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fromdove · 2 months ago

Text

ㅤㅤㅤㅤ ⁞ what is wrong with me?

word count: ~4025 words

pairing: damian wayne x fem!reader

warnings: no warnings!! just damian wayne in agony (in-love)

content: damian wayne can't stop sketching you or thinking about you

dove's notes: this has been sitting in my drafts, waiting, begging to be released. also i was listening to artic monkeys when i was editing this. also this is my longest work yet .. lord.. enjoy!!

∿　　 . `💭` ㆍ

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

Damian Wayne has officially lost his mind. (Or—at least, that’s what it feels like, which is almost worse than it being true.)

It doesn’t come on all at once. It’s not loud like breaking a door down a flash of gunfire. no, it creeps in slowly. subtly. It starts with the nausea, the quiet kind, not the kind that doubles you over or makes you rush to the bathroom. not food poisoning. not a training injury. nothing that can be pinned down to anything practical.

It's just this low, burning discomfort that curls in his gut and stretches upward, making a home beneath his ribs, curling around his spine. the kind of unease that originates from something deeper, something more inconvenient. something more emotional.

He can’t stand it.

His palms are sweating, and that alone is enough to make him scowl. his shirt sticks just a little too tightly at the collar, suffocating in a way it never has before. there's a feverish heat crawling up the back of his neck, winding behind his ears, and it makes his skin itch with irritation.

he’s already scanned himself for symptoms. checked his vitals, ran through every checklist and possibility in his head. besides the nausea, he’s not actually sick. his pulse is as steady as it can be. reflexes are sharp. no bruises he’s missed, no toxins in his system. nothing out of the ordinary. on paper, he’s fine. perfectly functional. but something’s still off.

because no matter how hard he tries, he can’t stop thinking about you.

your face has apparently decided to move in and take up residence in his mind. your face has staked a claim on his sanity. It keeps showing up, again, again, and again. relentlessly. a ghost with no regard for personal boundaries.

there you are, when he closes his eyes. when he blinks. when he spaces out for a single second.

the image of you burns at the backs of his eyelids with a persistence that borders on cruel. It’s not just your laugh, though that’s bad enough. It’s the details, the things he shouldn’t have noticed. the things he has no business remembering.

The way you hold a pencil, balanced so precisely between your fingers like it grew out of your hand. the way you bite your bottom lip when you're focused, completely unaware of the way it softens your whole face. the furrow between your brows when you’re reading something the teacher assigned. the exaggerated eye-roll you give him when he’s being, as you so kindly put it, “uptight.”

he hated the word. he still does. but the memory of you saying it loops in his mind anyway. the way your nose scrunches when you laugh. the way you tuck your hair behind your ear. the way you exist, so thoroughly and vividly, in every god forsaken part of his head.

He clenches his fists and holds them there, knuckles white and aching, like if he grips hard enough, he can force the thoughts out of him by sheer will.

Enough.

A breath hisses through his teeth, tight and thin and far more emotional than he’d ever allow himself to sound out loud. he throws himself onto the old leather chair shoved into the corner of his bedroom.

The thing groans beneath him like it’s just as exasperated with him as he is. It’s been his brooding chair since he was ten. It’s seen everything: blood, bruises, silence. tonight, it sees a kind of ache it's never seen before.

Rain drizzles down the windows in a soft, half-hearted rhythm. It’s the gotham kind of rain. but this time it's not the angry kind, not storming kind either. just tired. persistent. the sky outside is a smear of cold, colorless gray. he doesn't need to check the time. not again. he already has multiple times, it's 2:00 am.

Wayne Manor at night is its own sort of living thing. It breathes in silence and exhales memory. every hallway feels too long. every portrait watches too closely. the air seems too still. you can hear a clock ticking from three rooms away. even the shadows feel old. and when the house is this quiet, his thoughts get loud. they expand. echo. and right now, his thoughts are the last damn thing he wants amplified.

His sketchbook rests open on his desk. The page stares back at him-blank. waiting. taunting. page number... who knows. It doesn’t matter. he’s filled hundreds of these pages by now. but somehow this one feels heavier. more expectant. like it already knows what he’s going to draw. and like it’s laughing at him for trying to fight it.

It’s mocking him.

the blank page. the pencil in his hand. the silence of the room. all of it. mocking.

he would say it aloud-confess that he can hear it laughing at him. that would sound insane. and Damian Wayne doesn’t do insane. at least not the kind that makes you talk to paper. but sounding crazy isn’t even what’s bothering him right now. that’s how far gone he is. that’s how bad this is. right now, everything else seems like a minor inconvenience.

he’s not worried about sleep or the exam he has tomorrow in a class with the worlds most insufferable teacher. what’s getting under his skin is the idea that his own brain has decided this piece of paper knows him better than he does. and the fact that tonight you've followed your own yellow brick road right into his head and made yourself at home.

To be honest, quietly, bitterly honest, this isn’t the first time you’ve found your way into his head.

It started the day he met you. he doesn’t know why. you weren’t the loudest voice in the room. you didn’t chase the spotlight or try to charm everyone like the people he’s seen at his father’s galas. their perfect smiles and polished words. that kind of performance never worked on him anyway.

You didn’t demand attention the way those people did. didn’t perform for the room or try to catch anyone’s eye. but by some divine intervention, you slipped past his guard like it was nothing. beat the odds of staying in his head, like the kind of odds and luck people win the lottery with. only, he wouldn’t call it luck. it's not lucky for him though. If it were luck, you wouldn’t be there all the time. you wouldn't be there constantly, threaded through his thoughts, sitting stubbornly in the back of his mind when he’s supposed to be focusing on literally anything else.

you showed up, a director to his brain, and announced action and his brain has been following your lead ever since.

you’ve been showing up in his dreams. in quiet moments between drills. between breaths. between the pages of books he doesn’t finish anymore because he ends up thinking about how you’d probably like them. he’s tried everything to push you out. he meditated until his limbs went numb. that didn’t work. tried ignoring you which lasted two days before he cracked and said something cold and clipped just so he could break the silence, he trained until his hands were shaking from exhaustion. that didn’t work either.

he also can’t talk to anyone about it. he has to deal with this on his own, despite having no experiences with feelings like this.

not grayson, who would tease and then say something ridiculous like “it's just a crush, it's okay to feel like this yada yada.” because it wasn't okay. and this obviously was way worse than just a crush.

he couldn't ask father, who would raise an eyebrow and say something vaguely wise and completely unhelpful. not todd or drake. and definitely not his mother. she’d sneer. call it weakness. maybe it is. maybe she’s right. maybe he agrees with her.

what kind of warrior gets undone by a girl?

the thought of therapy crossed his mind once. he’s heard of it. read enough reports to understand how it’s supposed to work. talk. process. heal. whatever. but it’s not for him. he’s Damian Wayne. he doesn’t talk about feelings to some stranger in a white coat. he gets through. he survives. therapy was never for someone like him. and even if he did try, what the hell would he say?

that there’s a girl stuck in his head and it’s annoying? that it gets under his skin in ways he doesn’t have names for? that some days, it feels like your voice echoes louder than his own thoughts, and no amount of training, of silence, of bruised knuckles can push it out?

he would never say that some part of him, some small, treacherous part, would give up the fight, the league, all of it, just to sit across from you in peace, to live a life where he never has to say the words “assassin” or “bloodline” again. nope. he will also never say that your absence leaves a sharper ache than any blade he's ever taken to the ribs.

It sounds weak. soft. pathetic, even.

something he would’ve scoffed at not long ago. something he might’ve called pitiful in someone else.

but it’s so very real.

because he’s been shot. stabbed. left in the dirt with nothing but the sound of his own breathing and the sting of his own failures. he’s taken hits that shattered bone. fought through pain so sharp it made the edges of the world go white and still, none of it ever made him feel this exposed.

this unguarded. like someone cracked open his chest and left everything on display. every nerve, every feeling he never wanted to name. It’s not physical pain that unsettles him. he can handle pain. he can't handle the fact that you matter though.

somewhere along the way of all those thoughts, the pencil made its way into his hand. he doesn’t remember reaching for it. doesn’t remember curling his fingers around it. but it’s there now, resting lightly between calloused fingers, like it always does. he’s on autopilot. which is already a bad sign.

he tells himself to get it together. to sketch something practical. a bird’s wingspan. a new gauntlet modification. the layout of a building if he has to. something tactical. something with purpose.

but when the pencil meets the paper, it doesn’t obey. his hand moves on its own. long, confident strokes, trained muscle memory. a familiar line forms. then another. the slope of a jaw. the curve of a mouth. the arch of an eyebrow that always seems to rise whenever you’re being particularly annoying. and then, worst of all, the eyes. not just generic ones. yours. the ones that squint when you’re holding back a laugh. and the ones that widen when you taste something you really love, so much so that you’d swear it’s life-changing.

He doesn’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s already done.

he scowls, swears under his breath in arabic, and slams the sketchbook shut. the sound is loud in the silence, but not loud enough to drown out the sound of his own heartbeat, which seems to speed up at the thought of you. he tosses the pencil down with too much force. it rolls across the desk, hits the edge, falls. he lets it.

damian leans back in the chair and stares up at the ceiling, jaw clenched, hands pressed together. His arms are stiff. His spine aches. His chest feels tight, like there’s something inside him clawing to be let out.

he tells himself- no, commands himself to draw something else. anything else. a skyline. a katana. the curve of a rooftop edge, the silhouette of a bat against the moon, the outline of a fucking grapefruit. this time he doesn't care about drawing something tactical or practical. he just needs to get you out of his mind, or try to.

he should draw something safe. neutral. objective. Something that proves he is in control of himself and his brain and his hands. something that proves he is not thinking about you.

but.

of course.

you’re already in his head.

you’ve moved in and brought noise with you.

not actual noise. not your voice. he knows that much. he hasn’t quite crossed the line into hearing things that aren’t there. at least, not yet. but with how things are going, he wouldn’t be surprised if that happened soon.

you’re probably asleep right now, tucked away somewhere on the other side of the city, curled under a blanket with half your face smashed into a pillow. the same pillow you shamelessly drool on, though you’d deny it if anyone called you out.

he knows how you sleep and how you sprawl. it's in the way that looks like your limbs forgot they belonged to one body. arms flung this way, legs tangled that way, taking up every inch of the bed.

he’s seen it.

on movie nights you insisted on. when your eyes got heavy halfway through some old black-and-white film you were adamant on watching. you’d knock out leaning against him. mouth open, breathing slow, completely unaware of what you were doing to him. and he let you. sat there like a statue, an idiot statue. but letting you rest against him was a test he refused to fail. he could’ve nudged you off. could’ve cleared his throat, shifted away.

but he didn’t.

not once.

he told himself he didn’t care.

he told himself it meant nothing.

but that was a lie.

and he hasn’t stopped lying since.

back to the sketch. or the lack thereof. he's starting over.

he doesn’t bother picking up the pencil that rolled off the desk. just lets it stay there on the floor, like it’s exiled. maybe it deserved it for betraying him by drawing you in the first place.

instead, he grabs another.

the graphite scratches quiet across the page.

the first line is nothing. a curve, shapeless and vague. could be the edge of a rooftop. the arc of a blade. the bend of a cat’s back mid-pounce. it doesn’t matter. he keeps going. another line. then another. his hand moves on instinct, not intention.

It should be nothing. just muscle memory. just form and technique.

but it’s not. he knows where this is heading.

his wrist keeps moving. thoughtlessly. confidently. it seems his fingers have a map his mind hasn’t seen yet. and by the time he registers what he’s doing and really, truly looks down, it’s too late.

there’s your jawline.

crisp and familiar.

Your cheekbones begin to form, graceful and sloped in that way he won't admit he’s spent time analyzing. the bridge of your nose is there now, and worse, his hand has already started filling in the curve of your lips. he’s not even halfway done and his body has betrayed him once more. his heart beating fast and loud and infuriatingly alive.

no. no, no, no.

this is not happening. he’s not doing this. he cannot be doing this.

and yet, he is. he is doing this.

his grip tightens around the new pencil. of course, this one ends up turning on him too.

his stomach twists, it’s punishing him for something he hasn’t come to terms with yet. His shoulders lock out of habit, discipline digging in where softness tries to get through.

it’s really annoying.

his body already made a decision his mind hasn’t agreed to. he's feeling like every hour he spent learning control, precision, resistance-- every scar, every strike, every silence, meant nothing the second he laid eyes on you.

He shuts the cover of the sketchbook gently before he even finishes the drawing. the lines are still half-formed, the image incomplete, but he can’t bring himself to keep going. his hand stills, hovering for a moment like maybe he’ll change his mind and re-open the book, but he doesn’t. the pencil drops beside his sketchbook with a soft, final sort of sound.

he sits there thinking about how there’s something unkind about it. about what's happening to him. about what he's feeling. that even now, even with everything he knows about control, about restraint, about keeping his distance, his hands still choose you despite him not wanting them too.

maybe it’s karma. he wouldn’t be surprised. that would make sense, wouldn’t it? he’s not naive enough to think he’s owed peace, or grace, or anything soft. he can admit he’s made mistakes, though even that word feels too gentle, too forgiving.

“mistake” sounds like tripping over a crack in the sidewalk or saying the wrong thing at the wrong time. he wouldn't consider what he's done as "mistakes". they’re not mistakes. they’re choices. intentional. calculated. final. blood on his hands that no amount of training, time, or water can wash off. every decision, every action, feels etched into him in a way that no word can fully capture.

and then there’s the thought. an ugly, persistent whisper in the back of his mind, the one that won’t shut up: what would you think if you knew everything? If you knew the full measure of his deeds, the cold precision with which he carried out his orders, the blood and ruin left in his wake and also the way he’s thinking about you right now.

would you recoil in horror? Would you look at him with disgust, seeing in him a monster too far gone to be redeemed? the idea gnaws at him, twisting his insides until it feels like his stomach has tied itself in knots.

Why is he terrified of what you’d think? why would he care if you see him as a monster? Why is it that, at the same time, he thinks about the fact that you make him forget all of it? even if it’s just for a second. the way his mind turns to you, even when he knows he has no right to feel this way.

the guilt presses down hard, suffocating. But what hurts more is the disgust. the way he can’t stand the idea that he’s even capable of feeling this about you.

he tells himself he deserves every ounce of this self-reproach. he’s not innocent, not in the slightest. but despite all the harsh logic and unyielding discipline he’s clung to, there’s a softness in his heart that makes him long for redemption, or perhaps even forgiveness. every heartbeat is a reminder of his past, echoing the silent question: Could you ever see beyond the sins of his past to something different?

Would you? He knows you. or at least he thinks he does.

He knows the softness of your expressions. the curve of your smile. the light in your eyes when you’re teasing him. the exact tilt of your head when you laugh, and the way your eyes crease at the corners. he remembers everything.

and all of it has bled onto the pages of his sketchbook. line by stupid line.

there’s a dull throb behind his eyes. he blinks, finally, and swallows hard around nothing.

What the hell is happening to him? deep down he knows, but he won't accept it. so for now, he'll play the fool.

his body feels wrong. slow. off-balance. his thoughts are moving faster than his skin can keep up with. It's like he’s chasing something in a dream and keeps waking up just before he catches it.

And you are the center of that dissonance.

he shouldn't crave any of this. not for warmth that asks nothing of him. not for feelings that arrive uninvited. quiet, persistent things that slip beneath his guard in the dead of night and make a home out of the places he swore were impenetrable.

they settle in his chest like they’ve always belonged. but they can’t. because Damian Wayne doesn’t fall apart. he doesn’t lose focus. he can't afford to. he can't want something just because it makes him feel good.

He was trained before he knew what it meant to choose anything for himself. before he had a chance to want anything. and yet here he is, wanting. but at the same time not wanting to want. and it’s unbearable. he's so very conflicted.

there’s no margin for any of that in his bloodline. no one trained him to sit still with his feelings. no one handed him the cure for this kind of ache. there were no lessons on vulnerability. only on how to strike first, how to read a threat before it made itself known, how to shut every door that made him human. he was taught to break bones, not fall in love. he certainly wasn't taught how to navigate the tremble in his hands when he sees your name on his phone screen.

this thing he's experiencing takes up too much room inside him. this ache in his chest that spikes every time he sees you talking to someone else. this frustration that coils in his stomach when he can’t seem to find the right words to say to you.

no one gave him a blueprint for this.

and he never asked for one.

but now he thinks maybe he should’ve. despite whatever answer he would've gotten.

because whatever this is, this thing with your face tangled in every corner, this thing with your name written all over it, is not fading. not blurring. not leaving like it should. it’s staying.

He's angry. at you. at himself. at whatever cruel, laughing god decided this was his fate. why the hell is he here. sitting in the dark with a sketchbook on his desk that he closed after whatever just happened and your face living in every corner of his skull?

he forces his eyes shut. breathes in through his nose, slow and deliberate, he wants to believe discipline alone might save him from whatever the hell this is. He sits motionless for a beat, jaw tight, spine stiff, a soldier awaiting orders. maybe if he holds still enough, it’ll all fall away.

because he is not some moonstruck teenager. He does not sit around sighing at ceilings like an idiot with a crush in some poorly written teen drama.

his childhood was silence where there should’ve been comfort, order where there should’ve been chaos, expectation where there should’ve been choice. He was built to survive, not to feel. everything he’s ever felt, he’s learned to hide. emotions are weaknesses. vulnerabilities. and he’s always kept his locked away, sealed tight like volatile gas behind reinforced glass. out of reach. out of sight. contained.

he tells himself once more that he shouldn’t be feeling any of this.

He hates how much he does.

this entire spiral feels beneath him. It’s inefficient. irrational. weak. there is no function to this emotion. It doesn’t sharpen his aim. It doesn’t enhance his reflexes. It clutters his thoughts, derails his focus. and he prides himself on focus. discipline. efficiency. his brain has always been a fortress. impenetrable. calculated. he trains harder, pushes longer, endures more than anyone around him. because he has to. because he always has.

His breathing stumbles, uneven, shallow. and it disgusts him. he presses his fingertips to his temple like he could physically push the thoughts out of his skull. his other hand curls into a fist in his lap, nails digging into his palm. he can feel the pulse in his jaw. fast. reluctant. he’s getting a headache, and he can’t even sketch his way out of it this time.

he tips his head back, eyes open now, staring at the ornate ceiling of his room like it might offer some sort of answer. It doesn’t. It never has. the silence in Wayne Manor is heavy and constant, stretching through the halls like a second atmosphere. He’s used to it. but tonight, it feels suffocating.

there’s no solution in the ceiling. no clarity in the walls. only this feeling. this wild, rising pressure inside him that he doesn’t have the words for.

“What the hell is happening to me,” he mutters under his breath, voice low and ragged.

He lets the question hang in the silence. no answers come, only the steady pulse of his own breath and the distant city sounds bleeding through the windows.

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