training commenced everyday after damian turned 6 in the league of assassins: taught and trained by the best of the best. by 9, damian could take out squadrons of people trained on an intense military level. age 11, damian beat his own mother, talia al ghul, in a fight.

he was ready to go meet bruce.

bruce, damians biological father, had continued damian’s training in his own way: training him to be robin, much like his other proteges.

not to be cocky, or anything, but damian knew he was the best of the best—

—which is why he was so flabbergasted when his back his the firm cushion of the training mat instead of yours, your body hunched over his with an extended hand, offering him help up.

noticing his out of it look, you kneeled down, now concerned. “damian?” you snapped your fingers infront his face. “hey, buddy, what’s goin’ on?”

damian’s clothes suddenly felt too tight, his hands grabbing at his already loose tank top like it was suffocating him. he had failed. he wasn’t perfect like he needed to be.

“damian.” your hand was now on his shoulder, which he flinched away at. his hands grabbed at your intrusive wrist, manoeuvring it and you in a way onto damian could so he could pin your body down underneath his, knee tight against your neck.