Lost in the Void, Found in the Stars | Damian Wayne Oneshots

Years of Waiting | Reader

Summary: One glimpse, and you've been smitten ever since.

.・。.・゜✭・»»——⍟——««.・✫・゜・。.

The first time you saw him, it was through a painting.

The League’s grand hall had always been filled with tension and formality, a chaotic blend that was enough to make anyone dizzy. Your family’s alliance with the League demanded appearances at gatherings like this, and though you despised these events, you’d learned to endure them with a forced smile and a drink you never actually sipped.

Then you found something. A painting tucked away in an unassuming alcove of the grand hall.

The room itself was forgettable, a hollow space meant for those seeking reprieve from heavy politics. You hadn't intended to stay long. The weight of your family’s presence bore down on you, and the desire to slip away had been growing steadily. Until you saw it.

It wasn’t prominently displayed, almost as if someone had set it there by mistake. A towering canvas leaned against the wall, illuminated by the gentle flicker of sconces. At first glance, it seemed simple. But as you drew closer, it became impossible to look away.

The details were maddeningly precise: the folds of his white shirt, the delicate embroidery of the sash around his waist, the texture of the chair’s fabric. Even the glass of untouched champagne beside him looked impossibly real.

There was a boy, and he was sprawled on an intricately designed chair, one hand resting against his cheek with a casual sort of arrogance, as though the room—or perhaps the world—belonged to him. His hair curled just enough to appear untamed, but not unkempt, framing a face that seemed almost too perfect for reality.

His jawline was sharp, cheekbones high, but his eyes… his eyes captured you.

They were an unnatural green, like polished emeralds glinting under candlelight. There was something otherworldly about the way they seemed to follow you as you moved, almost daring you to meet his gaze directly. It was dark, stormy, and burning with an intensity that seemed to reach beyond the canvas.

Your heart stuttered.

The noise of the gathering faded into static. The voices, the clinking glasses, the carefully veiled threats exchanged between allies and enemies alike—none of it mattered anymore. All you could think about was the boy in the painting.

Who painted this?

You took a step closer, ignoring the sharp glance of a passing League member. The boy looked… alive, as though he might step off the canvas at any moment. You stared, transfixed, forgetting the way time moved around you.

Was he real?

That thought clawed its way into your mind and refused to leave. He wasn’t an idealized figure, he had imperfections. A faint scar above one eyebrow, a hint of tiredness under his eyes. This was someone real. Someone alive.

Who was he?

You leaned closer, your fingers brushing against the edge of the canvas as though touching it might bring you closer to him. The artist had signed it with a flourish in the corner, but the name gave you no answers.