#(endearing)

Warning:

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

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