݁ 𓈒 ཐི 𓉸 𝓝EPO 𝓥IGILANTE !!
⏜︵ pairing 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 damian wayne x reader
꒰ 🦇 ꒱ synopsis 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 after your parents die, you inherit their legacy as vigilantes, reluctantly stepping into a life you never asked for. bruce takes you in to honor a promise to them, pairing you with damian, whose cruelty and perfectionism push you to your limits, until one day, fed up, you choose to train with tim instead, sparking damian’s outrage.
GRIEF MAKES THE WORLD LOOK DIFFERENT.
the city has been loud your entire life, but ever since your parents died, it feels muted in strange places and deafening in others. the quiet parts hit hardest. the little moments where you forget for half a second and then remember all over again, the kind of remembering that isn’t a thought but a physical sensation, like a punch behind the ribs.
none of this was supposed to be yours.
their storage vault, the one bruce unlocked for you with the kind of calm that made you want to break something, smells like cold air, graphite, and steel. it’s carved deep beneath an old building that hasn’t seen sunlight in decades. the lights flicker in a way that suggests they were installed before you were born. it’s not a place designed for grief, it’s a place built for purpose. precision. continuation.
your parents’ suits hang on reinforced mounts, suspended just above eye level like they’re watching you judge whether you’re capable of this. your mother used to joke that the suits looked better in motion; standing still made everything seem too dramatic. you never understood what she meant until now, the way the armor casts double shadows, the way it mirrors shapes that are no longer there. you stare at them too long because it feels like the only thing left to do.
bruce had told you that all assets were transferred to your name. equipment, tech, safehouses, unfinished case files, half-deciphered intel. a legacy that was never meant to feel like an inheritance but does now, painfully.
you didn’t even know some of this existed.
you didn’t want to know.
they trained you, yes. they taught you how to throw a punch, how to read a situation, how to outrun consequences. but they also told you, repeatedly, that you could choose differently. that their path wasn’t meant to be hereditary. that the blood they spilled didn’t need to belong to anyone else in the family. you used to cling to that promise. now you hold their mask in your hands, and it feels like a broken version of a future someone else should’ve had.
everyone keeps telling you they died heroes, as if that’s supposed to dull anything. as if noble deaths hurt less. as if the city mourns them the way you do. the city moves on. the city always moves on. but you’re still standing here, breathing in recycled air and trying to figure out what part of your life is supposed to continue. your parents never believed in destiny. they believed in choice. in stubbornness. in doing the right thing because no one else would. and now, ironically, you are the one no one else is left to turn to.
the storage unit is colder than it should be. you’ve spent so many hours here lately you could map the room blindfolded. the crates of gear you haven’t opened yet, the leftover tech your parent never got to update, the suits displayed as if they’ll step back into it any minute. you shouldn’t still come here every morning. you know that. the batcave is bigger, safer, better equipped. but this place is theirs, and somehow staring at the suit in this cramped little box hurts less than seeing it under the manor’s bright clinical lights.
your phone vibrates. training cycle begins in 30 minutes. you don’t need the reminder; you’ve been counting the minutes anyway. the dread has been with you since you woke up, since your feet automatically carried you back to this unit, since you realized another morning means another sparring session with the demon brat incarnate.
you dread it.
you dread him.
damian.
the name alone is enough to sour your mood. you feel it immediately, your shoulders tightening, your jaw locking, your pace quickening in some futile hope that if you get there early enough you can ask bruce to pair you with literally anyone else. you know that won’t happen. damian wayne is unbearable. there’s no polite version of that. no “he has his moments” or “he means well” because he really, genuinely doesn’t. he’s a black hole of superiority, dragged around by entitlement so deeply rooted it might as well be genetic. he walks like the world is his inheritance and everyone else is trespassing.
he is arrogant in a way only someone who has never been allowed to fail can be. sharp-tongued, sharper-eyed, constantly calculating and constantly disappointed in everyone around him. including you. especially you. spoiled isn’t even the right word. damian is something harder, a prince raised in a fortress and told the world outside is beneath him. he carries himself like any deviation from his expectations is a personal insult, and he treats you like you breathe incorrectly.
and the worst part? the truly unfair part?
he’s good.
not “for his age” good. not “bruce trained me” good. he’s the kind of good that makes your blood heat because you hate giving him that win. when he fights you, it feels personal even when he swears it isn’t. there’s an intensity in him that borders on cruel, like he’s always trying to prove something, always needing to be sharper, faster, better. especially compared to you. of course bruce keeps pairing you together.
you exhale slowly, press your thumb against the message to dismiss it, and glance at your watch. if you leave now, you can get to the manor ahead of everyone else. being early gives you time to brace yourself, to shrug off grief and put on whatever version of yourself can withstand damian’s perpetual disapproval. you grab your bag, pull the metal door shut, and lock the padlock with a soft click. outside, the morning is still gray, the sky washed out and half-asleep. the city traffic hasn’t peaked yet. you keep your hood up.
you make it to the outskirts of the manor grounds with time to spare. the iron gates loom ahead, old enough to creak but still strong enough to give off that Wayne aura of we have money and secrets. the access scanner blinks once in recognition and unlatches the gate. the walkway up to the house is quiet, all manicured lawn and morning dew and the far-off rustle of wings. the manor itself looks almost peaceful from here, like nothing inside it could possibly be chaotic or loud or irritating.
a lie. obviously.
you steel yourself before stepping in. early is good. early means that hopefully you won’t walk into damian’s glare the second you arrive. early means you can stretch, breathe, maybe even convince yourself today won’t devolve into insults, scowls, and wanting to push him into a wall and also possibly strangle him.
or both. definitely both.
you swipe into the elevator, hit the sequence bruce programmed, and watch the floor drop away beneath your feet as the platform descends into shadow. the cave lights hum awake. water drips from stalactites. you step off, rolling your shoulders once, already planning the quiet you’ll get before anyone else arrives — a few minutes of peace, of solitude, of breathing room—
but no.
of course not. there he is.
damian stands in the center of the training mats like a statue carved out of irritation. already changed, already warmed up, already swinging a bo staff through the air with that crisp, too-perfect precision that makes you want to fling something heavy at his head. he doesn’t even look surprised to see you. just… mildly offended by your presence. his eyes track you the way a cat tracks a fly it isn’t sure is worth killing yet. then he speaks, voice flat, cool, the verbal equivalent of an eye-roll: “you’re late.”
you stop walking, blink once, and stare at him. “i’m early,” you say, very clearly, because you checked the time twice on the way here.
damian finally lowers his staff. not out of respect — no, never — but merely to cross his arms with maximum judgment. “early,” he repeats, like the word itself has personally insulted him. “you are precisely thirty four minutes and nineteen seconds later than the time i arrived. therefore, you are late.”
you suck in a sharp breath. “that’s not how that works.”
damian tilts his head, mouth twitching in something dangerously close to a smirk, the kind that says he knows exactly how annoying he is and simply accepts it as part of his nature. “that is exactly how it works. punctuality is measured by standards, not feelings. if i am present, and you arrive after me, you are—”
“don’t say it.”
“—late.”
you resist the urge to throw your bag at him.
he watches you like a hawk watches prey struggling with a trap. his gaze drops briefly, to your stance, your posture, how tired you look, how stiff your shoulders are, and then flicks away again like none of it matters. like he’s already cataloged you and moved on. you hate that he’s always here early. you hate that you’ve almost never once walked in without finding him already sweating, already glowering, already working three times harder than anyone asked him to.
you hate that it makes you feel behind.
he turns away first, which infuriates you more, as if you’re not worth continued attention. “you should stretch,” he says, dismissive, arrogant as ever. “you’re sluggish in the mornings.” damian glances back just long enough to add, “try not to fall behind today.”
training hasn’t even started and you already want to strangle him. you inhale through your nose, he kind of breath meant to keep you from launching yourself at a smug, infuriating, morally superior gremlin of a boy. it doesn’t help. at all. but you refuse to give him the satisfaction of seeing you rise to it this early in the morning, so instead of snapping back, you drop your bag a little harder than necessary, kneel, and start stretching, pretending not to notice the way damian keeps glancing over in those sharp, evaluating passes, tracking you like part of his warm-up routine is assessing your weaknesses. you refuse to give him anything. not a flinch. not a sound.
you move through your stretches methodically, shoulders, arms, back, legs, and by the time you finish, your annoyance has settled into something sharp and clean. you stand. damian meets your eyes for exactly one second, nods once, the barest acknowledgment that you are, in fact, ready, and then the two of you slip wordlessly into your usual rhythm. warm-up drills. strikes. footwork. flow sequences.
the only sound between you is impact, gloves hitting pads, feet sliding across mats, the faint grunt of effort when he pushes harder than necessary (which he always does). you match him blow for blow. if he’s escalating, you escalate. if he’s testing you, you test him back. you don’t know how long you’ve been at it when you hear footsteps on the metal stairs.
damian is the first to break stance, head snapping up, expression twisting with immediate displeasure, as if the intrusion itself is personally offensive. tim appears first, holding a coffee the size of his head, hair a disaster, sweater hanging off one shoulder like he got dressed at a red light. he blinks at the two of you brawling at sunrise. “oh,” he says. “you guys are already trying to kill each other. nice. love the consistency.”
right behind him, cass moves with grace, eyes scanning the mat, giving you both a subtle nod that somehow manages to feel more respectful than anything damian’s ever given anyone. steph clomps down next, ponytail bouncing, still chewing half a granola bar. “morning! you two look like a divorce waiting to happen.”
damian glares at her like she personally offended a dozen generations of al ghuls.
duke trails last, hoodie pulled over his head, yawning. “didn’t know sparring started early.”
“it didn’t,” tim says, sipping his coffee. “they just hate each other.”
steph gestures at you. “no, they don’t. they hate everyone else. each other is foreplay.”
damian inhales sharply, scandalized, turning a lethal death-glare on her. you pretend you’re not on the verge of combusting. cass hides her smile behind her hand. before you can even decide whether to walk away or throw something at damian’s head, the temperature in the room shifts. it always does when he arrives, bruce steps out of the shadowed doorway with that unnerving, near-silent glide he’s perfected over decades. he surveys the group with an expression that barely qualifies as a nod. “morning.”
you straighten instinctively. damian does too, but with the insolent ease of someone who thinks he’s the favorite son, the heir apparent. somehow he can stand at attention while still looking like he’s tolerating everyone else’s existence.
bruce gives the usual rundown: drills first, then sparring rotations, then assessments. your muscles burn through the first round of drills, kicks, strikes, bursts of footwork across the mat, but the sting is almost grounding. easier than dealing with the person two paces ahead of you who insists on being perfect and loud about it. you’ve never understood what exactly you did to earn his contempt.
and of course, when bruce calls out the sparring pairs, he doesn’t even have to say the names. you already know you’ll get partnered up. damian doesn’t even look irritated, he just tilts his chin the slightest degree, that arrogant flicker of superiority. you swallow the spike of annoyance climbing your spine.
cass gives you a sympathetic look. tim quietly mutters “godspeed.” steph pretends to hide behind duke. bruce pretends not to see any of it. damian steps onto the mat, rolling his wrists, already in perfect form.
you follow, heart thudding, not with fear, but with frustration. sparring with damian is like sparring with a blade that resents being touched. he doesn’t go easy. he doesn’t slow down. he doesn’t adjust. he just cuts. the second bruce signals for you to begin, damian moves, slicing across the mat like the fight is already his. he doesn’t warm up, he doesn’t test distance, he just attacks.
his first kick nearly clips your ribs; you block too high, stumble back half a step. you bite down the instinct to snap at him. focus. you counter with a punch, clean, aimed for his shoulder; he avoids it without even looking, twisting out of reach and sweeping at your legs. you jump it, barely. he’s already coming in again. it’s impossible—
how the hell are you supposed to beat someone who was raised as a child assassin, who trained under people who don’t believe in rest or mercy, who has been fighting his whole life?
you’re good. you know you’re good. but damian is something else entirely.
the fight goes on like that, your lungs burning, your arms throbbing, damian not even winded. every time you get close, he pivots. every time you try something new, he shuts it down like he predicted it minutes ago. “you’re telegraphing,” he says at one point, dodging your strike. “and your footing is sloppy.”
you glare, breathless. “thanks, coach.”
he ignores the sarcasm completely and goes for your knees. you block late, and pain sparks up your leg. he sees it. he absolutely sees it, and yet he keeps coming. your frustration curdles into something hotter. the kind of anger that sits burning in your chest. unfair, you think. unfair that he gets to hate you for existing, unfair that he gets to win, unfair that bruce keeps pairing you with him like you’re supposed to just learn to survive him.
you go in again, one last strike, one last try, but damian is already there, sweeping your leg and hooking the back of your ankle with brutal, ruthless efficiency. your balance goes. you hit the mat hard. something cracks, sharp pain blooming up your arm as your elbow smashes against the ground wrong. the air sucks out of your lungs. you don’t scream, but you freeze, shock pinning you still. you only register the taste of copper a second later. blood sliding from somewhere near your eyebrow down your cheek. damian stands over you, bo staff poised at your throat, the picture of victory.
and something in you, something that has been caged inside of you for months since you’ve started training with them, finally snaps. not into grief. into rage. it rises fast, not at the pain, not even at the humiliation, but at what it represents. his contempt. his certainty you don’t belong. that you’re an inherited symbol, not a threat. that you didn’t earn this life. that you can’t live up to what your parents were, because you weren’t raised in a league, trained from childhood, sculpted into a weapon on purpose.
you think of your parents, the way they moved through the world like it could be better if someone just tried, and you think of damian, born into war, and how he looks at you as if you are soft. lesser. temporary.
your jaw clenches, and you move. you surge up off the mat so fast that damian barely has time to retract his staff. your fist meets his guard with a crack that rings through your bones. the pain in your arm screams, but anger burns hotter, drowning it out. damian’s eyes widen, barely, but enough. then you strike again, faster, heavier, not waiting for bruce’s command, not giving damian a breath, a second, an inch. you hit him like you’re trying to punch through every doubt, every comparison, every expectation. your blade flashes next, close enough that the edge slices a thread off the hem of his sleeve. he shifts back, blocking with the staff, but the rhythm he always controls isn’t his anymore. you don’t let him adjust. you won’t.
you go at him again. punch, kick, strike, blade, another punch. damian meets every attack but only just. he’s fast—always faster—but you don’t give him the one thing he usually owns: time.
he parries your sword and you’re already slamming your shoulder into his chest. he deflects your fist and your leg snaps up into a sharp kick. he twists to avoid a slash, and you’re following. relentlessly. “enough,” damian snaps once, breath clipped, rattled.
“no,” you spit back, punching harder.
a hit breaks through, your elbow to his ribs, and he grunts, doubling half a step. you don’t stop. not even then. anger drives you. your parents steady you. damian’s doubt fuels you. every expectation presses into your knuckles.
finally, one mistake, one slip of footing, and damian goes down on his back, hitting the mat with a thud. he tries to roll, already bracing to counter, but you’re faster, and you plant your foot firmly on his chest, pinning him down.
the cave goes silent.
damian is beneath you, panting hard, chest rising in sharp, uneven pulls. sweat slicks across his skin, turning the warm brown tone of it into something luminescent under the cave lights. loose strands of hair fall over his forehead, messy, sticking to the curve of his cheek. his jaw is tight, furious, but his eyes… his eyes are something else entirely.
wide. startled. dark with heat and something like reluctant awe. he’s looking up at you like he can’t reconcile the version of you he’s built in his head with the one standing over him now, foot pressed to his sternum, breathing hard, blood sliding down your face like a war mark you earned.
for a second, just a second, damian actually looks flushed. not embarrassed. not humiliated. flushed.
his gaze trails the line of blood at your temple, the rise and fall of your chest, the grip you still have on your sword. and something softens, barely, but it’s there. admiration. or something even more dangerous. then, instantly, he shutters it. wipes the expression clean. molds his face back into its usual carved arrogance. but he can’t hide the way he’s still breathing too hard, or the way his pulse jumps visibly at his throat.
you stand over him, chest burning, anger still pulsing through you, hot and alive and undeniable. for the first time since you stepped into the cave, damian isn’t looking down at you.
he’s looking up.
the next few days pass like you’re moving through water that’s resisting you at every turn. you throw yourself into training. not normal training. punishing training.
you’re in the cave before sunrise, long before even damian filters in. you hit the bags until your knuckles ache deep into the bone. you run drills until your vision blurs. you practice footwork until the mat feels like it’s tilting beneath you. every hour you carve out of the day becomes a place to bleed frustration into movement. it’s easier than thinking. easier than remembering the way damian looked lying beneath you. easier than remembering the flicker of—whatever that was—in his eyes.
and you ignore him.
very deliberately.
very thoroughly.
he walks into the cave during breakfast hour? you pivot away. he enters the training mat? you tighten your jaw, focus on the target dummy, and act like he’s made of air. he stands close enough that you can feel the shift in temperature from his body heat? you move five steps to the left without acknowledging him. you don’t give him even a nod.
and damian, naturally, does not take it well.
damian wayne is infuriating. arrogant. he speaks like everything he says is an objective truth and everything you say is an inconvenience. every time you think about the way he looked at you right before he knocked you on the mat and made you bleed, something twists in your chest. you want to punch him. you want to yell at him. you want to demand why he hates you so viciously when you never asked for any of this. but mostly, what destroys you, is the frustration. the way he makes you feel like you’re always one step too slow, one swing too reckless, one mistake too obvious.
you’d never admit it aloud, but sometimes your chest gets so tight with how he gets under your skin that you have to step into the hallway and breathe through it before you start to tear up. if damian wants to act like you’re some sort of cosmic inconvenience—fine. it’s not like you want to be friends with someone like that anyway.
on the fourth morning after that day, you’re stretching, wrapping your hands, trying to focus on anything other than the tightness behind your ribs when you hear the elevator. of course it’s him.
damian’s footsteps hit the stone with their usual measured pace, irritated at the concept of existing near you. you don’t even wait for him to speak. you grab your bag, sling it over your shoulder, and head straight for the elevator.
“where are you going?” he snaps.
you keep walking.
his voice sharpens. “I am speaking to you.”
you don’t turn, not even half an inch. you hit the elevator button harder than necessary. the doors slide shut on his glare.
you head two floors up to the manor proper, heartbeat still too fast. you need a buffer, someone who is not damian, someone who won’t make you want to scream or break something or accidentally cry. tim is the most neutral option.
you knock on his door.
a muffled, exhausted: “…yeah?”
you slip in. tim is at his desk, hoodie on, hair sticking up like static, surrounded by three monitors and a half-eaten granola bar. he blinks at you like he genuinely isn’t sure if you’re a hallucination. “can i train with you today?” you ask.
tim pauses. stares. looks over his shoulder as if checking whether damian is standing behind you with a sword to your back. “I’m sorry,” he says slowly, rubbing his face, “did I die in my sleep?”
you sigh. “please.”
tim leans back in his chair, rolling slowly toward you like a confused, sleep-deprived cat. “why me? i should be the last-choice option. like, I’m the ‘everyone else is busy or unconscious’ pick.”
you drop your bag on the floor and mutter, “i don’t want to train with damian.”
tim makes a soft noise, somewhere between a hum and a concerned question. “that bad?”
“he hates me,” you say, and it comes out more exhausted than intended. “he’s always… extra harsh with me. like he goes out of his way to piss me off. or embarrass me. or get under my skin. and I just—” your voice cracks despite your best effort. “—i don’t want to deal with him today.”
tim stares at you for a long moment, eyes clearer now, softening with something close to sympathy. “you know, for someone raised by assassins, he’s… weirdly terrible at hiding things.”
you frown. “hiding what?”
tim spins halfway in his chair, giving you a raised eyebrow. “he doesn’t hate you.”
you scoff immediately. “yes, he does.”
“no,” tim says with a half-laugh, “if damian hates you, you’ll know it. like, i know it seems like he hates you, but trust me, i’ve seen what it looks like when damian hates someone.” he shudders.
“tim—”
“what damian does with you,” he interrupts, pointing vaguely in your direction, “is not hate. it’s… something more irritating.”
your stomach does a stupid twist. “like what?”
tim shrugs. “i bet he likes you and doesn’t know how to show it.”
you freeze. “no. no, he doesn’t. he’s—he throws me into the floor.”
“yeah,” tim says, nodding slowly, “and he looks like he stops breathing when you ignore him.”
“he does not.”
“he does,” tim pauses. “trust me. I’ve seen the ‘why isn’t my sparring partner looking at me’ face. it’s tragic.”
“tim… i think he genuinely wants me dead.”
tim rolls his eyes. “no. please. that’s his flirting.”
“that’s NOT—”
“trust the local damian expert.” tim taps his own chest. “he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”
you sink onto the edge of his bed, head in your hands for a second. “i’m so tired, tim.”
tim’s expression softened into something you’ve only ever seen in moments where he’s too sleep-deprived to mask sincerity. “yeah, I know,” he says. “he’s… a lot.”
you let out a short, humorless exhale. “that’s one word.”
“look,” tim starts, leaning his elbows on the desk, “damian wasn’t raised with… normal emotional frameworks. or social ones. or friendship ones. or—human ones.”
you glance up at him.
tim gestures broadly. “the league isn’t exactly the place where kids learn, ‘hey, when you like someone, maybe try being gentle.’ they learn ‘if something scares you, strike first.’ ‘if you respect someone, challenge them to see if they’re worthy.’”
you frown, shoulders tight. “that’s… messed up.”
“yeah,” tim says. “and that’s damian’s baseline. that’s where he started. so when he doesn’t know what to do with someone,” he motions toward you again. “he defaults to the only tools he was ever given.”
you stare down at your hands. “you’re saying he’s being awful because he… doesn’t know better?”
“no. i’m saying he’s being awful because it’s the only way he knows how to handle caring about someone. damian’s whole life, affection was… conditional. if he liked someone, it was dangerous. if he got attached, it made him vulnerable. he trained himself to cut the feeling off before it roots. when he does the push-you-away, insult-you, out-perform-you thing? that’s him trying to keep the feeling small. and you make him feel big things. you must. i’ve never seen him get this worked up over someone.”
your pulse picks up, something complicated, uncomfortable, strangely warm and guilty all at once. “i never—” you start, voice thin. “i never thought about it like that.”
“no one does,” tim says softly. “it’s easier to just say ‘damian’s a jerk.’ and he is. he is. but the jerk part is the smoke, not the fire.”
you huff. “he makes me want to cry or commit a felony, tim.”
“yeah, that’s basically what dating him will feel like,” he deadpans.
“we’re not—!”
“uh-huh.”
you groan into your hands.
“okay,” tim says, resigned, rubbing a hand over his face. “fine. if you don’t believe me, yes, you can train with me today. we’ll see how he reacts. it’ll either prove my point or at least annoy him, and he does deserve a little annoyance after sweeping your legs like you’re a training dummy.”
you hesitate… then nod. “yeah. okay. i don’t want to deal with the attitude. and… i don’t want to cry in the stupid bathroom again.”
tim’s face softens. “hey. that’s not on you. damian’s never learned how to… want things without resenting that he wants them. it’s like—” he waves a hand vaguely, “like giving a feral cat a bowl of warm milk. it hisses at you and knocks it off the counter, but eventually if you keep feeding it, it still comes back.”
you blink. “…i’m the warm milk?”
“unfortunately, yes.” he pats your knee with dramatic sympathy. “congrats.”
tim stands with a groan. “alright. give me a minute to get dressed. then we go down.”
“and you really think he’s gonna… what, throw a fit?”
“he won’t throw anything. he’ll just stand there and seethe like someone critiqued his sword grip. trust me. i’ve been annoying damian for years.”
you almost laugh. “fine. okay. we’ll do your plan. not—” you point at him, “because of the plan. because I actually want to train with someone normal.”
“mm-hm,” tim hums, already walking toward his closet. “keep telling yourself that.”
you wait for tim in the hall.
when he finally cracks his door open he jerks his chin. “c’mon. let’s go ruin someone’s morning.”
this time, you enter the training room right when the clock hits the hour. not one second earlier. heads turn when you step inside, the usual shuffle of boots on mat slowing for a beat. everyone’s already warming up: cass stretching, duke rolling out his shoulders, steph braiding her hair back. and damian. the picture of discipline. the picture of someone who expects the world to follow his timing, his pace, his order. his eyes find you the second you cross the threshold like he’s been watching the door, waiting for the exact moment you appear.
your stomach twinges—annoyance, maybe. or pride. or something else you clamp down hard on. but before he can speak or gesture or frown or do anything remotely damian-like, tim steps in beside you. casual. comfortable. like the two of you walked down together because you chose to.
damian’s expression falters. only for half a second. a millisecond, really. the narrowing of his eyes goes rigid, the line of his mouth tightens. confusion flickers across his face, the kind he never lets anyone see. you can almost hear the thought:
why are you with him?
he masks it quickly, molding his face back into something bored, unimpressed, aristocratically above caring. his chin tilts, imperious, but the damage is done. you saw the break in the armor.
you force yourself not to look at him again. instead, you move toward the mats with tim, mirroring his relaxed pace. you kneel to tie your laces, fingers steady even though you feel heat gathering at your throat. tim shoots you a sidelong glance—see?—but doesn’t say the words aloud.
damian’s attention doesn’t leave you.
you can feel it. not just watching, tracking. cataloging. analyzing the shift in your routine, your placement, your partner choice. you don’t seek his gaze, but your peripheral vision catches him anyway, expression carefully blank in a way that only highlights how not blank he is. he’s thrown off. deeply. visibly. and he hates it.
you settle into your warm-up stance, letting the distance hang like a boundary. tim rolls his neck, glancing at damian with an oh-this-is-gonna-be-fun kind of smirk.
bruce claps once, sharp. “pair up.”
tim steps forward towards you without hesitation, and damian’s whole expression fractures.
it’s subtle, if you didn’t know him, you might miss it. but you do know him, or at least you’re starting to. he looks, honest to god, like he wants to rip tim’s head off and mount it on the trophy wall. tim doesn’t notice. or he pretends not to. he just tosses you a lazy, half-smile, equal parts encouragement and chaos.
duke glances up, sees you and tim pairing off, and his eyebrows climb high. he shoots tim a look—oh, I see what’s happening—then shoots you another—damn, you’re just abandoning me like that? you can’t help the faint shrug you give him. move first, consequences later.
duke sighs dramatically, theatric betrayal dripping from every syllable when he mutters, “wow. okay. guess I’m with demonspawn today.”
damian snaps, “I heard that.”
“meant for you to hear it,” duke replies, already walking over. “don’t stab me.”
“don’t give me cause.”
steph and cass pair without a word, steph chattering, cass smiling quietly at her enthusiasm, and the room settles into its new formation. you turn to tim and it hits you how different this feels. sparring with him isn’t effortless—tim is good, annoyingly good, and precise in a way that keeps you on your toes—but it’s… kind. respectful. there’s give-and-take. room to breathe. no sharp edges meant to cut you down even when you block them. tim ducks under your swing, taps your rib with the blunt end of his staff, then backs up with a soft, “good—again.”
across the room, damian sees every second of it. he’s barely paying attention to duke—who, to his credit, is doing his absolute best to keep the session from becoming a murder attempt. damian’s strikes are clean but rushed, sharp but distracted, eyes constantly cutting back to you and tim like he’s waiting for one of you to call time-out and say the universe glitched. his stare is blistering. betrayal. irritation. confusion. something fierce lodged right behind his eyes like he hasn’t decided whether he wants to fight you or throw a tantrum or drag you back by the wrist.
he misses a parry—damian, missing a parry—and duke yelps, “bro, focus!”
“I AM FOCUSED,” damian snarls, not even looking at him.
he’s not. he’s zeroed in on you. tim taps your elbow lightly—not a “you messed up,” but a “don’t look now.” you look anyway. damian’s chest rises and falls too fast, and duke is standing there with both palms up like he’s trying to pacify a rabid, extremely judgmental raccoon. you try to go back to sparring, but your eyes keep pulling toward damian against your will, and every time you glance over, he’s already watching.
training ends with far less form than usual. steph is sweaty and laughing, cass serene, tim steady as ever. duke looks exhausted, wiping his face with his shirt like he’s survived something unspeakable.
damian? still scowling. still thundercloud-dark. still furious in that tight, brittle way that means he’s trying very, very hard not to be obvious. tim leans in as you grab your water bottle, voice pitched low. “told you so.”
you elbow him lightly, because you hate that he’s right. bruce steps forward then, silent in that way that means he’s been watching everything, and says, “damian.”
damian stiffens and he pretends he didn’t hear.
“damian.”
this time he can’t pretend. he stalks over, irritation radiating off him. bruce pulls him aside and directs him a few steps away. you can’t hear the words, but you don’t need to. bruce stands with that immovable calm only he can pull off, arms loosely crossed, expression carved from stone. the kind of look that means disappointment, not anger, far worse, at least for any of his kids.
damian’s posture goes tight. not his usual arrogant, chest-forward confidence. this is different. smaller in a way he’d never allow you to see if he could help it. chin tipped down just a fraction, arms stuck rigidly at his sides like he’s fighting the instinct to cross them. his brows pull together, a deep line forming between them. bruce speaks quietly, but every line of his body says lecture. damian refuses to look directly at him. he keeps glancing off to the side, mouth pressed thin like he’s biting back words he wants to say but knows better. you can read him: annoyed. cornered. and trying very, very hard not to be disrespectful.
bruce lifts a hand and whatever he says with it makes damian’s shoulders lock up, he shakes his head, frustrated, practically vibrating with the effort of holding himself together under his father’s scrutiny. you’ve never seen him so… contained. then he turns, too fast, too sharp, and storms out. not dramatically, but with that fury that means he’ll explode the second he’s alone.
you find him hours later in the kitchen just after sundown, standing stiffly at the counter like he’s been there and hasn’t moved in an hour. he’s just… standing there, hands braced on the counter, staring at nothing. he doesn’t acknowledge you when you come in. he doesn’t speak. just the faintest tightening of his fingers on the marble, like he can hold himself together with sheer force of will. you take a breath. be patient. tim’s voice nags in the back of your mind. he’ll never make it easy.
“…hey,” you try, keeping it gentle. “long day?”
nothing.
you take a few steps in, slower, giving him space to bark at you if he wants to. “i didn’t see you the rest of the day. thought maybe you were—”
“busy.” the word is clipped, flat, and icy enough to sting. “i was busy.”
okay. that’s… something.
“i wasn’t asking for your schedule. just… checking.”
nothing. not even a twitch. you try again. “you left pretty fast earlier. bruce looked—”
“father always looks like that.” cold, immediate. “he has perfected the expression.”
“did he… say something?”
“he lectures. that is his specialty,” he answers, still not looking at you. “discipline, focus, what is expected of me, what i failed to meet. it’s nothing new.”
the tone is so deceptively calm that it almost hides the tension buried under it. almost. you can hear the shame, anger, something like hurt, compressed into a perfect, emotionless blade. “he wasn’t mad at you. he was just worried—”
“don’t.” the word is soft but sharp. “do not attempt to explain my father to me.”
you swallow that down. he’s not trying to be cruel, he just is right now. “i’m trying to understand,” you say. “you’ve been… really shut down with me. and i want to know why.”
“i am not shut down.” he says it instantly, defensively, like the idea itself is an insult. “i simply have nothing to say.”
you study him, really look at him: the rigid posture, the unreadable face, the way he’s keeping his gaze fixed anywhere but on you. he’s angry, yes. but he’s also embarrassed. frustrated. disappointed in himself. and, if you read him correctly, hurt that you didn’t go to him today.
you take another tiny step closer. “is this about training?”
“it’s about many things,” he mutters. “none of which concern you.”
“i think they do.”
his jaw flexes. finally, finally, he looks at you, just a flicker of eye contact, before he tears his gaze away again. “father believes i allowed myself to be distracted,” he admits, voice almost too controlled. “that i let something… personal interfere with my performance.”
“was he wrong?”
damian’s nostrils flare. “i do not get ‘distracted.’ i do not falter. i do not—” he cuts himself off. “i should not have been affected.”
“but you were,” you say softly. he doesn’t deny it. he doesn’t confirm it. he just stands there, breathing tight, shoulders drawn toward his ears as if the world is trying to crush him inward. you try again. “you don’t have to shut me out.”
“then stop trying to read me. i didn’t ask for your concern.”
you let that roll off. “you’ve been upset all day. i’m not trying to fight—”
“you always try,” he snaps, too quickly. “you push. you demand answers. you demand space in places you haven’t earned.”
you flinch at that. “i’m trying to talk to you.”
“and I said stop.”
“whatever bruce said clearly upset—”
“it doesn’t matter what he said.”
“then why won’t you look at me?”
he freezes. and when he speaks again, his voice has changed, aimed right at the softest part of you. “you don’t belong in this life.”
you go still.
he continues. “you weren’t raised for this. you weren’t trained for it from birth, or forged by necessity. you came into this world by choice, not by blood or war. and you think a few late nights and bruises make you ready?” you stare at him. he doesn’t stop. “you’re not suited for it. you’re just some nepo vigilante. you’re not… shaped for it. you hesitate. you question. that gets people killed.”
your breath shakes, just a little. “is that really what you think of me?”
he doesn’t answer. he doesn’t have to. you blink hard, because suddenly your vision blurs at the edges. stupid. pathetic. you promised yourself you would never let him see you unravel like this, but his words hit every fault line you’ve tried to seal. you don’t belong here. you weren’t made for this. you’re not enough. echoes of fears you’ve carried since the day you put on the suit. echoes of what you sometimes wonder your parents would think if they saw you stumbling through a legacy built on grief. would they be proud? or would they see exactly what damian sees, someone trying too hard, someone always two steps behind, someone who can’t keep up?
your throat locks. your chest tightens. one more breath and you might crack in half, so you don’t say anything. you don’t trust your voice. you just turn and head for the doorway. you need to leave before the heat in your nose becomes tears. before he sees you break. before you embarrass yourself any further. your foot hits the threshold— and a hand closes around your wrist. almost… startled.
“hang on—”
his voice is strained. you freeze, staring at the floor because you can’t look at him, not right now. damian’s grip tightens, not enough to hurt, enough to say don’t go, not yet. “i…” he starts, then stops. the words jam in his throat. he’s staring at the floor between your feet, like he can’t bear to lift his eyes. “i didn’t mean to say that.”
you don’t turn back. you can’t. your wrist is still held in his hand. he tries again, quieter this time, the words sounding dragged out of him. “why did you… partner with drake?”
you blink. that’s what he’s asking? now? his shoulders are tight, ears slightly pink like he hates the question even as it escapes him. you exhale, slow and shaky, not because of him, because you’re still stung. your voice comes out sharper than you intend. “maybe i just wanted to train with someone who can actually stand being around me.”
for a second, he looks like he’s trying to speak, like something is clawing its way up his throat, but nothing comes out. then he goes still. too still. the kind of stillness that means he’s thinking so hard it might shatter him. you tug your wrist lightly. “if that’s all, i’m gonna—” you jerk your arm, breaking his hold—
“wait.”
you barely have time to register the word before he moves. it’s fast, a clean strike of motion tied to training and desperation and something he refuses to name. he catches your waist just enough to spin you, guiding you backward until your spine meets the cold edge of the kitchen counter. your breath stops. his hands plant on either side of you, caging you in without touching you, one palm braced on the countertop, the other hovering close enough that you can feel the residual heat of his skin. you look up, and there he is. damian wayne, inches from your face.
and god, up this close he’s almost unreal. the overhead light is dim, warm, turning the sharp lines of his face into something sculpted. his skin, smooth, warm-toned, unblemished, catches the light like polished bronze. no shadows under his eyes, no imperfections, his lashes are stupidly dark, stupidly long, the kind of lashes people pay for. they cast shadows across his cheekbones every time he blinks.
his hair is slightly mussed from training, still perfect, somehow, but one curl brushes his forehead. he smells like soap and whatever expensive detergent alfred uses. you’ve fought beside him dozens of times, but you’ve never seen him like this, never been close enough to catalog the exact shade of green in his eyes. it’s darker up close. deeper. flecked with gold that catches in the light. he’s tense, as if he’s wrestling with himself, wrestling with you, wrestling with the space between you that feels suddenly, impossibly charged.
you swallow. “what are you doing?”
he doesn’t answer. he just stares at you, eyes too intense, too alive, like you’ve cracked something open in him without meaning to.
“you are maddening.”
your heart jumps in your throat.
“i— what?”
his eyes flicker down to your mouth for half a second, then back to your eyes with ruthless discipline. “i cannot breathe when you are upset with me.” the confession is sharp, bitten-off. “i cannot think properly when you ignore me.” damian looks furious with himself for saying it. furious with you for making him say it. furious with whatever emotion is tearing through him with too much intensity for someone raised to kill, not feel. “i do not want you training with drake,” he adds, breath brushing your cheek, “i do not want you choosing anyone else.”
your fingers curl against the counter because you suddenly don’t know what your legs are doing. “damian…”
“you frustrate me,” he scoffs, eyes flickering between yours. “you infuriate me.” a beat. “and i cannot stay away from you.”
you don’t know if you want to shove him or pull him closer. your thoughts tangle, snarl, crash over one another in a way that makes your pulse jump unevenly. this—whatever this is—was never part of the equation. the two of you exist in a constant cold war: distance, irritation, bickering. you built your expectations around that. around him being the brat who can’t stand the sight of you. the one who corrects your form too sharply and watches your mistakes with thinly veiled disdain. not this. not him, inches away, admitting—something. something dangerous. something you don’t have the training or composure to identify.
is this a confession? is this what it looks like when damian wayne tries to say he cares? you don’t know. no one prepared you for the possibility that he might want something other than superiority and distance. your heart lurches, a painful, disbelieving twist. it makes you angry. it makes you burn. because if this is real—if this tension, this jealousy, this intensity is real—then why the hell has he been so cruel?
you think of tim earlier. his accuracy.
“he acts like this when he’s conflicted.”
“he never learned how to express anything.”
you didn’t want that to be true. you didn’t want to give damian that benefit of the doubt. it was easier to armor yourself with irritation, easier to convince yourself he hated you. that he saw you as an intruder, a burden, a pretender wearing a legacy he thought you hadn’t earned. but standing here, pressed between the counter and his braced arms, with his breath mixing with yours, tim’s words ring uncomfortably, painfully true. beneath the arrogance, the discipline, the superiority, he is terrified. he is inexperienced. he is trying so hard to act unaffected that he’s hurting everything in his path, including you.
resentment. confusion. longing. anger. all of it, stacked so thick you can barely breathe. you find your fingers curling against the counter, grounding yourself before you do something stupid like lean in. “you can’t— you don’t get to say things like that after the way you treat me.”
his eyes flicker, that dark, molten green sharpening. you see confusion flash first. then indignation. then something like guilt, so brief he tries to bury it immediately. you shove at his chest. not enough to move him, because he’s a literal wall, but enough to break the trance, to remind yourself you still have a spine. “you’ve been awful to me,” you snap. “you insult me, you belittle me, you… you act like i’m a mistake bruce brought home.”
his jaw tightens. “i have never—”
“you have,” you bite. “constantly. every time we train, every time i’m in the same room, every time you so much as look at me. and now you’re suddenly— what? jealous? possessive? whatever this is?”
he flinches, the smallest betrayal of emotion, and his fingers curl tighter against the countertop. “i did not mean—” he swallows. “i do not wish for you to feel—”
“hurt?” you finish for him, voice rising. “belittled? unwanted?”
there’s a pause, long, heavy, almost unbearable, and you realize he’s leaning in. not carelessly, not with arrogance, but with this strange, hesitant deliberation, like he’s testing the air, testing you, testing himself. his body shifts forward, closing the space between you until the edge of the counter presses against your thighs, and your arms feel trapped, pinned not harshly but insistently. his hands hover for a moment near your sides, the faintest brush of his fingers against your waist. his lips hover above yours, close enough that you can see the catch in his breath, you can feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer intensity of his stare as if he’s daring you to respond. and god, he smells impossibly clean.
then, impossibly, he closes the gap. it’s slow. nervous and commanding all at once. your breath hitches in surprise, in disbelief, in the way your body reacts before your mind even catches up. his lips are infuriatingly soft, warm, and insistent, brushing against yours with the faintest pressure before pulling back. he’s almost fragile in that hesitation, like he’s afraid if he tries too much, you’ll reject him, and he can’t bear that thought.
you don’t even think. you kiss back. your lips move against his, initially uncertain, and then with a force born of every frustration, every harsh word, every moment he’s pushed you to the edge. he tilts his head, searching for the right angle, softening where he can, hardening where he must. his arms cage you against the counter, claiming this moment with a possessiveness that leaves your pulse hammering. your hands find his chest, you notice the rise and fall of his shoulders, the way his messy dark hair brushes against his forehead, how impossibly perfect everything about him seems in this suspended, stolen second.
he pulls back just enough to breathe, just enough to let you process the fire in his eyes, and you can see it, the flush in his cheeks, the flash of vulnerability he’s desperately trying to mask behind that familiar scowl. you can’t believe, for the first time, that this—this utterly impossible, maddening, beautiful boy—is leaning into you like he wants, no, needs, you just as much as you need him.
you can’t believe what just happened. you kissed damian wayne. damian wayne. the damian wayne. the boy you’ve sparred with, argued with, wanted to strangle and run away from in equal measure. the boy who has made mornings unbearable, nights restless, your every day a calculus of irritation and fascination. and now his lips had been on yours, shy and tentative at first, almost apologetic, like he didn’t quite believe he could do it, but gentle in a way that made your chest ache. that was a good kiss. better than you imagined. infuriatingly perfect and infuriatingly shy at the same time. you pull back slightly, trying to collect yourself, and you see him do the same.
it’s almost laughable how long it took to get here. you glance up at him, and he’s staring at you too, eyes impossibly earnest, betraying every ounce of his usual composure. then, almost instinctively, you reach up, fingers threading into his hair at the nape of his neck, pulling him closer. he catches your movement in an instant, and his hands find your waist, just enough to let you know he wants this too. your lips meet again, this time slower, hungrier. the first kiss had been tentative; this one is more insistent, deeper, exploratory, and it shocks you with how much it says without words.
he’s surprisingly capable. his technique is precise, careful, controlled, but not without feeling. he’s not the most experienced, not in the sense of someone who’s practiced this kind of intimacy, and yet every motion, every press of his lips against yours, every gentle tug of your hair, speaks to a kind of instinctive perfection that leaves you dizzy. he’s learning, adapting to you, and you feel it in the way he shifts, the way his hands move, the subtle urgency in his breath. when you finally pull back for air, cheeks flushed and chest heaving, he doesn’t let go. you can’t help a small laugh. “what was that for?” you whisper, trying to catch your breath and your thoughts at once.
he doesn’t answer immediately. instead, his lips brush yours again, soft, testing, insistent. “you… are not unwanted.” he admits.
your chest tightens with disbelief and warmth, and you almost can’t stand it. the way he sounds, the way he looks, the way he is—perfect and infuriating and wholly him—leaves you breathless. he pulls back slightly, just enough to see your reaction, and you see that glint of mischief in his eyes return. “we should… probably sleep,” he says, voice more controlled, formal, but the flush in his cheeks betrays him.
“bedtime already?”
he doesn’t answer, just gives you a brief, almost imperceptible nod, and that’s enough. you let him slip away, and you retreat to your room, closing the door softly behind you. the quiet hits like a wave, and you collapse onto your bed, heart still hammering, tingling where his hands had held you. you stare at the ceiling, the way the light catches the dust motes in the air, and you replay it, every detail, the brush of lips, every infuriating way he had pressed against you. you think about his hair falling into his eyes, his lips parting slightly, the way he smelled, the way he looked so impossibly perfect, so … damian.
you bite your lip, a shiver rolling through your chest. your mind refuses to let it go, twisting it over and over: the way he had held you close and yet seemed to want to apologize with every movement. you can’t quite believe it happened, can’t quite believe that it felt so right. just as your thoughts threaten to spiral, your phone buzzes on the nightstand. you groan, too tired, too flustered, too wrapped up in your own pulse to check it immediately, but eventually, curiosity wins.
you blink. one second later, another notification. an image. your stomach twists, both mortified and amused: a photo of you and damian kissing in the kitchen, taken from just far enough to look stealthy. damian’s arm is braced against the counter, your hands tangled in his hair, and both of your faces are flushed. you throw the phone onto the bed, groaning. “tim,” you mutter, voice half-laugh, half-exasperation. “you little creep.”
even as you say it, you can’t help smiling. tim is definitely a little weirdo. but as your eyes finally drift closed, heart still fluttering, you can’t help thinking: he was right.
he told you so.
POSTED 11/16/2025.
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