Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

The Color of Pain

Damian Wayne had always been a perfectionist. He was the son of the Batman and trained by the League of Assassins—his life was built on discipline and control. But recently, that control had been slipping. His emotions, once tightly locked away, had begun to surface in ways he couldn't manage.

The mission with the Teen Titans had been a disaster. Every mistake felt like a personal failure, every botched decision like a reflection of his inadequacy. The weight of it gnawed at him, threatening to crack the iron façade he had spent so long constructing.

At first, Damian turned to the one outlet he thought was safe: painting. He had taken up art as a hobby, an activity where he could lose himself in colors and brushstrokes, where he could express what words couldn't. It was quiet, almost meditative, and it allowed him to vent his frustration in a way that felt productive.

But as the days passed, he began to notice a shift in his work. Gone were the vibrant landscapes and carefully painted portraits. In their place were dark, twisted figures—creatures that seemed to crawl from the corners of his mind, shadows dripping from every stroke. The colors he used grew darker too—reds that bled like wounds, blacks that swallowed the light, and harsh, jagged lines that reflected the turmoil inside him.

It was almost as if his emotions were bleeding onto the canvas, and no matter how hard he tried to suppress them, they refused to be silenced. His hands trembled as he worked, his breath shallow. The paintings became more erratic, more unsettling, as if they were revealing parts of him he didn't want to face.

One evening, as he stood in front of his latest piece, Damian's chest tightened. He had been painting a faceless figure surrounded by darkness, its hands outstretched as if reaching for something it couldn't grasp. The colors seemed to pulse, angry and alive, screaming out the emotions he had fought so hard to bury. The figure looked hollow, lost.

And in it, he saw himself.

Damian dropped the brush, the loud clatter on the floor echoing in his ears. His breathing quickened, panic setting in. This—this thing on the canvas—it was him. The darkness, the pain, the helplessness, it was all there, painted in blood-red and suffocating black. His carefully controlled life was slipping away, and the one outlet he had thought was safe had betrayed him, revealing the truth he didn't want to face.

He stumbled back, his mind reeling, his heart racing. He couldn't escape it. He couldn't control it.

Without thinking, Damian stormed out of his art room, barely registering the concerned glances from Alfred as he passed. He made his way to his room, slamming the door shut behind him. His chest heaved with the force of his breathing as he clenched his fists, trying to hold back the flood of emotions threatening to spill over.

But it was too much.

His gaze fell on the knife he kept on his desk—a small, simple blade he used for various tasks. He stared at it, his mind racing. His fingers twitched at his sides as a thought crept into his mind, one that he had tried so hard to ignore.

Maybe this would help. Maybe, just for a moment, he could regain control. He could direct the pain, focus it, and for once, he wouldn't feel so helpless.

Without allowing himself to think, Damian grabbed the knife. He sat on the edge of his bed, the blade cold in his hands. His heart pounded as he pressed the tip against his skin, just enough to feel the sharpness. His mind screamed at him to stop, but he was too far gone. He needed to feel something—anything—besides the chaos in his head.

With one quick motion, he dragged the blade across his skin, a sharp, burning pain following in its wake. Blood welled up, a deep red that contrasted starkly with his pale skin. He watched it for a moment, a strange sense of calm washing over him.