before. He's sad Ibn has to hate him.

Todd reminded him of home at first—of Mother, of Grandfather, and of endless bloody steel—but as he gathered more information about him (always know who poses a threat to your legacy, my son), he decided Todd was much closer to Damian and Ibn—to himself—than anyone at the League. He was someone who died and woke up again in the cold, cold dark. Damian wonders if Todd is more like him than he realized. Maybe he had a Before too. Maybe he was also an unwilling actor on this great stage. Even if he wasn’t, they remained the same at their core—a broken soul inside a bruised and battered body.

Alfred reminded him of the misty images he had of Grandpa from the Before—always bustling about, finding something to do, scolding everyone when required, always with words of wisdom to impart. Damian missed Grandpa. He always knew what to say or do. 

He wishes Ibn didn't always try to kill everyone. He hates killing people.

Maybe in another life, Damian would’ve been born here. Maybe instead of a Mother’s pit-tainted love, a Grandfather’s twisted teachings, and a legacy of blood, shadows and death, he could’ve had this. 

Maybe.

Ibn decides there is no point thinking about this.

Damian decides this whole business terrifies him. 

He’s  s o  c o l d .

XXX

At ten years old, Father dies. 

Damian couldn’t bring himself to be surprised, even if Ibn acted otherwise. Everyone around him seemed to die eventually. Everyone but him. 

He resigned himself to returning to warm nights and cold, cold blood-soaked steel. 

XXX

Damian didn’t understand. 

They had the chance to send him back. “Ibn” had been a burden on them. “Ibn” never listened. “Ibn” was a murderer. They should have abandoned him, just like he deserved for all the blood on his grimy little hands. 

Why did they keep him? Why make him Robin? This wasn’t in the script. This wasn’t in the script at all. 

Damian didn’t understand. 

XXX

For the first time since the Before, Damian felt warm. Grayson—Richard, he allowed, if only in his head—kept him, cared for him, taught him, scolded him, trusted him, treated him like the child he was never allowed to be. Let him be that child.

Didn't force expectations on him. Explained exactly what the rules were. 

Damian didn’t need a script here. For once “Ibn” was slowly showing the actor underneath. Not quite, but…

Damian thought that if he let himself break, Richard might just pick up the pieces. 

Maybe he’d finally live.

XXX

Father returned. Richard—Grayson—left. Only back to Bludhaven, but left all the same. Left him with Father and Drake. 

He felt cold again. 

He didn’t know how to act around Father and Drake. 

Damian didn’t think about breaking character anymore. 

XXX

Mother placed a bounty on Damian’s head. 

He didn’t know why it hurt so much. It was in character, after all. A future act of the play he just didn’t look at for fear of what lay ahead. 

It was completely in character. 

So why did it blindside him so much?

Nothing seemed to make sense anymore. 

His Father’s family never stayed on the same script—or even a script at all. One moment everything was going as predicted, then the next the entire course changed, and the characters completely changed while Ibn stayed the same. He wished their scripts would just choose one and stay there. It would make so much more sense. 

(He wished Mother’s script would change.)

(Mother’s script was full of death-tainted love with the magic of the pits corroding its edges.)

It really shouldn’t hurt this much. It was just all one big play, after all. 

So why did it hurt so bad?

XXX

Mother killed him.

She created a clone that was and wasn’t him, the body but not the soul. An actor who had no other. 

She ignored his cries to stop, to call off his pitiful brother that only listened to her commands and nothing else. 

She killed him. 

He finally got what he wanted. 

So why was he not content?

Why was he still hurting?

Why would it not stop?!

He wondered if he would be reborn again. 

Would he have an After, and leave Damian and Ibn to become Who-he-was-Before as well?

Or would he be reborn like Todd and Grandfather and Mother, with the evil magic of Lazarus that corrupts and changes?

Damian wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

He was fine staying dead.

Really.

He was.

XXX

He woke up. 

Father came for him. 

Father revived him, without using the Lazarus Pits.

Father smiled at him.

He was fine with not waking up. But now he thinks he’s fine with waking up too. 

Damian felt warm again.

Maybe he would stay this way?

XXX

Grayson was dead. 

Damian died so the man would live, and the man doesn’t have the decency to at least stay alive to see Damian again. 

Damian wished his Father’s family would stop making him feel warm again. It wasn’t worth it when the cold inevitably came back. 

So much pain, so much emotional whiplash, so much cold-then-warm-then-coldcoldcold.

“Ibn” was becoming harder to maintain. Someday, he knows, he won’t have the chance to take off the mask, to exit the stage before he breaks. Still, he maintains character.

Actors don’t break character.

No matter what.

Outside, Ibn stood strong and proud.

Inside, Damian was falling, falling, fading, slowly being embraced by the cold, cold dark. 

XXX

Jon was nice. For all that he and Ibn got off on the wrong foot, Ibn liked him. 

Ibn liked someone Damian liked.

Damian didn’t think it would happen in his lifetime, not this quickly, and not someone unrelated to Father.

Damian thinks it’s nice to have a friend like Jon. Jon seems to understand him in ways a lot of other people don’t. Jon somehow managed to see the actor without knowing he was seeing him. It was weird. (He'd be a natural actor, Damian thinks)

He somehow knows when Damian is feeling so, so cold; more cold than normal. When he is, he takes Ibn-and-Damian somewhere quiet, and they just… sit. And talk. And just be.

It’s nice.

Damian is glad he has Jon as a friend. 

Damian isn’t scared to feel a little warm around Jon. 

Just a quiet warmth, only with him. He never took it anywhere else. It was a special kind of warmth, reserved for special times and special people. Like a family that chose him regardless of his wishes, of his past; a sibling he never knew he had.

Jon was his grounding rock in this chaotic mess of a play.

Damian had missed having a best friend.

Damian thinks it may be worth living if he can make Jon smile more.

XXX

Sometimes, in a rare good mood, he would gently teach Jon how to act. The way to direct attention to his hands at all the right times, how to keep a poker face, how to fully immerse yourself in your role. How to decide a script for yourself and to stick to it. How to use the skills on and off the stage, and the differences between the two. Warns him about the dangers of long-term roles, of a semi-permanent mask. Of becoming too immersed, of losing yourself. They never said anything about it. This time was something special. Something theirs. (He thinks Jon has probably realized by now that Damian always wears his mask.)

Damian liked using his skills for something good in this life. (Someone to pass them on to, just in case.)

If this was the closest Damian ever came to removing his mask (even closer than with Grayson), neither of them ever said a word.

It was better that way.

XXX

Grayson was alive. 

Grayson was always alive, and Damian didn’t think he’d ever been this angry—this hurt—ever, in the Before and the Now. Never for this long, never this intensely. 

In the Before, Damian’s anger came slowly and burned quickly, never staying long. He went with the flow. His forgiveness came quickly, but his memory lasted forever. He went with the flow always, he still did when he could, but—

But he was so ANGRY. 

Damian thought death might be better than this hot-cold-burning anger. 

Was this what being warm around someone brought him? The hot-cold-burning feeling? 

He didn’t like it.

The numb cold was safe. “Ibn” was easier in the cold. Why couldn’t he just stay cold?

Why did Grayson always make him feel again, no matter how hard he tried? Why did Grayson keep messing up his script? Even Jon, a key cast member, never did that. Jon danced around, a supporting role in the cast of characters, supporting him as he could from the sidelines. He was like a senior understudy, learning as both the backup and his own role. (But there was no equivalent of how special Jon was, Damian knew.) His times became his own, making use of every second of spotlight. Grayson always seemed to jump onto the stage regardless of the script and do whatever the heck he wanted.

Damian sometimes thought that the only way to feel completely numb again was to just die. For good. 

XXX

He tried. 

He slit his wrist. 

He really tried.

But he couldn’t. Once the blood started pouring, he thought of Jon, Father, of Drake and Todd and Alfred and Grayson and how warm they sometimes made him even if he was sure they had to hate him so much—

He couldn’t. 

He couldn’t die. 

He cursed his selfish heart, that despite his best efforts, still craved that beautiful, comfortable warmth. 

He just wanted to feel numb again. 

He looked at his bleeding wrist, staunching the blood, and felt just an inkling of that numbness, and—

He kept doing it.

XXX

Damian was very careful after that first time. He never cut too deep, and “Ibn” never showed any signs of wounds nor pain (no grandson of mine will show such pathetic weakness).

(He started pulling away from Jon. He didn’t want to taint his warm-warm-light with his dark-dark-cold.)

Everything was fine.

Everything was completely under control. 

(It had to be.)

XXX

It wasn’t enough. Soon cutting didn’t seem to help, didn’t seem to bring back that blessedblessednumbness and he needed it and he didn’t understand why and he just wanted to feel that numbness one more time—

XXX

Damian got careless. 

He cut too much, and he cut too deep. He would live, but hiding them was next to impossible with the weather warming up and the humidity hanging in the air. It would be so hard for Ibn to hide them.

God, he was so tired. 

XXX

They were on patrol. Everyone was there for once. Grayson was visiting from Bludhaven, and Todd was hanging around from wherever he left to when he was globetrotting. 

His Father and his three sons, all on one patrol together. With Damian. 

He should’ve known it would be impossible to hide his wounds. 

All it took was Drake grabbing his arm to stop him from leaving. He showed pain. He cried out in pain. 

Pathetic. 

He’s an actor. He was supposed to keep to his role. No breaking character in the middle of a scene. 

Ever.

But he did. 

And now they know. 

XXX

They wouldn’t stop asking questions.

They were in the Medbay, and as they inspected and treated his wounds, they kept asking WHY and HOW and with WHAT and it's all Damian can do to keep “Ibn” up and running. 

He isn’t sure how much longer he can last. 

XXX 

It’s Todd that finally got Ibn—Damian—to break. 

Damian knew that Todd had stayed in the League for a time after being revived. He was Mother’s “pet project,” so to speak. 

He just hadn’t realized Mother talked about him to Todd during that time. 

“You know,” said Todd, his eyes sympathetic and knowing as he tried to get Damian to open up, “Talia always said you were an old soul.”

That sentence. That one blasted sentence that defined his very existence in this world. 

It broke “Ibn” to pieces. 

And shattered Damian along with it. 

XXX

Damian didn’t stop crying for hours. He was so tired, and this was just all so wrong, he didn’t want to break script, he shouldn’t, but—

He was so tired.

XXX

In the end, Damian told them.

About the Before and Now. 

About Mother and Grandfather. 

About the warm-and-cold. 

About the numbness he needed. 

About how he wanted to die, but couldn’t.

About “Ibn”.

About the grand play that was his entire life. 

About the scripts everyone and no one seemed to follow. 

He told them everything. 

XXX

They listened in silence.

Damian didn’t dare look at them. He didn’t want to risk seeing—something. Anything. He didn’t want to see what was going through their thoughts. 

He didn’t know how they would react. They never stayed on script. Why should they adhere to any kind of script at all now? 

Why expect anything good to come out of this?

He was a broken mess, a freak of nature. He was a murderous monster who was bred to feel no grief nor guilt nor sadness.

He wasn’t supposed to care.

So

WHY

D I D

H   E

?

XXX

Damian closed his eyes when he finished. He didn’t even want to chance seeing their reactions. Their rejection. Their hate. Their disgust. 

He had no mask to hide behind. 

He was already broken. 

He didn’t want the broken shards of what was left to be pulverized. 

He waited for the sounds of their rejection, of their hate, of their disgust. Scorn, anger. Something. ANYTHING. He just hoped that whatever they did, they didn’t drag it out. That they got it over with. 

Maybe then he could finally die?

“Damian.” That sound. It was his name. But it was careful. Delicate. Within it was a tone that felt so familiar. It reminded him of the warm feeling he sometimes got. He remembered hearing that tone in the Before, but… What was it? He used to know, he knew, but he couldn’t remember anymore. 

“Dami… You know we love you, right?”

What?

Love?

Him?

Damian’s eyes popped open in surprise. He didn’t understand. 

Those words. He couldn’t comprehend those words. Love?

Damian?

The one who created Ibn al Xu’ffasch?

The one who played Ibn for years? Who played him for so long he could barely remember who “Damian” was?

Who could love someone like that?

He told them so. 

Why did they look so sad? 

Why did they look so scared, so horrified, but still have that- that warmth, that emotion- that love in their eyes?

Damian didn’t understand. 

D A M I A N  D I D N ’ T  U N D E R S T A N D !

Why? 

WHY?

WHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHYWHY—?!

Damian started crying again as warm-warm-so-warm arms circled around him, encompassing him with a warmth he hadn’t felt before, not in this life.

It was like the stage lights were replaced with sunshine instead.

His ears were barraged with the sounds of endless warm-warm-warm words, saying things he thought would be impossible to attribute to him ever since he was small. 

The dead girl-now-boy.

The actor.

The creator of “Ibn”. 

The coward who hid behind a mask for over eight years. 

Damian.

All of him. Maybe, Damian thought, feeling so, so warm, he could be okay again.

Just sitting here, surrounded by this warm, warm love. 

(END)

Whoo boy. If you’re still here, thanks for reading! Lemme know what you guys think, and if you want to see more from this AU!

Now, if you excuse me, I’m gonna go read something fluffy.