Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Unraveled

The air in the Batcave crackled with tension as Damian Wayne stood across from Bruce, his father, whose disappointment was etched across his face. It had started as a simple discussion about their latest mission, but it had escalated into a confrontation that left Damian feeling small and invisible.

"You don't understand!" Damian shouted, his voice echoing off the cold, stone walls. "You never do! You just see me as a weapon, something to be used!"

Bruce's jaw tightened, his eyes narrowing. "That's not true, Damian. I see you as my son. I care about you more than you realize."

"Then why can't you just trust me?" Damian snapped, frustration bubbling over. "You always want to control everything, and I'm tired of it! I'm not a child anymore!"

In that moment, the anger in Damian's heart was a raging storm, swirling around him, drowning out all reason. He wanted to believe Bruce, wanted to accept that his father loved him, but the scars from their past kept clawing at his mind, whispering doubts that felt all too real. He felt trapped between wanting to be his own person and living up to the expectations placed upon him.

"Damian, listen to me—" Bruce started, his voice low and steady, but Damian couldn't bear to hear more.

"I don't need your lectures!" he shouted, turning on his heel and storming out of the Batcave. The steel doors slammed shut behind him, cutting off the last words Bruce tried to say.

The cold, sterile air of the cave felt suffocating, and as he stepped into the darkness of the Gotham streets, the anger inside him quickly morphed into something else—a hollow emptiness that gnawed at his insides. He wandered through the night, feeling more alone than he had in years.

Damian's mind raced with thoughts he couldn't silence. What if Bruce was right? What if he really was just a tool, just a weapon forged for battle? The weight of his father's disappointment felt like a noose around his neck, tightening with every step he took.

The longer he walked, the more the shadows of self-doubt crept in, wrapping around him like a cold blanket. He had fought so hard to carve out a place in Bruce's world, to be recognized as something more than just the son of the Batman, but it always felt like an uphill battle.

Finally, he found himself back at the manor, the familiar silhouette of Wayne Manor looming above him, a dark fortress that felt both safe and suffocating. Inside, the silence was deafening. He moved through the halls like a ghost, avoiding the echoes of laughter and the warmth of family that felt so far out of reach.

In the solitude of his room, the silence was overwhelming. It pressed in on him, forcing him to confront the tangled emotions he had been pushing aside. What was he without Bruce? The question gnawed at him, sinking its claws deep into his heart.

Feeling a surge of desperation, he reached for his old journal, the one he had poured his thoughts and feelings into over the years. But tonight, instead of writing, the words spilled out in a rush of anger and pain. He lashed out at himself in the pages, reliving every moment of doubt, every disappointment.

Maybe if I hurt myself, I'll feel something other than this emptiness. Maybe then I'll finally have control.

With shaky hands, he pulled out a small blade he had hidden away—a tool meant for training, but now it felt like a weapon he could wield against himself. He pressed the cold metal against his skin, and for a moment, a surge of adrenaline coursed through him. The pain felt like a release, a way to drown out the voice in his head that kept telling him he would never be enough.

But as the warmth of blood trickled down his arm, reality crashed back in, heavy and suffocating. In that moment, he realized the pain he sought to escape was now the only thing grounding him. It wasn't a solution; it was a trap.