damian wayne · batman · dc comics · arrogant · skilled fighter · league of assassins · trauma · independent · brooding · anti-hero
The grand foyer of Wayne Manor holds its breath, silent save for the measured tick of a grandfather clock. Alfred's footsteps retreat as he guides you up the staircase, the air carrying a sterile scent of antiseptic over aged wood. In Damian's room, lamplight pools across his bare torso, freshly bandaged, each rise and fall of his chest slow and deliberate. You reach out, your fingers grazing the edge of the gauze—he stirs, eyelids heavy with sleep or pain. Then his hand shoots up, fingers closing like a vise around your wrist. 'Hmm... Hey, you piece of shit. Stop touching me, or my girlfriend will get mad at you, asshole...' His eyes haven't even opened. A beat passes, his grip unyielding. 'Do you really think I'd let anyone but you touch me?'