Robin Costume Damian Wayne Novels & Stories

Tall, immaculate in a tailored black coat that seemed to swallow the glow around him, Damian surveyed the frozen chaos with the lazy, predatory confidence of a king reclaiming his throne. The fifteen rogues straightened instinctively, weapons humming louder in silent salute. Jade’s finger tightened on the trigger, then eased…uncertain. Damian’s voice rolled through the room like velvet over steel, smooth and chilling. “Children… children,” he chided softly, spreading his hands in mock paternal disappointment. “Must we always resort to such messy squabbling?”

It filled the room like a storm about to break. And when I walked in with Hope at my side, I nearly forgot how to breathe. Damian stood waiting, already dressed in his ceremonial attire. Royal blue from head to toe. His silk shirt fitted him perfectly, emphasizing every line of muscle beneath it. His coat, long and regal was embroidered with the enormous insignia of the Blackmoon pack across his back, the silver threads glittering like starlights. His hair was loose today, falling around his face that made the women stare.

Robin walks into the closet and shutters his right hand’s fingers along the hanged clothes. Robin’s hands run across the pants from the second selection of shirts, away from Leon for now. That hand finds a rather interesting pair of black trousers that has a phoenix crest along the side of the right pant leg. Its apart of an outfit that is used for more formal events. The masonry plucks the pair of pants from their home of the hanger and rest the cloth on the side of his arms. Leon looks over at him and folds his arms across his chest and darts his look on the other man. Despite complaining about dressing himself, the truth is that he is more capable of completing such a feat but he also lov

I pertained to my parents' helper for decades. A smile visited my lips, my right hand took my own teacup to sip on it. Syd randomly made some low giggles which uplifted my head back to her and there i discovered what was keeping her entertained. My parents, together with Damian who's wearing a popular superhero costume particularly, the one wearing black capes with a bat figure printed on its upper chest. Mom was chasing after my son while Dad was playing the villain role, pretending to attack Damian using the toy sword.

Damien had the almost slumping Wayne supported by his hands crossed around the latter's shoulders. He let go of Wayne and the latter fell to the floor, groaning and rolling to his back. My eyes looked between the two before I hurried to Wayne, lifting his head onto my laps. “When I tell you this creature is weak, you shush me. Now look, Just a little run and he already lost it,” Damien mocked, obviously not any less concerned about his immediate elder brother's gasp for breath. My left hand flew to Wayne’s chest and I regulated his breathing by roughly rubbing on it. “Why did you make him run, Damien?” I chided, glancing up at Damien who now leaned on the window that I suspect must have had

I knew the no-touch rule was killing me slowly, but I couldn’t stop craving the weight of his stare. When I entered the studio this time, Damien was waiting with a different energy. His jaw was set tighter, gray eyes darker, like the restraint from the last two days had finally started to crack. He wore a black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, revealing more of the intricate tattoos that disappeared toward his chest. The man looked like sin wrapped in control. “Robe,” he said curtly, not even bothering with a greeting.

Across the deck, under a rustic awning of white fabric on tall wooden supports, all decked with blue, red and white flowers, the red party waited: Jim Robinson right under the awning, with his brother and Liam McDonnell, No Return’s other guitarist, to his right. They wore Renaissance white shirts with long bag sleeves and laces sprouting from cuffs and collars. Black leather vests, down to their thighs, and broad red sashes hanging from their left shoulder across their chest, black trousers and high leather boots. Long red cloaks covered their right shoulder, falling all the way to brush the top of their boots. Liam McDonnell held a vertical red banner trimmed in gold, with a big golden su

Then he nodded once, stepped past me, and walked away without looking back. Robin was in poor condition. One of his eyes was blackened and his lip was busted. The whipping had left marks across his back and shoulders visible even from the doorway. He was slumped forward in the chair with his wrists bound behind him. But his eyes were open and when I entered, he looked at me directly. Damian stepped forward. "You are going to tell us who you are working with," Damian said. "You can do that now or you can do it after another few hours in this room. Either way the outcome is the same. The only thing that changes is how long you spend here first."

That sly smirk was everything Zen needed to know how much fun he was having. “Don’t say anything,” Zen warned Damian, who leered in an overly gleeful manner. “Aw, I’m hurt. But then again, maybe not. After all, I’m not the princess needing his white knight on a winged horse, am I?” Hooting in laughter at Zen’s red face, Damian jumped into the portal before Zen could punch the annoying cyborg.

He was so close I could feel the heat radiating off his chest. He smelled like expensive mint, dark coffee, and that faint, intoxicating hint of smoke. "You should go," he repeated, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous purr. He planted one large hand on the door right beside my head, caging me in. "But we both know you're not going anywhere, Roxy." Hearing my name on his lips made my breath hitch. "How do you know my name?" Damian let out a dark, rough chuckle. He reached into the pocket of his dark trousers with his free hand, and when he pulled it out, the silver caught the dim light of the office.