Up For Studying

by anastasia1513

Summary:

It’s been three weeks. Three incredible, dizzying weeks of being Damian Wayne’s girlfriend. Three weeks of stolen kisses between classes, of holding hands under the lunch table, of late-night phone calls that stretch into the early morning. He’s everything you never knew you wanted: intense, brilliant, fiercely loyal, and surprisingly gentle with you.

You’re ready for more. The thought has been simmering for days, a low, persistent hum of desire beneath the surface of your daily life. You want to know what it feels like to be truly his, to cross that final threshold. You want to see that legendary composure finally shatter.

And you have a plan.

The scent of old paper and expensive leather is the first thing you register as you step into Wayne Manor. It’s a smell you’ve come to associate with Damian, a comforting, grounding aroma that speaks of history and quiet strength. Alfred Pennyworth meets you at the grand entrance, a warm smile crinkling the corners of his eyes.

"Miss L/N, a pleasure as always," he says, taking your backpack. "Master Damian is in the library. He requested that I inform you the 'study materials' are prepared."

You grin. "Thanks, Alfred. You're the best."

He gives a slight, knowing bow. "I shall endeavor to live up to the high praise. Do let me know if you require anything at all. Snacks, beverages, a fire escape route."

You laugh, the sound echoing slightly in the cavernous foyer. "I'll keep that last one in mind."

The library is your sanctuary within the manor, a place where the rest of the world, with all its noise and expectations, simply fades away. Two stories of books line the walls, their spines a rainbow of knowledge. A fire crackles merrily in the massive stone hearth, casting dancing shadows across the Persian rugs and dark wood furniture.

And there he is.

Damian Wayne sits at a large mahogany desk, poring over a dense-looking tome. He’s wearing a dark green henley that stretches across his broad shoulders, and his dark hair, slightly longer than regulation, falls into his eyes as he concentrates. He doesn’t look up when you enter, but you know he’s aware of you. He’s always aware.

"Took you long enough," he says, his voice a low rumble that never fails to send a shiver down your spine. There’s no bite to it, only the familiar, gruff affection you’ve grown to crave.

"Sorry, Mr. Wayne," you reply teasingly, dropping your bag beside a plush armchair. "Some of us have to finish our calculus homework before we can come over and play with your ancient, dusty books."

He finally glances up, and the corner of his mouth twitches. It’s the Damian equivalent of a full-blown smile. "It’s a twelfth-century grimoire on alchemical transmutation, not 'ancient, dusty books.' And for the record, your grasp of differential equations is adequate at best."

"Adequate? I’ll have you know I got a 98."

"A glaring oversight by your instructor, I'm sure." He closes the heavy book with a soft thud. "Come. Let's get this farce of 'studying' over with."

You settle into the chair opposite him, spreading your notes across the desk. For the next hour, you actually do study. Damian is a surprisingly good tutor, his logic sharp and his explanations concise. He has a way of cutting through the complex jargon and making it seem simple, even if he does occasionally sigh as if your intellectual limitations are a personal burden to him.

But tonight, your mind isn't on chemistry.

It’s been three weeks. Three incredible, dizzying weeks of being Damian Wayne’s girlfriend. Three weeks of stolen kisses between classes, of holding hands under the lunch table, of late-night phone calls that stretch into the early morning. He’s everything you never knew you wanted: intense, brilliant, fiercely loyal, and surprisingly gentle with you.

You’re ready for more. The thought has been simmering for days, a low, persistent hum of desire beneath the surface of your daily life. You want to know what it feels like to be truly his, to cross that final threshold. You want to see that legendary composure finally shatter.

And you have a plan.

"I'm getting tired," you announce, stretching your arms over your head with a deliberate, cat-like grace. You know the motion pulls the fabric of your sweater tight across your chest, and you don’t miss the way Damian’s eyes flicker downward for a fraction of a second before returning to his book.

"Then perhaps you should retire," he says, his voice a little tighter than before. "The guest bedroom is prepared for you."

You stand up, grabbing your overnight bag. "Night, Damian."

"Good night," he murmurs, already engrossed in his book again.

You don't go to the guest bedroom. You go to the adjoining bathroom, the one connected to his personal chambers. Your heart hammers against your ribs, a frantic drumbeat of nervous excitement. This is it.

Inside the opulent bathroom, you lock the door and take a deep, steadying breath. You peel off your jeans and cozy sweater, folding them neatly. Then, you pull out your secret weapon: a simple, black cotton tank top, so thin it’s practically translucent, and a pair of delicate, scarlet lace panties. They’re high-cut and barely cover anything, a stark contrast to the modest clothes you usually wear.

You look at your reflection in the massive mirror. The soft firelight from the bedroom filters through the door, casting a warm glow on your skin. The tank top clings to your curves, the outline of your nipples clearly visible. The panties accentuate the flare of your hips and the round, firm globes of your ass. You look… sexy. Powerful. Ready.

You take one more breath, unlock the door, and step back into his room.

He’s not at the desk anymore. He’s standing by the window, looking out at the moonlit grounds, his back to you. He’s changed, too. The henley is gone. In its place, he’s wearing a pair of gray sweatpants that hang low on his hips, leaving his entire torso—lean, sculpted, and dusted with faint scars—on display. The sight of him, so casually, beautifully bare, makes your mouth go dry.

You clear your throat softly.

He turns, and the world stops.

His eyes, usually so sharp and analytical, widen. They sweep over you, from the messy bun on your head down to your bare feet, and then back up again, lingering on your chest, your stomach, your hips. The controlled, composed Damian Wayne you know is gone. In his place is a predator, stunned still by the sight of his prey.

You expected a reaction, but not this. Not the sudden, sharp intake of breath. Not the way his hands clench into fists at his sides. Not the raw, undisguised hunger that floods his gaze, turning it a shade darker.

"Y/N…" he breathes, and your name is a strangled sound on his lips. "What… what are you wearing?"

You shrug, trying for nonchalance even as your body trembles under the intensity of his stare. "My pajamas. It's hot."

"It is… inadequate," he manages, his voice rough. He takes a half-step back, as if you’re a fire and he’s afraid of being burned. "You will catch a cold."

"I'll be fine," you say, taking a step forward. The movement is a mistake. His eyes drop to your breasts, watching the way they sway with the motion. The air crackles with a tension so thick you could taste it. This is working. He’s unraveling.

But then he does something you don’t expect.

He straightens his shoulders, and a flicker of that familiar composure returns, though it looks brittle, forced. He meets your eyes, his own burning with a fire that is both terrifying and exhilarating.

"Your plan is… transparent," he says, his voice low and dangerous. "And ill-conceived."

You freeze. "What plan?"

"This." He gestures vaguely at you, at himself. "This… display. An attempt to provoke a reaction. To initiate a… physical escalation."

Your face burns with humiliation. He saw right through you. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?" He takes a step towards you now, closing the distance you just created. He’s so close you can feel the heat radiating from his skin. He smells of clean soap and something uniquely him. "You came in here dressed like this, knowing exactly what it would do to me. You thought you were in control."

"I—" You can't form the words. He’s right, but hearing him say it so bluntly, so clinically, is mortifying.

"You forget who I am, habibti," he murmurs, the Arabic endearment a velvet caress that makes your knees weak. He reaches out, his fingers ghosting along the strap of your tank top. His touch is feather-light, but it feels like a brand. "You are playing a game with a master of strategy. And you have just made a critical error."

His eyes are locked on yours. "You wanted to see me lose control?" He leans in, his lips brushing against your ear, his voice a wicked whisper. "Congratulations. You have succeeded."

His hand moves from your shoulder strap down your back, tracing the delicate line of your spine until it rests on the small of your back, just above the swell of your ass. He pulls you flush against him, and you gasp as you feel the hard, thick evidence of his desire pressing against your stomach through the thin fabric of your panties.

He’s not just affected. He’s aroused. Painfully so.

"But the mistake you made," he continues, his lips now trailing down your neck, placing open-mouthed kisses that make your head spin, "was assuming that when I lose control, you would still be the one dictating the terms."

His other hand comes up to cup your breast, his thumb brushing over your hardened nipple through the thin cotton. You arch into his touch, a soft moan escaping your lips. This is what you wanted, but it’s overwhelming, a tidal wave of sensation you’re 
completely unprepared for. The plan wasn't just backfiring; it was being utterly consumed by a wildfire of his making.

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his expression a mixture of raw desire and something possessive, something that claims you as his. "You have no idea what you do to me," he says, his voice a low growl. "The sight of you… it's a constant battle. A battle I am apparently losing tonight."

His gaze drops to your chest, and the last vestiges of his control seem to evaporate. He lifts both hands, framing your face for a moment before they slowly, reverently, slide down your neck and onto your shoulders. His thumbs hook under the thin straps of your tank top, but he doesn't pull them down. Instead, he just stares, his eyes dark and wide with a kind of worshipful disbelief. "They're… perfect," he breathes, the words barely audible.

You feel a surge of feminine power, a heady rush that eclipses your earlier nervousness. He's not just looking; he's admiring. He's memorizing. His hands finally leave your shoulders, moving with agonizing slowness to cup the heavy weight of your breasts through the flimsy cotton. He groans, a deep, guttural sound from his chest as he tests their heft, his palms molding to your shape. "All this time," he murmurs, more to himself than to you, "hiding beneath these ridiculous sweaters." He kneads them gently, his thumbs circling your nipples, which are now hard, pebbled points aching for his touch. The friction of the fabric against the sensitive skin is exquisite torture, a teasing promise of what's to come.

Then, with a reverence that takes your breath away, he hooks his fingers under the hem of the tank top and begins to lift it. You raise your arms automatically, your body obeying a primal command you didn't know you possessed. The air is cool on your heated skin as he pulls the shirt over your head and lets it drop to the floor, forgotten. He takes a sharp, audible breath, and for a long moment, he just looks. His eyes trace the full, round curves, the way they sit high and firm on your chest, the soft swell of their undersides. Your large, dark areolas are tight with arousal, the nipples pointing up at him like an offering. He leans down, not taking them into his mouth yet, but simply pressing his cheek against the soft, warm flesh, closing his eyes as if absorbing their essence. "Ineffable," he whispers against your skin. He finally captures one peak in his mouth, and the sensation is electric. He's not clumsy or rushed; he's thorough, his tongue swirling and laving, his lips sucking gently, then harder, sending jolts of pure pleasure straight down to your core. He gives the other the same attention, his free hand continuing to worship the one his mouth has left, until you're writhing against him, soft whimpers escaping your lips.

His free hand, which had been gripping your hip, begins to move. It slides down the curve of your waist, over the swell of your hip, and comes to rest on the lace-covered mound between your thighs. You gasp, your entire body tensing with anticipation. He presses the heel of his hand against you, and you can feel the heat and the dampness that has gathered there, soaking through the delicate lace. "So wet for me," he observes, his voice thick with satisfaction. He hooks his fingers into the waistband of your panties, his knuckles brushing against your sensitive skin. He looks you in the eye, seeking permission, and you give a frantic, desperate nod.

He sinks to his knees before you, his movements fluid and graceful, like a predator finally submitting to its most primal urge. He peels the lace down your legs, his eyes never leaving the apex of your thighs. As the fabric falls away, he lets out another one of those breathless sounds. You are completely bare to him now, your naturally smooth, hairless pussy glistening with your arousal in the firelight. He leans in, his hands gripping the backs of your thighs, and you feel the ghost of his breath against your most sensitive flesh. His gaze is fixed, hypnotized. He uses his thumbs to gently part your folds, exposing the slick, pink interior. His eyes find the small, throbbing bundle of nerves at the top, your clit, already swollen and peeking from its hood. "And here," he murmurs, his voice vibrating against you, "is the source of all that power." He doesn't touch it, not yet. He just looks, his expression one of intense, academic curiosity mixed with profound, carnal hunger. He's studying you, learning your body's geography, and the intensity of his focus is almost more arousing than a touch itself.

But his own desire is a palpable thing, a demanding presence that cannot be ignored. He rises to his feet, his movements suddenly less graceful and more urgent. He hooks his thumbs into the waistband of his gray sweatpants. Your own breath catches in your throat as he pushes them down. They pool around his ankles, and he kicks them away carelessly.

And then he is naked before you.

Your eyes are drawn, as if by a magnetic force, to his cock. It's not just hard; it's magnificent. It juts out from a thatch of dark, neatly trimmed hair, thick and imposing, with a proud, upward curve that speaks of confidence and potency. The skin is a shade darker than the rest of him, stretched taut over the rigid shaft. A network of thick, prominent veins snakes their way up the length, pulsing with the beat of his heart. The head is a flared, angry-looking crown, a deep, reddish-purple that glistens with a bead of pearly fluid gathered at the slit. It looks powerful, almost intimidating, and a thrill of fear and excitement shoots through you. You've never seen one in person, never imagined anything like this. It's a testament to his raw masculinity, a weapon and a wonder all at once.

Your gaze travels lower, to the heavy sac that hangs beneath. His balls are large and full, drawn up slightly against his body, tight with arousal. The skin looks velvety soft, a stark contrast to the steely hardness of his shaft. You have a sudden, overwhelming urge to reach out and touch them, to feel their weight in your palm, to learn their texture. He is all hard planes and sculpted muscle, from the defined lines of his abdomen to the powerful vee of his hips that directs your gaze right back to the centerpiece of his arousal. He is a study in masculine perfection, all of it focused, right now, entirely on you.

He sees you looking, and a slow, confident smirk touches his lips. The predator is back, and he knows he has his prey cornered. He closes the distance between you in a single step, his hands coming to rest on your waist. He lifts you as if you weigh nothing, your legs automatically wrapping around his waist. His cock presses hot and hard against your stomach, a thick, insistent pressure that makes you ache with a need so profound it borders on pain.

"You wanted to see me lose control, habibti?" he murmurs against your lips, his voice a low, dangerous promise. "You wanted to take the next step?" He shifts his hips, and the slick head of his cock slides through your wet folds, bumping against your clit and making you cry out. "Then hold on. Because we are going to take it. Together."

The friction is maddening. He holds you against him, his powerful frame supporting your weight effortlessly, and begins to move. It’s not a thrust, not yet. It’s a slow, deliberate slide. The thick, hot length of his cock drags through your soaking folds, parting them, bumping over your sensitive clit with every pass. You’re dripping wet, your arousal coating him, making the glide slick and effortless. Each time the flared head catches on your entrance, you gasp, your body clenching in anticipation. He’s teasing you, torturing you, marking you with his scent and his heat.

"Damian," you whimper, burying your face in his neck. "Please… I can't…"

He stills, the head of his cock poised right at your entrance, a promise of the bliss to come. You can feel the pressure, the gentle nudge that signals his intent to breach you. This is it. The moment you’ve been craving. And yet, a bolt of pure, unadulterated panic shoots through you.

"Wait," you gasp, pushing slightly against his shoulders. "Stop."

He freezes instantly, every muscle in his body going rigid. He pulls back just enough to look at you, his dark eyes clouded with confusion and concern. The predatory haze is gone, replaced by an intense focus on you. "What is it? Did I hurt you?"

You shake your head, your cheeks burning with a mixture of shame and embarrassment. "No. I just… I need to tell you something." You take a shaky breath, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. "I've never… I'm a virgin."

The words hang in the air between you, stark and heavy. For a moment, he just stares, his expression completely blank. Then, shock registers. His jaw goes slack, and his eyes widen in disbelief. "You… what?" he asks, his voice barely a whisper. "But… you're… you." He says it as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world, as if your beauty and popularity are a direct contradiction to your innocence.

A fresh wave of humiliation washes over you. "I know what people think," you say, your voice small. "But I've never wanted to… not until you. You're my first everything, Damian."

The shock on his face melts away, replaced by something so tender and fierce it makes your heart ache. He lowers you gently back onto the floor, his hands cradling your face. "Oh, habibti," he murmurs, his thumb stroking your cheek. "I am a fool. I assumed… I am an idiot." He leans in and kisses you, a soft, worshipful kiss that’s full of apology and reverence. "Thank you," he whispers against your lips. "Thank you for trusting me with this."

He takes your hand and leads you to his bed, a massive four-poster that looks like it belongs in a king's chamber. He lays you down on the dark silk sheets, his movements impossibly gentle. He doesn't join you immediately. Instead, he kneels on the floor at the foot of the bed, spreading your legs with his hands. "Then we will do this properly," he says, his voice low and determined. "I will prepare you. I will make this good for you."

And then he leans in and puts his mouth on you.

It's nothing like you could have ever imagined. His tongue is hot and slick, and he uses it with an artist's precision. He starts with long, slow licks, from your dripping entrance up to your throbbing clit, tasting you, learning you. Your hips buck off the bed, a guttural moan tearing from your throat. He holds you down, his strong arms pinning you in place as he begins to focus on that sensitive bundle of nerves. He flicks his tongue against it, then sucks it gently into his mouth, and the pleasure is so sharp, so intense, you see stars behind your eyelids.

"You're so responsive," he murmurs against your flesh, his voice vibrating through you. "So perfect." He slides a finger along your slick folds, circling your entrance. "Have you ever touched yourself here? Ever been inside?"

You shake your head, panting. "N-no. It never felt right."

He groans, a sound of pure, unadulterated lust. "Then you will be exquisitely tight." He presses the tip of his finger against your virgin hole. "Relax for me, habibti. Let me in. I'll go slow."

You try to obey, forcing your muscles to unclench as he slowly, carefully, pushes his finger inside. The sensation is strange, a stretching pressure that’s not painful, just… new. He’s right. You’re incredibly tight, your walls clamping down around the single digit. He works it in and out, letting you adjust to the intrusion, before adding a second finger. The stretch is more intense now, a dull ache that quickly blossoms into pleasure as he curls his fingers, finding a spongy spot inside you that makes you cry out.

"That's it," he encourages, his mouth returning to your clit as his fingers begin to pump in and out of you. He finds a rhythm, a perfect, torturous rhythm of licking and sucking and fucking you with his hand. The pressure builds inside you, a tight coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter. His words are a dark, intoxicating chant against your skin. "So tight, so wet, all for me. You're going to come for me, aren't you? All over my hand."

The coil snaps. Your back arches off the bed, a silent scream tearing from your lungs as your orgasm crashes over you. It's a tidal wave of sensation, and with it comes a gush of wetness, a release so powerful it shocks you both. You're squirting, your juices coating his hand and face. Damian doesn't stop. He laps it up, his groan of satisfaction vibrating through your core as he works you through every last spasm of your orgasm.

When you finally collapse, boneless and trembling, he crawls up the bed to lie beside you. He’s breathing heavily, his chest heaving, his face glistening with your essence. He looks utterly, beautifully debauched. You turn to him, a newfound confidence surging through you. You want to give him that same pleasure. You want to taste him.

You shyly scoot down the bed, your eyes fixed on his magnificent, still-hard cock. You've never done this before, but you know the theory. You wrap your hand around the thick shaft, the velvety skin hot and pulsing under your touch. He hisses, his hips jerking. You lean in and hesitantly flick your tongue over the head, tasting the salty, slightly bitter drop of precum. It's not bad. It's him. You take the head into your mouth, sucking gently.

"Look at me," he commands, his voice tight. You obey, looking up at him through your lashes as you take more of him into your mouth. "Relax your jaw. Breathe through your nose. That's it, just like that. Take what you can." His hand comes to rest on the back of your head, not forcing you, just guiding you. You find a rhythm, bobbing your head, your tongue swirling along the thick vein on the underside. You become addicted to his taste, to the weight of him on your tongue, to the guttural sounds he's making.

Emboldened, you let his cock slip from your mouth and move lower. You gently take one of his heavy balls into your mouth, sucking softly, rolling it with your tongue. He groans, a deep, primal sound of pleasure. "Fuck, habibti," he grunts, his fingers tightening in your hair. You lavish them with attention, your mouth and hands exploring every part of him, until he pulls you away, his breathing ragged.

"If you continue, this will be over far too soon," he says, his voice strained. He kisses you, a deep, dominating kiss that tastes of you and him. "And I am not finished with you yet."

He moves over you, settling between your legs. He lines his cock up with your entrance, the head nudging against your slick, prepared hole. "Are you ready?" he asks, his eyes searching yours. "Are you sure?"

You nod, wrapping your legs around his waist. "I'm sure, Damian. I want you."

He pushes in slowly, and the stretch is intense. It's a sharp, burning sting as your virginity gives way, but he's so gentle, so controlled. He pauses, letting you adjust, kissing away the tears that have sprung to your eyes from the pain. Then he pushes in further, inch by glorious inch, until he's fully seated inside you. The feeling of being so completely, utterly full is overwhelming. He's so deep, you can feel him everywhere.

He begins to move, his strokes slow and deep at first. The pain fades, replaced by a deep, building pleasure. He's watching you, his eyes dark and intense, as he leans down to take one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucks and bites, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core, his hips snapping a little faster with each one. He's edging you, bringing you to the brink again and again, only to slow down, drawing out the pleasure until you're a writhing, begging mess beneath him.

"Please, Damian, please," you sob, needing release more than you've ever needed anything.

"Tell me what you want," he demands, his voice a 
low growl against your skin.

"You! I want you! Please, let me come!"

With a guttural groan, he gives you what you want. He stops the torturous teasing and sets a punishing, relentless rhythm. The bed creaks in time with his powerful thrusts, the sound mingling with your cries and his ragged breaths. He's hitting that spot inside you over and over, the pressure building to an impossible level. He shifts his angle slightly, and the new friction against your clit is all it takes.

Your second orgasm detonates through you, even more powerful than the first. Your vision whites out, your body convulsing as you scream his name. You feel the gush of your release again, soaking the sheets beneath you, your walls clamping down around his thick cock like a vice. The overstimulation is exquisite, a blinding wave of pleasure that borders on pain.

"Fuck, you're squeezing me so tight," he grunts, his rhythm faltering as your spasms milk him. He buries his face in your neck, his teeth sinking into the sensitive skin where it meets your shoulder. It's not a gentle bite; it's a claiming, a brand. He's marking you as his. The sharp sting only adds to the intoxicating cocktail of sensation.

He pistons into you a few more times, hard and deep, before he stills, his entire body going rigid. A deep, primal roar tears from his throat as he finds his own release. You feel a hot, thick flood deep inside you as he comes, pulsing and filling you with his seed. The feeling is intimate, possessive, and utterly perfect. He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome anchor as you both struggle to catch your breath.

For a long time, you just lie there, tangled together, your bodies slick with sweat and other, more intimate fluids. The fire has died down to embers, casting a soft, warm glow over the room. He's still inside you, softening but not yet gone, and you never want to move.

He finally stirs, propping himself up on his elbows to look down at you. His hair is a mess, his lips are swollen, and his eyes are soft with a post-coital haze. He gently traces the bite mark on your shoulder, his touch apologetic. "I'm sorry," he murmurs. "I lost control."

You smile, reaching up to push a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "Don't be. That was kind of the point." You stretch, feeling the pleasant ache in your muscles. "That was… incredible."

He smirks, the familiar, arrogant confidence returning to his expression. "Of course it was. I am, as you know, exceptional in all things." But his words are softened by the tender way he's looking at you. He leans down and kisses you, a slow, deep kiss that's full of unspoken emotion.

He starts to pull out, but you stop him, your legs tightening around his waist. "Wait. Don't go yet."

He looks at you, surprised. "You're not sore?"

"A little," you admit. "But I like feeling you inside me. Just… stay. For a minute."

Understanding dawns in his eyes, followed by an expression of profound tenderness. He relaxes, settling his weight more comfortably against you, his cock still nestled in your heat. This is new, this quiet intimacy. It's not about the frantic chase for release anymore; it's about closeness, about connection. He rests his forehead against yours, his eyes closing as he just breathes with you. This is cockwarming, you realize, and it's just as intimate, in its own way, as the frantic sex that preceded it.

You lie like that for what feels like an eternity, just enjoying the feeling of being connected. But then, you feel a familiar twitch from within you. His cock, which had been softening, begins to harden again, growing inside you until it's once again a thick, rigid presence. Your eyes fly open to meet his.

He's smirking. "It appears," he says, his voice a low, teasing rumble, "that I am not yet finished with you."

A thrill shoots through you, banishing any lingering exhaustion. "Oh really?" you challenge, a playful smile gracing your lips. "Show me."

He doesn't need to be told twice. This time, there's no slow build-up. He pulls out, flips you over with surprising strength, and pulls you onto your hands and knees. He enters you from behind in one smooth, deep stroke, and the new angle makes you gasp. He's even deeper like this, hitting your cervix with every powerful thrust. His hands grip your hips, holding you in place as he takes you with a raw, primal ferocity.

One of his hands leaves your hip and snakes around your body to find your clit. He rubs tight, merciless circles on the sensitive nub, and you're immediately hurtling towards another orgasm. "You're going to come for me again," he commands, his voice a harsh pant against your back. "You're going to soak my cock again."

His words, combined with the overwhelming stimulation, are your undoing. You shatter, your third orgasm ripping through you with the force of a lightning strike. You collapse onto the bed, your arms giving out, but he doesn't stop. He follows you down, his weight pinning you as he continues to thrust into your pliant body, wringing every last drop of pleasure from you until you're a whimpering, overstimulated mess.

He finally finds his own release with a loud groan, emptying himself inside you for a second time. He collapses on top of you, his body heavy and spent, his face buried in your hair. You can feel his heart hammering against your back, a frantic rhythm that matches your own.

He rolls off of you, pulling you into his arms and tucking you against his side. You're both a mess, covered in sweat, bite marks, and the combined evidence of your passion. The sheets are ruined. And you have never felt more content in your entire life.

He kisses the top of your head, his lips lingering. "Stay," he says, his voice soft but firm. It's not a question.

You snuggle closer, your head on his chest, listening to the steady beat of his heart. "I wasn't planning on going anywhere."

You lie in the comfortable silence, your bodies intertwined, the scent of sex and Damian filling the air. You can feel his come, warm and thick, still leaking from you, a tangible reminder of your shared intimacy. It's messy and primal and real. As you drift off to sleep, utterly exhausted and thoroughly claimed, you know with absolute certainty that this is only the beginning.

The Gotham night is a living thing, a beast of shadow and sirens. From your window, you can’t see the city, but you can feel it—the distant wail of a siren, the cold that seeps through the glass, the knowledge that he’s out there in it. The ache in your chest is a familiar one, a mix of pride and a selfish, gnawing longing. It’s been a few days since that night, a few days since he utterly ruined you for anyone else, and the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock, is a constant, low hum beneath your skin.

Tonight, the hum is a roar.

You’re naked in your bed, the sheets a tangled mess at your feet. The soft glow of your bedside lamp casts your body in warm, golden light. You run your hands over your own skin, but it’s a poor substitute for his. Your fingers trail down your stomach and between your legs. You’re already wet, your body remembering his touch, his possession. It’s not enough.

An idea, wicked and thrilling, takes hold. You grab your phone from the nightstand, your heart thumping with nervous excitement. You prop yourself up on your stomach, looking back over your shoulder at the camera with a smirk you hope is more confident than you feel. You snap the picture, a perfect shot of your back, the curve of your ass, the hint of your pussy between your thighs. You send it.

Missing you. Thinking about how you filled me up.

The response is almost immediate. A single, curt text. On patrol. Stop.

You know it’s a lie. It’s not an order; it’s a challenge. You smile, a slow, predatory smile of your own. You flip onto your back, spreading your legs wide. You aim the camera down your body, capturing the full, heavy weight of your breasts, your hard, aching nipples, and the glistening, wet expanse of your pussy. You spread your folds with your free hand, giving him an unobstructed view of your throbbing clit.

So wet for you, Robin. Come play?

You wait, your breath held. The silence stretches. Then, a new idea. You prop the phone up against your pillows, angling it just right. You start recording, your fingers finding your clit immediately. You’re already so close, so turned on by your own audacity. You rub yourself with a desperate rhythm, your other hand coming up to pinch and roll your nipple. The pleasure builds fast, a tight coil in your stomach. You think of him, of his uniform, of the way he looked at you, of the way he felt inside you. A soft cry escapes your lips as your orgasm hits, a gush of fluid coating your fingers. You stop the recording, your body trembling, and send the ten-second clip with a final text.

A preview. Hurry home.

You don’t know how much time passes. You drift in a haze of post-orgasmic bliss, the scent of your arousal filling the room. The exertion, the emotional rollercoaster of the last few days, finally catches up with you, and your eyes drift shut.

You’re pulled from a deep, dreamless sleep by a sensation. A slow, deliberate drag of something hard and hot against your most sensitive flesh. You’re on your side, and a heavy weight is behind you, an arm wrapped around your waist. You blink your eyes open, your mind foggy with sleep. The room is dark, save for the sliver of moonlight from the window. And then you see it. The familiar red, yellow, and green of his uniform, discarded on your floor.

He’s here.

You’re naked, and he’s in his Robin uniform, his hard, thick cock rubbing between your slick folds. A sleepy moan escapes your lips as your body arches back against him, an unconscious invitation. He takes it. The head of his cock catches on your entrance, and with one smooth, powerful thrust, he’s inside you, filling you completely.

The sudden, full penetration shocks you fully awake. You gasp, your eyes flying wide open as he buries himself to the hilt. "Damian," you breathe, your voice husky with sleep and surprise.

"You sent me an invitation," he growls against your neck, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "It would have been rude to refuse."

He doesn't wait for you to adjust. He begins to move, his strokes deep and punishing, fueled by the same desperate need that drove you to send those messages. There’s nothing gentle about it; it’s a raw, primal claiming. He hooks one of your legs, pulling it up and back, opening you wider, allowing him to plunge even deeper. The new angle is devastating. His other hand finds your breast, his gloved fingers rough against your sensitive skin as he kneads the flesh, rolling your hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger.

The pleasure is almost painful in its intensity. "Oh god, Damian," you whimper, your hands clutching at the arm wrapped around you, the tactical fabric rough against your palms. "Yes, right there."

He can feel how close you are. He releases your breast and slides his hand down your body, his fingers finding your clit with unerring accuracy. He rubs tight, merciless circles, matching the brutal rhythm of his hips. It’s too much, too fast, too perfect. The coil in your stomach snaps, and you shatter. A silent scream tears from your throat as your orgasm crashes through you, your walls clamping down around his thick cock. A gush of wetness soaks him, your body convulsing as you squirt against him.

The feeling of your spasming pussy milking him is his undoing. With a muffled roar against your shoulder, he buries himself deep and lets go. You feel a hot, thick flood inside you as he comes, his cock pulsing as he fills you with his seed. He collapses against you, his weight a welcome anchor, his body still sheathed in the tight uniform.

He doesn’t pull out. He just holds you, his chest heaving against your back. After a moment, he shifts, rolling you both until you’re on your sides, still spooned together, his cock softening but still nestled inside you. He wraps his arms around you, holding you tight. This is the quiet after the storm, the possessive intimacy of cockwarming, and you’ve never felt safer or more cherished.

But the night is far from over.

After a few minutes, you feel a twitch from within you. He’s getting hard again, already growing inside you. A thrill shoots through you, banishing any lingering exhaustion. You push back against him, a silent invitation.

He answers by pulling out, only to flip you onto your back. He looms over you, a shadow in a uniform, his eyes burning in the darkness. This time, he enters you slowly, his gaze locked on yours. The pace is different, deliberate and deep. He’s watching every flicker of pleasure on your face, his expression a mixture of lust and something softer, something that looks terrifyingly like love.

He leans down, taking one of your nipples into his mouth. He sucks and bites, sending jolts of pleasure straight to your core. His hips begin to move faster, a steady, relentless rhythm that pushes you toward the edge again. He brings you there twice more, backing off each time, leaving you a whimpering, begging mess, until you’re clawing at his back, pleading for release.

"Please, Damian, please," you sob, tears of pleasure streaming down your face.

He gives you what you want, his thumb coming down to rub your clit as his hips snap forward, hard and deep. Your third orgasm is a blinding, all-consuming thing. Your body bows off the bed, a scream tearing from your lungs as you come again, soaking him a second time. He follows you over the edge with a guttural groan, emptying himself inside you once more, a second creampie marking you as his.

When it’s finally, truly over, you’re both boneless. He finally pulls out, and you watch in the dim light as your combined release trickles out of you. He strips off the rest of the uniform, the sweat-soaked Kevlar a welcome relief to be rid of. He climbs back into bed, pulling you into his arms, your naked bodies tangling together under the sheets.

You snuggle into his chest, listening to the steady, reassuring beat of his heart. "Next time," you murmur sleepily, "just send a picture of your cape."

You feel his chest vibrate with a silent chuckle. "I'll make a note of it," he says, his voice a low rumble. But you know he won't. Because nothing, no picture or video, could ever compare to the real thing. To this. To him.

The silence of the Wayne Manor is deafening without him. It’s been three weeks. Three long, agonizing weeks since Damian left for a "mission," a word that now feels like a curse. He's somewhere in the mountains of Kazakhstan, communications limited to encrypted, burst-transmission texts. It’s a special kind of torture, knowing he’s in danger and being unable to do anything but wait.

But the waiting has a new flavor now. It’s flavored with memory and need. Your body aches with a phantom presence, the memory of his hands, his mouth, his cock, a constant, teasing ghost. You lie in your bed—the same bed he claimed, the same sheets you’ve washed a dozen times but still swear smell like him—and your hand drifts down between your legs.

It’s not enough. Your own fingers are clumsy, a poor imitation of his skillful touch. You need more. You need him.

You grab your phone, your heart thumping a nervous, excited rhythm against your ribs. You pull up his last message, a simple, terse All clear. Miss you. and type back, Show me.

You wait. For ten minutes, there’s nothing. You’re about to give up, chalking it up to a foolish impulse, when your phone buzzes. It's a video file. Your hands tremble as you press play.

The camera is shaky, pointed down at his body. He’s in what looks like a crude tent, a single sleeping bag beneath him. He’s shirtless, the dim light catching the defined lines of his chest and abdomen, the familiar map of scars a stark, beautiful reminder of who he is. His gray sweatpants are pushed down to his thighs, and his magnificent cock is standing at full attention, thick and hard. He spits into his palm and wraps his hand around his shaft, his grip firm.

The sound is low and rough. "This is all I have, habibti," he grunts, his voice strained. "This is all I can give you from here." He begins to stroke, his movements slow and deliberate at first, his thumb smearing the bead of precum over the head. Your own breath hitches. You watch, mesmerized, as his pace quickens, his hand flying up and down his thick length, his hips thrusting up to meet his fist. The video is only a minute long, ending with a choked groan as he comes, thick, white stripes striping his stomach and chest. The final image sears itself into your brain.

Your own body is on fire. You set the phone to replay, propping it up on your pillow beside you. You spread your legs, your eyes glued to the screen as you slide your fingers through your slick folds. You circle your clit, mimicking the rhythm of his hand on his cock. It’s not his touch, but it’s fueled by him, by the sight of him falling apart for you, even from thousands of miles away. You slide two fingers inside yourself, pretending it's him, imagining his thickness, his heat. The video ends and restarts, and you watch it again, and again, until the coil in your stomach finally snaps. You come with a cry, your body arching, your orgasm a pale, lonely echo of the ones he gives you.

You know what you have to do.

You spend the next hour preparing. You set up your phone on your dresser, angling it just right. You light a few candles, their soft glow making your skin look like gold. You lie back on your bed, a sheet draped artfully over one leg. You hit record.

"Hey, Robin," you murmur, your voice a low, husky purr. "Hope you're having a good mission. I'm not." You let the sheet fall away, revealing your naked body. You run your hands over your breasts, cupping their weight, your fingers pinching your own nipples until they’re hard peaks. "I miss you," you whisper to the camera. "I miss this." Your hand slides down your stomach, between your legs. "I miss your mouth here."

You spend the next ten minutes putting on a show. You touch yourself exactly how you like, but your eyes are on the camera lens, imagining it's his. You masturbate for him, your fingers working your clit, sliding in and out of your wet pussy. You tell him how you wish he was here, how you wish it was his cock, his hands. When you feel yourself getting close, you flip over, getting on your hands and knees, presenting your ass to the camera. You reach back and spread yourself open. "Look what you're missing," you pant. "Look how wet I am for you." You bring yourself to the edge like that, a trembling, desperate mess, before flipping over again and finishing yourself, your body convulsing as you squirt, your juices soaking the sheets. You end the video with a close-up of your dripping, satisfied pussy, blowing a kiss to the lens. You hit send.

The reply is almost immediate. Fuck. You will be the death of me.


The day he’s scheduled to return is the longest of your life. You’re pacing in your room when you hear the soft click of your window opening. You turn, and he’s there. He’s not in uniform, just black fatigues, his face smudged with dirt, his eyes tired but burning with an intensity that makes your knees weak.

He doesn't say a word. He crosses the room in three long strides, grabs your face, and kisses you. It's a desperate, hungry kiss, a kiss that says I'm home, and you're mine. He walks you backward until your legs hit the bed, and you fall, pulling him down with you.

"I saw your video," he growls against your lips, his hands already tearing at your clothes. "Every night. It's the only thing that got me through it."

"I saw yours," you gasp, helping him pull your shirt over your head. "It's the only thing that got me through it, too."

He makes love to you with a frantic, desperate energy that borders on violence. It's not gentle; it's a reaffirmation of life, a celebration of his return. He takes you on your back, on your side, bent over the edge of the bed. He marks you with his mouth, his teeth, his hands, as if trying to erase the last three weeks of distance. When he finally fills you, his hot release a welcome, familiar warmth, you both collapse, tangled and breathless.

After a while, he props himself up on his elbow, looking down at you. "We need to make one," he says, his voice low and serious.

"One what?"

"A sextape," he says, as if it's the most logical thing in the world. "Something… permanent. For the next time."

The idea sends a thrill straight through you. "Okay," you whisper. "Let's make a movie."

He sets up your phone, propping it on the dresser just as you did. He takes a moment to check the angle, to adjust the lighting. He’s a perfectionist, even in this. Then he turns to you, and his expression softens. He approaches the bed slowly, his eyes roaming over your naked body.

"Action," he murmurs, a rare, playful smile gracing his lips.

This is different. There's a camera, a third, impartial observer, which makes everything feel both more performative and incredibly intimate. He starts by kissing you, a deep, slow, thorough kiss that the camera can't quite capture. His hands explore your body with a newfound reverence, as if memorizing you for posterity. He pays special attention to your breasts, cupping them, lifting them, his thumbs brushing over your nipples. He looks directly at the camera as he leans down to take one peak into his mouth, his eyes dark and possessive. This is mine, his gaze says. And now I have proof.

He moves down your body, his mouth leaving a trail of fire. He settles between your legs, and for a long moment, he just looks, his gaze intense enough to feel like a touch. Then he looks up at the camera, a smirk on his glistening lips. "This part," he says, his voice a low rumble, "is my favorite." And then he puts his mouth on you.

He eats you out with a masterful expertise, his tongue and fingers working in concert to drive you insane. He's not just doing it for you; he's doing it for the camera, for the future Damian who will be watching this. He wants to capture your pleasure, to immortalize the way you fall apart under his touch. He brings you to the brink twice, your hands fisting in his hair, your cries growing louder and more desperate, before he finally lets you come. Your orgasm is explosive, a gushing release that he eagerly laps up, his eyes never leaving the lens.

When he finally enters you, it's slow and deliberate. He wants the camera to see everything. He holds your legs apart, his grip firm, as he sinks into you inch by inch. He starts with a slow, grinding rhythm, his hips rolling, his cock hitting every sensitive spot inside you. He leans down, his mouth next to your ear. "Look at the camera," he whispers. "Tell them how it feels."

"It feels… so good," you pant, your eyes locking onto the lens. "You're so deep… you fill me up so perfectly, Damian."

He groans, his control faltering. He picks up the pace, his thrusts becoming harder, faster. He hooks one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving into you with a renewed fervor. The bed is creaking in a steady, percussive rhythm, the sound a testament to your passion. But it's not enough. The static, wide-angle shot isn't capturing the raw, visceral truth of it.

With a grunt of frustration, he pulls out of you, leaving you feeling suddenly, achingly empty. "This isn't right," he muturs, his voice thick with lust. He reaches over and snatches the phone from the dresser, detaching it from whatever makeshift stand he'd created. He's back on you in a second, his knee pushing your legs apart as he settles between them.

"Let me show them," he growls, his eyes burning into yours. He holds the phone in his left hand, his arm extended, aiming the lens directly at where your bodies are about to join. "Let me show them what you do to me."

He guides his cock to your entrance with his right hand, and the phone captures it all in tight, explicit detail: the thick, angry head nudging against your slick, swollen folds, the way your body yields to him as he pushes inside. He's filming his own penetration, filming the moment he claims you. The thought is so depraved, so incredibly hot, that a fresh wave of arousal floods your pussy.

He starts to move again, his hips rolling in a deep, powerful rhythm. The camera is unflinching, its lens a silent, voyeuristic partner. He holds it steady, his gaze flicking between the screen and your face. He zooms in slightly, focusing on the point of your connection. You can see his thick, veined shaft disappearing into your body, see your lips stretching around him, clinging to him as he pulls out, only to be swallowed again on the next thrust. It's the most obscene, most beautiful thing you've ever seen.

"Look," he commands, his voice a ragged pant. He angles the phone so you can see the screen. "Look how well you take me. Look how we fit together." He's right. It's a perfect, erotic puzzle. The sight of his cock, glistening with your wetness, pistoning in and out of you is enough to make your head spin. "This is what I think about," he grunts, his thrusts becoming more erratic. "This. Right here. Every single day."

He shifts his focus. The camera pans up, over the soft swell of your stomach, to your breasts, which are bouncing with every powerful thrust. He zooms in on one, capturing the way it jiggles, the hard, dark nipple a tight point of arousal. He brings his free hand up to grope it, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh, his thumb and forefinger pinching the nipple. The camera captures his possessive grip, the way your flesh spills between his fingers.

"These are mine," he says, his voice a low, possessive growl. He leans down, his mouth capturing the other nipple, sucking and biting as he continues to fuck into you. The camera shakes slightly, capturing the frenzied, desperate energy of the moment. He's documenting his ownership, marking you not just with his hands and mouth, but with a permanent record.

He pulls back, his breathing harsh. He wants a different view. He pulls out of you, ignoring your whine of protest, and flips you onto your stomach with surprising ease. "On your knees," he commands. You obey instantly, getting on your hands and knees, presenting yourself to him. He kneels behind you, and the camera is back, this time aimed at the new, more decadent view.

He slides back into you, the new angle allowing him to go even deeper. The camera captures it all: the magnificent curve of your ass, the arch of your back, the way his hands grip your hips, holding you steady as he pounds into you. He reaches around with his free hand, finding your clit, and the camera captures the moment his fingers make contact. He rubs you in time with his thrusts, and you feel yourself hurtling towards the edge with terrifying speed.

"Come for me," he demands, his voice a harsh command. "Come for the camera. Let me watch you fall apart."

His words are your undoing. Your orgasm crashes over you, a tidal wave of pleasure so intense you see stars. You scream his name, your body convulsing, your arms giving out as you collapse face-first onto the mattress. Your pussy clamps down on him, and a gush of fluid soaks his thighs and the sheets beneath you.

He fucks you through it, his thrusts relentless, drawing out your pleasure until you're a sobbing, overstimulated mess. The sight of your complete surrender, captured by the phone in his hand, is his final undoing. With a loud, guttural roar, he buries himself to the hilt and empties himself inside you. You feel his cock pulse, the hot, thick flood of his cum filling you, a second, third, and fourth wave of release. He holds the phone steady, capturing the moment of his own climax, the moment he marks you from the inside out.

He collapses on top of you, his weight a welcome, grounding pressure. He's still inside you, still filming. He slowly, carefully pulls out, and the camera captures the aftermath: your pussy, red and swollen and gaping slightly, a trickle of his thick, white cum already leaking out. It's a raw, primal, and deeply intimate image. He finally stops the recording, tossing the phone onto the bed beside you.

He rolls you over, pulling you into his arms. You're both a mess, covered in sweat and come and the evidence of your passion. The room smells of sex and satisfaction.

"Perfect," he murmurs against your hair, his voice soft with contentment. "Now I'll never have to miss you again."