Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Red Eyes and Bruised Knuckles

Third Person

Damian Wayne sat in his room, staring at the calendar hanging on the wall. The date circled in red was tomorrow—the day he and his father, Bruce Wayne, had planned to spend some quality time together. Damian had been looking forward to it for weeks, imagining all the things they could do. He even set aside his training to prepare for the day. But as he sat there, a pit of anxiety formed in his stomach, knowing how things usually went.

"Dad always cancels," he muttered to himself, his fingers drumming anxiously against the desk. He tried to push away the feelings of disappointment creeping in. It wasn't just that Bruce was busy; it was the constant feeling of being unimportant, of being second to Gotham and the cape that came with it.

Just as he thought the worst was behind him, his phone buzzed. He picked it up, hoping it was a message from his father, but instead, it was a text notification. The words on the screen made his heart drop.

Bruce: Sorry, Damian. Something came up. I won't be able to make it tomorrow.

Damian threw his phone across the room, where it crashed against the wall, the screen shattering into pieces. Anger surged through him, boiling over into frustration. "Great! Just great!" he shouted, running a hand through his hair.

He had tried so hard to prove himself to Bruce, to show him that he was worthy of his attention. But every time he felt like they were getting closer, Bruce would prioritize his duties as Batman over their plans.

Unable to stay in the house any longer, Damian stormed out into the night. The streets of Gotham felt different at night—alive and pulsating with energy. The cool air did little to soothe his anger as he wandered aimlessly, trying to escape the thoughts that were suffocating him.

As he turned a corner, the sounds of shouting and cheering reached his ears. Curiosity piqued, he followed the noise until he stumbled upon a group of people gathered around a makeshift fighting ring in an alley. The atmosphere was charged, and the air was thick with tension.

"What's going on?" Damian asked a bystander, who was leaning against a wall, a cigarette dangling from his lips.

"Underground fights," the man replied with a shrug. "You in? It's all about money and glory, kid. You win, you earn a little cash. You lose, you just take a beating."

For the first time in what felt like forever, a spark ignited within him. The idea of being in control of something, anything, was intoxicating. He stepped closer, watching as two fighters exchanged blows in the ring. Their knuckles were bruised and bloodied, but they wore fierce expressions, their eyes burning with determination.

Without thinking, Damian raised his hand. "I want to fight."

The crowd parted, and laughter erupted as they sized up the newcomer. "You? You think you can take on these guys?" someone called out, amusement clear in their voice.

"I can take anyone," Damian snapped, his voice cold and confident. The anger that had boiled inside him transformed into raw determination. He wasn't just fighting for money; he was fighting to feel something—anything other than the pain of abandonment.

"Alright, let's see what you got," the referee said, motioning for him to step into the ring.

Before he knew it, he was facing off against a larger opponent, a guy with a nasty grin and a reputation for being tough. Damian's heart raced, but this time, he felt alive. The bell rang, and he charged forward, throwing punches with all his might.