Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Control

Third Person

The training room was filled with the dull thud of fists hitting padded walls. Damian Wayne, drenched in sweat, pounded his fists harder into the punching bag, each hit a physical manifestation of the frustration and anger that roiled inside him. The rhythmic impact was the only thing keeping him grounded, the only thing that allowed him to focus on something other than the overwhelming surge of emotions battling within him.

Just hours earlier, Damian had another heated argument with Dick Grayson, his oldest brother, the one who always tried to wear the mask of "big brother" even when it felt suffocating. The fight had been over something trivial—Dick had wanted Damian to take a step back, to rest after a particularly grueling mission with the Teen Titans. But Damian had pushed back, his pride stinging. He wasn't a child who needed to be told when to rest. He was a warrior, raised to endure, to push through pain, to never back down.

"You're reckless, Damian!" Dick had shouted, his voice ringing with frustration. "Do you even care about what happens to you?"

"I don't need you to baby me!" Damian had shot back, his words laced with venom. "You're not Father!"

"Maybe not, but someone has to keep you in line!" Dick had retorted, his eyes flashing with a mixture of anger and concern.

The words had cut deeper than Damian had expected. He didn't need anyone keeping him in line. He didn't need anyone at all.

Now, alone in the training room, the echoes of their argument rang through his head. He gritted his teeth as he unleashed another flurry of punches, his knuckles raw under the wraps. He could still hear Dick's voice, could still feel the weight of his brother's disappointment hanging over him like a suffocating cloud. He hated it—the feeling of being judged, of being seen as less than capable. It made him feel powerless, and Damian Wayne hated feeling powerless.

As the punches slowed, his body exhausted from the relentless assault on the bag, Damian sank to his knees, his chest heaving with heavy breaths. The silence of the room settled around him, thick and oppressive. The adrenaline was starting to wear off, leaving behind a familiar emptiness, a gnawing void that no amount of physical exertion seemed able to fill.

He could still see Dick's face, the frustration, the worry. It wasn't the first time they had fought like this, and Damian knew it wouldn't be the last. But it always left him feeling more isolated, more alone. He clenched his fists, the pain shooting up his arms in sharp, jagged spikes.

Pain was something he could control. Unlike the swirl of emotions he couldn't seem to reign in, the pain was his choice. His body, his rules.

Slowly, Damian stood, his eyes scanning the training room before landing on his utility belt discarded in the corner. He approached it slowly, his movements deliberate, as if he were moving through water. The belt was a symbol of his skill, his training, but tonight it offered him something else.

He reached inside one of the compartments and pulled out a small, hidden blade. It wasn't meant for anything more than cutting ropes, but tonight it was something else entirely. Damian held it between his fingers, the cool metal resting against his skin, a stark contrast to the heat coursing through his veins.

He sat down on the floor, his back pressed against the padded wall of the training room. The weight of the world seemed to press down on him as he twirled the blade between his fingers. The argument with Dick, the overwhelming feeling of always having to prove himself, the constant weight of expectations—it all pressed in on him until he couldn't breathe.