What Burns Cannot Break — Chapter 2
Synopsis: Damian's childhood unfolded in a blur of devotion and chaos, all orbiting around you. From his first cries of "Brother!" echoing through the League's halls to the day he startled everyone by calling you 'Father,' his world was defined by your presence—and your absences. You became his anchor through every trial; the sleepless nights he waited by his window, the terrifying plunges into the Lazarus Pit, the arrogance the League bred into him to hide his loneliness. To the world, Damian was heir to an empire of blades. To you, he was still the boy who ran into your arms without hesitation. And though you never meant to be a father, you became one—teaching him warmth, laughter, and humanity in a place that knew none. What bound you both could burn, but it would never break.
Credits to @3ternalradiance. I took inspiration from one of their posts ❤️
Leave your comments if you think Y/n should have a love interest (and ideas of who should it be), or do you think he should just stay single instead? I'll be reading everyone's opinions! 👀
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For years afterward, when you thought of Damian, it was always the sound that came first—his small feet slapping against the stone corridors of the League's fortress and the breathless shout that followed.
"Brother!"
Every time. No matter how many new words the tutors crammed into his head, that one burned brightest.
You'd barely step through the gates before the noise reached you: a storm of running footsteps, a blur of green and black barreling into your legs. The guards learned to stand clear. The boy was unstoppable when you came home.
He grew, but not out of that habit. At three he launched himself at you; at four he skidded into you with alarming force; at five he still did it, though now he pretended it was a test of balance. By seven he'd mastered the art of appearing composed—hands clasped behind his back, chin tilted—yet the moment your boots touched the floor, his eyes lit like twin lanterns. He called it discipline. You called it barely restrained joy.
Talia complained, of course. When he was younger, every departure of yours ended in chaos.
"He refuses to eat," She grumbled, dark circles shadowing her eyes. "He refuses to sleep. Do you know what it's like hearing him cry for you through the night?"
You did. You'd heard it once before she barred you from leaving on missions until he calmed down.
The first night you slipped away, he wailed so hard that half the stronghold believed someone had been murdered. And considering the fact this is the League of Assassins, even then a scream like that was unexpected—whether there was a dead body or not. By the third night, Talia sent a messenger after you with a single command: Return.
You arrived before dawn.
Damian's tears stopped the moment he saw you, as if sound itself bent to your presence. The fortress fell silent again, no more crying. He reached for you, hiccuping and calling out for his big brother.
Talia sighed. "You see what you've done?"
You had no answer. You just held him in your arms until his breathing evened out.
By the time Damian was five, things had softened. He no longer wept when you left—just grew quiet, serious in a way no child should. On lonely nights, you knew he sat by his window, watching the courtyard, waiting for you to appear. And sometimes, when you were able, you did—landing lightly beside him, cloak still carrying the chill of the mountains. He'd pretend he hadn't been waiting, of course.
"You're late," Damian muttered, arms crossed.
"And yet, you're awake," You answered.
He'd try not to smile. He never succeeded.
Unfortunately, not everything stayed so innocent.
The first time he was thrown into the Lazarus Pit, you were away on a mission. You came back to find the League whispering of resurrection and madness. Talia stood by the chamber, composed as ever, though her hands trembled faintly.
"He nearly died," She informed, as though it were routine. "He'll live."
When they dragged him out, his eyes glowed an unnatural green, too bright for the boy you knew. He looked at you—confused, shaking—and you swore the world tilted.
You held him until the glow dimmed. "It's all right," You whispered, even though it wasn't.
No child should have known that kind of pain.
But it happened again. And again. And again. Each time, he found his way to you after, curling up against your side like proximity alone could quiet the voices the Pit left behind. Maybe it could. For him, you were gravity—the one thing that didn't change.
Later, when the fear eased, you found your humor again.
"Your eyes," You poked the tip of his nose with your finger, "look like something I'd see on a bad music app."
He blinked. "What?"
"Spotify green."
He groaned, already exasperated. "You're insufferable."
You grinned. "And yet, you inherited it from me."
He called your red eyes the worsest, most abhorrent, most grotesquely repulsive shade ever in retaliation. You pretended to be mortally wounded. He almost laughed—almost.
The League's training carved arrogance into Damian. By six he moved like a miniature general; by seven his words had edges. He mocked the older trainees, corrected instructors, and strutted through the halls with the confidence of someone twice his size.
To everyone else, he was a prince. To you, he was still the boy who tripped over his own boots when excited.
You saw through the bravado easily. The stiffness in his shoulders after each scolding, the way his fingers fidgeted when alone—it was all defense. You'd tease him out of it with effortless praise.
"Good form," You'd say after he finished a sequence.
That single phrase could light him up like the sun. He'd glance at the watching assassins with a smirk, smug and silent, as if to say See? He noticed.
You pretended not to notice the pride that warmed your chest.
When you were gone, he still tried to live up to you. He sparred harder, studied longer, sometimes too much. The tutors called it obsession; Talia called it legacy. You called it love expressed through exhaustion.
He struggled with people. The other children in the League avoided him; he was too sharp, too proud. He never minded not having friends, or said he didn't. But you'd catch the quick flicker of loneliness sometimes, the way he'd glance at pairs of sparring partners and then back at the floor.
"You don't have to like them," You told him, leaning back on the couch with your arms crossed behind your head. "But learn to understand them. It makes fighting—and living—easier."
He frowned. "You said I should have friends."
"I said you should try. There's a difference."
He thought about that for a long time, then nodded, as though you'd handed him some secret code.
You came back from a month-long mission when he was five and a half. He met you at the gate as always, running full-speed before decorum caught up to him. You knelt, bracing for impact.
But this time, instead of shouting 'Brother,' he stopped short, eyes wide with some revelation only he could see.
"Father!"
You froze. "What?"
He looked too sure to be mistaken. "Father," he repeated, like testing a word he liked the sound of. "My Father."
Every assassin in earshot stopped breathing. Even Talia turned her head, one brow raised.
"Damian," You started carefully, "That's—"
He frowned. "You don't want me to call you that?"
"It's not—" You sighed, rubbing your temple. "It's unexpected."
"But it's true," he said simply, as if that settled the matter. "You are my Father."
Talia, amused, murmured to you, "Congratulations, Y/n. Parenthood suits you."
You glared at her. She only smirked and walked away.
From that day forward, he didn't stop. You tried to correct him once; he ignored you twice; by the third time, you gave up.
Father it was.
The word sat strange in your chest at first—heavy, undeserved. But the more he said it, the more natural it became. And secretly, it warmed you in ways you didn't know you needed.
You became his teacher in things the League dismissed. How to listen to silence without fearing it. How to read for pleasure. How to cook—terribly, but you tried. How to laugh without looking over his shoulder for permission.
He soaked it all up, greedy for something beyond blades and duty. You realized that for all his arrogance, Damian wanted gentleness more than victory. He wanted to be seen, not just measured.
One evening, after a long day of training, he looked at the bruises on your body—which healed themselves before he could even blink twice (Demonic blood = Accelerated Healing)
"You always get hurt."
You shrugged. "Part of the job. I heal fast anyway, so it doesn't matter."
He hesitated, then said quietly, "I don't like it when you leave."
You smiled. "I know."
"Then stop."
You laughed. "Can't. I have missions to do."
He frowned deeper. "Mother says you're reckless."
You didn't deny it. "She's not wrong."
He considered that, then climbed into your lap like he had when he was small. "You should be careful, Father."
"I'll try," You promised.
He believed you. He always did.
Years blurred together—missions, lessons, rare quiet days. You watched him grow taller, sharper, faster. The child who once clung to your cloak now sparred with men twice his size. Yet when you returned from a mission, he still found you first.
Sometimes you'd find him asleep at his desk, pen still in hand, half-finished notes on strategy scattered around him. You'd drape a blanket over his shoulders, watching the faint smile that crossed his lips even in sleep.
He'd never remember the gesture in the morning. But you would.
When you think back on those years, you remember both of you learning the same thing in different ways. He learned how to be human. You learned how not to be a monster.
There were still cracks, of course—flashes of temper, shadows of what you were—but every time you thought you'd lose yourself again, you'd look at him. And somehow, the fire quieted.
Because for all that burned within you, nothing—not Hell, not the League, not destiny—could break what the two of you built.
Not anymore.
