Angst Damian Wayne One Shots

Silent Struggles

Damian Wayne sat at the back of the classroom, staring blankly at the math problem on the board. The numbers swirled in front of him, blurring together in a meaningless haze. Normally, this kind of problem would have been easy for him. But today—just like yesterday and the day before—he couldn't focus. His mind was too heavy, weighed down by thoughts he didn't want to admit even to himself.

The sound of stifled laughter broke through his fog. Damian tensed, knowing exactly where it was coming from. He didn't even have to look. It was the same group of boys who had been tormenting him for weeks now, maybe even months.

"Hey, Wayne," a voice hissed from the seat behind him. "You think you're so special, don't you? Just 'cause your dad's rich?"

Another boy chimed in. "Yeah, where's your bodyguard? Or does Daddy dearest not care enough to send one with you?"

Damian's jaw tightened, his hands curling into fists beneath the desk. His natural instinct was to lash out, to put these boys in their place. He could do it—he had the training, the skill. But every time he thought about it, he heard Bruce's voice in his head. Control your emotions, Damian. Don't let your anger define you.

So, he stayed silent.

They weren't wrong, though. Not entirely. He was the son of Bruce Wayne, a billionaire, and yes, his father had trained him to defend himself. But no one knew who his father really was. No one knew he was Robin, the boy trained by the League of Assassins and shaped by the streets of Gotham.

It should have made him feel powerful, but instead, it only made him feel small.

The bullying wasn't physical—at least not yet—but the emotional toll was more than Damian could handle. The snide comments, the mocking laughter, the subtle exclusion from groups... It was all too familiar. He had felt isolated before, but not like this. He was used to being different, but at home, that difference was something respected, something that gave him strength. Here, at this elite private school, it only made him a target.

At first, he thought it was just a phase. Maybe they were just jealous or maybe they didn't know how to deal with someone like him. But it didn't stop. Every day, the comments became sharper, the whispers more frequent. And every day, Damian felt himself retreating further inside himself.

He didn't tell anyone. He couldn't. What would he even say? That he, the son of Bruce Wayne and Talia al Ghul, the boy who had fought supervillains and faced death, was being brought low by a bunch of spoiled kids? It was humiliating. Besides, it was his fault, wasn't it? Maybe if he had tried harder to fit in, maybe if he wasn't so distant, this wouldn't be happening.

The numbness started slowly. At first, it was just during school—he'd zone out during classes, ignore the taunts, keep his head down. But soon, it followed him home. He stopped engaging during family dinners, his responses to Bruce, Alfred, or his brothers becoming curt and cold. When he wasn't on patrol, he locked himself in his room, staring at the ceiling for hours, feeling nothing but an emptiness growing inside of him.

The Bat Family noticed, of course. Alfred had asked him more than once if everything was alright. Bruce had suggested sparring sessions to "clear his head." Dick had even tried to joke around with him, trying to get Damian to smile. But none of it reached him. He gave them what they wanted—short answers, practiced indifference—but inside, he was falling apart.

There were moments when he caught his reflection in the mirror, and he barely recognized himself. His eyes looked hollow, his expression blank. Even on patrol, where he used to feel alive, the thrill was gone. Every punch he threw, every criminal he took down, it all felt mechanical. He was going through the motions, just waiting for it all to be over.