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Damian can't stop staring at your nails.
You just got them done. Acrylics. With his money. A pretty pink set tied together by cute bows sat by your cuticles. And Damian thinks he's starting to understand just why it is you're so obsessed with them.
You're looking up at him, all sleepy eyes and pretty lashes, raking your sharp nails down his stomach with barely any effort, just the slightest scratch, but it sends a shiver down his spine nonetheless; his eyes to the side and the ball in his throat bobbing as you plead so nicely for him to "Just stay the night.", "Ditch patrol for me just this once.".
A temptress, that's what you are, a vixen wearing human skin, looking up at him the way that you do, dragging him back down to bed with you while those sharp points scratch down his arms.
"Stay with me, Damian," you plead again with big eyes, brows knitted and lips jutting out in a pout. "Just this once."
And you nearly tempt him, the minx that you are, eyeing him down like your next meal. But he holds back.
Or at least, he thought he did. But later that night on patrol proves to be a different story; his expression tight; his jaw set; the ghost of your touch still scratching down his abs.
"Robin," his earpiece hisses, "pay attention."
But how can he?—when all he can think about is your eyes?
So pretty. His pretty girl. His beloved lover. Left pouting on the bed awaiting his return. Even when you know it might take him all night to get back to you.
Lord, he hates leaving you for patrol.
You were just so excited, giggling and batting your lashes at him as you flashed your nails and gushed, and all he could think about was the feeling of them raking down his back when he'd eventually take you to bed later that night.
But no, he had patrol.
And all he can think about during it is you.
"Something the matter, Little Wing?"
Grayson swings to perch by his side. Damian's jaw stays set.
"You don't look your usual self."
The younger man clicks his tongue—again, feeling that familiar scratch over his stomach, light and teasing and just screaming so much of you, that it sends a shiver straight down his spine.
"Hellooo? Earth to Robin."
"This isn't working," Damian tuts, ignoring his brother, "I can't think. I can't focus."
Not when the feeling of your nails is still on his mind.
"Why not, little bro?"
He speaks through gritted teeth, "She got her nails done."
And Grayson blinks. "Wh—? Oh." His brother's mouth parts, lips forming an 'o' before slowly curling to one side. "You like the scratch, huh?"
Damian's silence must be answer enough.
"You can go back to her, y'know? I can handle the Bat."
For a moment, Damian stays there, crouched at the corner of a rooftop overlooking the dull streets of Gotham as the city broods in darkness like she does every other night.
But then he thinks of you, of your whiney voice and your big, pleading eyes, and he finds himself slowly rising, grapple already in his hand as he shoots it towards a building and swings into the night.
He thinks Grayson yells something about enjoying himself. He's too caught up in the thought of your touch to care.
By the time he gets home, you're on the bed, phone in hand, the screen's glow hugging your face, your nails curled around its spine as you sit there so pretty, so patient, just waiting for him like you do every other night. His Beloved.
Your eyes go wide when he climbs through the window, frozen still, phone still in your hand, still wrapped up in your pretty pink acrylics. He near tosses it somewhere behind in his quest to get to you.
Legs on either side of him, nails digging into his shoulders; so close yet so far, still not quite touching him because of the irritating fabric of his suit—so he lays you down, all gentle and loving, anything for his Beloved, and wrestles with his shirt until he's in nothing but his pants and your eyes are raking down his abs.
He takes your hand and guides it to his stomach, curling your fingers just enough to have you scratching them along his skin.
The touch is electrifying. It's everything he's ever wanted and more, a groan leaking out his mouth, deep and shameless.
You're breathless as you whisper, "You're back."
And he's still groaning when he responds, "Just for you, Habibti. Only you."
Your fingers curl even more in your fluster. He groans again.
Lord, he loves your nails.