Damian Wayne One Shots

The Edge of Control

The door to the Titans' tower slammed shut behind Damian, the heavy thud echoing in the empty hallway. His fists clenched at his sides, knuckles white, as the anger surged through him like an unstoppable wave. His heart raced, his mind spiraled, but the bitterness in his chest was worse than the fury that burned in his veins. They had kicked him out. After everything he had done for them, after all the battles they had fought together, they had turned their backs on him. His team—no, his so-called friends—had thrown him away like he meant nothing.

It wasn't just one outburst, of course. Damian knew that. There had been tensions for weeks, building up like pressure in a volcano. But this time... this time had been different.

It had started as a simple mission. Nothing too dangerous—just a standard takedown of a small gang of criminals threatening the city. But something had gone wrong. In the heat of battle, Damian's control had slipped. One of the gang members had taunted him, mocking him, making comments about his family, about his father. The words sliced through Damian like a knife, and before he knew it, he was seeing red. He fought viciously, harder than necessary. His blows were brutal, his movements sharp and relentless.

The rest of the team had noticed. They tried to intervene, pulling him back, telling him to stop. But the anger... it was too much. He didn't just want to stop the gang; he wanted to hurt them. He wanted to make them pay for every slight, every insult. The final straw came when he nearly crossed a line. He was inches away from doing something he couldn't take back—something lethal.

That was when Starfire had stepped in, her eyes blazing with fury and concern. She'd yanked Damian away from the unconscious body at his feet, her voice hard and cold. "Damian, that's enough!" she had shouted, her tone laced with disappointment.

But it wasn't just her. They had all looked at him like he was a ticking time bomb, something dangerous, something... wrong.

Later, back at the tower, the argument erupted. Beast Boy accused him of being out of control, of not being able to handle his anger. Raven had quietly agreed, adding that his emotional volatility was becoming a liability. Damian had expected support from Nightwing, maybe even Red Arrow, but they had stayed silent, their faces tense.

The words hurt more than he would ever admit. He tried to explain himself, tried to tell them that he had been pushed, that they didn't understand the pressure he was under. But no one listened. Instead, they made the decision—he was no longer part of the team.

Days passed, and Damian found himself alone in Gotham, his mind spinning, replaying the moment over and over again. He tried to reach out to his father, but Bruce was busy, caught up in his own world of endless patrols and missions. Alfred offered his quiet support, but even that wasn't enough. The silence at the manor felt suffocating, and Damian couldn't shake the feeling of abandonment that settled in his chest.

His friends—no, ex-friends—hadn't even bothered to check in on him. There were no calls, no messages. It was as if he had ceased to exist in their world, as if all the time they had spent fighting side by side had meant nothing. He had been cast aside.

It was on one of those long, restless nights when everything seemed to be crumbling that Damian stumbled upon a darker path. He had gone out for a run, trying to clear his head, trying to shake off the suffocating weight of isolation that seemed to be pressing down on him from all sides. But instead of clarity, he found himself in the wrong part of town. It wasn't like Damian to make mistakes like that—he was always in control, always vigilant—but tonight, he didn't care. He didn't care about anything.