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[daemonlegacy]

tim’s name fall from her lips and damian is immediately wincing, his lips curling into a scowl as he’s about to explain how entirely wrong whatever picture timothy drake has ever painted onto anybody-- someone who can’t even recognize a rembrandt should never be trusted to paint an accurate picture of another human being-- but then she also mentions dick, and the words die in his throat. both renditions of the youngest male to take up the robin mantle are probably wrong, in widely, horrific different ways, but damian is more apt to accept whatever grayson has said about him, given their undercurrent fondness for each other. damian would never admit, even under penalty of death, just how much grayson means to him.

he turns his face away from her for a moment, to shield and lock away whatever emotions might be hovering in his eyes, his face a mask of impenetrability, having years upon years of practice keeping his thoughts safely beneath the coldness of his natural demeanor, but she’d managed to catch him off guard and he’s not used to that. “i do know of your uncle yes. from mars, correct?” he keeps his voice low, carefully muted enough that no one else in the small store would be able to hear over the sound of the blender behind him. “my father has a file on him, i’ve studied everyone in the league.” more specifically, he’s studied the weaknesses of everyone in the league. “have you attempted to return home yet? in this….” he motions around them casually, “dimension?”

[daemonlegacy]

I only drink the blood of my enemies. And occasionally a strawberry Yoohoo.

Damian, probably (via batbrosbeforehoes)

[daemonlegacy]

by the time damian was nine years old, he’d already climbed to the top of a mountain with a broken leg, driven cars and airplanes single-handedly, read through tomes of ancient literature in perfected latin, and mastered over fifty ways to kill a fully grown man, which included various ways of strangulation, exsanguination, use of pressure points, the breaking of bones. he could deconstruct and reconstruct any weapon made in the last thousand years and over the course of his year of blood, he’d procured-- stolen-- enough artifacts around the world to have left a horrific name in his wake for himself, a name to be feared, to be whispered, to be haunted.

most people in gotham don’t know about this, the previous robins, including steph, don’t know about this; only his father and pennyworth and a few choice villains. and cass. whereas these achievements used to burn like a title across his forehead, a mark of honor and duration, a legacy he bore proudly and stoutly, being an al ghul, being stronger than all the rest, being ruthless-- now it is a scourge, a curse, a shame. he knows he could do great evil, understands the extent of his personal abyss in ways most people don’t have to deal with, and few others in his position stalk the line the way that he does, their souls usually bright, incandescent things caught in dark alleyways. they are good people beneath their surfaces, fighting crime to save others, while he fights crime to save himself.

he’s never been good. not like steph.

she calls him a shrimp and he remembers the sharp snap of one of his grandfather’s servant's neck as damian twisted his head around, remembers the way the man had struggled, had fought for his life and lost, remembers how his body had slumped to the marbled flooring, and says nothing to the vigilante beside him in retaliation. he keeps his eyes straight, his mouth tilted sour. “i can usually work my way around his incompetent decisions, whenever he wants me on sideline jobs like this with b-list heroes, but…” the image of batman’s fury, his disappointment shading his features, tumbles through damian’s mind. “he still doesn’t trust me.”

he glances over at her again just as she smiles and regrets it, his countenance only souring worse. “in your case, spoiler, waiting until you’re forty might be a good thing.”

[daemonlegacy]

her initial reaction upon his name has him hesitating once again ( a response he’s not familiar with in most things, his life a hodgepodge of twists and turns anyway on any given good day-- he should be used to surprises by now ), his posture shifting backwards slightly, eyes squinting even as she mentions his brothers. brothers. he doesn’t really have any, of course, the lonesome son of bruce wayne, the singular offspring of the legendary batman, of which he takes a great deal of pride, but he understands her meaning immediately. the other robins, brothers in arms, or as he likes to consider them; the lesser ones.

“so you’ve heard of me, huh?” he wonders how much the others talk about him, what they’ve said. he’d like to assume it might be something about how well he suits his superhero role, how astute he’s always been in his training, how magnificent his form is. but knowing those bastards, it’s probably something negative-- babies like to whine. “i’m sure whatever they’ve told you is… less comparable to the real thing, trust me.” after a moment, his head tilts. “who is your uncle?” chances are he’s probably read all about the man, if batman has worked with him before.

[daemonlegacy]

ROBIN: SON OF BATMAN — 001, 002, 003, 004, 008, 009, 010

[daemonlegacy]

damian ducks out of the way of the web flying over his head towards the bad guy, although he does use the momentum to jump and hurl himself through the air towards the others, a tuck-and-roll move that would land him on top of one man’s shoulders so he could lean backwards and bring him down with him, the robber’s head hitting hard against the cement with a satisfying crack. no breakage but probably a concussion and honestly it’s easier than he deserves. the last guy damian has to deal with isn’t as stupid as his counterparts, but his hand-to-hand combat is nothing by comparison to the boy wonder, son of two great houses that pride themselves on their fighting techniques.

damian drops him unconscious in no time at all, whirls around to find the rest of the robbers all tressed up and webbed and it’s only slightly gross even though damian has no particular fear of spiders-- something about it reminding him of a story he once heard about giant web-spinning monsters. still though, at least the job was well done and taken care of. “not bad. we should tie them up and bring them to the precinct discreetly, to let the cops finish the job, before--”

“NYPD, DON’T MOVE!” damian turns towards the wall of officers with their gun out, shining black in the alleyway streetlights, descending in on them, and he can tell just from their countenance; they are just as much interested in arresting robin and spiderman as they are in these robbers.

@justpeterparker

damian flips out of the path of the oncoming bullets, spins and ducks to deliver a sweeping kick to the knee that drops one of the assailants, his body hitting the ground while his gun fires aimlessly into the air for a split second, the bag of cash flung away haphazardly. he’s one of a group of six assholes out on the streets tonight, fleeing the scene of a robbery that’s left two people dead and four in critical condition, and damian is already furious enough to cut them all in half over it, the blaze in his bloodstream, the thunder in his eyes, his fists like stones as he swings around and punches the idiot hard enough to send him into next week.

there’s five others in the alleyway with him, but he’s not alone tonight, although batman is nowhere to be found– it’s just bright, bold colors mixing with the grime of the lane this time, of himself and a hero called spiderman, whom damian will never admit out loud is pretty adequate for his age. annoying and silly and uppity, but adequate. “webhead!” he points towards two of the thieves attempting to flee, hoping the other vigilante will take the hint; damian doesn’t have steel-infused webbing. or whatever it is. “the show’s just started, can’t let our guests leave just yet.”

[daemonlegacy]

if there’s one thing damian hates more than unexpected guests, it’s unexpected guests who talk a lot while saying almost nothing, as though the sound of their own voice is the best song they’ve ever heard, and it’s grating, it’s frustrating, it’s itching at his patience and he has very little of that to begin with. it’s even worse when the other comes to nit-pick at his manner of operating, as though everyone else in existence hasn’t already been doing that for years, expecting him to change somehow, underestimating the sheer amount fucks damian does not give.

“are you telling me you’re so weak after using your powers every time that you absolutely have to stop and eat… waffles… before you can leave again?” his head tilts, dark eyes pinning onto the bright, ridiculous red and yellow outfit somebody somewhere must have thought was a good idea. granted, he’s also wearing red and yellow, but at least it’s muted a bit by the grey and black overtones. the sneer is evident in every syllable that flakes from his lips. “sounds like not having any powers would be more beneficial to you. and here i thought being fast would be cool.”

he watches the other handle the food and offer it to him, staring at the waffle for a long moment while his insides debate nature versus nurture; on the one hand, he is human and hungry and he’s been out here for hours, his stomach noticing the difference and aching incessantly. but on the other hand his training, both from batman and his life before gotham, the trials under his grandfather and his worshipers, has steeled him into iron, forged him into the kind of man who doesn’t need the same amount of weaknesses like food and sleep that other people, fragile people, require. he should remain resolute, he should root himself to his stance like the roots of a great oak tree.

instead, he snatches the waffle from the speeding lunatic and munches on it, still crouched and hunched like a gargoyle, eyes refocusing on his prey, brow still dark and frustrated. “who sent you? was it batman? does he think i need a chaperone now?” he’s still unsure whether he’s forgiven him for the other night or not, damian’s teetering on the precipice not something the dark crusader takes lightly. “can you tell him i’m eighteen now, i don’t need this shit.”

[daemonlegacy]

damian hadn’t initially gone looking for a fight-- and that’s an important distinction to make given that he does quite frequently go looking for fights, as should everyone who’s taken up the superhero mantle, especially the bat mantle, but tonight he’s dressed in socks and torn sweaters, tonight he’s garbed only in hand-me-down clothing, pieces of dick’s old stuff that damian may or may not be slightly attached to. they fit him now and that’s all that matters, and his mother is not here to chastise him for his lack of propriety, his lack of gold standards, his lack of posh refinement 24/7. it’s late, he’s nursing twelve bruises on his body from robin duties the night before, he’s taking the evening off.

google says washing machines are usually found in the basement of buildings like these, so that where damian heads to first, a small basket under his arm. growing up in the al ghul and wayne estates would have lent him a more spoiled stance on simple chores like this, but coming in contact with dick grayson had ensured he knew at least enough to survive on-- not that damian needed any help with that. he could always just steal clothes as he needs them, out on the street, but dick had insisted it would be important someday. the young robin supposes that’s not entirely incorrect.

when he reaches the basement though, all thoughts of normalcy flee his mind as his eyes settle on the frame of the tall woman, brazen figure, perfect bone structure, everything about her cut and clean, molded to extreme ideals like a statue, and damian gulps slightly, feeling his cheeks warm. “i-- i was just-- uh.” damn dick grayson for this, somehow this is all his fault that damian is standing here with a basket of clothes under his arm like a mundane idiot. he drops it immediately and approaches the amazon, determined that she not see him as a fool. “got an extra stick? i’m always ready for training.” all thoughts of bruises and pain and ‘taking the evening off’ disappear in an instant as he sheds the sweater off and is once again the son of batman, the grandson of the demon, the heir to a legacy as old as time.

Diana swung her sword through the emptiness of the basement. The living quarters were small, and the amazon needed her space. Needed to stay sharp. Stay active. Stay focused. 

She practiced here often, finding it generally empty and quiet. A place to think. It was secluded enough where she would not draw attention. It was for the benefit of everyone like her, that she not. Many decades had passed since she stormed the streets of London, dressed as a civilian but with sword and shield in hand. Diana couldn’t help but smile, at the memory.

A sound came from the steps above, and Diana called out to whomever had discovered her secret place. “Just a little self defense practice. Care to join me?” She figured it was someone from her camp, but either way- she’d make good on her offer.

[daemonlegacy]

immobile patrol nights such as this one, when damian is ordered to sit and watch a particular street or alleyway or building, is already difficult for the young robin, already filling him with unease and itching, like ants of anxiety crawling around and biting him beneath his skin, the eager ends of his nerves drawing themselves out to exhaustion. he likes moving, he likes running, he likes flying and jumping and fighting, and being forced into one space is damn to torture.

he often thinks to himself, whenever he’s been put in this position, which thankfully isn’t much, that the only way it could be worse is if he had to do it with timothy drake, the world’s worst bun-knuckle-head to ever don the robin title, in damian’s educated opinion. so tonight must be his lucky night.

he keeps the binoculars up to his eyes as he peers down into the windows of the building standing across from them, looking for basically nothing while pretending that it’s everything important. “you know who whines, drake? babies.” nevermind the fact that damian complains almost every time he has to be on a mission like this. “i know it’s been a while since you did any serious vigilante work, but generally it takes a few hours to guard a place. why’d you even agree to come out here?”

@daemonlegacy

If Tim were any less well trained, he would be grumbling right now. As it was, he was pretty sure he had a displeased look on his face. He did his best to avoid his little brother, but for some reason they had ended up here, crouching on a rooftop and listening for the nearest police siren.

It seemed that this New York was just as plagued by violence as the one in their universe, though the fights had been rather lackluster. He was itching for a real fight, and having Damian as his partner tonight wasn’t helping.

“How much longer do we need to be out?” he asked. “I’ve got class in the morning.”

[daemonlegacy]

@justpeterparker

damian flips out of the path of the oncoming bullets, spins and ducks to deliver a sweeping kick to the knee that drops one of the assailants, his body hitting the ground while his gun fires aimlessly into the air for a split second, the bag of cash flung away haphazardly. he’s one of a group of six assholes out on the streets tonight, fleeing the scene of a robbery that’s left two people dead and four in critical condition, and damian is already furious enough to cut them all in half over it, the blaze in his bloodstream, the thunder in his eyes, his fists like stones as he swings around and punches the idiot hard enough to send him into next week.

there’s five others in the alleyway with him, but he’s not alone tonight, although batman is nowhere to be found-- it’s just bright, bold colors mixing with the grime of the lane this time, of himself and a hero called spiderman, whom damian will never admit out loud is pretty adequate for his age. annoying and silly and uppity, but adequate. “webhead!” he points towards two of the thieves attempting to flee, hoping the other vigilante will take the hint; damian doesn’t have steel-infused webbing. or whatever it is. “the show’s just started, can’t let our guests leave just yet.”

[daemonlegacy]

damian sighs, shaking his head as his eyes flit down to the brown liquid in his cup, the stuff too chalked full of sugar for most people but tinted just the way damian likes it, his frustrations and exhaustions from the night before chipping at the edges of his teeth, curling in the palms he has wrapped around his mug. “it is different though. back home we have a lot more than we have right now. back home there was a lot less risk getting found out who our identities were, we weren’t as easily singled out as refugees, of whom at least half are vigilantes-- it’s already super obvious.” it doesn’t help that they are all living in these complexes together, making themselves into easy targets. “what if the government decides it really can’t risk anything with us all and just blows us all to smithereens, todd?”

jason’s last comment bring damian a bolt of worry, his mind of course focusing in on the worst case scenarios instead of the hope the older ex-robin is attempting to instill in him, face contorting, lips cringing. “tt! you think this is a good thing we’re here? i don’t. what about home? this world doesn’t have supervillains but ours still does, and we’re here and not there, and now none of us are in our gotham anymore to protect it from… from…” his gaze has dropped down to the floor, wide-eyed and distant, reliving his nightmares between heartbeats, without his realization of it, until they shoot back up to the red hood. “what if my mother is already laying siege to the world, todd, now that we’re not there to stop her? and all you’re fucking worried about is your stupid name-brand?!” he grabs what he can of the newspaper and shoves it at him.

[daemonlegacy]

“am i supposed to care whether you can hear me or not? i’m sure every other kind of bug around me is listening in too, but i don’t mind about them either.” despite his propensity for insulting her and likening her to an insect, he’s not actually angry at her, not entirely, although at the moment he’s more so just angry at the whole planet in general. she isn’t someone he really respects though, someone who’d wormed their way into the robin squad by leave of sympathy, he’s sure of it-- otherwise it just wouldn’t make sense how she got the title, even for the split second she’d managed it. but then again, how her boyfriend could have gotten that title is beyond him as well, drake being far more useful behind a computer screen than out in the blackened alleyways, his unfettered, chaotic fighting techniques still an eyesore to damian whenever he has the displeasure of seeing it.

but those calls were not made by him, but by his father of course, which brings his thoughts back to batman and his grudges, his unfair punishments, his backhanded retaliations. “well excuse me, spoiler, but unlike you, i’m not used to being in the kiddie-corner sandbox to play with all the pretend bad-guys. this may be your area of expertise but i’m better suited to fighting bigger game-- actual villains.” he crosses his arms over his chest tighter, jawline drawn taunt, fury boiling along his spine, his lips pressing together, his brow pitching. “this is…. pathetic.”

after a moment however, he turns towards her more fully, his head tilting, eyes squinting, the question lacing through his mind in ten different languages before he spits it out in english. “you’d think after dying and holding our own for as long as we have, we wouldn’t be treated as much like children though, right? at what point does that stop making sense?”

[daemonlegacy]

“it’s not about drinking the whole thing immediately, but if we’re going to pick which concoctions are the most desirable, we need to subject them to testing-- this isn’t complicated, don’t have an aneurysm.” the look he shoots her is incredulous, her suggestions bordering on laughable, but at this point he already considers himself well-versed in her particular type of nervous disposition, only a few minutes in. it would seem anything that falls from her lips or expressed through her hand motions imparts a certain timidity that damian just simply doesn’t exude, couldn’t even if he tried. he is a gold and bronze statue, a beacon of self-confidence, a mountain in the harsh solar streams, and when he makes an edict, he expects it to be followed.

so he pays her jitters no mind, giving the confused, hesitant barista his credit card with all the ease in the world, a scoff bubbling up from his throat. “tt! you think i’m going to share with you? we just met, i’m not getting that intimate.” sharing is almost a taboo for damian al-ghul, a precursor to loss, the boy raised on singularity, on authority, on domination. “there will be no waste, i’ll figure out what to do with the rest of it later.”

once he gets his card back, he points to a nearby table, one of the larger ones, addressing one of the sour-looking baristas. “we’ll be over there. i’ll tip you each a hundred dollars if you bring the drinks to us when they’re ready.” and with that, he grabs the girl’s wrist and brings her along with him to sit down, finally deciding to take the time to acquaint himself with her fully. “now then. my name is damian wayne. who did you say you were?”

[daemonlegacy]

dark, storm-shaded eyes watch her closely, the color flooding into her face, the discomfort manifesting in her spine as she shifts footing, dodgy eyes as though she’s worried anyone else in this coffee shop would care about how she feels in regards to the drinks delivered here-- something damian is wholly unbothered by. he’s never been one for shame or secrets, never felt the need to shadow his intentions or his arrogance, the boiling self-importance prevalent in every square inch of his stature, his atmosphere bleeding confidence and poise in every movement. she’s whispering nervously to the wrong billionaire.

he pauses a moment after she’s uttered her piece, the challenge of taste buds she’s cast down into the air between them, her lie and then subsequent curiosity infecting him as well, despite his previous disinterest in the girl, so when the barista behind the counter finally calls loud enough to garner his attention and ask him what he’d like, he turns to her with absolute certainty. “i’d like the whole menu please, two of everything.”

she stares at him, blinks a few times. “excuse me?”

damian glances back to the redhead standing behind him, not to confirm her acceptance or anything, but simply to usher her on board with this plan, to initiate her into his strategy; if they want to test whether any of these products are desirable, they ought to try them all. “it’s for science.” and then he gets out his credit card to pay.

[daemonlegacy]

@itseggplantactually

damian’s penchant for foul language is something he can’t remember ever not expressing, more than a few times garnering pointed looks from his mother or any of the saintly trainers he’d been pitted with to learn of the arts and softer mediums of the world, but despite however many frustrations rose to a boil because of the words tumbling from his lips, he’s never even once considered changing his demeanor. he is how he is and he speaks how he speaks, and even with his father’s occasional condemnation for it, even with the intense amount of reverence and respect he holds for the older man, letting himself grow in his shadow and become as close to his icon as possible, there are some things inside damian that just refuse to shift, refuse to retract; his distaste for most people, his love for animals, and his inability to curb his speech.

so when the string of colorful curses tumble from midnight-chilled lips, jaw quivering slightly as the new york city winds tug on his cape and cowl like an angry lover, he barely bats an eyelash from it, barely even registers, lets the heat and burn from his own personal fury warm him from the inside of his ribcage on outward, the frustration searing into his bones. it’s not about being out here, it’s not about the wind, it’s not about the fact that it’s about to rain and damian is already fighting off a cold, it’s not about the dinner he hasn’t eaten in days; the sigh and grumble that whisps through his clenched teeth is because he shouldn’t be here right now, shouldn’t be hovering over the building like a gargoyle, shouldn’t be merely a shadow, a ghost, twin black eyes in a sea of city lights and apathetic stars-- he should be down inside that building, down into the dredges, ugly and bloody and fighting with the others.

not here, stuck babysitting the robin-reject. “i cannot fucking believe this,” he growls, voice low and hushed like murmuring thunder, giving no indication that he even cares how close spoiler is to him at the moment, whether she can hear him or not. “no other villain in the history of forever has ever held a fucking grudge as long as fucking batman, it’s goddamn ridiculous.” this is because of the other night, he knows it-- getting put on watch duty is a punishment for a single second of disorderly conduct, and damian wishes he could snap something in half.

[daemonlegacy]

typical jason, living in the extremes, thinking only one side or the other must be dominant, completely missing the point damian is attempting to reach, which causes the younger to sigh heavily and shift his eyes away for a moment, the thought ringing quickly through his mind as to whether this conversation is even worth it to have with the other. has jason ever not been in the spotlight? even in things damian knows about him, his past, what grayson has told him about the second robin, how his uniform had hung up in a shrine formation in the batcave for years; always in the spotlight.

“i’m not talking about hiding. i’m talking about subtlety.” he extends a hand out over the paper, his fingers tapping on the skin of it, the wrinkles and plains and crease doing nothing to obscure the predominant image of the drawing of one, the red hooded menace. “that is not subtlety. we already know too many people who wouldn’t be any good at hiding anyway-- how long do you think my father would even be able to stand not fighting crime? he’d go crazy. so would i.” he shrugs and returns to his own mug of coffee, both palms pressing against the heat of it. “but we should be more careful not to get noticed-- that’s how we make mistakes, and while i don’t particularly give a fuck whether the city likes or hates us, it does make things more complicated if they’re all trying to snap pictures on their iphones while johnny asshole machine gun jr is throwing a rampage inside a club.”

[daemonlegacy]

for most people, killing is a difficult task; it requires a sturdiness of stature and stomach, a disdain for life and the gravity of death, a disregarding of everything in one’s future, a hunger and greed for power over another individual strong enough to swallow not only the victim, but the aggressor as well, the willingness to immerse oneself into a hellish setting, one of constant darkness, constant shadows, either fear of being caught or an abyss inside the soul. for most people, murder is foreign.

and then there’s damian al ghul, raised in blood and royalty, the taste of slaughter on his tongue since before he could eat solid foods, the knowledge of how to maim and destroy someone as familiar to him as his ABCs, and the difficult part for him is not killing someone, not hurting them, not attacking them and draining them of vitality and mobility, not wrending them limb from limb, tearing at the seams that make a personality, not taking everything they hold dear without a flinch or a backwards glance. the new alexander, his mother had named him, called him, cultured him-- and he’s trying… he’s really trying to quell that backdrop, really trying to overcome what she’d branded into him, seering the mark of hatred on his flesh like a crown. he’d do anything to be normal.

when he’s ripped from the gagging, gurgling, broken form of the fully grown man and thrust against an adjacent wall, he already knows he’s fucked up but his initial reaction is to fight back, to attack anyone and anything that would attempt to turn him into a victim, and he almost does, he almost retaliates, almost engages in another battle-- but then the shock of batman’s face comes sharply into his vision and all his blood runs cold, runs frozen, runs dry, and he feels something leaking out of him as his sight shifts slowly from red to clear. a breath of terrified atmosphere ghosts from his lungs as he registers the fury on his father’s face, the sheer amount disappointment he is as a son, the way he’s just endangered everything he’s been working so hard to gain these past few years, all the stability he’s been clawing for.

“i’m… i’m sorry-- i don’t… i didn’t mean to..” fuck. his voice is drowned out by the coughing and hacking the man makes before whining and passing out, and damian blinks about a million times as the pain manifests on his knuckles, as the reality of what he’s done floods through his bones, his jaw clenching, his fists tightening, the crease in his brow sharpening again. “i was just teaching him a lesson. people in this city have never known the kind of fear they should know. i don’t want someone like him back on the streets in five months.”