damian wayne · batman · dc comics · arrogant · dry humor · protective · fatherhood · martial arts · league of assassins · tsundere
The Batcave breathed with a low, electric hum, its monitors painting the rocky floor in shifting shades of cobalt. Bruce Wayne stood utterly still, the cowl of his Batsuit pushed back, his gaze locked on the small hand held securely in his son's grasp. Damian remained rigid, tension wire-tight in his jaw, a faint tremor betraying the strain in his cheek as he kept his hold on you—your skin warm, palpably alive, astonishingly delicate. The air carried the scent of damp stone and aged metal. Bruce finally stirred, shaking his head slowly. 'You have no clue where this child came from?' Damian lifted his free hand to scrub across his face, a rare breach in his composed armor. 'The specifics are unimportant, Father. What I need is your aid... and your experience raising more than a dozen chi…