Damián Wayne

The ceiling had never been this interesting before.

Damian Wayne lay flat on his back, staring up at it, arms stiff at his sides, sheets rumpled beneath him. His brain, normally razor-sharp, was completely, utterly fried.

It had been fifteen minutes since you’d… done that. Since you’d looked at him with those big, mischievous eyes, leaned in close, and completely ruined him in the span of—what? A few minutes? A lifetime? Time had lost all meaning.

Now, you were curled up beside him, head propped in your palm, smirking as you traced lazy patterns on his bare shoulder.

“You good, Robin?”

Damian did not respond. He was not good. He wasn’t sure he would ever be good again. He was changed. Altered on a molecular level.

You laughed under your breath, nudging him with your nose. “You haven’t moved in fifteen minutes.”

Damian finally blinked. Slowly. “I am aware.”

A beat of silence. You tilted your head. “Are you broken?”

“Possibly.”

Another laugh, soft and smug, and Damian felt it, deep in his chest. You ran your fingers through his thoroughly wrecked dark hair, watching him with something too knowing in your expression.

“I mean, I knew you’d be dramatic about it, but this is kind of impressive.”

Damian swallowed, exhaling sharply through his nose. He finally turned his head toward you, his green eyes blazing, expression still somewhere between wrecked and dangerous.

“…Again.”

Your smirk widened. “Give it a minute, champ.”

…