Baby Damian one-shots

*A Day in the Life of Damian Wayne, the Spoiled Baby*

The sun filtered softly through the windows of the Wayne Manor, casting a golden glow over the sprawling living room. Bruce Wayne sat on the plush leather chair, papers spread out before him, his eyes scanning through his latest reports. Alfred, as always, moved about the kitchen, preparing breakfast with meticulous care.

Meanwhile, in the center of the room, a small figure sat, carefully eyeing the room with the precision of a little prince surveying his kingdom. It was Damian Wayne, or "Dami," as Bruce liked to call him, still just three years old but already accustomed to a life of luxury and privilege.

"Papa," Damian called, his voice high-pitched and demanding but soft in its nature. "Carry me."

Bruce glanced up from his papers, his expression softening as his son stared at him with those big green eyes, wide with expectation. Bruce sighed, momentarily distracted by the overwhelming affection he felt for the little boy, his first real connection in a world that often felt cold.

"Just a minute, Dami. I'm finishing up this report," Bruce said, trying to balance his responsibilities with his son's needs.

But Damian's lips pushed out into a pout. He crossed his arms, his little feet tapping impatiently against the floor. "No," he said simply, his voice a mix of authority and stubbornness that was somehow endearing in its childish innocence. "Carry me now."

Alfred, overhearing this exchange, raised an eyebrow from the kitchen but said nothing. He had long ago learned that when it came to Damian's requests, they were often non-negotiable. The child had a way of making everyone cater to his whims—especially Bruce.

With a reluctant but affectionate smile, Bruce set aside the reports, stood up, and walked over to Damian. "Alright, buddy," he said, bending down to scoop him up into his arms. Damian immediately snuggled into his chest, his small hands gripping the fabric of Bruce's shirt like a king clutching his royal robe.

"Better," Damian hummed, content now that his demands had been met.

As Bruce walked to the window, Damian let out a satisfied sigh, completely at ease in his father's arms. He had been given exactly what he wanted, and nothing less would do. He wasn't a brat, no—he was simply accustomed to his every need being met with little resistance. After all, what else was family for?

Alfred watched from the kitchen, shaking his head with a fond smile. "Master Wayne," he said, his voice laced with gentle amusement, "you do spoil the young master, don't you?"

Bruce shot him a small, teasing smile. "I'm not sure who's spoiling whom."

And with that, the spoiled little prince of Wayne Manor was carried around, content in his world of luxury, as the two men who loved him indulged his every whim.