This is a blog solely dedicated to posting fanfictions for the damirae ship, a.k.a. Damian Wayne and Raven (Rachel) Roth. It is my goal to hopefully make it easier for fans to find these stories that are scattered throughout the interwebs, and most importantly to boost the works of these amazing writer's.
Not just between people—but between ways of understanding the world.
Meaning against force.
Order against rupture.
Control against the slow inevitability of entropy.
Damian Wayne was trained to impose order on chaos.
But sometimes the world produces something worse than chaos.
Something that refuses meaning altogether.
Damian didn’t inherit the Joker.
He inherited Art the Clown.
And this time, the joke isn’t the point
Gotham: a city where reason and insanity shared the same sidewalks—split just enough to trip the careless. Joker always loved that. Gotham was his city as much as it was the Bat’s. Gotham didn’t hide its rot.
It wore it like stage makeup—garish, imposing, impossible to ignore.
Unless the Bat showed up, of course—and his little brats too.
Lucky them, Joker thought, a dull, irritated irony settling in as he stared at his latest muse.
He checked his watch. The carved-up face of a policeman’s daughter stared back at him—eyes void, fixed on something beyond him. Something empty.
Normally, the sight would have brought a smile to his face. But tonight, the spark wasn’t there. The joke refused to land.
It had all grown so mundane.
He remembered when the city had a rhythm—an off-beat drum only madmen could hear. A time when sirens didn’t interrupt the night—
they harmonized with it.
Gotham still had that pulse—
that hell-born heartbeat—
where everything that could go wrong inevitably would, and your life was nothing more than a punchline scrawled in blood.
Most days felt like a joke no one else understood: heroes scrambling for meaning, villains scrambling for a bit of fun—
usually at your expense.
Joker always loved that part.
The futility.
The comedy.
The audience participation.
“I’d kill to feel that zest again,” he cooed, sighing his frustrations up at the moon like it might sigh back. “Looks like I’ll just have to settle for the incontinence factor." He made sure to leave as much of a mess as humanly possible—call it muscle memory.
But something deeper gnawed at him, a kind of artistic block he refused to name. Stories of a killer clown—some painted nobody out of Miles County calling himself Art.
“Of course his name is Art,” Joker grumbled upon first hearing of this new Clown.
“Another jester. How original,” Joker scoffed dismissively as he flipped through the headline and its lovingly photographed gore.
At first he was impressed—flattered, even.
But as the clown continued to terrorize, maim, and reduce his victims to little more than a puddle of pink slurry, Joker found himself… wondering. Not about the horror—no, he adored horror. But about the intent.
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After a hard shift at Gotham Hospital, Dr. Roth intends to go home so that she can fall apart before putting herself back together to do it all over again. That, and go back to her cat, Nevermore. What she doesn't expect is to find a certain bat in her living room- ready to catch her as she falls- and bullishly re-insert himself back into her life.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
story summary:
Raven stops waiting. Damian starts chasing. When she vanishes from their Gotham penthouse, leaving only a cold dinner behind, he follows her across the country to do the one thing he's never been good at: showing up.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
story summary:
Raven stops waiting. Damian starts chasing. When she vanishes from their Gotham penthouse, leaving only a cold dinner behind, he follows her across the country to do the one thing he's never been good at: showing up.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
A character and canon analysis of Damian Wayne’s line in Justice League Dark: Apokolips War:
“When I asked you to join me in leading the League of Assassins…”
This breakdown examines why, within the cultural framework of the League of Assassins and Damian’s upbringing, that request functions as the emotional and symbolic equivalent of a marriage proposal.
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An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
I watch civilization dissolve behind the bus window, the sparse trees thickening as the forest swallows us whole. It takes less than ten miles for the pavement to surrender to dirt, the road fractured by granite ledges clawing through the earth. The bus lurches and groans, halting often to navigate the jagged rocks that threaten its tires and now undercarriage.
From what I’ve read, the Allagash is Maine’s most remote region, sprawling across approximately 3.5 million acres — over 5,000 square miles of wilderness and waterways. The scale feels impossible to grasp until you see it: an endless expanse of untamed land stretching far beyond what the eye can hold. And with a striking population of 200, it’s not just the wilderness that’s empty.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
a borderline crack fic solely inspired by Sabrina Carpenter's 'When Did You Get Hot'
Gods.
Raven tries to make sense of the scene before her after walking into the kitchen—brain literally short-circuiting.
Alarm bells are ringing in her head, blaring and flashing, accompanied with a bright red sign in bold letters that’s screaming ‘Reboot’.
Damian’s chopping vegetables on their kitchen island.
In an apron! (That she’s never seen him wear). With his sleeves rolled up to his elbows! And—his hands!
They’re moving in such a practiced way that looks so fluid. The tips of his fingers are curved on the carrot he’s cutting, perfectly dancing parallel to the knife in his other hand as he slices.
His forearms follow the movement, muscles flexing in such a way that is—Sexy??
And—and the veins. She’d read how attractive they are many times in the tabloids but didn’t understand before. Watching him now…
A few strands of his hair fall forward, shadowing his eyes from her while he cuts—the sharp edge of his jaw tight with concentration.
There’s a fleeting thought as her brain begins to restart, in the form of a pop-up notification reminding her that she’s been staring like a complete idiot for multiple minutes now, and should probably move—at the very least get out of the entryway—but…
For some reason her feet are floored to the spot—unable to break free from her trance. She can’t stop staring at him.
She’s always admired his fighting style during training, and had immediately picked up on the quiet grace he carries into everything he does. Just like a leader. Just like a prince.
As Damian gets closer to the end of the carrot, his brows furrow together more. A couple of slices later he bites his lower lip, and she nearly melts into a puddle right there on the spot.
Death by vegetables? Yeah, that sounds about right.
“Raven.”
She blinks hard—completely caught off guard by Damian calling her name. Her eyes meet the warm welcome of his own, and her cheeks heat with the realization that he had just caught her staring.
Like an idiot.
So instead of saying something redeeming and neutral like ‘Oh hey Damian, how are you doing?,’ or ‘What a nice day it is this afternoon,’ she blurts out, “You’re chopping.”
One of his eyebrows rise high as he scrutinizes her face, probably considering if she’s being serious, and how much sarcasm he should deal out. She wants to smack herself. Really? Of all our emoticons, that’s what we came up with?
Raven’s pretty sure she sees Knowledge in her mind, shrugging helplessly at her.
The next best thing is a humble and hasty retreat—cast with a mumbled apology and a dramatic swish of her cape while turning on her heel.
Before she can follow through with that plan, Damian replies with a snort, “That’s very observant. Your detective work is phenomenal.”
Raven tries to backtrack. She knows, of course, from the schedule that it’s Damian’s day to cook. “I mean—I wasn’t expecting to see you making dinner so early.”
It seems to be a fair point, because Damian doesn’t tease her further into oblivion. “I decided to prep now so that all I need to do later is bake it,” he admits.
Her feet finally wake up at the startup sound of her brain beginning to function again. They lead her closer to the island.
“What are you making?”
“Chicken pot pie,” he says, using a single finger to swipe the blade of his knife, guiding the stray pieces of carrot into a bowl. Then Damian takes the cloth tucked into his apron pocket to wipe his hands before causally tossing it over his shoulder. He gets started on the crust, kneading the dough with careful, methodical movements.
Raven finds a stool across from him to sit on. His hands are still working in the dough—arms flexing again—and she’s suddenly wondering what other skills he has with those hands that she doesn’t know about. Up closer she can smell his cologne, some kind of dark spice that she inhales deep—
Raven hasn’t noticed before how good he smells. She’s always known he’s been somewhat attractive. She’s not blind after all. The features in his face and body have always been symmetrically appealing. The sheer amount of fan mail he gets everyday is a testament to that fact. That and the literal trail of women that make a point to track him when he goes out in public. Plus the tabloids that have an entire staff dedicated to his whereabouts. It’s a little obsessive really—and plus they have absolutely no right to violate his privacy like that—
“Are you unwell, Raven?” Damian asks, breaking the silence.
Raven almost slips off the stool.
Oh Gods. She’s been staring at his hands again, watching the easy way they work the dough into a crust for the pie. Damian’s now looking at her with both concern and confusion— clearly finding her behavior odd, but unsure why.
Suddenly the kitchen is too damn hot, and too damn small.
I have to get out of here.
“I’m fine!” Raven squeaks while rushing out of her seat, then clears her throat because that came out way too high-pitched, “Just have a little tickle in my throat—I’m gonna grab a glass of water, and I’ll be out of your way.”
Damian pauses in his prepping to watch her stride across the kitchen to the fridge. Raven can feel his gaze at her back.
“You’re not in my way. You can stay if you’d like,” he says after her.
Raven silently wills the blush in her cheeks to fade while searching for a glass in the cabinet. Now focused on the singular goal of getting the heck out, she declines Damian’s offer.
“No, no, I was actually on my way to meditate.” Her hands keep fishing, coming back with coffee mugs. Dammit I just need one glass. Who’s idea was it to put all the drinkable dishwear together in one cupboard? Fucking Garfield. “It might take an extra hour today so I want to start early.”
There’s silence while glass and ceramic clink against one another, until Raven finds a water glass towards the back. Finally! Then she turns to the fridge to fill it.
“Are you sure you’re alright?” Damian asks.
“Mhm, all good. Don’t worry about me,” she rambles, internally wincing because this is probably the most nonsense she’s spouted in a conversation with him, “I’ll be ready for patrol tonight.”
“I’m not worried about patrol.”
His words stall her, particularly the ones that he doesn’t say. His concern is touching really, and she feels a need to dissuade him from pushing further.
“Good! That’s great, then I’ll see you later for dinner? I’m sure the pie is going to be hot—I mean great! I mean, I’m sure it will be hot as in it’s coming from the oven hot—not er—“
Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.
“…Right.”
Raven sucks in a breath through her teeth and closes her eyes, desperate to slow down her current spiral. The glass of water clutched in her fingers is cold—a stark contrast to the embarrassed heat fanning her face. She ponders if she can get away with placing it against her flushed neck. He’d notice (he notices everything), but maybe he’d be too polite to comment on it.
“Ooooo’ watcha makin’ in here, Rob?” Garfield calls out a moment later, strolling in with his nostrils flared.
Oh thank Gods. Who knew Garfield would be her saving grace?
“Chicken pot pie,” Damian says, his eyes still on her—now unreadable.
“Oh man,” Gar pouts comically, canines protruding.
Damian finally breaks eye contact to roll them at the ceiling. “I’m making a vegan pie as well, Beast Boy.”
“Heck yeah! I can’t wait. I’m starving.”
Raven can’t help her own eye roll at the Changeling's words while basking in the slight reprieve from Damian’s attention.
“Well the more you talk, the more distracting you are,” Damian deadpans.
“I’m leaving! I just wanted to come see what was for dinner,” Garfield says, then walks over to the pantry to grab a snack. Typical.
Damian deigns not to reply, re-focusing back on his task. Raven’s relieved to find that he leaves her alone for the time being, respectful of her own time to get away so she can meditate. Which is needed even more since she’s been in the kitchen. After watching Damian.
Who seems to be at such ease in his environment while cooking dinner. He grabs the rolling pin already laid out to one side, and starts to flatten out the dough, like he’s done it a million times before. A practiced art. It’s so…so domestic.
“Take a picture, it’ll last longer,” Garfield jokes from beside her, snapping her back into the present.
Damian looks back up at the two of them quizzically just as Raven’s power lashes out. It takes the plastic bag in Garfield’s hands, and promptly makes it explode. Barbeque chips rain down on the three of them, shocked silence broken by Garfield’s yell.
Damian’s eyes dart between the two of them, at a complete loss while trying to bridge together what just happened.
“My chips!” Garfield whines.
“Idiot,” Raven growls back at Gar. She doesn’t wait for a response, or even offer to help clean up the mess. Saving grace my ass. Instead she finally turns on her heel like she should’ve done at the very beginning of this disaster (and yes her cape does swish out dramatically). She stomps out of the kitchen, all the way up to the roof of the tower, all while bidding her heart to slow its wild and rapid beat.
When she reaches the railing, she groans into her hands, feeling like one of Damian’s vegetables on the cutting board.
Of all the emotions warring through her mind, battling it out in her mindscape, there’s only one singular conscious thought running through it.
An admission that she can’t take back now that it’s fully formed.
Raven remained where she stood as Damian made his way to a tray where a decanter of wine awaited him and offered her a cup. She nodded, unsure of what to say, her nerves on fire as they ignited in a congregation of uncertainty. He handed her a glass, looking at her with that ambiguous expression she could not quite read.
“Shall we toast?”
Raven only shrugged. “What are we toasting to?”
A smirk played on his lips as he replied, “To pulling off this wedding.”
“Oh—yes,” was all she said and raised her cup to his.
“To our union,” he began. “May Azarath and Nanda Parbat be as one. For never has a couple been more wed.”
He tapped her cup with a hollow clink and took a long sip, leaving his bride staring at him, perplexed.
“Been more wed?”
Raven watched as he licked the wine from his lips with unintentional sensuality.
“We’ve been betrothed twice, espoused by proxy once, and brought together by fate… twice—if I’m being exact.”
Raven smiled at the notion. “The great Damian al Ghul believes in fate now.”
“I never said I didn’t,” he reminded her. “I fought for you—more than you know.”
Something dark yet warm threaded through his voice, but Raven could not decipher it. “I don’t understand,” she admitted softly.
Damian turned to the fire and stared at it. “Half Prince… That’s what your father called me,” Damian lamented. “I spent my childhood fighting to prove I was more than that.”
Raven’s mouth fell slack, unable to form words.
“For five years you were to be my bride…”
He paused, looking into the fire. “I wrote to you then—every month, sometimes more—but they were never answered.”
The fire light danced across his face, shadows lingering from his past. “And when he decided that my hand was still no equal to yours—”
He turned his blazing eyes from the fire and stared into the darkness of her own. “I took his head.”
Raven went numb, and the wine fell from her hand. “You?... You killed him?”
Damian instantly regretted his wife’s recoil, the firelight flickering across her pained face. “It was only right it was me,” he added. “A lesser man would have been a stain on his honor. But before I struck that final blow and lifted his crown from the bloody ground, he made me promise that I would take care of you. That I would protect you.”
Raven reflected on those years when she was betrothed to Damian. She’d nearly forgotten them as she was not only away on her studies, but in truth, her father did not consider it a valid union. A “placeholder,” he called it. Her father felt his daughter deserved better, but ultimately, he feared that an al Ghul son would eclipse his daughter’s crown the way al Ghul green overshadowed pure Kane gold.
“Why did you allow me to marry Merlin then?” she muttered, resurfacing from the rush of childhood memories.
"The thought of him with you—it disgusts me," Damian bit out, his voice low and laced with barely contained fury. “The very idea of him having you is unnatural.”
“I told you he didn’t—he couldn’t.”
“Who then?” Damian asked boldly. “I know you are no virgin bride.”
Raven felt her heart jolt at the question, she feared his reaction if she spoke the truth. “If you want me to say his name… I will, but…”
“Don’t!” Damian hissed, then caught himself. “I don’t want to think of you being with anyone else.”
Raven peered down at the wine seeping into the rug like blood. “If I had known you’d be waiting for me on the other side of this fate, I would have waited,” she managed, her voice trembling. “I just—” She choked on the regret. “I thought Merlin… and the humiliation of being his wife… that would have been the end of me. I only wanted to feel—”
“Safe?” Damian prompted softly.
“Desired,” she whispered, the word barely audible.
He looked away, his jaw tight, his hands clenched at his sides. Cass had been right: Raven could present herself as living stone, unyielding and impervious, yet she was still a woman, beautiful and in her prime. Why would she not have taken a lover? Especially if she believed marriage or any future union with a man of consequence was impossible.
“I wanted to marry you then,” he said, voice rough, “but… when you did not remember me… or speak of me… or my letters…” His words faltered, an uncharacteristic hesitation in his usual precision.
“The letters?” Raven hissed sharply, her fingers tightening around her glass. “It always comes back to the letters.”
“I wrote to you when we were children,” Damian admitted, the confession more a breath than a declaration. “And then…”
“I received no such letters,” Raven replied firmly, searching her memory as though looking for some hidden truth. “What did they say?”
He recoiled slightly at her demand, the faintest shadow of shame crossing his features. “It was… in poor taste of me.”
“Damian,” she said, her voice low, demanding, yet steady. “What did they say?”
He met her gaze then, his eyes dark, struggling to balance pride and vulnerability. “You… you never moved toward me. Why?”
Raven blinked, startled. “What?”
“You always move away. Never toward me. Why?” His words were both accusation and plea, brittle with unspoken longing.
Raven’s lips curved in the smallest, wry smile. “You want me to explain the complexities of feminine wiles?”
“I want you to explain why I repel you,” he said, blunt, the edges of his words sharp with frustration.
“You do not repel me,” she said, the slightest hint of indignation in her tone. “My mother taught me never to chase a man. It is a woman’s task to draw him in, to make him come willingly—and only be caught when the moment is right.” She slipped her robe from her shoulders, revealing the billowing, low-cut nightdress beneath. “Now, let me be very clear. I am waiting—to be caught.”
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
story summary:
In a world divided by conflict, an alliance between the Kingdom of Shadows and the House of al Ghul is forged through an arranged marriage between Prince Damian and Princess Raven. It’s a political move: cold but calculated. There is no animosity between them, but no intimacy either. They don’t expect friendship, let alone love.
But duty calls. The marriage must be consummated, and an heir must follow.
What begins as obligation soon becomes a transactional, passion-laced agreement: friends with benefits in royal garments who, over time—and with a little... manual assistance—begin to unravel.
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Warrior Damian is bound by an ancient curse- Lamia, transforming him into a half-human, half-serpent monster. Those who share this fate are called Lamian. To break the curse, Damian must hunt down and absorb the souls of twelve sorcerers. Destiny led him to the sorcerer Raven scholar driven by her passion for studying ancient magic. She becomes the first to willingly aid him in seeking another way to undo the curse, while also seizing the chance to study the secrets of the Lamian and the ancient curse.
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