Chapter Text
Damian stared at the slim strip of plastic in his hand, the faint bathroom light glinting off the glossy surface as though mocking him. Two bold pink lines burned back at him, unapologetic in their clarity, unyielding in what they declared. His breath caught in his chest, sharp and ragged, as if the very air had thickened with malice. The sterile scent of disinfectant that clung to the marble and chrome made his lungs ache with every inhale. For someone who had grown up in sanctuaries of silence—monasteries, training halls, even the cold quiet of the Batcave—this kind of suffocating stillness was unbearable.
He had taken the test almost thoughtlessly, brushing off the teasing comments from his friends who had leaned close at lunch earlier that week, smirking behind their hands.
“You’re glowing, Wayne. Maybe Kent finally got you knocked up.” The words had rolled off their tongues as if they were nothing more than a jest, a cruel little spark to see if the infamous Damian Wayne could be ruffled. He had scoffed, of course, lashing back with sharp retorts and cold looks, his pride intact. But later—when he was alone, when his chest ached with something unnamed—he had stopped at a pharmacy. Just in case.
He told himself it was ridiculous, that he was indulging nothing more than curiosity or, perhaps, his own arrogance. A Wayne could never be caught off-guard by something so… ordinary. So human.
And yet, here he was.
Seated on the cool marble floor of the penthouse bathroom, his back pressed against the cabinet, Damian’s pulse hammered so violently it drowned out every rational thought. His fingers clenched around the test until his knuckles whitened, veins straining, as though he could strangle the truth out of it. But the lines remained. Unchanging. Condemning.
Positive.
The word struck like a blade driven straight into his chest.
This wasn’t supposed to happen. Not now. Not yet. He and Jon were newly engaged, their future still an unsteady blueprint written in ink too fresh to dry. Two months into their engagement—barely enough time to let their families breathe around the news, barely enough time for Damian himself to believe he’d allowed someone that close, that permanently. Their lives had been so carefully strategized, step by step, the way Damian planned everything. Finish university, get a medical degree to become a doctor, balance the mantle of Robin with marriage, then maybe… maybe years down the line, a child. A legacy that could be prepared for. Controlled.
But this—this was chaos.
His throat tightened, his vision blurring at the edges. He had faced death more times than he could count. He had been trained to silence fear, to smother it with precision and rage. He had stood against assassins, against his own grandfather’s empire, against the endless weight of being Bruce Wayne’s son. But never—never—had he felt so fragile, so destabilized, as he did staring at that tiny strip of plastic.
Pregnant.
The word was deafening in his mind. It was not a whisper, not a soft promise. It was a roar, echoing, unrelenting.
His hand drifted unconsciously to his abdomen, pressing flat against skin that, for now, revealed nothing. A shiver ran through him. This wasn’t just a possibility—it was already real. Inside him, something had begun, and with it came a flood of emotions he had no weapon against: fear, disbelief, a strange flicker of awe he dared not name.
And then came the guilt.
Jon.
Damian squeezed his eyes shut, the weight of his fiancé’s name alone almost unbearable. How would Jon look at him? Jon, who was pure sunlight where Damian was sharpened steel. Jon, whose smile could disarm him more effectively than any blade. Jon, who had loved him through every wall, every scar, every impossible angle of his life. Would Jon see this as a miracle? Or as a mistake that would shatter everything they had so meticulously built?
A tremor shook Damian’s frame. He had never allowed himself to feel this vulnerable, not even in Jon’s arms, where he was supposed to be safest. And now—now there was no hiding.
[Metropolis — Afternoon | Close to Sunset | Summer]
Jon descended from the sky as dusk draped itself over Metropolis, the fading sunlight staining the skyline in molten hues of gold and crimson. His boots touched down lightly on a familiar alleyway, the faint scent of rain and wind clinging stubbornly to his cape. The mission had been mercifully brief—a collapsed bridge shored up with steel beams, a few terrified civilians lifted gently out of the wreckage, and no casualties, for once. It was the kind of success that left him with a quiet satisfaction humming in his chest instead of the usual adrenaline high. For the first time in days, there wasn’t another emergency pulling him away. No blaring alarms in his communicator. Just… peace.
He quickly got dressed in his civilian clothes, his suit tucked under the common clothes.
Instead of heading straight home, Jon found himself wandering toward a familiar street corner. The little bakery Damian adored sat nestled between two old brick buildings, its warm glow spilling onto the pavement like a promise. The bell above the door chimed softly as Jon stepped inside, the comforting aroma of freshly baked bread and sugar-warmed air wrapping around him like a blanket. He smiled to himself at the sight of the evening staff bustling behind the counter, a group of college-aged baristas who had grown used to seeing him duck in at odd hours.
“Evening, Jon!” one of them greeted, voice bright.
Jon returned the smile, adjusting his dress shirt so it wouldn’t expose his suit underneath. “Evening,” he said warmly, glancing over the display case. Damian’s favorites—a delicate lemon tart and those intricate almond cookies he pretended not to like but always finished first—were arranged neatly behind the glass. Jon placed an order and leaned against the counter, letting himself slow down for once. The pastries were boxed up with care, the warmth of the package seeping into his palms as if to remind him he was going home—to Damian, his fiancé—Jon stills blushes like a teenager—, his everything.
Stepping back outside, Jon’s gaze caught on a young couple across the street. They were laughing softly, hands entwined, their bodies leaning instinctively toward each other in that unconscious orbit only lovers shared. The girl’s laughter carried across the evening traffic, light and unrestrained, while her partner gazed at her with such quiet adoration that Jon felt his chest ache. Not with envy—never envy—but with a tenderness that felt almost too big for his ribcage.
He thought of Damian, sharp and soft all at once, his edges honed by a life of shadows yet softened in private moments only Jon was allowed to see. He thought of how Damian’s walls had crumbled, piece by careful piece, until Jon had been permitted to see the boy beneath the heir, the man beneath the mask. A man Jon had vowed to love until the end of time. His omega.
A smile tugged at Jon’s lips, warmth blooming in his chest like sunlight breaking through clouds. Maybe tonight could be simple. No late-night calls, no missions that tore them apart, no crises to solve. Just him and Damian, curled up on the couch with one of those foreign black-and-white films Damian claimed to watch “for study” but secretly adored. Jon could practically picture it already—Damian leaning into him, their scents tangled together, the rhythm of his fiancé’s heartbeat thrumming steady against his own. For all the chaos of their lives, those rare, golden moments of stillness felt sacred.
On a whim, Jon veered off his usual route and ducked into a small flower shop tucked between two towering office buildings. The place was dimly lit, the warm glow of string lights reflecting softly off rows of glass vases filled with color. An elderly shopkeeper, her hands mottled with age and experience, looked up and greeted him with a knowing smile. Jon inhaled deeply, the mingling scents of roses, jasmine, and fresh greenery grounding him in a way few things could. His instincts hummed in contentment. Alphas, after all, were creatures of connection, of offering, of providing.
He scanned the displays with care, his hand hovering over sunflowers, tulips, and lilies before his gaze caught on a simple bouquet of deep crimson roses threaded with delicate white jasmine blooms. Damian’s favorites—sharp elegance softened by understated beauty. Jon chose them without hesitation, a quiet satisfaction curling in his chest as the shopkeeper wrapped the bouquet in soft paper and tied it with a silk ribbon.
“Someone special?” the woman asked gently, her eyes twinkling with amusement.
“The most special,” Jon replied, and the warmth in his voice surprised even him.
He paid in cash, careful not to crush the flowers as he stepped back into the cooling evening air. The city was humming with life—traffic lights blinking lazily, conversations drifting from sidewalk cafés, the sky overhead streaked in watercolor shades of twilight. Jon adjusted the pastries in one arm, cradling the bouquet carefully in the other, and for a moment, the sheer simplicity of it all struck him. He wasn’t flying off to fight an intergalactic threat, wasn’t standing guard over some hostile city. He was just a man in love, bringing home flowers and sweets for his omega fiancé.
A low, instinctive hum of contentment resonated in his chest at the thought of Damian’s scent filling their apartment—clean steel, jasmine, and something soft only Jon could ever name. That scent was home, grounding him more than any place or fortress ever could. Tonight, he decided, would be theirs. No masks, no titles, no weight of legacy pressing down on their shoulders. Just Jon and Damian, in the quiet cocoon they’d built together.
Yeah. He was happy. On top of the world, even. For once, Jon didn’t feel like the son of Superman or an alpha burdened by expectation—he felt like a man who wanted nothing more than to go home and love his omega.
[Metropolis | Golden Palace — Afternoon | Close to Sunset]
“Dami? I’m home!” Jon’s voice carried warmly through the penthouse as he closed the door behind him, the familiar click echoing in the stillness. He shifted the bouquet of deep crimson roses and soft white jasmine carefully under his arm, their sweet fragrance mingling with the buttery aroma of pastries rising from the paper bag in his hand. He smiled to himself, imagining the way Damian’s lips would twitch upward—barely there but genuine—when presented with the sweets he pretended not to crave.
“I brought your favorite!” he called again, his voice threaded with fondness.
Silence.
Not the calm, comfortable kind that usually blanketed their home, but a hollow stillness that felt… wrong. Too heavy. Too sharp.
Jon’s steps faltered, his easy grin fading into a frown as unease crept up his spine. The penthouse was dimly lit, the fading sunset outside barely seeping through half-drawn curtains. Damian wasn’t sprawled on the leather couch with a book balanced on his knee. There was no soft hum of music from the speakers, no dry remark about Jon being late or tracking city grime onto the polished floors. The air felt suspended, thick with something he couldn’t quite place.
“Damian?” His voice dipped lower, sharper, the shift instinctive.
He set the flowers and pastries down gently on the kitchen counter, his hands moving with deliberate care despite the quickening rhythm of his heart. His instincts were stirring now—alpha instincts sharpened by years of battle and training, instincts that screamed find him. Jon moved through the hall, scanning every shadow and doorway, every subtle scent marker Damian had left. The familiar undertone of rare jasmine and steel that always anchored him was there, but… off. Brittle. Shaken. Like glass shattered beneath bare feet.
Jon’s pulse roared in his ears as he followed the faint thread of Damian’s scent down the hall. It led him to the bathroom. The door was ajar, a narrow slice of pale light bleeding onto the polished hardwood floor. His breath hitched.
“Damian,” Jon whispered this time, his voice tight with dread.
The moment he pushed the door open, the smell of Damian’s distress slammed into him like a physical blow—sharp, acidic, and layered with fear. His omega’s scent was usually so steady, a grounding tether that kept Jon’s instincts in check. Now it was a storm, frantic and brittle.
And then he saw him.
Damian sat perched on the closed lid of the toilet, his back rigid, shoulders drawn tight like a bowstring. His dark hair shadowed his face, but Jon didn’t need to see his eyes to know something was wrong. His fiancé’s pallor was ashen, his posture locked in unnatural stillness, his breath shallow and uneven. In his hand, Damian gripped a small, white plastic object so tightly his knuckles had gone bone-white.
Jon’s heart clenched painfully.
“Dami.” His voice cracked on the single syllable, panic bubbling up in his throat. He crossed the small room in two strides, dropping to his knees in front of him. “Hey, hey, I’m here.”
He cupped Damian’s face in his large, calloused hands, forcing himself to move gently even as his instincts screamed to protect, shield, fix. His thumbs traced soothing arcs along Damian’s sharp cheekbones, the touch feather-light. “Babe, you’re shaking,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with worry. “What’s wrong? Talk to me.”
Damian’s lips parted like he wanted to speak, but no sound came out. His hand trembled violently, fingers tightening around the test like it was the only thing keeping him tethered.
Jon’s gaze flicked to the object briefly, but the sight didn’t register. Not yet. All he saw was his omega—his Damian—looking utterly fragile, and it shattered something deep in his chest.
“Hey,” Jon murmured again, softer now, like speaking too loudly might break him. His scent instinctively deepened, rich and warm, filling the small bathroom in an unconscious attempt to soothe. “You’re okay. You’re safe. I’m here.”
Damian’s breath hitched, his head lowering ever so slightly as though the weight of Jon’s reassurance was the only thing holding him together. Jon didn’t press for answers. He didn’t demand an explanation or reach for the object in Damian’s hand. None of that mattered. Not right now.
With a gentleness that belied his size, Jon pulled Damian forward, cradling him against his chest. Damian resisted for only a heartbeat before sagging into his arms, his trembling frame fitting perfectly against Jon’s broad shoulders. Jon wrapped himself around him like a shield, his hands splayed over Damian’s back, his nose pressed to his dark hair, breathing him in. He could feel Damian’s heartbeat pounding against his own ribs, frantic and uneven.
“I’ve got you,” Jon whispered fiercely, his voice thick with emotion. His alpha instincts were roaring now, a primal, bone-deep urge to protect, to comfort, to anchor. He pressed soft kisses to Damian’s temple, to the crown of his head, murmuring quiet reassurances between each breath. “I’m here."
The scent of Damian’s fear still hung heavy in the air, but beneath it, Jon could feel the slightest shift—a faint unraveling of tension, like a bowstring loosening. Damian clung to him, fingers curling in the fabric of his shirt, silent but holding on like Jon was the only safe thing in the world.
And Jon was. He’d be that for Damian always.
Damian’s breath trembled against Jon’s chest, his body rigid in his love's embrace. Every line of him screamed restraint—control fraying at the seams. For a moment, it felt like he couldn’t speak. The words were trapped, sharp and cutting, slicing at his throat with every shallow inhale.
And then, in a voice so soft Jon almost missed it, Damian whispered, “Jon…I think I—I’m pregnant.”
The words hung in the air like a bell tolling in an empty cathedral.
Jon froze. His heartbeat stuttered, his world narrowing until all he could feel was the slight tremor running through Damian’s body. The bathroom, the city, the universe—all of it fell away in a single breath, leaving only this truth suspended between them.
He leaned back just enough to see Damian’s face. Damian’s striking green eyes—eyes that never faltered, never showed fear even in battle—were glassy now, rimmed with tears he was trying so hard to hold back. His lips were pressed into a tight line, his fingers clenched in Jon’s shirt like a lifeline.
“I didn’t know,” Damian said hoarsely, his voice cracking like thin ice. “I didn’t realize. I should’ve—” He swallowed, his breath hitching. “I should’ve seen the signs, but I didn’t. And now—” A sob broke free, sharp and ragged. “Now I’ve ruined everything. We’re not even married yet, and I… I didn’t plan this. I wasn’t careful. I—”
“Hey.” Jon’s voice was firm but impossibly gentle as he cupped Damian’s face again, brushing his thumbs beneath his lashes to catch the tears that finally fell. “Stop. Damian, breathe.”
But Damian shook his head fiercely, words tumbling out faster than he could rein them in. “What if I’m not good at this? What if I hurt them? Please don't be angry? Or—or disappointed. I don't want to ruin everything you wanted for us.”
Jon’s breath left him in a soft, incredulous laugh, so full of love it almost broke him. He pressed his forehead to Damian’s, eyes closing as his scent deepened instinctively, warm and grounding, filling the small space with his devotion.
“Angry?” Jon whispered, his voice trembling with awe. “Damian, I’m not angry. I’m…” He stopped, a shaky smile tugging at his lips, so wide and genuine it hurt. “God, Damian. I’m so happy.”
Damian blinked at him, stunned, tears clinging to his lashes.
“We’re going to be parents,” Jon said, his voice soft with reverence, like he was tasting the words for the first time. He kissed Damian’s forehead tenderly, his large hands framing his fiancé’s face as if holding something sacred. “Do you have any idea how much I love you? How much I already love this baby?” His voice cracked, rich with emotion. “I don’t care that it wasn’t planned. I don’t care about any of that. This is… Damian, this is the best thing that’s ever happened to me.”
The words broke something open inside Damian, a dam holding back fear and doubt that finally cracked beneath Jon’s warmth. His lips trembled as a sob escaped him—not one of fear this time, but release.
Jon let out another soft laugh, unrestrained joy bubbling up like champagne. He pulled Damian fully into his arms and spun him, just enough to make Damian gasp in startled protest. Jon didn’t care. He couldn’t hold back. He was glowing, radiant, overwhelmed. “I’m going to be a dad,” he murmured in disbelief, his voice full of wonder. Then, louder, brighter, “We’re going to be parents!”
Damian buried his face in Jon’s neck, overwhelmed by the sheer force of his fiancé’s joy. The alpha’s scent surrounded him like sunlight, rich and warm, drowning out the lingering bitterness of fear. Jon’s hands cradled him like he was something precious, untouchable.
“I’m trying to be calm,” Jon whispered against his hair, his breath shaky with laughter. “I swear I’m trying. But right now? Right now, I just want to explode. Damian, you’ve given me the best surprise of my life.”
Damian smiled and was about to give his alpha a kiss before Jon suddenly fixed his carry in a bridal style. "This place is too cold, you need to be somewhere warm."
Jon carried Damian out of the bathroom like he was holding something fragile, his arms secure but gentle, as if Damian might shatter with a single wrong move. Damian’s annoyed huffs did nothing to slow him down. If anything, Jon only tightened his hold, his jaw set with stubborn determination.
“Jon, I can walk,” Damian snapped, his voice sharp but weakened by the faint tremor still lingering in his tone. His arms were crossed tightly over his chest, his expression caught somewhere between indignation and embarrassment.
Jon ignored him entirely, striding into the living room with careful steps like each one mattered. “Not taking any chances,” he murmured, his voice soft but unyielding. He lowered Damian onto the couch with reverence, crouching in front of him as though he were assessing a priceless artifact that had been entrusted to his care(Bruce did give him his blessing and only omega).
With careful precision, Jon plucked a throw pillow from the couch and tucked it behind Damian’s back, fussing with it until he was satisfied. “There,” he murmured. “Comfortable.” His sharp blue eyes scanned Damian critically, as if checking for injuries no one else could see. “No sudden movements. You want water? Tea? Warm milk? Should I call your doctor? No, wait, we need a doctor’s appointment. I’ll book one right now.” He was already fishing for his phone, his mind spinning through logistics at superspeed.
Damian closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Jonathan.”
Jon froze mid-scroll, looking up like a chastised puppy. “Too much?” he asked sheepishly.
Damian cracked one eye open, his expression flat. “You’re treating me like porcelain.”
Jon’s brow furrowed as he set the phone aside, leaning forward on his knees. His voice was low but firm when he said, “Because you are porcelain. Porcelain carrying the most important person in the world.” There wasn’t a shred of humor in his tone. He meant every word. “I’m not letting you stress, or lift a finger, or—”
“—or breathe without your supervision?” Damian cut in dryly, an eyebrow arched.
Jon’s grin broke through like sunlight. “Exactly.”
Damian’s glare was sharp, but Jon had never been afraid of Damian’s glares. He reached up, his large hand cupping Damian’s face with tender reverence, thumb brushing over his sharp cheekbone—Damian leaned against it and let out a soft purr. “Stressing is bad for the baby,” Jon murmured, his voice dipping into a warm, soothing rumble. “And for the mommy.”
Damian’s eyes narrowed dangerously, a spark of fire returning to his gaze, his purr stoping. “Call me that again, Kent.”
Jon smirked, leaning closer. “Mommy.”
Damian’s fist connected with Jon’s shoulder—not enough to hurt him, but enough to make Jon throw his head back and laugh, his whole body shaking with it. The sound filled the penthouse, rich and warm, chasing away the last remnants of fear that had been choking the air moments ago.
“You’re insufferable,” Damian muttered, but his voice lacked its usual bite.
“Insufferably in love with you,” Jon teased, his grin softening into something almost reverent. He leaned in, pressing a kiss to Damian’s forehead and lingering there, breathing in his scent—sharp steel, jasmine, coconuts and a new, faint sweetness that made Jon’s instincts swell with awe. Resting his chin atop Damian’s head, Jon whispered, “Sorry, but you’re stuck with me. Both of you are.”
The stubborn omega let out a sigh, but Jon didn’t miss the way his shoulders loosened, the way the tension in his frame eased under the weight of Jon’s presence. He could feel Jon’s excitement radiating off him like sunlight, warm and unwavering, wrapping around him like armor. For all Jon’s fussing and ridiculousness, Damian felt… safe. Protected. Anchored.
Without thinking, Damian’s hand drifted down to his stomach, his palm pressing lightly against the flat plane of it. Jon noticed instantly, of course—he always did—and gently covered Damian’s hand with his own, his large fingers lacing between Damian’s smaller ones. Jon’s gaze softened, his thumb rubbing soothing circles over Damian’s knuckles.
Damian’s lips quirked upward, almost against his will. I really did get engaged to this man, he thought wryly, though warmth coiled in his chest like a fire that wouldn’t go out. Against all odds, the thought didn’t scare him. Not anymore.
[Gotham | Wayne Manor — Midday | Summer]
The smell of grilled ribs and smoked vegetables drifted lazily through Wayne Manor’s backyard, mingling with bursts of laughter and the rhythmic sizzle of the barbecue. Sunlight glinted off lemonade glasses and picnic tables piled high with Alfred’s cooking, while Clark stood beside the grill, swapping family recipes with the butler like they were old war generals exchanging battle strategies.
It wasn’t often the Waynes and Kents gathered like this. Bruce had been… surprisingly agreeable about hosting, and Jon was positively thriving—an arm looped around Damian’s shoulders, smile brighter than the afternoon sun. Damian, ever the picture of composure, sat with a posture as sharp as his jawline, looking entirely unbothered despite carrying a secret big enough to blow this entire gathering to kingdom come.
“Alright,” Tim groaned, flopping into a lawn chair with his lemonade. “We’re bored. Somebody entertain us before I start live-tweeting Alfred’s grilling techniques.”
“Two truths and a lie,” Steph offered, grinning as she popped a chip in her mouth. “Classic party starter.”
“Make it two lies, one truth,” Damian said suddenly, his tone mild, his expression unreadable—but there was that telltale glint in his eyes.
The table stilled just slightly. Everyone knew that look.
"I'll go first then!" Kon added, smirking as he pondered, a finger in his chin.
"I'm the most good-looking hero—
"Lie," Almost everyone said in unison but Kon just shrugged. "I'm Superman."
"Lie"
"In your dreams," Steph muttered, leaning her head on Cass's shoulder.
"I am married to both Tim and Bernard."
"Booo..." Tim cooed, rolling his eyes. Kon shot him a glare then whined.
"Oh c'mon, Tim. Just because I didn't wash the dishes yesterday, doesn't mean I want a divorce."
"Good thing Bernard was there to clean the house and bake for us."
That escalated to another hush argument but there was no real heat between beta and alpha.
“I’ll go next,” Damian interjected. Jon tried and failed to hide a grin behind his soda can. He already knew what was coming.
Damian crossed his arms, his voice even and crisp as he began. “Number one: I once outran the Flash in a training exercise.”
“Lie,” Dick called instantly, chuckling.
Damian’s mouth quirked faintly. “Number two: I’ve memorized the weaknesses of every single person in this backyard.”
“Not even a game,” Jason muttered, rolling his eyes.
Damian leaned back, face calm as still water. “Number three: I’m pregnant.”
Silence.
Then—
“Lie!” Tim barked, pointing his lemonade at Damian like it was evidence.
“Obviously a lie,” Jason scoffed, grabbing another rib. “Good one, Demon Brat.”
“Wait,” Barbara said, blinking. “That one was weirdly specific—”
“No way,” Steph said, laughing nervously. “Right? That’s definitely the lie.”
“Pretty sure outrunning the Flash is impossible,” Duke added.
“No, no, I want to know about number two!” Jason interjected, stabbing his rib in Damian’s direction. “Is that one the truth? Did you make a freaking list on us?!”
Across the table, Kon-El’s expression shifted from amused skepticism to growing horror. His finger trembled as he pointed straight at Damian. “You’re not serious.”
Damian didn’t so much as blink. “I will not confirm or deny such a thing.”
The world paused. You could hear Alfred’s tongs clink against the grill.
Then—
“WHAT?!”
The chorus of disbelief exploded in perfect Wayne-family harmony. Jason choked on his drink. Tim fumbled his phone. Steph slapped her hands over her mouth. Even Clark turned from the grill, his jaw practically unhinged, while Bruce froze mid-step, his coffee mug clutched tight enough to crack.
“You’re pregnant?!” Kon repeated, his voice cracking as he looked between Damian and Jon like someone had skipped half the chapters in this story.
Jon, glowing brighter than the sunlight, tightened his arm around Damian’s waist. “Four weeks now,” he said proudly, beaming.
The backyard erupted.
Jason swore loudly, Duke paused his eating—disgusting(Who eats a whole barbecue in one bite), and Dick was already on his feet, ready to smother them both in a hug. Clark crossed the yard in a blur, tears in his eyes, while Bruce… Bruce simply stood there, stoic as a statue, though his white-knuckled grip on his mug said enough.
Damian, perfectly composed amidst the storm, allowed himself the faintest smirk. “Took you all long enough,” he muttered, though his lips curled softly when Jon pressed a kiss to his hair.
The backyard was absolute chaos.
“YOU’RE PREGNANT?!” Jason’s voice cut through the summer air like a gunshot, dripping with disbelief as he pointed an accusatory rib in one hand and sloshed his drink in the other. He looked like he needed props to properly convey the depth of his outrage. “No, no, no—who let this happen? Who signed off on this?!”
“I’m engaged to him,” Jon said proudly, voice steady even as his heart thrummed with excitement. He tightened his arm around Damian’s waist in a protective gesture, like daring anyone to question it further. Damian, for his part, stood stiff and unmoving in his embrace, his expression cool as ever, though Jon could feel the subtle tension in his muscles.
“That’s not an answer, Kent!” Jason barked, stabbing the rib in Jon’s direction like a weapon. “You—you—got our baby brother knocked up!"
“He’s older than me!” Jon shot back, voice raised but still somehow sunny, like this was all part of a game he was already winning.
“Not the point!”
Jon grinned. He’d expected chaos, sure, but this level of dramatic disbelief was almost comforting. It meant they cared. And he was happy—so happy—that he couldn’t even be embarrassed about it.
Kon, however, seemed locked in a complete system crash. The older Superboy stood frozen with his mouth hanging open, one trembling finger leveled at Damian as if pointing at him would somehow make this less shocking. “You’re serious? You’re actually pregnant?!” His voice cracked in a way Jon hadn’t heard since he was thirteen. “I thought—God, I thought that was a joke! Oh my gosh. I never new our infamous demonic omega is gonna be a momm—"
Damian’s glare sharpened like a blade. “Say ‘mommy’ and you’ll regret ever being born, Kon-El.” His voice was icy, quiet, and terrifying in the way only Damian could manage.
“Hey, don’t threaten the baby’s uncle,” Jon teased, pressing a kiss to Damian’s cheek. Damian didn’t flinch, which Jon counted as a victory.
“Jonathan.” Damian’s voice was sharp enough to cut glass, but Jon just grinned against his hairline, unbothered by the warning.
“Aw, look at you, Damian,” Steph cooed from across the table, her tone dripping with mischief. “Finally gonna be a mommy.”
Damian exhaled through his nose like a bull about to charge. “I hate all of you,” he said flatly, arms crossing over his chest.
“Mommy Wayne!” Duke called out gleefully, and that was all it took to send Jason doubling over in laughter, his drink nearly spilling onto the patio.
Damian’s fists curled. “If one more person calls me that, I swear—”
“—you’ll what, Mommy?” Jason wheezed between cackles, tears streaming down his face.
The punch came so fast Jason didn’t even have time to dodge. He toppled backward, clutching his arm, but even through the pain, he was laughing.
“Worth it!” Jason declared, wheezing as Steph howled with laughter from her seat.
Jon fought to suppress his own laugh, instead slipping a hand over Damian’s, thumb brushing gently over his knuckles. He wasn’t sure if Damian noticed, but he liked the idea of grounding him, reminding him he wasn’t alone in this chaos.
Amid the teasing, Dick stepped forward, his smile soft and warm. He didn’t join in on the jokes, didn’t add to the noise. Instead, he swept both Jon and Damian into a firm embrace. His arms were strong and steady, the kind of hug that felt like home.
“I’m so proud of you guys,” Dick murmured, his voice thick with emotion. His eyes glistened, catching the warm glow of the porch lights strung across the yard. “You’re going to be amazing parents.”
“Thanks, Dick,” Jon said, hugging him back with equal warmth. Damian, predictably, grumbled something under his breath but didn’t pull away.
Across the yard, Clark had abandoned all semblance of composure. His broad shoulders shook as he wrapped Jon in a crushing hug, practically lifting him off his feet. “I’m so proud of you, son,” he said, voice hoarse with emotion.
Jon squeezed him tightly, feeling a strange mix of nostalgia and awe. Clark had always been strong, larger than life, but in this moment, he felt small under his father’s overwhelming pride. Clark crouched down to meet Damian’s level, his smile soft and welcoming.
“And you too, Damian,” Clark said warmly. “Welcome to parenthood.”
Damian, to Jon’s surprise, inclined his head politely. “Thank you, Clark.” It wasn’t warm, but it was sincere.
And then there was Bruce.
He stood at the edge of the scene, coffee mug still in hand, silent as the rest of his chaotic family swirled around him. His piercing gaze was unreadable, the kind of look that had made hardened criminals quake in their boots. Damian straightened immediately, chin tilting up in defiance—or maybe just instinct.
“Father,” Damian greeted, voice calm but clipped.
Bruce blinked slowly, setting his mug down on the patio table with a soft clink. He stepped forward with deliberate, steady movements, his presence commanding quiet even without a word. When he reached them, he rested a heavy hand on Damian’s shoulder.
“I’m proud of you, son,” Bruce said softly, and the world seemed to still.
Damian blinked, startled by the warmth in his father’s tone. He had expected judgment, or at least a lecture. Not…this.
“You’ll be a better parent than I ever was,” Bruce added quietly, certainty ringing in every syllable.
Damian’s lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Jon, sensing the moment’s weight, grinned to cut the tension. “We’re naming the baby after him.”
“We are not," Damian hissed, elbowing him sharply.
“Fine, fine, middle name,” Jon said, laughing under his breath.
“Middle name’s Alfred,” Damian said without missing a beat.
From the grill, Alfred raised one refined eyebrow, his expression unreadable save for the faint glimmer of pride in his eyes. “An excellent choice, Master Damian.”
Laughter rippled through the yard, a soft undercurrent of warmth beneath the chaos. Jason was still groaning dramatically about his arm, Steph was wiping tears from her eyes, and Kon was muttering under his breath about how Damian being pregnant was somehow scarier than Damian with a sword.
Jon, however, didn’t join in the teasing. His grin was softer now, more private, his hand resting protectively over Damian’s on his stomach. He could feel the steady thrum of Damian’s heartbeat beneath his palm, strong and unwavering.
Damian leaned against him with a sigh, letting the noise and laughter wash over them. His expression didn’t change, but Jon could feel it—could feel that rare, quiet sense of peace settling over him.
This is my family, Damian thought begrudgingly. This will only make our relationship permanent.
Jon glanced down at him, and their eyes met for a fleeting moment. Damian’s scowl softened, just a fraction, and Jon felt something swell in his chest—something fierce and protective and overflowing with love.
Despite the teasing, despite the chaos and laughter that rang through the backyard, Jon knew this moment would be burned into his memory forever. Because here, under strings of warm lights and the smell of barbecue, surrounded by family that teased but loved fiercely, Damian allowed himself a rare moment of peace.
And Jon vowed, with every beat of his heart, to protect that peace for the rest of their lives.
[Metropolis — Morning | Summer]
Damian tugged at the edge of the soft fleece blanket that Jon had so meticulously tucked around him, his emerald-green eyes narrowed in flat disapproval. The neck pillow, which Jon had all but demanded he wear, rested snugly against his throat like a collar of absurd luxury. He felt utterly ridiculous, a prince swaddled like a child.
Meanwhile, Jon crouched in front of him, completely focused on adjusting the seatbelt across Damian’s lap for what must have been the fifth time in ten minutes. His hands moved carefully, reverently, as if every buckle and strap was part of an intricate ritual designed to keep Damian safe.
“Jon,” Damian said at last, his clipped tone betraying his irritation. “This is bordering on theatrical.”
Jon glanced up at him, expression open and utterly earnest, his blue eyes soft with concern. “What’s theatrical is letting my pregnant fiancé go to a doctor’s appointment without maximum comfort.”
Damian arched an unimpressed brow. “Jonathan, it’s merely an ultrasound, not a battlefield extraction.”
Jon straightened, his jaw setting stubbornly. “Exactly why I’m not taking any chances. Neck pillow’s secure? Seatbelt’s not too tight? Blanket too thin? Damnit, autumn is near."
“Jonathan.”
“What about your back? Should I grab another pillow?”
Damian exhaled sharply through his nose. “I am a doctor, you imbecile. If anything were wrong, I’d know before they would.”
Jon reached up and cupped Damian’s jaw, his thumb grazing along his mate’s sharp cheekbone with disarming tenderness. “Not while you’re pregnant you won’t,” he murmured, leaning closer. “You deserve to be cared for. Let someone else carry that weight for once.”
“I am perfectly capable of—”
The rest of his sentence was swallowed when Jon leaned in and kissed him gently, effectively silencing his retort. “Let me fuss over you, Dami,” Jon whispered against his lips, his voice thick with warmth and quiet pleading. “Just this once.”
Damian’s irritation softened imperceptibly, though he didn’t give Jon the satisfaction of a verbal response. He allowed the taller Alpha to secure him into the backseat, his scent curling protectively around Damian like the warm embrace of sunlight. By the time Jon was behind the wheel, Damian felt less like a grown man and more like a heavily swaddled hostage.
---
The drive to the clinic was peaceful, though Jon’s constant glances in his direction were maddeningly frequent. Damian endured the trip in stoic silence, hands folded over his stomach as though guarding the secret nestled beneath his skin. Jon, meanwhile, carried everything—Damian’s medical folder, bottled water, snacks, supplements, and, to Damian’s utter mortification, a small travel pillow that Jon tucked under his arm as they entered the clinic.
“Jonathan,” Damian muttered under his breath, his voice icy enough to freeze over the check-in counter.
Jon, undeterred, signed Damian’s name on the clipboard, his free hand sliding instinctively to rest on the small of Damian’s back. “What? I’m prepared.”
Damian’s only response was a mutinous glare as he adjusted the blanket draped over his shoulders, settling into the waiting room chair with the poise of royalty.
Jon sat beside him, intertwining their fingers. “You’re treating me like I’m ridiculous,” Jon teased softly, leaning close enough for only Damian to hear. “But you’re carrying the most important person in the world, remember? Well—two of you, technically.”
Damian stiffened, heat creeping up the back of his neck at the sentiment. Two heartbeats. It still felt surreal. His hand drifted almost unconsciously toward his abdomen, fingertips pressing lightly against the swell that wasn’t visible yet but was undeniably there.
Jon’s gaze softened as he watched the motion, leaning over to kiss Damian’s cheek. “Promise me you’ll let the doctor do their thing today,” Jon murmured. “And… maybe not criticize their technique?”
Damian shot him a look sharp enough to cut steel. “If their technique is flawed—”
“Damian.”
A long-suffering sigh. “…Fine. If only to spare myself your incessant fretting.”
Jon grinned, pressing another kiss to Damian’s knuckles as the nurse called their names. He practically leapt to his feet, guiding Damian with gentle hands as though every step were treacherous. Damian tolerated it with an unimpressed scowl, though he didn’t shake him off.
The examination room was softly lit, warm and faintly sterile. The gentle hum of medical equipment filled the silence, mingling with the faint trace of antiseptic in the air. Damian sat on the edge of the padded table with the same practiced grace he used to perch on rooftops, lifting his shirt slightly as the doctor—a calm omega, middle-aged woman with kind eyes—entered with a reassuring smile.
“Good afternoon,” she greeted warmly. “Damian Wayne?”
“Yes,” Damian replied smoothly, his voice clipped but polite.
“And this must be Jonathan Kent,” she said, shaking Jon’s hand as he stepped forward with boyish eagerness. “I’ve reviewed your file. Congratulations to you both.”
Jon beamed, his hand still resting on Damian’s shoulder. “Thank you, Doctor.”
She moved to the counter, snapping on gloves as she spoke. “We’ll do a standard ultrasound today, check the baby’s growth and heartbeat. Since this is your first official scan, it may take a little while. Are you experiencing any discomfort?”
“None,” Damian replied curtly.
“No nausea? Dizziness? Sensitivity to scent or noise?”
Jon snorted softly. “He glares at me when I breathe too loud, does that count?”
Damian elbowed him sharply in the ribs, but the doctor chuckled. “That’s perfectly normal. Omegas often experience heightened sensory changes during early pregnancy. Your records show you’re at roughly twelve weeks, correct?”
“Approximately,” Damian said, his voice steady.
“Excellent. We’ll take some measurements and listen for the heartbeat. Jonathan, would you like to stand closer? You’ll be able to see the screen better.”
Jon nodded immediately, stepping closer to Damian’s side and taking his hand. Damian allowed it, his fingers curling around Jon’s with unconscious trust.
“This might be a little cold,” the doctor warned gently, squeezing gel onto Damian’s lower abdomen. Damian flinched only slightly as the ultrasound wand pressed lightly against his skin, his expression stoic.
Then the machine whirred softly, and the screen came to life.
Jon’s breath caught audibly, his bright aegean eyes fixed on the grainy image. His grip on Damian’s hand tightened as if to anchor himself.
“There,” the doctor murmured, her voice softening. “Do you see that little bean?” She pointed to a tiny, flickering shape on the screen. “That’s your baby.”
Jon’s throat worked as he tried to speak, his voice breaking on the words. “They’re… beautiful,” he whispered, his chest tightening with an emotion so strong it was almost painful. “Damian… that’s our baby.”
Damian turned his head away slightly, blinking rapidly. “Obviously,” he muttered, but his voice was rougher than usual, betraying him.
The doctor smiled knowingly. “Strong heartbeat. That’s exactly what we want to see at this stage.” She glanced at Damian. “Everything looks healthy. Would you like to hear the heartbeat?”
Jon nodded eagerly, his hand trembling slightly in Damian’s. The sound filled the room—quick, steady, rhythmic. The echo of new life.
Jon swallowed hard, tears pricking his eyes. “That’s…them.”
Damian’s lips quirked in the faintest smile, though his gaze remained fixed on the screen. He didn’t trust himself to speak.
For the first time in years, Damian felt utterly unguarded. Vulnerable, yes, but not afraid. Jon’s scent was everywhere, warm and steady, a balm to his frayed nerves. Maybe, Damian thought, Jon was right. Maybe—for once—he could let someone else care for him.
Jon bent and pressed a trembling kiss to Damian’s temple, whispering so softly that only Damian could hear: “I’ll protect both of you. Always.”
And for once, Damian didn’t argue.
[Metropolis — Evening | Autumn]
By the time Damian hit five months, his body had officially betrayed him.
The shift had been subtle at first—a slight tightness at his waistline, a tug of discomfort when he tried to button his shirts—but now there was no denying the gentle swell of his belly, a soft curve that refused to be hidden beneath his usual sharp, form-fitting attire. Damian Wayne was not an omega prone to vanity, but it was deeply unsettling to see his own body transformed, his reflection reshaped by the quiet presence of the life growing inside him. Steph had teased him mercilessly the first time he wore one of Jon’s oversized sweaters, calling him “almost cozy” in a sing-song voice. Damian had retaliated with a glare sharp enough to cut glass, but she wasn’t entirely wrong. The sweaters, the looser button-ups, the drawstring pants that replaced his favored slacks—none of it was him. None of it felt like the Wayne who had spent his life razor-edged and disciplined, perfectly in control of every movement, every breath.
Yet here he was. Softened. Changed.
Jon’s hands, always warm and steady, seemed to gravitate toward his belly at every opportunity. Whether they were in public or at home, talking about the weather or curled up together in silence, Jon’s palm would settle over his bump with an instinctive tenderness that made Damian flush every time. He hated the way it made him feel vulnerable. He hated that Jon’s touch made him want to melt into him.
Worse than the clothes, though, was the unpredictability of his body. Damian was no stranger to pain; he had trained through bruises, broken ribs, and concussions, pushing past exhaustion with the unyielding resolve of a warrior. But this… this was different. This was his body rebelling against him. The child he carried—quarter Kryptonian, rest Human—possessed energy that sometimes surged through him in unpredictable waves, leaving him lightheaded or nauseous with no warning. It wasn’t weakness—Damian refused to call it that. It was simply… new. And he hated new.
That evening was no exception. The penthouse was quiet, dimly lit with only the soft flicker of a muted TV show playing in the background. Damian was curled up on the couch, an arm wrapped protectively around his stomach as he breathed through a slow, rolling wave of nausea. He didn’t call for Jon. He doesn't need to. Damian Wayne does not ask for comfort.
He didn’t have to. Jon was there within seconds.
“Dami?” Jon’s voice was low and careful, threaded with concern as he knelt beside the couch. His presence was like a warm sunbeam, familiar and grounding. “You feeling sick again?”
Damian opened one eye and leveled him with a flat look. “It’s fine. Bearable.”
Jon frowned, pressing a hand against his bump with feather-light gentleness, as though afraid he’d hurt him. “You know, ‘bearable’ isn’t the reassurance you think it is.” He leaned down, thumb tracing soothing circles over the soft fabric of Damian’s sweater. His voice softened, his focus shifting. “Hey, baby bean. Can you take it easy on your mama, please?”
Damian huffed, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Are you… negotiating with our unborn child?”
Jon ignored him, his expression earnest as he bent closer to Damian’s stomach, speaking as if their child could hear him—and maybe they could. Omegas often said babies recognized their parents’ voices long before they were born. “You’re strong, huh? Strong like your mom. But you gotta be nice to him, okay? He’s been through enough without you using his organs for martial arts practice.”
Damian’s lips twitched despite himself. “You’re ridiculous.”
Jon gasped theatrically, pressing his ear against Damian’s stomach like he was eavesdropping. “Did you hear that, little bean? Your mama just called me ridiculous. That’s not very nice.”
“They can’t hear you yet, Jonathan.”
“Yes, they can,” Jon whispered with unwavering conviction, kissing Damian’s bump softly. “They already know their dad’s voice. Don’t you, little one?”
Damian sighed, exasperation poorly disguising the warmth creeping into his chest. He let his fingers drift through Jon’s dark hair, carding through soft curls in a gesture that betrayed his fondness. “You’re going to spoil them rotten.”
“Obviously.” Jon grinned, though his eyes were soft with awe as he looked up at Damian. He rested his chin on Damian’s thigh, his large hand still spread protectively over the swell of his stomach. “But seriously… thank you. For doing this.”
Damian blinked, startled by the sincerity in his voice. Jon wasn’t teasing now. His gaze was steady, reverent. “You’re amazing, Damian.”
A lump formed in Damian’s throat, unexpected and unwelcome. He cupped Jon’s cheek with a cool hand, masking his emotions with a familiar deadpan. “Flattery won’t make me stop training once I’m cleared for it again. I hate being fat."
Jon chuckled, leaning down to press another kiss to his stomach, lingering there. “Hear that, baby? Mom’s already plotting how to kick my butt again.”
“Jon,” Damian warned, though his voice had softened, his sharpness blunted by warmth.
Jon just smiled against his belly, wrapping his arms around Damian’s waist and resting his head against him, humming softly like he was serenading both Damian and their unborn child. The hum was low and soothing, a melody Damian didn’t recognize but instinctively found comforting.
Moments like this—the intimacy, the absurdity, the softness—were foreign to him. Damian had been raised with discipline, expectation, and control. Love was something he had fought for, not something freely given. Yet here Jon was, sprawled at his side like a lovesick fool, whispering to the child they had created together as if they were already a part of their world.
For all his fears—about parenthood, about vulnerability, about what it meant to bring a life into a world like theirs—Damian realized this was the kind of moment he’d secretly wanted all his life. Quiet. Gentle. Ridiculous. Safe.
And now, they were his.
[Metropolis | Metropolis General Hospital — Afternoon | Winter]
The clinic room felt far too small for the number of bodies crammed inside it. Damian had been adamant that this appointment was meant to be private—that only Jon should come along—but somehow that resolve had evaporated the moment Bruce, Dick, Steph, and Lois appeared like a perfectly synchronized stealth team, their presence impossible to deny. Damian now lay reclined on the examination table, his head resting stiffly against the paper-covered cushion. One hand hovered protectively over the slight swell of his stomach, his posture betraying the tension he was trying so hard to mask.
Jon was glued to his side, perched on the edge of the chair closest to the table, his fingers threaded tightly through Damian’s. His other hand rested lightly against Damian’s arm, his thumb brushing soothing patterns against his skin. He couldn’t stop smiling—no, beaming—a grin so bright and unrestrained that it almost rivaled the soft glow of the ultrasound monitor. His heart was hammering wildly in his chest, every muscle in his body buzzing with anticipation.
Lois sat nearby, practically vibrating with controlled excitement, her hands folded neatly in her lap though her eyes shone with genuine warmth. Beside her, Stephanie was leaning forward in her chair, phone in hand—not recording, of course. Damian had threatened her within an inch of her life should she even think about filming this moment. Steph had merely smirked, claiming she would “document it in her mind for future blackmail material,” which earned her a withering glare that had only made her grin wider.
Dick was leaning casually against the wall, arms crossed, his expression soft with genuine warmth. He looked like he might burst from pride. And Bruce… Bruce stood in the corner, silent, looming as always, arms folded across his chest, a shadow of a man who could fill the room without saying a word. He didn’t need to speak—his watchful eyes missed nothing, and there was a subtle shift in his features that only those who knew him well could read.
“Alright,” the doctor’s voice broke through the thick anticipation, calm but carrying a hint of warmth. She adjusted the ultrasound wand and glanced at Damian. “Are you ready to find out the gender?”
Jon’s grip on Damian’s hand tightened instinctively, his thumb brushing across Damian’s knuckles. He felt the tension in Damian’s hand, the slight tremor he tried to hide, and Jon’s heart ached with how much he loved him in this moment. Damian gave a curt nod, sharp and efficient, but Jon could feel the faint quickening of his pulse.
The doctor smiled gently and turned the screen slightly so that both of them—and their entire audience—could see. Her finger traced over the blurred grayscale image, the heartbeat echoing faintly in the background. “Congratulations,” she said softly. “It’s a girl.”
Steph was the first to react, her squeal cutting through the room like fireworks. “A girl?!” she practically shouted, bouncing in her seat. “Oh my God, Damian, you’re going to have a girl-you!”
Jon’s laughter came out loud and unrestrained, so full of pure, overwhelming joy that even Damian flinched in surprise. “A girl." Jon repeated, his voice cracking slightly as his eyes welled. He turned to Damian, his grin impossibly wide. “Damian, she’s perfect.” He bent forward, unable to stop himself from pressing a tender kiss against Damian’s cheek. His hand trembled as he brushed his thumb over Damian’s knuckles, overcome by a tidal wave of emotion.
Lois let out a soft gasp, her hand covering her mouth as her eyes glistened with tears. “Oh, Clark is going to cry when he hears this,” she whispered, her voice thick with emotion. “My granddaughter…” Her gaze shifted to Damian, her expression softening into something deeply maternal. “She’s going to be so loved, sweetheart.”
Damian stiffened slightly at the words, unused to so much open affection being directed his way, but something in Lois’s voice—warm, steady, and sincere—made his shoulders ease just a fraction.
Dick’s grin stretched from ear to ear, his eyes sparkling with mischief and affection. “Damian, I call dibs on teaching her how to do backflips before she can walk,” he declared.
“Absolutely not,” Damian deadpanned, shooting him a glare.
Bruce remained silent, but Damian’s gaze flickered to him briefly. Jon followed Damian’s glance and caught the subtle shift in Bruce’s usually unshakable demeanor—the slight softening of his jaw, the way his eyes lingered on the flickering monitor. Bruce Wayne didn’t need to speak; his pride was written in the quiet, unspoken warmth radiating from him.
Jon turned his attention back to the screen, his heart swelling in his chest as he stared at the tiny shape on the monitor. His daughter. Their daughter. Tears pricked at the corners of his eyes, and for once, he didn’t bother to hide them. “She’s really in there,” he whispered in awe, his voice trembling. “Our baby girl…”
Damian smirked faintly, his voice carrying its usual dry edge. “Obviously, Kent.”
Jon huffed out a laugh, leaning in to kiss him again. “She’s beautiful,” he murmured against Damian’s skin. “You’re beautiful.”
Stephanie clasped her hands together dramatically, unable to contain her excitement. “Okay, so. Nursery. We need colors, themes, and so many cute clothes. Damian, I am definitely buying her her first leather jacket.”
“Absolutely not,” Damian repeated with a withering glare.
“Absolutely yes,” Steph countered instantly, a mischievous smirk tugging at her lips.
Lois dabbed at her eyes and turned to Bruce, who was still as a statue. “You’re going to spoil her rotten, aren’t you?” she teased gently.
Bruce didn’t respond right away. He kept his gaze fixed on the image of his granddaughter, his expression unreadable to anyone who didn’t know him. Finally, in that deep, gravelly voice of his, he said, “She’ll have everything she needs.”
It wasn’t loud or showy, but for Bruce, it was as good as a declaration of joy. Damian’s lips twitched into the faintest smile, one Jon caught and stored away like a precious secret.
Jon leaned down again, whispering near Damian’s ear, his voice low and giddy, “We’re painting her room tonight.”
“No, we are not,” Damian said dryly, though the slight curve of his lips betrayed him.
“Yes, we are,” Jon replied without hesitation, grinning wide enough to make Damian roll his eyes.
Steph clapped her hands together. “We should do a mural! Night sky theme. Stars, constellations, maybe even a little moon in the corner.”
Dick pointed at Damian’s bump with dramatic flair. “She’s going to be the most spoiled Wayne in history. Sorry, little niece,” he said, as if addressing the baby directly, “you don’t stand a chance.”
Damian pinched the bridge of his nose, exasperation etched into every line of his posture. But Jon could see it—the softness in his gaze, the warmth he was desperately trying to conceal. He was looking at all of them—Jon practically glowing with happiness, Lois and Steph already brainstorming names and nursery ideas, Dick smiling like a proud uncle, and Bruce standing there with that silent, unspoken tenderness that said more than words ever could.
Jon’s heart swelled as he turned his eyes back to the monitor, the steady flicker of their daughter’s heartbeat echoing softly in the room. He couldn’t imagine loving anyone more than he loved Damian—yet somehow, this tiny, barely-formed life already felt like the center of his universe.
Damian’s thoughts mirrored his own as his gaze lingered on the screen. This girl, Damian thought, a rare, genuine smile tugging at his lips, is already loved more than she will ever know.
And though he would never voice it aloud, not here, not now, that realization filled Damian with something he hadn’t truly felt since he was a boy—peace.
For the first time in a long time, Damian felt safe.
"You're doing great, habibi."
The doctor murmured when she passed by him. Her green eyes turning warm despite her years of being an assassin. The door closed behind her, Damian barely noticed the scarf left beside him.
✨️Bonus Scene✨️
Damian looked at the mirror and stood at his side. He sees the noticeable bump on his stomach and frowned.
"I look fat."
Jon, who was folding the baby's new clothes, chuckled and rolled his eyes. He stood up and walks over to his beloved omega. He wraps his arms around Damian's waist from behind and looked at the mirror.
"You're not fat. You'll get your abs again once Lori is born."
Damian scoffed but leaned back in Jon's embrace, "Lori? We are naming her 'Ariel' since she is quite strong like a lion."
"And energetic...possibly loud."
"Hmn," Damian hummed in agreement. Then he felt slight guilt in his chest. Jon just agrees with every decision he makes. Not to mention, Jon mostly takes care of everything, even worrying about him. With a sigh, Damian laced their fingers together on his abdomen.
"Laurel. Let's name her that. I mixture of Lori and Ariel."