âËâč á§âĄá§Â MEET YOUR LOCAL MAGICAL GIRL .á.á
â by day, they're AMORETTE (she/they/he), a 20 year old cantonese college student...but by night, she's the sweetheart savior of the city: HEARTFLUTTERED; glassâhearted fanfiction writer & illustrator, and she's here to make your heart-flutter!!
á§âĄá§ ribbon-magic navigation đ àŁȘ Ë rules. tags. ao3.
âż ă DC MASTERLIST ă â welcome to gotham.
âż ă MARVEL MASTERLIST ă â swingin' through brooklyn!
STATUS REPORT : ready to go âȘ (requests & suggestions open~!)
MOST RECENT TARGET :
â no using my work to train AI, copying, plagiarizing, or reposting my work.
TERFS, harry potter / good omens fans + blank blogs get blocked. no questions, no debateâthese are my boundaries. please respect them.
i donât soft/hard block to break mutual; i unfollow everyone at will.
this blog is dark fiction friendly.
your boy wonder girl blunder fic is SOOOOO CUTE i lobe it so much!!! I'm very fond of fics where the reader has a big appreciation for the batboys pre relationship, so if that's where you'll take it then i will literally be breakdancing cartwheeling out of joy!! Extra kudos <3 <3 <3 <3
hi! iâm so so glad you like the fic, but iâm gonna have to let you down early and say that i donât plan on doing that (^â^;)âș"
i havenât read comics of the other batboys so iâm not comfortable writing them, but i hope youâll like what i have in store regardless Ê àč o̶̷̎ᷠᎄ o̶̷̎̄ᷠÊâĄ
i turned 20 this year and now that iâm not a teen anymore i just gotta say!!
the people who post âcringeâ or amateur poetry online to mock it with âiâm 14 and this is deepâ are genuinely some of the most pathetic people on earth
chapter 2: a new leaf.
previous ânextâmasterlist coming soon! âread on ao3!
pairing: art school!au damian wayne x female!reader.
tags: art school!au. both reader and damian are 18-19 year old college students. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian, but a blossoming crush on robin.
chapter warnings: amputation and canon typical violence a la damian's childhood.
summary: after getting a glimpse of damian's vulnerability during art critique, you begin to feel like you 'see' him for the first time. moreover, you desire to express your gratitude for robin saving your life, though a stranger's snide comment reveals that the masked vigilante's past is bloodier than expected... through patience and kindness, you begin to reconcile your views on both of them respectively.
â TERFS + HARRY POTTER FANS DNI. this applies to anyone who still actively engages with harry potter on any levelâthe game, shipping, you blog/consume/make fanwork, etc.
You donât register how much time has passed since Damianâs peace offering, but based on the crescendo of chattering and steady stream of footsteps ringing out from behind you, class is about to start.
Having made a good amount of progress on your new piece in the past two hours, you hop off your seat to take a big stretch. The sound of your bones cracking makes you wince, though it loosens your muscles, leaving you with a familiar, pleasant ache.
Youâre walking to the fusty sink in the corner when Professor Faraway strides through studio doors, shedding her layers with a fluid grace.
Hanging her chocolate coat on the hook by the door, she announces with a smile, âGood to see everyoneâs pinned up their work already. Our model Anita should arrive in around thirty minutes, so letâs get started, yeah?â
All the sleepâdeprived students scattered about the room begin ambling her way, like sheep following the shepherd.
Every liveâdrawing class starts with a class critique that lasts a good twenty minutes. The commentary is mainly driven by the class, because Professor Faraway always says that it becomes so much harder to ask people what they think of your work after graduating without some sort of conference gathering.
Critique from other likeâminded artists is a gift, sheâd say, so cherish it!
You think the class would cherish peer feedback a lot more if Damian werenât in the room. He always speaks first, and always speaks his mind. And boy, does he speak his mind.
Before today, youâd never truly interacted with him outside of petty jabs and snide remarks. Heâd been kind enough to lend you some very high quality paper. He even asked you how you were, even if he sounded like he had a gun to his head as he did.
So, maybe heâs just tonally daft. Maybe. But itâs hard to believe that when he takes one look at your work, and says, unfalteringly:
Your chosen composition is ineffective. Thereâs too much, all at once. If your goal was to highlight the discordance, though, youâve done a very good job.
The memory heaves a sigh out of you. You know it wasnât your best work, but it had only been the second week. First assignment of the year, and he was slathering salt all over the slug.
Shaking your hands dry and your thoughts away, you join the class. Youâre weaving your way past the herd of students to the front as Professor Faraway announces, âLetâs start from this side of the room.â
Your gut churns with anxiety as everybodyâs attention lands on the furthest piece on the west-side of the wall. Yours.
Youâd been proud of the piece you did for this week, but insecurity works its way into your system. The theme had been the âselfâ; whatever that meant to anyone. Youâd chosen a self-portrait for lack of any other idea, but youâre seriously regretting it now as the inspecting eyes of your classmates scour your work.
The itching, devastating voice in your head returns, taunting you in Damianâs voice, The composition is inefficient. You started getting sloppy at 3 AM trying to rush this assignment, and I can tell. The proportions are wrong. Your face, to be exact. Or, perhaps you just look like that.
You flex your fingers, indulging in the pain of straining sinews.
âWhat are we thinking?â your professor prompts the class, âWhat do we see?â
A shiver dances across your nape, lifting the hairs on your skin. The air is thick with anticipation as everybody waits for Damianâs voice to pierce the silence.
Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
Dozens of eyes, including yours, eventually begin shifting towards the only boy in the room standing like a museum guard.
His arms folded behind his back, his expression remains affectless as his discerning eyes dole out judgement upon your work. But for once, he seems perfectly content just to look.
âUm. I see her,â Brian speaks up, earning a few scattered giggles.
âYes. Thank you, Brian,â Professor Faraway sighs exasperatedly, though the humor in her voice is unmistakable. âElaborate. What else?â
âSheâs working on a painting in her room,â Harriet offers, tracing a rectangle mid-air with her finger. âI think weâre standing in the corridor, peeking through into her bedroom through the open door.â
âWe see a bit of her side profile?" She looks concentrated, but content, and, um, thereâs a lot of posters of the things she likes on the wallsâŠâ
Eventually the professor turns to you with a gentle smile, giving you feedback on how the doorway guides our focus towards the centre, very effective choice for the composition!âbut all that goes in one ear, out the other. Youâre all too distracted staring past her, trying to study the intricacies of Damianâs expression.
Thick brows set in scrutiny, smooth brown skin on a sophisticated face. Shoulders back, perfect posture; his emotions are ever elusive to you, but you canât shake the feeling that thereâs something off about him today.
The class moves on to the next drawing, and the next. You contribute here and there, pointing out the little things you like about your classmateâs work.
Damian hasnât spoken up once. Silent he stays, until finally Professor Faraway announces, âAlright. This piece is⊠Damianâs. Correct?â
He nods stiffly. Everyone turns to look, and holds their breath as they take in his masterwork. But you keep your eyes on him.
Your observance is rewarded, because the second everyoneâs attention diverts to his piece, his features twitch out of stagnation. The stillness of stature makes movement all the more evident, and you catch the sudden movement of his hand flexing at his side.
Your eyes widen. Damian is nervous. You know he is, because you share the exact same nervous tick.
As soon as you register the twitch of his hand for what it is, everything else unravels before your eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, the twitch of the edge of his mouth.
You thought he was a naturalâborne critic. It barely took seconds upon looking at a classmateâs painting before Damian was pointing out flaws with a vindicating finger, with a voice so unwaveringly cold that it made you want to rip your piece off the wall and hurl it out the window immediately. Maybe even throw yourself out with it.
But as his pale eyes flick down and away from his piece, you wonder what it is he sees in his own art. Whether he finds his flaws just as easily, and holds himself to the same impossible standards he does with everyone else.
You glance towards his piece, composed entirely of varying shades of graphite; black and white.
Befitting his past as a medâstudent, Damian's artâstyle has the realism of a medical illustration. Youâve come to associate his work with uncanny accuracy, trompe-l'Ćil.
Swarthes of shadows slice across the composition, which is suprisingly simple:
A hauntingly familiar silhouette stares up towards the glaring light, which shines down on a portrait of the richest man in Gotham.
The background is probably meant to be some hallway in Wayne Manor. Velvet damask wallpaper, the arches and trefoils of wooden sideâchairs, all suggesting a long history of wealth and opulence completely foreign to you.
But⊠perhaps not just for you, but for Damian himself as well.
Despite having chosen a similar composition to your ownâwith the back profile and everythingâhis depiction of home is opulent, orderly, and completely out of reach. Nothing in the drawing seems personal to him.
In spite of the theme, it is Bruce Wayne, severe in his stillness, who takes up the majority of the piece. Framed in curling giltwood, placed in perfect centre and gleaming under the lustre of resin varnish, he looks like the perfect museum display.
The harsh light flows around Damianâs silhouette, like the brightness canât bear to touch him.
(Your brow creases. Why does the sight of his back limned in light look so familiar?)
Your classmates are all commenting on his flawless technical skills, but what enraptures you is the sheer vulnerability of it all.
For a boy who seems to make himself distant from everyone around him, an undeniable loneliness haunts the piece. And Damianâs unrolled it for everyone to see. It feels like a bid for connection on his part. Like a tentative hand, slowly reaching out to a crowd rushing past, hoping for someone to see, and understand.
Your eyes flit about, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Regardless of any prior grudges you have against Damian, a curiosity has sprouted in your chest, and you canât bear to nip it in the bud.
âAny last comments?â you hear Professor Faraway ask.
You turn, only to meet eyes of dark, clear green.
A numbing shiver wracks your frame. You reflexively swallow as you meet Damianâs gaze, the hairs on your skin slowly rising. Though his flat mouth and lax brows suggest otherwise, his stare is anticipatory. Heâs waiting for something. Heâs waiting for you to speak.
You feel your lips peel apart as you open your mouth, then close it. The oppressive air dries your lungs like a mouthful of coffee.
You canât think of anything to say.
âWell, alright,â the professor addresses the silence, clapping her hands together with finality. âThank you, Damian! Onto todayâs workâŠâ
His eyelashes flicker, and the vulnerability in his eyes dims like snuffed candlelight as he averts his gaze.
You stare, and stew in inexplicable regret.
For the first time in history, you beat Damian at being first one out the door.
Normally, heâs done packing away his elaborate spread of art supplies long before the bell rings.
But ten minutes before dismissal, before class had even ended, Professor Faraway had tapped him on the shoulder. She said in a gentle voice, âDamian? Could I speak to you in private?â
Everybody else was too busy exchanging conspiratorial looks that could only be interpreted as ooh, this oughtta be good!
So, youâre out first. You shout a hurried âThanks, Professor!â over your shoulder as you kick the door open and rush out like a howl of wind.
Excitement has you smiling unabashedly as you streak past a number of lumbering students, daring to leap down several steps at a time.
Youâve finally come to a epiphany. Since the beginning of class, a vague composition for a new piece had been forming in the back of your mind.
Initially, the details had shifted according to a maelstrom of unconstrained, underdeveloped possibilities. Though, it finally solidified into something plausible the moment Professor Faraway announced the concept for the weeklong project ahead of you:
The Martha Wayne Foundation is funding the university project for a student submitted design for a mural in celebration of the symbols of hope in Gotham. Whether or not your work gets accepted, this will be the basis of your project for the next two weeksâŠ
It was then and there that you decided you wanted to make a piece for the yellowâcaped vigilante you owe your life to. Robinâs the only reason youâre running down these stairs with a beating heart and a heavy breath. You want to express your gratitude in one way or another, even if he never knows your name.
You can see it clearly, now, as you race down the stairs. Itâs definitely overlyâambitious, given the time constraints. But you canât get the idea of painting Robin out of your mind. Heâs your hero, and this is a piece about hope. Nowâs not the time to get modest.
A sky of purple dusk; the gold of Robinâs billowing cape cutting across the composition. You havenât decided on the pose yet. You can think of several. Him, sequestered to the side of the painting, standing regally with his sword drawn, or midâflight with his grappling gun. Either way, heâs limned by the gleaming lights of Gotham Cityâs horizon.
With a heartâstopping skid of your feet, you round the corner with a yelp, barely avoiding eating shit on the floor. You throw open the front doors of the school building, andâ
Frigid wind slices your cheeks. You gasp in shock, and the air robs the bravery out of your lungs. It disappears in a puff of mist as you stagger forward. You almost trip down the stoop, but at the very last minute, your flailing hand catches onto the handrail.
The sun sets very early these days. You know this. And yet, you exhale shudderingly as you stare into the utter darkness of the night.
Something about being in the cold makes you feel heavy and vulnerable again. It reminds you that youâre weak. That the cruel elements: the cold, the rain, the criminals, will overpower the frailty of your body. That your feet canât and wonât carry you quickly enough to safety.
You swallow, and walk down the front stairs at a normal pace. Your momentum has all but disappeared, and now youâre just walking rather speedily through the campus yard to where the gates are.
As your heart begins raging against your ribcage, everything begins feeling exactly the way it did the other night.
You were doing okay during class. You thought you were alright. Why arenât you alright?
You breathe and breathe, waiting for your body to understand that youâre not running for your life, that nobodyâs holding you at gun point, that youâre not in that fucking alleyway and youâre alive and youâre fine, youâre fine, youâre fine.
Barely managing to reach the front gates before your knees give in against your will, youâre forced to grab onto an iron rung, staring out numbly at the streets you must travel through to get home.
The long stretch of shade, the dark folliage lining the side of the road, the flickering lampsâall the little things that were once familiar to you feel unmistakably hostile, now.
Lifting a leaden foot, you waver back towards the supposeed safety of your campus.
So much for hope, your mind supplies bitterly.
Youâre not sure how long you stand there like an idiot, but your feet go numb as you mentally calculate how long itâll take for you to get home if you run all the way there.
In the midst of your fretting, audible footsteps resound against the pavement. You tense, then spin to search the darkness for any sign of danger.
Your shoulders relax, though your eyes promptly blow wide with wonder as you glimpse a gentle ripple of fabric, a length that hangs from shoulder to foot.
Scuffed green boot first, then the rest of him, you watch in wonder as the Boy Wonder crosses the border from shadow to light, and back into your life.
With one hand on his hip, and the other lax at his side, Robin strides forward casually, stopping a step or two before you.
The first time youâd seen him, heâd been a burst of efficient violence, green and shadow and yellow flashing explosively before your eyes. Considering your circumstances, you barely had the time to take in his appearance.
But now that heâs not darting around like a ninja, you try to make a mental note of every visual attributes you see. Green kneeâbraces, with a dark matte sheen to the metal. Red shoelaces, inclining to the shade of warm blood rather than cool purples. Youâre definetly going to have to test mixing the exact shade of his saffron cape with your paints when you get home, too.
Then thereâs the matter of the sword strapped to his belt.
You canât remember the last time youâve seen him use it. No amateur shaky footage involving him has featured that legendary, flashing sliver of metal for years.
People used to be up in arms about that sword. Or rather, the supposed enthusiasm with which the young, âviolentâ vigilante wielded it.
You remember a particularly scathing news report that had played when you were ten, maybe eleven, eating dinner:
The sight of that dangerous companion of the Bat, with his sword drawn like heâs eager for blood has become a dangerous norm, the anchorwoman had said in regareds to photographs of Robin with his katana drawn midâswing, mouth open in a silent battleâcry. One we shouldnât accept.
You canât deny that he did seem significantly more abrasive when he was younger. But itâs been years since, and it doesnât sit right with you that some people still use his papparazzi photographs from nearly a decade ago as evidence for some supposed secret evil lurking within him, still.
Robinâs undeniably saved Gotham time and time again. Heâs a saviour of the city, a hero of urban myth, andâŠ
And heâs standing so close, you think idly, wondering how youâd capture the intricate patterns of his katana handle on paper. Much closer than he should to some random freshman art student he saved, and happened to run into again.
Heâs close enough that your hand would brush the side of his if you were to reach out for it.
(You wonât, because you value your fucking life, but you could.)
The sound of Robin clearing his throat erupts amidst the silence. Your cheeks go very hot as you realise youâve been caught in the act.
Hoping to beat him to any accusations of you eyeing him up or checking him out, you stammer abruptly, âI wanted to thank you. For yesterday, I mean. You, uh. Really saved my life out there.â
You cringe as soon as the words escape your lips. Check out Captain Obvious over here, you think, wanting to dig your nails into your skull and claw your brains out.
âYes,â he says stiffly. âThatâs. What I do.â
âUm,â you breathe flusteredly. Every other word snags at the back of your throat, like tattered fabric halfâimpaled on brambles. âSo what are you doing here?â
âI was in the area,â Robin dismisses tersely. âPatrolling. Are you waiting for someone?â
His subject change is too abrupt to be convincing, but you reply anyways. âI was gonna go to the art supplies store. Gotta stock up on the stuff I lost yesterday, so.â
He raises a brow. âThe one on the 14th?â
Your eyes widen. âYeah. Foleyâs Arts, Scraps and Crafts, why?â
Without another word, Robin turns around and strides away. You hover, completely uncertain of what to do. Maybe heâs ended the interaction by asserting his superior intelligence, and heâs leaving to save some poor fucker now, and this is goodbye.
Heâs already a ways away when you hear the heave of a loud sigh. âWell?â he calls over his caped shoulder. âAre you waiting for another thief to come along and rob you blind?â
You blink with your mouth open. The wind speaks on your behalf as it rushes past you. âYouâre walking me there?â you settle on asking.
Robin doesnât bother responding, oozing impatience as he puts a hand on his hip. For a hero and a saviour of the people, Robin sure has an attitude, you think.
âBut donât you have better things to do?â you ask, taking brisk steps to catch up with him before he can change his mind. âPeople to save?â
If heâs heard your question, he doesnât acknowledge it by looking your way. With his head facing forward, his attention is completely devoted to the dark streets before him, like a proper man on a mission.
âIf thereâs an urgent matter to attend to,â he answers vaguely, âIâll leave.â
âAh,â you say.
And thatâs that. The two of you walk down the pavement, with the only sound being that of the rustling branches and whistling winds.
Your heart is beating just as quickly as it did when you were clinging to the school gates, on the brink of a panic attack. Frankly, youâd prefer that to the inherent insanity of your current circumstancesâwalking in awkward silence next to a crimeâfighting vigilante because he insisted on accompanying you to the crafts store.
The moment the thought occurs to you, you speak thoughtlessly to fill the silence. âHey, how do you know which way weâre going?â
With an exasperated click of his tongue, he says, âI know every street in my city by heart. Name a place.â
âUh, Harborview?â
With the confidence of a weatherman, Robin recites on the spot, âWeâre currently located in Coventry; northâeast of Gotham University.
âIf one were to start from Wayne Experimental Sciences Building, with Wayne Tower to the East, the most beneficial route would be to walk down Broome Street untilââ
A sound of amusement bubbles out of you before you can hold it back. âI get it, youâve got the omnipresence of a homing pigeon,â you say teasingly.
His eyebrows furrow. âHoming pigeons were bred and trained to carry messages during war time. They flew through torrents of gunfire across enemy lines. Put some respect on their name.
âAnd itâs not omnipresence,â he corrects, âitâs awareness. Acuteness. A willingness to pay attention and commit information to memory.â
What do you know, Robin knows bird facts, you bemuse.
âSo youâre saying youâve committed every possible route from every possible place in Gotham to memory?â
âYes.â
âAh, I get it now. Youâre a human GPS,â you conclude, nodding sagely.
Though you canât see past the marbleâwhite lenses of his green domino mask, itâs obvious heâs exasperated as he shoots you a look.
âA human GPS," Robin repeats slowly.
âYeah, they should hire you as the guy who voices the Google Maps navigation. âAt the bottom of the hill, make a rightâ,â you say, trying to mimic his unique Gotham accent. ââContinue straight ahead, fool. I work for Batman.ââ
You receive no response other than a snort through the nose. The slightest hint of amusement in his tone is enough to lighten the weight in your chest.
The conversation dwindles back into silence.
Itâs then that a thought occurs to you:
You should probably ask Robin for permission before committing to making him the main subject of your competition submission.
Nobody would be pleased to have a wall-sized, very public mural of themself hung up without their permission, after all.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Your heart is oscillating between âdo it now, youâll never see him againâ and âdonât you dare make this weirdâ. Itâs much harder, now that heâs next to you, to not feel flustered at the prospect of asking to draw fanart of your saviour.
Itâs a blessing and a curse that the store comes into view before you can decide.
You pick up the pace, hoping to come to a conclusion later.
The force of the wind flings the front door open, and you hurriedly fight against the air pressure to shove it close again. Everything goes misty and vague as your glasses frames fog up, moisture condensing on the lenses upon the sudden shift of temperature.
A good number of customers, having been alerted by the sad pealing of the doorâchime, lift their heads to bear witness to your arrival.
A welter of anxiety rises in your chest. Youâre not exactly sure how you thought publically parading around with Batmanâs sidekick would go. What if the counter-guy hates Batman or something?
The door peals again from behind you, notifying you of Robinâs presence.
Nervously readjusting your glasses, your eyes slide towards the man behind the counter. His weathered features are nonâplussed, giving no indication of acknowledgement or care for the boy dressed in bright yellow and green.
Though your vision is limited, the blurry figures hover in a blatant attempt to assess which Robin has just entered the store. They seem to simultaneously come to a consensus, as everybody immediately scatters in all directions.
Like rats in a metro, you grimace at the less than subtle way theyâd made their distaste for the vigilante hero clear.
It takes everything in you to avoid checking up on how heâs feeling. Youâre guessing not great, considering how you can feel myriad eyes trained intently in your direction, threatening to pierce your body like bullet wounds.
Not wanting to join them in making a spectacle out of his presence, you mumble, "C'mon, it's this way,â and move forward.
A beat passes. He follows.
You round the corner to kneel before the array of sketchbooks laid out near the bottom shelf.
Scanning through the labels, you click your tongue in annoyance as your eyes land on the conspicuously rectangular shaped void slotted between two stacks, where you know the cheapest option used to be.
âDamn,â you mutter.
Your professor mandates 18 by 24 inches as the minimum size for assignments, and the other options are significantly more expensive.
âSorry. Looks like we came here for nothing,â you heave a sigh, and get up.
He doesnât follow you immediately.
âIs this one not sufficient?â Robin points. â50 pages, higher GSM than the newsprint pad you lost yesterday. That makes this one an improvement.â
You turn to look back at him, astonished. âWait, howâd you know?â
A shrug. âI remember everything,â he replies vaguely. âSaw it on the cover. Well?â
Your eyes narrow. Not that photographic memory is completely out of the question for a superheroâs sidekick, but itâs rare for people to know what GSM meansâlet alone what a higher number indicates.
(The only logical explanation you can think of is that Robin does watercolour painting in his free time. Maybe youâll ask him about it later.)
âWell,â you begin, âItâs pricierâŠâ
âBy two dollars.â
You frown, mulling it over. For a moment, you're going to argue, but... "You know what? Sure. I'll get this one. Wait for me outside?â
You donât wait for a reply as you reach the counter area. The room buzzes in silence.
So far, everybody seems keen on minding their own business lest the violent Robin lay eyes on them. Though nobody seems to have made a scene yet.
You slide the sketchbook over the counter. âJust this, please.â
The elderly man doesnât respond. You canât get a bead on his expression as he stares with lightless eyes past you, in Robinâs direction.
His eyes narrow. You swallow.
âSir?â you ask nervously, hoping to redirect his attention.
Again, his composure unnerves you. He relinquishes his glare, though he keeps his head down.
âYears ago,â the man at the counter speaks abruptly, âRobin was a fine fellow. Kept the bat in line.â
Hesitantly, you lift your face just enough to study the manâs expression, grim and rueful and bitter.
âThen, eight, maybe nine years ago,â he continues evenly, âIâd been out late at night. Buncha criminals cornered me. They had butcherâs knives. Took my wallet.
âThat boy behind you,â he jerks his chin in Robinâs direction, his voice growing louder in volume, âtook one of their cleavers, and amputated the robber in front of me. Whole arm; clean off. Blood was everywhere. And that boy was smiling.â
He meets your gaze, then. You shiver, staring into lightless eyes.
âI ain't saying them criminals were in the right. And Iâm sure as hell glad to be alive.
âBut I know what I saw,â he shakes his head. âI know what I saw. A fuckinâ criminal, thirstinâ for blood, taking down other criminals. Only thing is, he wears that fucking cape.â
âIâd like to pay, please, sir,â you interrupt, feeling your heart beat in your throat.
Wordlessly, he scans your sketchbook.
âThatâll be $13.58,â he says solemnly.
You practically throw money his way, desperate to get out of here.
âNeed a receipt?â
âNo, thank you,â you squeak. Swiftly stalking up to Robin, you whisper nervously, âWe gotta get out of here, man.â
Before youâve finished your sentence, Robinâs already striding out the door, the bell ringing forebodingly.
The ensuing silence buzzes. You avoid the old manâs unwavering gaze as you follow suit.
Outside, Robinâs pacing back and forth restlessly.
âWhich way,â he spits as you come into view.
You realise belatedly that heâs asking you where you live. You point in the general direction.
With a dramatic whirl of his cape, he begins walking off.
His frame is rigid as he moves on ahead, clearly eager to drop you off and disappear into the night as soon as he can.
Trying not to disturb the silence, you follow from behind.
You realise retroactively how drastically he had slowed himself down earlier; when you were walking side by side.
Because right now, his pace is much faster than you can follow. Youâre almost breathless trying to catch up with the stride of his outrageously long legs.
Frustratedly, you call out, âHey man, can you wait up?â
He comes to a sudden halt. You stop in place as well.
You hadnât intended to leave such a wide berth between the two of you. But heâs a lamppost ahead, and the distance feels all the more daunting. A boundary you shouldnât breach.
âYou have a question.â Robinâs voice shakes under the heavy weight of an emotion heâs barely managing to restrain. âAsk it.
ââŠWas it true?â
No response; he stands there, severe in his stillness.
âWhat he said. The counter guy,â you press. âWas it true?â
âYes,â he says through his teeth, and it sounds like a confession.
âHave you done anything like that sinceâŠ?â
âNo.â he snaps. âNot in years. Never again.
âI am nothing like the other Robins. I exceed them in power, prowess. I exceed them in every possible way. But I will not pretend as if my hands are clean. That my past was pure and bloodless, like theirs. I was not, I am notâŠâ
His voice catches. The fervorous momentum of his rant comes to an abrupt end.
Then, his hand flexes at his side. Fingers out, before retracting into a clenched fist once more.
Your eyes widen in hazy recognition. Itâs a small involuntary twitch. But for a brief eternity, Robin seems impossibly, overwhelmingly familiar to you.
His anger wanes, loosing the tenseness of his shoulders. And when his voice rings out again, itâs laden with an exhasution you donât think you will ever truly understand.
âI am not innocent,â he concludes, sounding small.
The weight of his words seep into the marrow of your bones. Robin is blunt. Forthright. He wouldnât lie to you.
You eye the sword at his side, once more. Batman doesnât kill. But has he?
You swallow. Breathe, you think. Refocus.
You look away from the sword. You take in the composition before you, the bigger picture.
The boy who saved your life stands with his back facing you. From underneath the lamppost, harsh light flows around Robinâs figure the way a running stream warps around a pebble.
As if the light canât bear to touch him.
âŠYouâre not sure what he means about his past not being âpure and bloodlessâ. You donât want to know.
But you do know that he saved your life. You know he hasnât used the sword by his side in years.
And you know that Damian's drawing looked exactly like this: a lonely boy standing with his back to you.
Not a hero, a boy. He is Robin. A boy with blood on his hands and a past you cannot begin to imagine. A boy your age.
He is Robin. Shrouded in shadow, shunned by light. And right now, he looks completely, utterly alone.
âOkay,â you say quietly.
He whips around to face you. The scintillating whites where his eyes should be blaze like wildfire.
âThatâs it?â he yells in what can only be incredulous rage.
âYeahâhuh.â
He stares, clearly shocked into silence.
âI mean, itâs Gotham,â you say fumblingly. âEveryoneâs a little fucked up. So.â
The silence is fucking terrible. Not a sound is shared between you until Robin says, sounding very tired:
âThatâsâyouâthatâs stupid,â he settles on saying.
âOh, yeah,â you nod.
âThatâs really fucking stupid,â he emphasises, rubbing fists into the sockets of his eyes. âCompletely brainless. Absolutely insane. Thatâs hardly a viable conclusion to draw.â
âHey, itâs Gotham,â you laugh. âEveryoneâs a little crazy. Think I saw the Riddler try to throw a banana peel in front of Batmobile once.â
Whatever remaining rigidity to Robinâs form seems to unravel like ribbons. His shoulders lax. His fist uncurls. And maybe itâs your imagination, but he looks almost relieved.
You take the opportunity to catch up. Noting the very subtle way his body braces for something as you walk up to him, you walk right past him and pretend nothingâs wrong.
He follows suit, footsteps light against the pavement. He doesnât attempt to match your pace; staggering behind a little. You have an inkling that he doesnât want you to see his face, lest the unmasked half give away any vulnerable expressions.
âI amputated a man. I donât understand how you can accept that,â he says tightly.
Sobering up, you say, âWell, Iâm not gonna lie: the fact that youâve sliced arms and legs off of people Fruit Ninja style is kinda terrifying.â
He doesnât join you in laughing at your joke. So you swallow your anxiety and continue:
âBut you saved me the other night. You did more than that. You gave me a Kleenex, you comforted me, you tried to salvage my sketchbookâŠwhich, thank you, by the way,â you add, a soft smile tugging at your lips. âIt was a lost cause, but you tried.
âAnd I think thatâs what youâve been doing. Trying. And itâs like you said: ânever againâ, right?â
âYou really believe that,â he says slowly.
Youâre not sure what he means by âthatâ. That people can change? That he wasnât lying when he said ânever againââŠ?
Regardless, you hear the implicit question behind it.
You trust me?
âYeah. I do.â
âYouâd be the first,â he scoffs bitterly.
You match his pace, looking a question at him.
ââŠI see it in their eyes when they look at me,â he says bitterly, the unforgiving cold condensing his words into steam. âI know theyâre waiting for me to snap. Canât say I blame them, though.
âIt doesnât matter if Iâm trying. Whatâs done is done. To them, Iâll always be that bloody-handed boy, from years ago. Iâve made peace with that.â
Youâre not sure you believe him, when he spits that last sentence.
You bite your lip, staring down at your shoes.
âWell,â you say eventually, âI think youâre pretty cool.â
Robin laughs. And not a polite one, either. Itâs loud, frantic, hystericalâit almost sounds like a squawk. Itâs completely unrestrained as it bursts out of him abruptly, and it contrasts his usual demeanor so starkly that it enraptures you. You canât look away.
(It's in that moment that you wish you could capture a feelingâa soundâonto paper. If you could, you would bottle his laugh up, and somehow turn it into pigment. You'd make paint out of it, use it in all your pieces. You'd color everything in it.)
âCool,â he repeats in disbelief, though the humour in his tone has yet to fade.
âCool,â you grin, egging him on.
You continue making conversation with him. Lighthearted smallâtalk. Turns out heâs never heard of Fruit Ninja, which is unacceptable. So you talk his ears off about it, all the way to your front door.
Which you arrive at, much sooner than you expect.
âSurely you can make it inside without any problems,â he drones, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You scoff, punching his shoulder lightly in jest. It shouldnât surprise you that the muscle there is tough like a brick, but you jump and hiss in pain anyways.
He chuckles quietly (like a prick), and heat rushes to your face for more reasons than one. His mouth opens, then closes. Then, almost hesitatingly, he says:
âWellâŠgoodbye.â
You blink at his unceremonious, almost anticlimactic farewell.
Youâre watching as he slowly moves backwards and away from your porch, when you realise that heâs leaving.
A surge of panic dislodges the words in your throat as you sputter aloud:
âWait!â
To your surprsise, he actually stops in his steps. He turns around with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
You try to collect your nerves and breathe in deeply. Youâd been pretty bold and confident about your idea, but now that you have to ask him for permission faceâtoâface, itâs⊠different, to say the least.
âThereâs this project,â you start. Somehow, youâre already breathless. âFor university. Itâs a competition for mural ideas, Funded by The Martha Wayne Foundation. Have you heard of that one?â
A pause. Then, he nods stiffly.
âYeah. Um. I was wondering whether youâd be cool with me drawing you. As part of my entry.â
The silence that meets you is enough to rear you back into motor-mouth as you ramble:
âObviously, I wanted to ask your permission? Before I went ahead and just, submitted whatâs essentially a piece of fanart in of a real life vigilante to a public project that pretty much everyone in the cityâs going to see. I mean, I know you get your photo taken against your will when youâre kicking ass and shit, butââ
âYouâre certain?â he blurts out. His mouth is agape with disbelief, and though itâs hard to make out with his dark skin tone, youâre fairly certain thereâs a flush of red blooming on his cheeks.
Could just be the cold, but it looks cute on him either way.
At a loss of words, you nod, feeling a lot shyer than you thought you would.
âThere are others,â he says flatly.
You frown. âWhat?â
âBatman,â he says, flexing the hand at his side. âHeâsâŠa safer option in the realm of vigilantes.â
You put your hands on your hips, feeling a little demeaned. âI donât make art to play it safe, buddy.â
âThatâs not what IâŠâ he sighs, giving up mid-sentence when you shoot him a look.
Youâre more than a little surprised when he continues, âIf that is what you wish, then⊠I will not stop you. Even if I find it highly inadvisable.â
Your eyes fly wide open. âReally?â you ask again, just to be sure.
Though he makes an exasperated noise through his nose, he nods. Itâs a yes.
âCool,â you laugh breathlessly. Then, because apparently youâve gone from breathless to mindless in his presence, you ask presumptuously:
âUm. Iâll⊠see you around?â
Your head floods hot. Idiot. Heâs a vigilante. He doesnât have time to be hanging out with civilians, let alone walking them home.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he nods again.
âOh,â you breathe. âOkay. Um. Good night.â
You slam the door hastily, much louder than you should, and suppress the scream threatening to bubble out your throat.
Youâre shaking, and youâre not sure if itâs excitement or anxiety or joy. Either way, you kick your shoes off hastily.
Stumbling over yourself, you run for your bedroom at a breakneck pace, barely managing to round the corner before you bludgeon your skull in.
Your door flies open. You toss your belongings onto the floor with no regard.
You fling your sketchbook open, and begin to draw.
a/n: for anyone who's curious, i took inspiration from Secret Origins #4 (2014) for the old manâs story about damian amputating the criminal. i don't think i've ever read a damian x reader fic that like. addresses how violent he was for a while even after he became robin and joined the good guys? like!! that kid decapitated a criminal right after his first appearance!! why does nobody talk about that!! we should talk about that!!!
chapter 2: a new leaf.
previous ânextâmasterlist coming soon! âread on ao3!
pairing: art school!au damian wayne x female!reader.
tags: art school!au. both reader and damian are 18-19 year old college students. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian, but a blossoming crush on robin.
chapter warnings: amputation and canon typical violence a la damian's childhood.
summary: after getting a glimpse of damian's vulnerability during art critique, you begin to feel like you 'see' him for the first time. moreover, you desire to express your gratitude for robin saving your life, though a stranger's snide comment reveals that the masked vigilante's past is bloodier than expected... through patience and kindness, you begin to reconcile your views on both of them respectively.
â TERFS + HARRY POTTER FANS DNI. this applies to anyone who still actively engages with harry potter on any levelâthe game, shipping, you blog/consume/make fanwork, etc.
You donât register how much time has passed since Damianâs peace offering, but based on the crescendo of chattering and steady stream of footsteps ringing out from behind you, class is about to start.
Having made a good amount of progress on your new piece in the past two hours, you hop off your seat to take a big stretch. The sound of your bones cracking makes you wince, though it loosens your muscles, leaving you with a familiar, pleasant ache.
Youâre walking to the fusty sink in the corner when Professor Faraway strides through studio doors, shedding her layers with a fluid grace.
Hanging her chocolate coat on the hook by the door, she announces with a smile, âGood to see everyoneâs pinned up their work already. Our model Anita should arrive in around thirty minutes, so letâs get started, yeah?â
All the sleepâdeprived students scattered about the room begin ambling her way, like sheep following the shepherd.
Every liveâdrawing class starts with a class critique that lasts a good twenty minutes. The commentary is mainly driven by the class, because Professor Faraway always says that it becomes so much harder to ask people what they think of your work after graduating without some sort of conference gathering.
Critique from other likeâminded artists is a gift, sheâd say, so cherish it!
You think the class would cherish peer feedback a lot more if Damian werenât in the room. He always speaks first, and always speaks his mind. And boy, does he speak his mind.
Before today, youâd never truly interacted with him outside of petty jabs and snide remarks. Heâd been kind enough to lend you some very high quality paper. He even asked you how you were, even if he sounded like he had a gun to his head as he did.
So, maybe heâs just tonally daft. Maybe. But itâs hard to believe that when he takes one look at your work, and says, unfalteringly:
Your chosen composition is ineffective. Thereâs too much, all at once. If your goal was to highlight the discordance, though, youâve done a very good job.
The memory heaves a sigh out of you. You know it wasnât your best work, but it had only been the second week. First assignment of the year, and he was slathering salt all over the slug.
Shaking your hands dry and your thoughts away, you join the class. Youâre weaving your way past the herd of students to the front as Professor Faraway announces, âLetâs start from this side of the room.â
Your gut churns with anxiety as everybodyâs attention lands on the furthest piece on the west-side of the wall. Yours.
Youâd been proud of the piece you did for this week, but insecurity works its way into your system. The theme had been the âselfâ; whatever that meant to anyone. Youâd chosen a self-portrait for lack of any other idea, but youâre seriously regretting it now as the inspecting eyes of your classmates scour your work.
The itching, devastating voice in your head returns, taunting you in Damianâs voice, The composition is inefficient. You started getting sloppy at 3 AM trying to rush this assignment, and I can tell. The proportions are wrong. Your face, to be exact. Or, perhaps you just look like that.
You flex your fingers, indulging in the pain of straining sinews.
âWhat are we thinking?â your professor prompts the class, âWhat do we see?â
A shiver dances across your nape, lifting the hairs on your skin. The air is thick with anticipation as everybody waits for Damianâs voice to pierce the silence.
Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
Dozens of eyes, including yours, eventually begin shifting towards the only boy in the room standing like a museum guard.
His arms folded behind his back, his expression remains affectless as his discerning eyes dole out judgement upon your work. But for once, he seems perfectly content just to look.
âUm. I see her,â Brian speaks up, earning a few scattered giggles.
âYes. Thank you, Brian,â Professor Faraway sighs exasperatedly, though the humor in her voice is unmistakable. âElaborate. What else?â
âSheâs working on a painting in her room,â Harriet offers, tracing a rectangle mid-air with her finger. âI think weâre standing in the corridor, peeking through into her bedroom through the open door.â
âWe see a bit of her side profile?" She looks concentrated, but content, and, um, thereâs a lot of posters of the things she likes on the wallsâŠâ
Eventually the professor turns to you with a gentle smile, giving you feedback on how the doorway guides our focus towards the centre, very effective choice for the composition!âbut all that goes in one ear, out the other. Youâre all too distracted staring past her, trying to study the intricacies of Damianâs expression.
Thick brows set in scrutiny, smooth brown skin on a sophisticated face. Shoulders back, perfect posture; his emotions are ever elusive to you, but you canât shake the feeling that thereâs something off about him today.
The class moves on to the next drawing, and the next. You contribute here and there, pointing out the little things you like about your classmateâs work.
Damian hasnât spoken up once. Silent he stays, until finally Professor Faraway announces, âAlright. This piece is⊠Damianâs. Correct?â
He nods stiffly. Everyone turns to look, and holds their breath as they take in his masterwork. But you keep your eyes on him.
Your observance is rewarded, because the second everyoneâs attention diverts to his piece, his features twitch out of stagnation. The stillness of stature makes movement all the more evident, and you catch the sudden movement of his hand flexing at his side.
Your eyes widen. Damian is nervous. You know he is, because you share the exact same nervous tick.
As soon as you register the twitch of his hand for what it is, everything else unravels before your eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, the twitch of the edge of his mouth.
You thought he was a naturalâborne critic. It barely took seconds upon looking at a classmateâs painting before Damian was pointing out flaws with a vindicating finger, with a voice so unwaveringly cold that it made you want to rip your piece off the wall and hurl it out the window immediately. Maybe even throw yourself out with it.
But as his pale eyes flick down and away from his piece, you wonder what it is he sees in his own art. Whether he finds his flaws just as easily, and holds himself to the same impossible standards he does with everyone else.
You glance towards his piece, composed entirely of varying shades of graphite; black and white.
Befitting his past as a medâstudent, Damian's artâstyle has the realism of a medical illustration. Youâve come to associate his work with uncanny accuracy, trompe-l'Ćil.
Swarthes of shadows slice across the composition, which is suprisingly simple:
A hauntingly familiar silhouette stares up towards the glaring light, which shines down on a portrait of the richest man in Gotham.
The background is probably meant to be some hallway in Wayne Manor. Velvet damask wallpaper, the arches and trefoils of wooden sideâchairs, all suggesting a long history of wealth and opulence completely foreign to you.
But⊠perhaps not just for you, but for Damian himself as well.
Despite having chosen a similar composition to your ownâwith the back profile and everythingâhis depiction of home is opulent, orderly, and completely out of reach. Nothing in the drawing seems personal to him.
In spite of the theme, it is Bruce Wayne, severe in his stillness, who takes up the majority of the piece. Framed in curling giltwood, placed in perfect centre and gleaming under the lustre of resin varnish, he looks like the perfect museum display.
The harsh light flows around Damianâs silhouette, like the brightness canât bear to touch him.
(Your brow creases. Why does the sight of his back limned in light look so familiar?)
Your classmates are all commenting on his flawless technical skills, but what enraptures you is the sheer vulnerability of it all.
For a boy who seems to make himself distant from everyone around him, an undeniable loneliness haunts the piece. And Damianâs unrolled it for everyone to see. It feels like a bid for connection on his part. Like a tentative hand, slowly reaching out to a crowd rushing past, hoping for someone to see, and understand.
Your eyes flit about, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Regardless of any prior grudges you have against Damian, a curiosity has sprouted in your chest, and you canât bear to nip it in the bud.
âAny last comments?â you hear Professor Faraway ask.
You turn, only to meet eyes of dark, clear green.
A numbing shiver wracks your frame. You reflexively swallow as you meet Damianâs gaze, the hairs on your skin slowly rising. Though his flat mouth and lax brows suggest otherwise, his stare is anticipatory. Heâs waiting for something. Heâs waiting for you to speak.
You feel your lips peel apart as you open your mouth, then close it. The oppressive air dries your lungs like a mouthful of coffee.
You canât think of anything to say.
âWell, alright,â the professor addresses the silence, clapping her hands together with finality. âThank you, Damian! Onto todayâs workâŠâ
His eyelashes flicker, and the vulnerability in his eyes dims like snuffed candlelight as he averts his gaze.
You stare, and stew in inexplicable regret.
For the first time in history, you beat Damian at being first one out the door.
Normally, heâs done packing away his elaborate spread of art supplies long before the bell rings.
But ten minutes before dismissal, before class had even ended, Professor Faraway had tapped him on the shoulder. She said in a gentle voice, âDamian? Could I speak to you in private?â
Everybody else was too busy exchanging conspiratorial looks that could only be interpreted as ooh, this oughtta be good!
So, youâre out first. You shout a hurried âThanks, Professor!â over your shoulder as you kick the door open and rush out like a howl of wind.
Excitement has you smiling unabashedly as you streak past a number of lumbering students, daring to leap down several steps at a time.
Youâve finally come to a epiphany. Since the beginning of class, a vague composition for a new piece had been forming in the back of your mind.
Initially, the details had shifted according to a maelstrom of unconstrained, underdeveloped possibilities. Though, it finally solidified into something plausible the moment Professor Faraway announced the concept for the weeklong project ahead of you:
The Martha Wayne Foundation is funding the university project for a student submitted design for a mural in celebration of the symbols of hope in Gotham. Whether or not your work gets accepted, this will be the basis of your project for the next two weeksâŠ
It was then and there that you decided you wanted to make a piece for the yellowâcaped vigilante you owe your life to. Robinâs the only reason youâre running down these stairs with a beating heart and a heavy breath. You want to express your gratitude in one way or another, even if he never knows your name.
You can see it clearly, now, as you race down the stairs. Itâs definitely overlyâambitious, given the time constraints. But you canât get the idea of painting Robin out of your mind. Heâs your hero, and this is a piece about hope. Nowâs not the time to get modest.
A sky of purple dusk; the gold of Robinâs billowing cape cutting across the composition. You havenât decided on the pose yet. You can think of several. Him, sequestered to the side of the painting, standing regally with his sword drawn, or midâflight with his grappling gun. Either way, heâs limned by the gleaming lights of Gotham Cityâs horizon.
With a heartâstopping skid of your feet, you round the corner with a yelp, barely avoiding eating shit on the floor. You throw open the front doors of the school building, andâ
Frigid wind slices your cheeks. You gasp in shock, and the air robs the bravery out of your lungs. It disappears in a puff of mist as you stagger forward. You almost trip down the stoop, but at the very last minute, your flailing hand catches onto the handrail.
The sun sets very early these days. You know this. And yet, you exhale shudderingly as you stare into the utter darkness of the night.
Something about being in the cold makes you feel heavy and vulnerable again. It reminds you that youâre weak. That the cruel elements: the cold, the rain, the criminals, will overpower the frailty of your body. That your feet canât and wonât carry you quickly enough to safety.
You swallow, and walk down the front stairs at a normal pace. Your momentum has all but disappeared, and now youâre just walking rather speedily through the campus yard to where the gates are.
As your heart begins raging against your ribcage, everything begins feeling exactly the way it did the other night.
You were doing okay during class. You thought you were alright. Why arenât you alright?
You breathe and breathe, waiting for your body to understand that youâre not running for your life, that nobodyâs holding you at gun point, that youâre not in that fucking alleyway and youâre alive and youâre fine, youâre fine, youâre fine.
Barely managing to reach the front gates before your knees give in against your will, youâre forced to grab onto an iron rung, staring out numbly at the streets you must travel through to get home.
The long stretch of shade, the dark folliage lining the side of the road, the flickering lampsâall the little things that were once familiar to you feel unmistakably hostile, now.
Lifting a leaden foot, you waver back towards the supposeed safety of your campus.
So much for hope, your mind supplies bitterly.
Youâre not sure how long you stand there like an idiot, but your feet go numb as you mentally calculate how long itâll take for you to get home if you run all the way there.
In the midst of your fretting, audible footsteps resound against the pavement. You tense, then spin to search the darkness for any sign of danger.
Your shoulders relax, though your eyes promptly blow wide with wonder as you glimpse a gentle ripple of fabric, a length that hangs from shoulder to foot.
Scuffed green boot first, then the rest of him, you watch in wonder as the Boy Wonder crosses the border from shadow to light, and back into your life.
With one hand on his hip, and the other lax at his side, Robin strides forward casually, stopping a step or two before you.
The first time youâd seen him, heâd been a burst of efficient violence, green and shadow and yellow flashing explosively before your eyes. Considering your circumstances, you barely had the time to take in his appearance.
But now that heâs not darting around like a ninja, you try to make a mental note of every visual attributes you see. Green kneeâbraces, with a dark matte sheen to the metal. Red shoelaces, inclining to the shade of warm blood rather than cool purples. Youâre definetly going to have to test mixing the exact shade of his saffron cape with your paints when you get home, too.
Then thereâs the matter of the sword strapped to his belt.
You canât remember the last time youâve seen him use it. No amateur shaky footage involving him has featured that legendary, flashing sliver of metal for years.
People used to be up in arms about that sword. Or rather, the supposed enthusiasm with which the young, âviolentâ vigilante wielded it.
You remember a particularly scathing news report that had played when you were ten, maybe eleven, eating dinner:
The sight of that dangerous companion of the Bat, with his sword drawn like heâs eager for blood has become a dangerous norm, the anchorwoman had said in regareds to photographs of Robin with his katana drawn midâswing, mouth open in a silent battleâcry. One we shouldnât accept.
You canât deny that he did seem significantly more abrasive when he was younger. But itâs been years since, and it doesnât sit right with you that some people still use his papparazzi photographs from nearly a decade ago as evidence for some supposed secret evil lurking within him, still.
Robinâs undeniably saved Gotham time and time again. Heâs a saviour of the city, a hero of urban myth, andâŠ
And heâs standing so close, you think idly, wondering how youâd capture the intricate patterns of his katana handle on paper. Much closer than he should to some random freshman art student he saved, and happened to run into again.
Heâs close enough that your hand would brush the side of his if you were to reach out for it.
(You wonât, because you value your fucking life, but you could.)
The sound of Robin clearing his throat erupts amidst the silence. Your cheeks go very hot as you realise youâve been caught in the act.
Hoping to beat him to any accusations of you eyeing him up or checking him out, you stammer abruptly, âI wanted to thank you. For yesterday, I mean. You, uh. Really saved my life out there.â
You cringe as soon as the words escape your lips. Check out Captain Obvious over here, you think, wanting to dig your nails into your skull and claw your brains out.
âYes,â he says stiffly. âThatâs. What I do.â
âUm,â you breathe flusteredly. Every other word snags at the back of your throat, like tattered fabric halfâimpaled on brambles. âSo what are you doing here?â
âI was in the area,â Robin dismisses tersely. âPatrolling. Are you waiting for someone?â
His subject change is too abrupt to be convincing, but you reply anyways. âI was gonna go to the art supplies store. Gotta stock up on the stuff I lost yesterday, so.â
He raises a brow. âThe one on the 14th?â
Your eyes widen. âYeah. Foleyâs Arts, Scraps and Crafts, why?â
Without another word, Robin turns around and strides away. You hover, completely uncertain of what to do. Maybe heâs ended the interaction by asserting his superior intelligence, and heâs leaving to save some poor fucker now, and this is goodbye.
Heâs already a ways away when you hear the heave of a loud sigh. âWell?â he calls over his caped shoulder. âAre you waiting for another thief to come along and rob you blind?â
You blink with your mouth open. The wind speaks on your behalf as it rushes past you. âYouâre walking me there?â you settle on asking.
Robin doesnât bother responding, oozing impatience as he puts a hand on his hip. For a hero and a saviour of the people, Robin sure has an attitude, you think.
âBut donât you have better things to do?â you ask, taking brisk steps to catch up with him before he can change his mind. âPeople to save?â
If heâs heard your question, he doesnât acknowledge it by looking your way. With his head facing forward, his attention is completely devoted to the dark streets before him, like a proper man on a mission.
âIf thereâs an urgent matter to attend to,â he answers vaguely, âIâll leave.â
âAh,â you say.
And thatâs that. The two of you walk down the pavement, with the only sound being that of the rustling branches and whistling winds.
Your heart is beating just as quickly as it did when you were clinging to the school gates, on the brink of a panic attack. Frankly, youâd prefer that to the inherent insanity of your current circumstancesâwalking in awkward silence next to a crimeâfighting vigilante because he insisted on accompanying you to the crafts store.
The moment the thought occurs to you, you speak thoughtlessly to fill the silence. âHey, how do you know which way weâre going?â
With an exasperated click of his tongue, he says, âI know every street in my city by heart. Name a place.â
âUh, Harborview?â
With the confidence of a weatherman, Robin recites on the spot, âWeâre currently located in Coventry; northâeast of Gotham University.
âIf one were to start from Wayne Experimental Sciences Building, with Wayne Tower to the East, the most beneficial route would be to walk down Broome Street untilââ
A sound of amusement bubbles out of you before you can hold it back. âI get it, youâve got the omnipresence of a homing pigeon,â you say teasingly.
His eyebrows furrow. âHoming pigeons were bred and trained to carry messages during war time. They flew through torrents of gunfire across enemy lines. Put some respect on their name.
âAnd itâs not omnipresence,â he corrects, âitâs awareness. Acuteness. A willingness to pay attention and commit information to memory.â
What do you know, Robin knows bird facts, you bemuse.
âSo youâre saying youâve committed every possible route from every possible place in Gotham to memory?â
âYes.â
âAh, I get it now. Youâre a human GPS,â you conclude, nodding sagely.
Though you canât see past the marbleâwhite lenses of his green domino mask, itâs obvious heâs exasperated as he shoots you a look.
âA human GPS," Robin repeats slowly.
âYeah, they should hire you as the guy who voices the Google Maps navigation. âAt the bottom of the hill, make a rightâ,â you say, trying to mimic his unique Gotham accent. ââContinue straight ahead, fool. I work for Batman.ââ
You receive no response other than a snort through the nose. The slightest hint of amusement in his tone is enough to lighten the weight in your chest.
The conversation dwindles back into silence.
Itâs then that a thought occurs to you:
You should probably ask Robin for permission before committing to making him the main subject of your competition submission.
Nobody would be pleased to have a wall-sized, very public mural of themself hung up without their permission, after all.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Your heart is oscillating between âdo it now, youâll never see him againâ and âdonât you dare make this weirdâ. Itâs much harder, now that heâs next to you, to not feel flustered at the prospect of asking to draw fanart of your saviour.
Itâs a blessing and a curse that the store comes into view before you can decide.
You pick up the pace, hoping to come to a conclusion later.
The force of the wind flings the front door open, and you hurriedly fight against the air pressure to shove it close again. Everything goes misty and vague as your glasses frames fog up, moisture condensing on the lenses upon the sudden shift of temperature.
A good number of customers, having been alerted by the sad pealing of the doorâchime, lift their heads to bear witness to your arrival.
A welter of anxiety rises in your chest. Youâre not exactly sure how you thought publically parading around with Batmanâs sidekick would go. What if the counter-guy hates Batman or something?
The door peals again from behind you, notifying you of Robinâs presence.
Nervously readjusting your glasses, your eyes slide towards the man behind the counter. His weathered features are nonâplussed, giving no indication of acknowledgement or care for the boy dressed in bright yellow and green.
Though your vision is limited, the blurry figures hover in a blatant attempt to assess which Robin has just entered the store. They seem to simultaneously come to a consensus, as everybody immediately scatters in all directions.
Like rats in a metro, you grimace at the less than subtle way theyâd made their distaste for the vigilante hero clear.
It takes everything in you to avoid checking up on how heâs feeling. Youâre guessing not great, considering how you can feel myriad eyes trained intently in your direction, threatening to pierce your body like bullet wounds.
Not wanting to join them in making a spectacle out of his presence, you mumble, "C'mon, it's this way,â and move forward.
A beat passes. He follows.
You round the corner to kneel before the array of sketchbooks laid out near the bottom shelf.
Scanning through the labels, you click your tongue in annoyance as your eyes land on the conspicuously rectangular shaped void slotted between two stacks, where you know the cheapest option used to be.
âDamn,â you mutter.
Your professor mandates 18 by 24 inches as the minimum size for assignments, and the other options are significantly more expensive.
âSorry. Looks like we came here for nothing,â you heave a sigh, and get up.
He doesnât follow you immediately.
âIs this one not sufficient?â Robin points. â50 pages, higher GSM than the newsprint pad you lost yesterday. That makes this one an improvement.â
You turn to look back at him, astonished. âWait, howâd you know?â
A shrug. âI remember everything,â he replies vaguely. âSaw it on the cover. Well?â
Your eyes narrow. Not that photographic memory is completely out of the question for a superheroâs sidekick, but itâs rare for people to know what GSM meansâlet alone what a higher number indicates.
(The only logical explanation you can think of is that Robin does watercolour painting in his free time. Maybe youâll ask him about it later.)
âWell,â you begin, âItâs pricierâŠâ
âBy two dollars.â
You frown, mulling it over. For a moment, you're going to argue, but... "You know what? Sure. I'll get this one. Wait for me outside?â
You donât wait for a reply as you reach the counter area. The room buzzes in silence.
So far, everybody seems keen on minding their own business lest the violent Robin lay eyes on them. Though nobody seems to have made a scene yet.
You slide the sketchbook over the counter. âJust this, please.â
The elderly man doesnât respond. You canât get a bead on his expression as he stares with lightless eyes past you, in Robinâs direction.
His eyes narrow. You swallow.
âSir?â you ask nervously, hoping to redirect his attention.
Again, his composure unnerves you. He relinquishes his glare, though he keeps his head down.
âYears ago,â the man at the counter speaks abruptly, âRobin was a fine fellow. Kept the bat in line.â
Hesitantly, you lift your face just enough to study the manâs expression, grim and rueful and bitter.
âThen, eight, maybe nine years ago,â he continues evenly, âIâd been out late at night. Buncha criminals cornered me. They had butcherâs knives. Took my wallet.
âThat boy behind you,â he jerks his chin in Robinâs direction, his voice growing louder in volume, âtook one of their cleavers, and amputated the robber in front of me. Whole arm; clean off. Blood was everywhere. And that boy was smiling.â
He meets your gaze, then. You shiver, staring into lightless eyes.
âI ain't saying them criminals were in the right. And Iâm sure as hell glad to be alive.
âBut I know what I saw,â he shakes his head. âI know what I saw. A fuckinâ criminal, thirstinâ for blood, taking down other criminals. Only thing is, he wears that fucking cape.â
âIâd like to pay, please, sir,â you interrupt, feeling your heart beat in your throat.
Wordlessly, he scans your sketchbook.
âThatâll be $13.58,â he says solemnly.
You practically throw money his way, desperate to get out of here.
âNeed a receipt?â
âNo, thank you,â you squeak. Swiftly stalking up to Robin, you whisper nervously, âWe gotta get out of here, man.â
Before youâve finished your sentence, Robinâs already striding out the door, the bell ringing forebodingly.
The ensuing silence buzzes. You avoid the old manâs unwavering gaze as you follow suit.
Outside, Robinâs pacing back and forth restlessly.
âWhich way,â he spits as you come into view.
You realise belatedly that heâs asking you where you live. You point in the general direction.
With a dramatic whirl of his cape, he begins walking off.
His frame is rigid as he moves on ahead, clearly eager to drop you off and disappear into the night as soon as he can.
Trying not to disturb the silence, you follow from behind.
You realise retroactively how drastically he had slowed himself down earlier; when you were walking side by side.
Because right now, his pace is much faster than you can follow. Youâre almost breathless trying to catch up with the stride of his outrageously long legs.
Frustratedly, you call out, âHey man, can you wait up?â
He comes to a sudden halt. You stop in place as well.
You hadnât intended to leave such a wide berth between the two of you. But heâs a lamppost ahead, and the distance feels all the more daunting. A boundary you shouldnât breach.
âYou have a question.â Robinâs voice shakes under the heavy weight of an emotion heâs barely managing to restrain. âAsk it.
ââŠWas it true?â
No response; he stands there, severe in his stillness.
âWhat he said. The counter guy,â you press. âWas it true?â
âYes,â he says through his teeth, and it sounds like a confession.
âHave you done anything like that sinceâŠ?â
âNo.â he snaps. âNot in years. Never again.
âI am nothing like the other Robins. I exceed them in power, prowess. I exceed them in every possible way. But I will not pretend as if my hands are clean. That my past was pure and bloodless, like theirs. I was not, I am notâŠâ
His voice catches. The fervorous momentum of his rant comes to an abrupt end.
Then, his hand flexes at his side. Fingers out, before retracting into a clenched fist once more.
Your eyes widen in hazy recognition. Itâs a small involuntary twitch. But for a brief eternity, Robin seems impossibly, overwhelmingly familiar to you.
His anger wanes, loosing the tenseness of his shoulders. And when his voice rings out again, itâs laden with an exhasution you donât think you will ever truly understand.
âI am not innocent,â he concludes, sounding small.
The weight of his words seep into the marrow of your bones. Robin is blunt. Forthright. He wouldnât lie to you.
You eye the sword at his side, once more. Batman doesnât kill. But has he?
You swallow. Breathe, you think. Refocus.
You look away from the sword. You take in the composition before you, the bigger picture.
The boy who saved your life stands with his back facing you. From underneath the lamppost, harsh light flows around Robinâs figure the way a running stream warps around a pebble.
As if the light canât bear to touch him.
âŠYouâre not sure what he means about his past not being âpure and bloodlessâ. You donât want to know.
But you do know that he saved your life. You know he hasnât used the sword by his side in years.
And you know that Damian's drawing looked exactly like this: a lonely boy standing with his back to you.
Not a hero, a boy. He is Robin. A boy with blood on his hands and a past you cannot begin to imagine. A boy your age.
He is Robin. Shrouded in shadow, shunned by light. And right now, he looks completely, utterly alone.
âOkay,â you say quietly.
He whips around to face you. The scintillating whites where his eyes should be blaze like wildfire.
âThatâs it?â he yells in what can only be incredulous rage.
âYeahâhuh.â
He stares, clearly shocked into silence.
âI mean, itâs Gotham,â you say fumblingly. âEveryoneâs a little fucked up. So.â
The silence is fucking terrible. Not a sound is shared between you until Robin says, sounding very tired:
âThatâsâyouâthatâs stupid,â he settles on saying.
âOh, yeah,â you nod.
âThatâs really fucking stupid,â he emphasises, rubbing fists into the sockets of his eyes. âCompletely brainless. Absolutely insane. Thatâs hardly a viable conclusion to draw.â
âHey, itâs Gotham,â you laugh. âEveryoneâs a little crazy. Think I saw the Riddler try to throw a banana peel in front of Batmobile once.â
Whatever remaining rigidity to Robinâs form seems to unravel like ribbons. His shoulders lax. His fist uncurls. And maybe itâs your imagination, but he looks almost relieved.
You take the opportunity to catch up. Noting the very subtle way his body braces for something as you walk up to him, you walk right past him and pretend nothingâs wrong.
He follows suit, footsteps light against the pavement. He doesnât attempt to match your pace; staggering behind a little. You have an inkling that he doesnât want you to see his face, lest the unmasked half give away any vulnerable expressions.
âI amputated a man. I donât understand how you can accept that,â he says tightly.
Sobering up, you say, âWell, Iâm not gonna lie: the fact that youâve sliced arms and legs off of people Fruit Ninja style is kinda terrifying.â
He doesnât join you in laughing at your joke. So you swallow your anxiety and continue:
âBut you saved me the other night. You did more than that. You gave me a Kleenex, you comforted me, you tried to salvage my sketchbookâŠwhich, thank you, by the way,â you add, a soft smile tugging at your lips. âIt was a lost cause, but you tried.
âAnd I think thatâs what youâve been doing. Trying. And itâs like you said: ânever againâ, right?â
âYou really believe that,â he says slowly.
Youâre not sure what he means by âthatâ. That people can change? That he wasnât lying when he said ânever againââŠ?
Regardless, you hear the implicit question behind it.
You trust me?
âYeah. I do.â
âYouâd be the first,â he scoffs bitterly.
You match his pace, looking a question at him.
ââŠI see it in their eyes when they look at me,â he says bitterly, the unforgiving cold condensing his words into steam. âI know theyâre waiting for me to snap. Canât say I blame them, though.
âIt doesnât matter if Iâm trying. Whatâs done is done. To them, Iâll always be that bloody-handed boy, from years ago. Iâve made peace with that.â
Youâre not sure you believe him, when he spits that last sentence.
You bite your lip, staring down at your shoes.
âWell,â you say eventually, âI think youâre pretty cool.â
Robin laughs. And not a polite one, either. Itâs loud, frantic, hystericalâit almost sounds like a squawk. Itâs completely unrestrained as it bursts out of him abruptly, and it contrasts his usual demeanor so starkly that it enraptures you. You canât look away.
(It's in that moment that you wish you could capture a feelingâa soundâonto paper. If you could, you would bottle his laugh up, and somehow turn it into pigment. You'd make paint out of it, use it in all your pieces. You'd color everything in it.)
âCool,â he repeats in disbelief, though the humour in his tone has yet to fade.
âCool,â you grin, egging him on.
You continue making conversation with him. Lighthearted smallâtalk. Turns out heâs never heard of Fruit Ninja, which is unacceptable. So you talk his ears off about it, all the way to your front door.
Which you arrive at, much sooner than you expect.
âSurely you can make it inside without any problems,â he drones, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You scoff, punching his shoulder lightly in jest. It shouldnât surprise you that the muscle there is tough like a brick, but you jump and hiss in pain anyways.
He chuckles quietly (like a prick), and heat rushes to your face for more reasons than one. His mouth opens, then closes. Then, almost hesitatingly, he says:
âWellâŠgoodbye.â
You blink at his unceremonious, almost anticlimactic farewell.
Youâre watching as he slowly moves backwards and away from your porch, when you realise that heâs leaving.
A surge of panic dislodges the words in your throat as you sputter aloud:
âWait!â
To your surprsise, he actually stops in his steps. He turns around with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
You try to collect your nerves and breathe in deeply. Youâd been pretty bold and confident about your idea, but now that you have to ask him for permission faceâtoâface, itâs⊠different, to say the least.
âThereâs this project,â you start. Somehow, youâre already breathless. âFor university. Itâs a competition for mural ideas, Funded by The Martha Wayne Foundation. Have you heard of that one?â
A pause. Then, he nods stiffly.
âYeah. Um. I was wondering whether youâd be cool with me drawing you. As part of my entry.â
The silence that meets you is enough to rear you back into motor-mouth as you ramble:
âObviously, I wanted to ask your permission? Before I went ahead and just, submitted whatâs essentially a piece of fanart in of a real life vigilante to a public project that pretty much everyone in the cityâs going to see. I mean, I know you get your photo taken against your will when youâre kicking ass and shit, butââ
âYouâre certain?â he blurts out. His mouth is agape with disbelief, and though itâs hard to make out with his dark skin tone, youâre fairly certain thereâs a flush of red blooming on his cheeks.
Could just be the cold, but it looks cute on him either way.
At a loss of words, you nod, feeling a lot shyer than you thought you would.
âThere are others,â he says flatly.
You frown. âWhat?â
âBatman,â he says, flexing the hand at his side. âHeâsâŠa safer option in the realm of vigilantes.â
You put your hands on your hips, feeling a little demeaned. âI donât make art to play it safe, buddy.â
âThatâs not what IâŠâ he sighs, giving up mid-sentence when you shoot him a look.
Youâre more than a little surprised when he continues, âIf that is what you wish, then⊠I will not stop you. Even if I find it highly inadvisable.â
Your eyes fly wide open. âReally?â you ask again, just to be sure.
Though he makes an exasperated noise through his nose, he nods. Itâs a yes.
âCool,â you laugh breathlessly. Then, because apparently youâve gone from breathless to mindless in his presence, you ask presumptuously:
âUm. Iâll⊠see you around?â
Your head floods hot. Idiot. Heâs a vigilante. He doesnât have time to be hanging out with civilians, let alone walking them home.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he nods again.
âOh,â you breathe. âOkay. Um. Good night.â
You slam the door hastily, much louder than you should, and suppress the scream threatening to bubble out your throat.
Youâre shaking, and youâre not sure if itâs excitement or anxiety or joy. Either way, you kick your shoes off hastily.
Stumbling over yourself, you run for your bedroom at a breakneck pace, barely managing to round the corner before you bludgeon your skull in.
Your door flies open. You toss your belongings onto the floor with no regard.
You fling your sketchbook open, and begin to draw.
a/n: for anyone who's curious, i took inspiration from Secret Origins #4 (2014) for the old manâs story about damian amputating the criminal. i don't think i've ever read a damian x reader fic that like. addresses how violent he was for a while even after he became robin and joined the good guys? like!! that kid decapitated a criminal right after his first appearance!! why does nobody talk about that!! we should talk about that!!!
chapter 2: a new leaf.
previous ânextâmasterlist coming soon! âread on ao3!
pairing: art school!au damian wayne x female!reader.
tags: art school!au. both reader and damian are 18-19 year old college students. angst + hurt comfort. rivals to friends to lovers. reader has a jealous grudge against damian, but a blossoming crush on robin.
chapter warnings: amputation and canon typical violence a la damian's childhood.
summary: after getting a glimpse of damian's vulnerability during art critique, you begin to feel like you 'see' him for the first time. moreover, you desire to express your gratitude for robin saving your life, though a stranger's snide comment reveals that the masked vigilante's past is bloodier than expected... through patience and kindness, you begin to reconcile your views on both of them respectively.
â TERFS + HARRY POTTER FANS DNI. this applies to anyone who still actively engages with harry potter on any levelâthe game, shipping, you blog/consume/make fanwork, etc.
You donât register how much time has passed since Damianâs peace offering, but based on the crescendo of chattering and steady stream of footsteps ringing out from behind you, class is about to start.
Having made a good amount of progress on your new piece in the past two hours, you hop off your seat to take a big stretch. The sound of your bones cracking makes you wince, though it loosens your muscles, leaving you with a familiar, pleasant ache.
Youâre walking to the fusty sink in the corner when Professor Faraway strides through studio doors, shedding her layers with a fluid grace.
Hanging her chocolate coat on the hook by the door, she announces with a smile, âGood to see everyoneâs pinned up their work already. Our model Anita should arrive in around thirty minutes, so letâs get started, yeah?â
All the sleepâdeprived students scattered about the room begin ambling her way, like sheep following the shepherd.
Every liveâdrawing class starts with a class critique that lasts a good twenty minutes. The commentary is mainly driven by the class, because Professor Faraway always says that it becomes so much harder to ask people what they think of your work after graduating without some sort of conference gathering.
Critique from other likeâminded artists is a gift, sheâd say, so cherish it!
You think the class would cherish peer feedback a lot more if Damian werenât in the room. He always speaks first, and always speaks his mind. And boy, does he speak his mind.
Before today, youâd never truly interacted with him outside of petty jabs and snide remarks. Heâd been kind enough to lend you some very high quality paper. He even asked you how you were, even if he sounded like he had a gun to his head as he did.
So, maybe heâs just tonally daft. Maybe. But itâs hard to believe that when he takes one look at your work, and says, unfalteringly:
Your chosen composition is ineffective. Thereâs too much, all at once. If your goal was to highlight the discordance, though, youâve done a very good job.
The memory heaves a sigh out of you. You know it wasnât your best work, but it had only been the second week. First assignment of the year, and he was slathering salt all over the slug.
Shaking your hands dry and your thoughts away, you join the class. Youâre weaving your way past the herd of students to the front as Professor Faraway announces, âLetâs start from this side of the room.â
Your gut churns with anxiety as everybodyâs attention lands on the furthest piece on the west-side of the wall. Yours.
Youâd been proud of the piece you did for this week, but insecurity works its way into your system. The theme had been the âselfâ; whatever that meant to anyone. Youâd chosen a self-portrait for lack of any other idea, but youâre seriously regretting it now as the inspecting eyes of your classmates scour your work.
The itching, devastating voice in your head returns, taunting you in Damianâs voice, The composition is inefficient. You started getting sloppy at 3 AM trying to rush this assignment, and I can tell. The proportions are wrong. Your face, to be exact. Or, perhaps you just look like that.
You flex your fingers, indulging in the pain of straining sinews.
âWhat are we thinking?â your professor prompts the class, âWhat do we see?â
A shiver dances across your nape, lifting the hairs on your skin. The air is thick with anticipation as everybody waits for Damianâs voice to pierce the silence.
Five seconds pass. Then, ten.
Dozens of eyes, including yours, eventually begin shifting towards the only boy in the room standing like a museum guard.
His arms folded behind his back, his expression remains affectless as his discerning eyes dole out judgement upon your work. But for once, he seems perfectly content just to look.
âUm. I see her,â Brian speaks up, earning a few scattered giggles.
âYes. Thank you, Brian,â Professor Faraway sighs exasperatedly, though the humor in her voice is unmistakable. âElaborate. What else?â
âSheâs working on a painting in her room,â Harriet offers, tracing a rectangle mid-air with her finger. âI think weâre standing in the corridor, peeking through into her bedroom through the open door.â
âWe see a bit of her side profile?" She looks concentrated, but content, and, um, thereâs a lot of posters of the things she likes on the wallsâŠâ
Eventually the professor turns to you with a gentle smile, giving you feedback on how the doorway guides our focus towards the centre, very effective choice for the composition!âbut all that goes in one ear, out the other. Youâre all too distracted staring past her, trying to study the intricacies of Damianâs expression.
Thick brows set in scrutiny, smooth brown skin on a sophisticated face. Shoulders back, perfect posture; his emotions are ever elusive to you, but you canât shake the feeling that thereâs something off about him today.
The class moves on to the next drawing, and the next. You contribute here and there, pointing out the little things you like about your classmateâs work.
Damian hasnât spoken up once. Silent he stays, until finally Professor Faraway announces, âAlright. This piece is⊠Damianâs. Correct?â
He nods stiffly. Everyone turns to look, and holds their breath as they take in his masterwork. But you keep your eyes on him.
Your observance is rewarded, because the second everyoneâs attention diverts to his piece, his features twitch out of stagnation. The stillness of stature makes movement all the more evident, and you catch the sudden movement of his hand flexing at his side.
Your eyes widen. Damian is nervous. You know he is, because you share the exact same nervous tick.
As soon as you register the twitch of his hand for what it is, everything else unravels before your eyes. The stiffness of his shoulders, the tensing of his jaw, the twitch of the edge of his mouth.
You thought he was a naturalâborne critic. It barely took seconds upon looking at a classmateâs painting before Damian was pointing out flaws with a vindicating finger, with a voice so unwaveringly cold that it made you want to rip your piece off the wall and hurl it out the window immediately. Maybe even throw yourself out with it.
But as his pale eyes flick down and away from his piece, you wonder what it is he sees in his own art. Whether he finds his flaws just as easily, and holds himself to the same impossible standards he does with everyone else.
You glance towards his piece, composed entirely of varying shades of graphite; black and white.
Befitting his past as a medâstudent, Damian's artâstyle has the realism of a medical illustration. Youâve come to associate his work with uncanny accuracy, trompe-l'Ćil.
Swarthes of shadows slice across the composition, which is suprisingly simple:
A hauntingly familiar silhouette stares up towards the glaring light, which shines down on a portrait of the richest man in Gotham.
The background is probably meant to be some hallway in Wayne Manor. Velvet damask wallpaper, the arches and trefoils of wooden sideâchairs, all suggesting a long history of wealth and opulence completely foreign to you.
But⊠perhaps not just for you, but for Damian himself as well.
Despite having chosen a similar composition to your ownâwith the back profile and everythingâhis depiction of home is opulent, orderly, and completely out of reach. Nothing in the drawing seems personal to him.
In spite of the theme, it is Bruce Wayne, severe in his stillness, who takes up the majority of the piece. Framed in curling giltwood, placed in perfect centre and gleaming under the lustre of resin varnish, he looks like the perfect museum display.
The harsh light flows around Damianâs silhouette, like the brightness canât bear to touch him.
(Your brow creases. Why does the sight of his back limned in light look so familiar?)
Your classmates are all commenting on his flawless technical skills, but what enraptures you is the sheer vulnerability of it all.
For a boy who seems to make himself distant from everyone around him, an undeniable loneliness haunts the piece. And Damianâs unrolled it for everyone to see. It feels like a bid for connection on his part. Like a tentative hand, slowly reaching out to a crowd rushing past, hoping for someone to see, and understand.
Your eyes flit about, trying to commit every little detail to memory. Regardless of any prior grudges you have against Damian, a curiosity has sprouted in your chest, and you canât bear to nip it in the bud.
âAny last comments?â you hear Professor Faraway ask.
You turn, only to meet eyes of dark, clear green.
A numbing shiver wracks your frame. You reflexively swallow as you meet Damianâs gaze, the hairs on your skin slowly rising. Though his flat mouth and lax brows suggest otherwise, his stare is anticipatory. Heâs waiting for something. Heâs waiting for you to speak.
You feel your lips peel apart as you open your mouth, then close it. The oppressive air dries your lungs like a mouthful of coffee.
You canât think of anything to say.
âWell, alright,â the professor addresses the silence, clapping her hands together with finality. âThank you, Damian! Onto todayâs workâŠâ
His eyelashes flicker, and the vulnerability in his eyes dims like snuffed candlelight as he averts his gaze.
You stare, and stew in inexplicable regret.
For the first time in history, you beat Damian at being first one out the door.
Normally, heâs done packing away his elaborate spread of art supplies long before the bell rings.
But ten minutes before dismissal, before class had even ended, Professor Faraway had tapped him on the shoulder. She said in a gentle voice, âDamian? Could I speak to you in private?â
Everybody else was too busy exchanging conspiratorial looks that could only be interpreted as ooh, this oughtta be good!
So, youâre out first. You shout a hurried âThanks, Professor!â over your shoulder as you kick the door open and rush out like a howl of wind.
Excitement has you smiling unabashedly as you streak past a number of lumbering students, daring to leap down several steps at a time.
Youâve finally come to a epiphany. Since the beginning of class, a vague composition for a new piece had been forming in the back of your mind.
Initially, the details had shifted according to a maelstrom of unconstrained, underdeveloped possibilities. Though, it finally solidified into something plausible the moment Professor Faraway announced the concept for the weeklong project ahead of you:
The Martha Wayne Foundation is funding the university project for a student submitted design for a mural in celebration of the symbols of hope in Gotham. Whether or not your work gets accepted, this will be the basis of your project for the next two weeksâŠ
It was then and there that you decided you wanted to make a piece for the yellowâcaped vigilante you owe your life to. Robinâs the only reason youâre running down these stairs with a beating heart and a heavy breath. You want to express your gratitude in one way or another, even if he never knows your name.
You can see it clearly, now, as you race down the stairs. Itâs definitely overlyâambitious, given the time constraints. But you canât get the idea of painting Robin out of your mind. Heâs your hero, and this is a piece about hope. Nowâs not the time to get modest.
A sky of purple dusk; the gold of Robinâs billowing cape cutting across the composition. You havenât decided on the pose yet. You can think of several. Him, sequestered to the side of the painting, standing regally with his sword drawn, or midâflight with his grappling gun. Either way, heâs limned by the gleaming lights of Gotham Cityâs horizon.
With a heartâstopping skid of your feet, you round the corner with a yelp, barely avoiding eating shit on the floor. You throw open the front doors of the school building, andâ
Frigid wind slices your cheeks. You gasp in shock, and the air robs the bravery out of your lungs. It disappears in a puff of mist as you stagger forward. You almost trip down the stoop, but at the very last minute, your flailing hand catches onto the handrail.
The sun sets very early these days. You know this. And yet, you exhale shudderingly as you stare into the utter darkness of the night.
Something about being in the cold makes you feel heavy and vulnerable again. It reminds you that youâre weak. That the cruel elements: the cold, the rain, the criminals, will overpower the frailty of your body. That your feet canât and wonât carry you quickly enough to safety.
You swallow, and walk down the front stairs at a normal pace. Your momentum has all but disappeared, and now youâre just walking rather speedily through the campus yard to where the gates are.
As your heart begins raging against your ribcage, everything begins feeling exactly the way it did the other night.
You were doing okay during class. You thought you were alright. Why arenât you alright?
You breathe and breathe, waiting for your body to understand that youâre not running for your life, that nobodyâs holding you at gun point, that youâre not in that fucking alleyway and youâre alive and youâre fine, youâre fine, youâre fine.
Barely managing to reach the front gates before your knees give in against your will, youâre forced to grab onto an iron rung, staring out numbly at the streets you must travel through to get home.
The long stretch of shade, the dark folliage lining the side of the road, the flickering lampsâall the little things that were once familiar to you feel unmistakably hostile, now.
Lifting a leaden foot, you waver back towards the supposeed safety of your campus.
So much for hope, your mind supplies bitterly.
Youâre not sure how long you stand there like an idiot, but your feet go numb as you mentally calculate how long itâll take for you to get home if you run all the way there.
In the midst of your fretting, audible footsteps resound against the pavement. You tense, then spin to search the darkness for any sign of danger.
Your shoulders relax, though your eyes promptly blow wide with wonder as you glimpse a gentle ripple of fabric, a length that hangs from shoulder to foot.
Scuffed green boot first, then the rest of him, you watch in wonder as the Boy Wonder crosses the border from shadow to light, and back into your life.
With one hand on his hip, and the other lax at his side, Robin strides forward casually, stopping a step or two before you.
The first time youâd seen him, heâd been a burst of efficient violence, green and shadow and yellow flashing explosively before your eyes. Considering your circumstances, you barely had the time to take in his appearance.
But now that heâs not darting around like a ninja, you try to make a mental note of every visual attributes you see. Green kneeâbraces, with a dark matte sheen to the metal. Red shoelaces, inclining to the shade of warm blood rather than cool purples. Youâre definetly going to have to test mixing the exact shade of his saffron cape with your paints when you get home, too.
Then thereâs the matter of the sword strapped to his belt.
You canât remember the last time youâve seen him use it. No amateur shaky footage involving him has featured that legendary, flashing sliver of metal for years.
People used to be up in arms about that sword. Or rather, the supposed enthusiasm with which the young, âviolentâ vigilante wielded it.
You remember a particularly scathing news report that had played when you were ten, maybe eleven, eating dinner:
The sight of that dangerous companion of the Bat, with his sword drawn like heâs eager for blood has become a dangerous norm, the anchorwoman had said in regareds to photographs of Robin with his katana drawn midâswing, mouth open in a silent battleâcry. One we shouldnât accept.
You canât deny that he did seem significantly more abrasive when he was younger. But itâs been years since, and it doesnât sit right with you that some people still use his papparazzi photographs from nearly a decade ago as evidence for some supposed secret evil lurking within him, still.
Robinâs undeniably saved Gotham time and time again. Heâs a saviour of the city, a hero of urban myth, andâŠ
And heâs standing so close, you think idly, wondering how youâd capture the intricate patterns of his katana handle on paper. Much closer than he should to some random freshman art student he saved, and happened to run into again.
Heâs close enough that your hand would brush the side of his if you were to reach out for it.
(You wonât, because you value your fucking life, but you could.)
The sound of Robin clearing his throat erupts amidst the silence. Your cheeks go very hot as you realise youâve been caught in the act.
Hoping to beat him to any accusations of you eyeing him up or checking him out, you stammer abruptly, âI wanted to thank you. For yesterday, I mean. You, uh. Really saved my life out there.â
You cringe as soon as the words escape your lips. Check out Captain Obvious over here, you think, wanting to dig your nails into your skull and claw your brains out.
âYes,â he says stiffly. âThatâs. What I do.â
âUm,â you breathe flusteredly. Every other word snags at the back of your throat, like tattered fabric halfâimpaled on brambles. âSo what are you doing here?â
âI was in the area,â Robin dismisses tersely. âPatrolling. Are you waiting for someone?â
His subject change is too abrupt to be convincing, but you reply anyways. âI was gonna go to the art supplies store. Gotta stock up on the stuff I lost yesterday, so.â
He raises a brow. âThe one on the 14th?â
Your eyes widen. âYeah. Foleyâs Arts, Scraps and Crafts, why?â
Without another word, Robin turns around and strides away. You hover, completely uncertain of what to do. Maybe heâs ended the interaction by asserting his superior intelligence, and heâs leaving to save some poor fucker now, and this is goodbye.
Heâs already a ways away when you hear the heave of a loud sigh. âWell?â he calls over his caped shoulder. âAre you waiting for another thief to come along and rob you blind?â
You blink with your mouth open. The wind speaks on your behalf as it rushes past you. âYouâre walking me there?â you settle on asking.
Robin doesnât bother responding, oozing impatience as he puts a hand on his hip. For a hero and a saviour of the people, Robin sure has an attitude, you think.
âBut donât you have better things to do?â you ask, taking brisk steps to catch up with him before he can change his mind. âPeople to save?â
If heâs heard your question, he doesnât acknowledge it by looking your way. With his head facing forward, his attention is completely devoted to the dark streets before him, like a proper man on a mission.
âIf thereâs an urgent matter to attend to,â he answers vaguely, âIâll leave.â
âAh,â you say.
And thatâs that. The two of you walk down the pavement, with the only sound being that of the rustling branches and whistling winds.
Your heart is beating just as quickly as it did when you were clinging to the school gates, on the brink of a panic attack. Frankly, youâd prefer that to the inherent insanity of your current circumstancesâwalking in awkward silence next to a crimeâfighting vigilante because he insisted on accompanying you to the crafts store.
The moment the thought occurs to you, you speak thoughtlessly to fill the silence. âHey, how do you know which way weâre going?â
With an exasperated click of his tongue, he says, âI know every street in my city by heart. Name a place.â
âUh, Harborview?â
With the confidence of a weatherman, Robin recites on the spot, âWeâre currently located in Coventry; northâeast of Gotham University.
âIf one were to start from Wayne Experimental Sciences Building, with Wayne Tower to the East, the most beneficial route would be to walk down Broome Street untilââ
A sound of amusement bubbles out of you before you can hold it back. âI get it, youâve got the omnipresence of a homing pigeon,â you say teasingly.
His eyebrows furrow. âHoming pigeons were bred and trained to carry messages during war time. They flew through torrents of gunfire across enemy lines. Put some respect on their name.
âAnd itâs not omnipresence,â he corrects, âitâs awareness. Acuteness. A willingness to pay attention and commit information to memory.â
What do you know, Robin knows bird facts, you bemuse.
âSo youâre saying youâve committed every possible route from every possible place in Gotham to memory?â
âYes.â
âAh, I get it now. Youâre a human GPS,â you conclude, nodding sagely.
Though you canât see past the marbleâwhite lenses of his green domino mask, itâs obvious heâs exasperated as he shoots you a look.
âA human GPS," Robin repeats slowly.
âYeah, they should hire you as the guy who voices the Google Maps navigation. âAt the bottom of the hill, make a rightâ,â you say, trying to mimic his unique Gotham accent. ââContinue straight ahead, fool. I work for Batman.ââ
You receive no response other than a snort through the nose. The slightest hint of amusement in his tone is enough to lighten the weight in your chest.
The conversation dwindles back into silence.
Itâs then that a thought occurs to you:
You should probably ask Robin for permission before committing to making him the main subject of your competition submission.
Nobody would be pleased to have a wall-sized, very public mural of themself hung up without their permission, after all.
You bite your lip, conflicted. Your heart is oscillating between âdo it now, youâll never see him againâ and âdonât you dare make this weirdâ. Itâs much harder, now that heâs next to you, to not feel flustered at the prospect of asking to draw fanart of your saviour.
Itâs a blessing and a curse that the store comes into view before you can decide.
You pick up the pace, hoping to come to a conclusion later.
The force of the wind flings the front door open, and you hurriedly fight against the air pressure to shove it close again. Everything goes misty and vague as your glasses frames fog up, moisture condensing on the lenses upon the sudden shift of temperature.
A good number of customers, having been alerted by the sad pealing of the doorâchime, lift their heads to bear witness to your arrival.
A welter of anxiety rises in your chest. Youâre not exactly sure how you thought publically parading around with Batmanâs sidekick would go. What if the counter-guy hates Batman or something?
The door peals again from behind you, notifying you of Robinâs presence.
Nervously readjusting your glasses, your eyes slide towards the man behind the counter. His weathered features are nonâplussed, giving no indication of acknowledgement or care for the boy dressed in bright yellow and green.
Though your vision is limited, the blurry figures hover in a blatant attempt to assess which Robin has just entered the store. They seem to simultaneously come to a consensus, as everybody immediately scatters in all directions.
Like rats in a metro, you grimace at the less than subtle way theyâd made their distaste for the vigilante hero clear.
It takes everything in you to avoid checking up on how heâs feeling. Youâre guessing not great, considering how you can feel myriad eyes trained intently in your direction, threatening to pierce your body like bullet wounds.
Not wanting to join them in making a spectacle out of his presence, you mumble, "C'mon, it's this way,â and move forward.
A beat passes. He follows.
You round the corner to kneel before the array of sketchbooks laid out near the bottom shelf.
Scanning through the labels, you click your tongue in annoyance as your eyes land on the conspicuously rectangular shaped void slotted between two stacks, where you know the cheapest option used to be.
âDamn,â you mutter.
Your professor mandates 18 by 24 inches as the minimum size for assignments, and the other options are significantly more expensive.
âSorry. Looks like we came here for nothing,â you heave a sigh, and get up.
He doesnât follow you immediately.
âIs this one not sufficient?â Robin points. â50 pages, higher GSM than the newsprint pad you lost yesterday. That makes this one an improvement.â
You turn to look back at him, astonished. âWait, howâd you know?â
A shrug. âI remember everything,â he replies vaguely. âSaw it on the cover. Well?â
Your eyes narrow. Not that photographic memory is completely out of the question for a superheroâs sidekick, but itâs rare for people to know what GSM meansâlet alone what a higher number indicates.
(The only logical explanation you can think of is that Robin does watercolour painting in his free time. Maybe youâll ask him about it later.)
âWell,â you begin, âItâs pricierâŠâ
âBy two dollars.â
You frown, mulling it over. For a moment, you're going to argue, but... "You know what? Sure. I'll get this one. Wait for me outside?â
You donât wait for a reply as you reach the counter area. The room buzzes in silence.
So far, everybody seems keen on minding their own business lest the violent Robin lay eyes on them. Though nobody seems to have made a scene yet.
You slide the sketchbook over the counter. âJust this, please.â
The elderly man doesnât respond. You canât get a bead on his expression as he stares with lightless eyes past you, in Robinâs direction.
His eyes narrow. You swallow.
âSir?â you ask nervously, hoping to redirect his attention.
Again, his composure unnerves you. He relinquishes his glare, though he keeps his head down.
âYears ago,â the man at the counter speaks abruptly, âRobin was a fine fellow. Kept the bat in line.â
Hesitantly, you lift your face just enough to study the manâs expression, grim and rueful and bitter.
âThen, eight, maybe nine years ago,â he continues evenly, âIâd been out late at night. Buncha criminals cornered me. They had butcherâs knives. Took my wallet.
âThat boy behind you,â he jerks his chin in Robinâs direction, his voice growing louder in volume, âtook one of their cleavers, and amputated the robber in front of me. Whole arm; clean off. Blood was everywhere. And that boy was smiling.â
He meets your gaze, then. You shiver, staring into lightless eyes.
âI ain't saying them criminals were in the right. And Iâm sure as hell glad to be alive.
âBut I know what I saw,â he shakes his head. âI know what I saw. A fuckinâ criminal, thirstinâ for blood, taking down other criminals. Only thing is, he wears that fucking cape.â
âIâd like to pay, please, sir,â you interrupt, feeling your heart beat in your throat.
Wordlessly, he scans your sketchbook.
âThatâll be $13.58,â he says solemnly.
You practically throw money his way, desperate to get out of here.
âNeed a receipt?â
âNo, thank you,â you squeak. Swiftly stalking up to Robin, you whisper nervously, âWe gotta get out of here, man.â
Before youâve finished your sentence, Robinâs already striding out the door, the bell ringing forebodingly.
The ensuing silence buzzes. You avoid the old manâs unwavering gaze as you follow suit.
Outside, Robinâs pacing back and forth restlessly.
âWhich way,â he spits as you come into view.
You realise belatedly that heâs asking you where you live. You point in the general direction.
With a dramatic whirl of his cape, he begins walking off.
His frame is rigid as he moves on ahead, clearly eager to drop you off and disappear into the night as soon as he can.
Trying not to disturb the silence, you follow from behind.
You realise retroactively how drastically he had slowed himself down earlier; when you were walking side by side.
Because right now, his pace is much faster than you can follow. Youâre almost breathless trying to catch up with the stride of his outrageously long legs.
Frustratedly, you call out, âHey man, can you wait up?â
He comes to a sudden halt. You stop in place as well.
You hadnât intended to leave such a wide berth between the two of you. But heâs a lamppost ahead, and the distance feels all the more daunting. A boundary you shouldnât breach.
âYou have a question.â Robinâs voice shakes under the heavy weight of an emotion heâs barely managing to restrain. âAsk it.
ââŠWas it true?â
No response; he stands there, severe in his stillness.
âWhat he said. The counter guy,â you press. âWas it true?â
âYes,â he says through his teeth, and it sounds like a confession.
âHave you done anything like that sinceâŠ?â
âNo.â he snaps. âNot in years. Never again.
âI am nothing like the other Robins. I exceed them in power, prowess. I exceed them in every possible way. But I will not pretend as if my hands are clean. That my past was pure and bloodless, like theirs. I was not, I am notâŠâ
His voice catches. The fervorous momentum of his rant comes to an abrupt end.
Then, his hand flexes at his side. Fingers out, before retracting into a clenched fist once more.
Your eyes widen in hazy recognition. Itâs a small involuntary twitch. But for a brief eternity, Robin seems impossibly, overwhelmingly familiar to you.
His anger wanes, loosing the tenseness of his shoulders. And when his voice rings out again, itâs laden with an exhasution you donât think you will ever truly understand.
âI am not innocent,â he concludes, sounding small.
The weight of his words seep into the marrow of your bones. Robin is blunt. Forthright. He wouldnât lie to you.
You eye the sword at his side, once more. Batman doesnât kill. But has he?
You swallow. Breathe, you think. Refocus.
You look away from the sword. You take in the composition before you, the bigger picture.
The boy who saved your life stands with his back facing you. From underneath the lamppost, harsh light flows around Robinâs figure the way a running stream warps around a pebble.
As if the light canât bear to touch him.
âŠYouâre not sure what he means about his past not being âpure and bloodlessâ. You donât want to know.
But you do know that he saved your life. You know he hasnât used the sword by his side in years.
And you know that Damian's drawing looked exactly like this: a lonely boy standing with his back to you.
Not a hero, a boy. He is Robin. A boy with blood on his hands and a past you cannot begin to imagine. A boy your age.
He is Robin. Shrouded in shadow, shunned by light. And right now, he looks completely, utterly alone.
âOkay,â you say quietly.
He whips around to face you. The scintillating whites where his eyes should be blaze like wildfire.
âThatâs it?â he yells in what can only be incredulous rage.
âYeahâhuh.â
He stares, clearly shocked into silence.
âI mean, itâs Gotham,â you say fumblingly. âEveryoneâs a little fucked up. So.â
The silence is fucking terrible. Not a sound is shared between you until Robin says, sounding very tired:
âThatâsâyouâthatâs stupid,â he settles on saying.
âOh, yeah,â you nod.
âThatâs really fucking stupid,â he emphasises, rubbing fists into the sockets of his eyes. âCompletely brainless. Absolutely insane. Thatâs hardly a viable conclusion to draw.â
âHey, itâs Gotham,â you laugh. âEveryoneâs a little crazy. Think I saw the Riddler try to throw a banana peel in front of Batmobile once.â
Whatever remaining rigidity to Robinâs form seems to unravel like ribbons. His shoulders lax. His fist uncurls. And maybe itâs your imagination, but he looks almost relieved.
You take the opportunity to catch up. Noting the very subtle way his body braces for something as you walk up to him, you walk right past him and pretend nothingâs wrong.
He follows suit, footsteps light against the pavement. He doesnât attempt to match your pace; staggering behind a little. You have an inkling that he doesnât want you to see his face, lest the unmasked half give away any vulnerable expressions.
âI amputated a man. I donât understand how you can accept that,â he says tightly.
Sobering up, you say, âWell, Iâm not gonna lie: the fact that youâve sliced arms and legs off of people Fruit Ninja style is kinda terrifying.â
He doesnât join you in laughing at your joke. So you swallow your anxiety and continue:
âBut you saved me the other night. You did more than that. You gave me a Kleenex, you comforted me, you tried to salvage my sketchbookâŠwhich, thank you, by the way,â you add, a soft smile tugging at your lips. âIt was a lost cause, but you tried.
âAnd I think thatâs what youâve been doing. Trying. And itâs like you said: ânever againâ, right?â
âYou really believe that,â he says slowly.
Youâre not sure what he means by âthatâ. That people can change? That he wasnât lying when he said ânever againââŠ?
Regardless, you hear the implicit question behind it.
You trust me?
âYeah. I do.â
âYouâd be the first,â he scoffs bitterly.
You match his pace, looking a question at him.
ââŠI see it in their eyes when they look at me,â he says bitterly, the unforgiving cold condensing his words into steam. âI know theyâre waiting for me to snap. Canât say I blame them, though.
âIt doesnât matter if Iâm trying. Whatâs done is done. To them, Iâll always be that bloody-handed boy, from years ago. Iâve made peace with that.â
Youâre not sure you believe him, when he spits that last sentence.
You bite your lip, staring down at your shoes.
âWell,â you say eventually, âI think youâre pretty cool.â
Robin laughs. And not a polite one, either. Itâs loud, frantic, hystericalâit almost sounds like a squawk. Itâs completely unrestrained as it bursts out of him abruptly, and it contrasts his usual demeanor so starkly that it enraptures you. You canât look away.
(It's in that moment that you wish you could capture a feelingâa soundâonto paper. If you could, you would bottle his laugh up, and somehow turn it into pigment. You'd make paint out of it, use it in all your pieces. You'd color everything in it.)
âCool,â he repeats in disbelief, though the humour in his tone has yet to fade.
âCool,â you grin, egging him on.
You continue making conversation with him. Lighthearted smallâtalk. Turns out heâs never heard of Fruit Ninja, which is unacceptable. So you talk his ears off about it, all the way to your front door.
Which you arrive at, much sooner than you expect.
âSurely you can make it inside without any problems,â he drones, voice dripping with sarcasm.
You scoff, punching his shoulder lightly in jest. It shouldnât surprise you that the muscle there is tough like a brick, but you jump and hiss in pain anyways.
He chuckles quietly (like a prick), and heat rushes to your face for more reasons than one. His mouth opens, then closes. Then, almost hesitatingly, he says:
âWellâŠgoodbye.â
You blink at his unceremonious, almost anticlimactic farewell.
Youâre watching as he slowly moves backwards and away from your porch, when you realise that heâs leaving.
A surge of panic dislodges the words in your throat as you sputter aloud:
âWait!â
To your surprsise, he actually stops in his steps. He turns around with a cocked eyebrow, waiting.
You try to collect your nerves and breathe in deeply. Youâd been pretty bold and confident about your idea, but now that you have to ask him for permission faceâtoâface, itâs⊠different, to say the least.
âThereâs this project,â you start. Somehow, youâre already breathless. âFor university. Itâs a competition for mural ideas, Funded by The Martha Wayne Foundation. Have you heard of that one?â
A pause. Then, he nods stiffly.
âYeah. Um. I was wondering whether youâd be cool with me drawing you. As part of my entry.â
The silence that meets you is enough to rear you back into motor-mouth as you ramble:
âObviously, I wanted to ask your permission? Before I went ahead and just, submitted whatâs essentially a piece of fanart in of a real life vigilante to a public project that pretty much everyone in the cityâs going to see. I mean, I know you get your photo taken against your will when youâre kicking ass and shit, butââ
âYouâre certain?â he blurts out. His mouth is agape with disbelief, and though itâs hard to make out with his dark skin tone, youâre fairly certain thereâs a flush of red blooming on his cheeks.
Could just be the cold, but it looks cute on him either way.
At a loss of words, you nod, feeling a lot shyer than you thought you would.
âThere are others,â he says flatly.
You frown. âWhat?â
âBatman,â he says, flexing the hand at his side. âHeâsâŠa safer option in the realm of vigilantes.â
You put your hands on your hips, feeling a little demeaned. âI donât make art to play it safe, buddy.â
âThatâs not what IâŠâ he sighs, giving up mid-sentence when you shoot him a look.
Youâre more than a little surprised when he continues, âIf that is what you wish, then⊠I will not stop you. Even if I find it highly inadvisable.â
Your eyes fly wide open. âReally?â you ask again, just to be sure.
Though he makes an exasperated noise through his nose, he nods. Itâs a yes.
âCool,â you laugh breathlessly. Then, because apparently youâve gone from breathless to mindless in his presence, you ask presumptuously:
âUm. Iâll⊠see you around?â
Your head floods hot. Idiot. Heâs a vigilante. He doesnât have time to be hanging out with civilians, let alone walking them home.
Then, to your utter disbelief, he nods again.
âOh,â you breathe. âOkay. Um. Good night.â
You slam the door hastily, much louder than you should, and suppress the scream threatening to bubble out your throat.
Youâre shaking, and youâre not sure if itâs excitement or anxiety or joy. Either way, you kick your shoes off hastily.
Stumbling over yourself, you run for your bedroom at a breakneck pace, barely managing to round the corner before you bludgeon your skull in.
Your door flies open. You toss your belongings onto the floor with no regard.
You fling your sketchbook open, and begin to draw.
a/n: for anyone who's curious, i took inspiration from Secret Origins #4 (2014) for the old manâs story about damian amputating the criminal. i don't think i've ever read a damian x reader fic that like. addresses how violent he was for a while even after he became robin and joined the good guys? like!! that kid decapitated a criminal right after his first appearance!! why does nobody talk about that!! we should talk about that!!!
