Damian started out as a spoiled and murderous brat but became so much more. His mother and grandfather raised him to be a killer but his father, Alfred and Dick raised him to be better than that. He learned to have compassion. He learned to no longer be a killer. Can he still be a brat sometimes? Yes. But he’s still a child and he’s still come a very long way. That’s why I love Damian Wayne.
Tbh Jason Todd and Damian Wayne are the two Robin’s that made me want to read Batman comics, both as Robin’s are interesting characters with backstories that made them act different towards superhero life. Both aren’t “perfect” but that’s what makes me like them . The misinformation towards the older bat fans and writers that seem to have never read any of their comics as Robin’s sometimes baffled me. Damian has grown a lot as a character and still has a lot of years to go , he’s not this so called “homicidal angry demon brat” anymore. Jason has had so much bad writing by writer’s apathy ,that I couldn’t believe that they wasted his character by making him straight up, the angry Villain/troll of the batfamily ,thank God for Rhato rebirth, while I have tiny issues with it ,I’m happy that he’s getting good writing with a an interesting cast . The day writers choose to regress their characters again as simple plot device stereotypes or just props for Batman angst is the day that I’ll truly think the writers at DC can never get out of their redundant ass storytelling.
A/n: Got a request for some more Damian angst, so here you go anon!
Damian hated it. Hated how he could go from wanting to create to wanting to destroy so fast that he could feel it in his very bones. In the way that his stomach dropped and his heart thumped frantically against his ribcage like a bird desperate to be freed.
The paper crumpled effortlessly in his grasp. Hesitantly, Damian attempted to unfold the drawing, smoothing out the creases with trembling fingers.
The bluejay, once delicate and sleek, perched crookedly upon it’s newly gnarled branch.
Mere moments ago anger had flared in Damian’s chest. Anger that his father had taken a rare moment of serenity and twisted it so with his need to express his disappointment in his son, anger that Damian himself had allowed him to do so. Now there was only sorrow.
Gently, Damian set the sketchpad down on his desk, rising and throwing his splintered pencil in the waste-paper basket.
A bluejay perched on the branch outside his window, head tilted, watching him. It gave a short cry, once, before launching from the tree with a flap of it’s untarnished wings.
Damian longed to follow it. Thought that although he was a Robin, he would never have the freedom of one. His father, unknowingly, had clipped his wings.
Damian just wished he would realise that he didn’t need to be changed, didn’t need to be fixed. He would never be the Robin that Dick had been, even if he tried.
After all, no two birds are the same. He wished his father could see that.