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marinersapartmentc0mplex · 2 months ago

Text

Let The Light In

Damian Wayne x Reader smut

wedding traditions, henna, fluff, smut, penis in vagina sex, cunnilingus

Ao3 Link

The air in Nanda Parbat was crisp and cool, carrying with it a sense of mystique that seemed to emanate from the very mountains surrounding the ancient, sacred city. The stars above were scattered like diamonds across a velvet sky, their light casting a pale glow over the snow-capped peaks. The faint sound of a running stream, fed by the melting ice of the Himalayas, filled the silence with its tranquil melody.

Talia al Ghul’s fortress stood tall against the rugged terrain, its architecture a blend of ancient Persian influences and modern luxury. Sandstone walls glowed golden under the soft torchlight that lined the pathways, and intricate carvings adorned the arched doorways. Vines heavy with fragrant flowers climbed along the stone, their blossoms unfurling in the cool of the night.

Inside, the quarters prepared for the couple exuded warmth and tradition. The chamber was spacious yet intimate, with a low wooden platform bed draped in silk bedding of deep crimson and gold. Soft rugs covered the stone floor, their patterns as intricate as lace. A carved teakwood table sat in the center, surrounded by low couches cushioned with embroidered pillows in shades of emerald and sapphire. The room was lit by ornate lanterns that cast dancing patterns of light and shadow across the walls.

You sat cross-legged on the cushions, your hand gently cradling a delicate porcelain cup of green tea. The steam rose in soft tendrils, mingling with the faint scent of jasmine that perfumed the air. Across from you, Damian Wayne mirrored your posture, his sharp green eyes focused entirely on you. Though he often carried himself with a stoic demeanor, here in the quiet privacy of the evening, his expression was unguarded, his gaze filled with a reverence that made your heart ache.

“This fortress has a way of making the world feel small,” you said softly, breaking the silence. Your fingers traced the rim of the cup. “It’s like time doesn’t touch this place.”

Damian nodded, his lips curving into a faint smile. “That is the allure of Nanda Parbat. It exists outside the chaos of everything else. A sanctuary.” He paused, his gaze drifting to the window, where the moonlight poured in like a silver waterfall. “And yet, its beauty pales in comparison to you.”

The compliment caught you off guard, though it shouldn’t have. Damian had always been direct in his affections, his words carefully chosen and deeply sincere. Heat rose to your cheeks, and you looked down at the tea in your hands to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

“Damian,” you murmured, your voice soft with embarrassment.

“I mean it.” He reached across the table, his fingers brushing against yours. His touch was light, reverent, as if he were afraid you might disappear like a dream. “Tomorrow begins the celebration, and everyone will see what I’ve known for so long—that you are extraordinary. That you are mine.”

Your breath hitched at the intensity of his words. Damian had a way of speaking that made every syllable feel weighted, like a vow etched in stone. You met his gaze, the green of his eyes glowing softly in the lantern light, and saw the truth in them. There was no hesitation, no doubt—only an unwavering certainty that left you both humbled and exhilarated.

The warmth of Damian’s hand lingered on yours as you held his gaze, the weight of his words settling into your heart. There was something disarming about the way he looked at you, as though every unspoken promise he carried was woven into the fabric of his soul. For all his formidable presence and sharp intellect, it was these rare moments of tenderness that left you breathless.

Breaking the silence, Damian reached for the teapot that sat atop a small brass warmer on the carved teakwood table. The steam wisped upward as he poured more tea into your cup, the liquid a deep jade that reflected the lantern light. His movements were deliberate, the kind of precision ingrained in him through years of training, yet softened by the care he reserved for you.

“Do you know much about what tomorrow entails?” he asked, his voice low and smooth. The question was unhurried, as if he was savoring the peace of the moment as much as you were.

“Not much,” you admitted, wrapping your hands around the warm cup. “I’ve heard bits and pieces, but I didn’t want to overwhelm myself with the details. I figured I’d let it all unfold.”

Damian smiled faintly at that, the corners of his mouth lifting just enough to warm his usually stoic features. “There is beauty in that approach,” he said. “But I should prepare you for what to expect. The henna party is one of the most cherished traditions leading up to the ceremony.”

Damian leaned back slightly, the faintest flicker of amusement playing at the corners of his lips. The soft glow of the lanterns framed him in a way that felt almost surreal, as though this moment were a dream conjured from the depths of your heart.

“The henna ,” he began, his voice carrying the weight of centuries of tradition, “is not just about the henna itself. The designs will cover your hands and feet, each symbol chosen with care. It’s an art form, a language that speaks to love, prosperity, and the bond we are about to share.”

His gaze flicked to your hand, his thumb brushing against the back of it. “Hidden within the patterns will be my initials. It’s customary for the groom to search for them later. If I can’t find them, I am expected to offer you a gift.”

You smirked, tilting your head at him. “And what if you find them?”

His green eyes sparkled with a rare playfulness. “Then I still give you a gift. A husband’s duty, after all.”

A soft laugh escaped you, the sound mingling with the quiet hum of the fortress around you. “You’re already spoiling me.”

“It’s what you deserve,” Damian said simply, his tone so earnest that it left no room for argument. He lifted his cup and took a sip, his expression softening further as he continued. “My mother will also present you with gifts tomorrow—gold, most likely. Jewelry that has been in our family for generations. She’ll want you to wear it during the celebration.”

The mention of Talia made you pause, your thoughts briefly turning to the formidable woman. While she had always carried an air of command and intimidation, her gestures toward you since your engagement had been nothing short of respectful, even warm at times. “Do you think she approves?” you asked, the question slipping out before you could stop yourself.

Damian set his cup down with deliberate care, his gaze locking with yours. “She wouldn’t have invited us here if she didn’t. My mother… she values strength and loyalty above all else. She sees that in you. And more importantly, she sees what you mean to me.”

The sincerity in his voice struck a chord deep within you, and you nodded, unable to keep a small, grateful smile from forming. “I hope I can live up to her expectations.”

“You already do,” Damian assured you. His hand found yours again, his grip firm but gentle. “And even if you didn’t, you’ve already surpassed mine.”

The intensity of his words left you momentarily breathless, and you found yourself leaning forward slightly, drawn to the quiet magnetism that Damian seemed to exude so effortlessly. He noticed the shift, his sharp gaze softening as his free hand came up to brush a strand of hair behind your ear.

“There’s more,” he said, his voice dipping lower, as though sharing a secret meant only for you. “After the mehndi , there will be a meal. A feast, really. Traditional dishes—many of them prepared under my mother’s watchful eye. But before that, there will be bukhoor .”

“ Bukhoor ?” you repeated, the unfamiliar word rolling off your tongue.

“It’s a tradition involving incense,” Damian explained. “The smoke is meant to cleanse the space, to bring blessings and protection. My mother’s attendants will carry it through the rooms, the courtyard… and over you.”

“That sounds beautiful,” you said softly, picturing the ritual in your mind. The idea of being enveloped in fragrant smoke, surrounded by people celebrating your union, filled you with a quiet sense of wonder.

“It is,” Damian agreed. His thumb brushed over the back of your hand again, the small gesture grounding you. “And then, when the evening is done, we’ll retreat here. To quiet. To each other.”

His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning, and you felt the heat rise in your cheeks again. Before you could respond, Damian leaned closer, his free hand settling lightly against your cheek. His touch was steady, his thumb tracing a gentle line along your jaw.

“May I?” he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

You nodded, your breath catching as he closed the small distance between you. His lips were warm against yours, his kiss soft at first, almost tentative. But as you leaned into him, threading your fingers through the dark hair at the nape of his neck, he deepened the kiss, his movements both deliberate and reverent.

The world seemed to fall away, leaving only the warmth of his touch and the steady rhythm of your hearts. His hand slid to your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. The kiss was unhurried, each moment a quiet declaration of the love you shared.

When you finally pulled away, your foreheads pressed together, your breaths mingling in the space between you. Damian’s eyes searched yours, his expression unguarded and tender.

“We should probably go to sleep,” you whispered between soft breaths, already thinking about the next day.

The morning sun rose slowly over the jagged peaks surrounding Nanda Parbat, its golden light spilling over the fortress like a blessing. A soft breeze whispered through the courtyard, carrying the mingled fragrances of jasmine, frankincense, and sandalwood. Everywhere, there was a hum of life as the preparations for the henna celebration—the mehndi —were brought to life.

The courtyard had been transformed into a sanctuary of opulence. Silk drapes of deep crimson and shimmering gold hung from tall wooden poles, fluttering gently in the breeze. Low, cushioned seating surrounded a central area where soft rugs layered the ground in a patchwork of rich colors and patterns. Brass trays laden with dates, figs, and nuts gleamed in the sunlight, alongside small glass bowls filled with fragrant rosewater and meticulously prepared henna paste.

Above, the sky was a brilliant blue, unclouded, and it seemed to echo the sense of boundless joy below. Strings of delicate white blossoms arched from post to post, their scent mingling with the incense that burned in clay censers, sending thin spirals of smoke into the air. At the center of it all was a raised dais, draped in layers of embroidered silk, where you would sit as the honored bride-to-be.

You stepped into the courtyard, your attire as regal as the setting. A traditional style dress of rich burgundy flowed around you, the fabric embroidered with intricate gold patterns that caught the light. The delicate scarf covering your hair was sheer, with gold thread along its edges. As you entered, the gathered women turned their attention to you, their cheers and smiles welcoming you warmly.

Among them was Talia al Ghul, standing with her signature poise in a gown of deep emerald that shimmered with hints of gold. Her eyes were sharp as ever, but they softened when they met yours. She approached with a faint smile, the regal weight of her presence both commanding and reassuring.

“You look radiant,” she said, placing a hand lightly on your arm. Her tone carried genuine approval, though her natural reserve was evident.

“Thank you,” you replied, your voice tinged with both gratitude and nervousness.

Talia gestured for you to take your place on the dais. As you moved to sit among the cushions, the women gathered closer, bringing with them the bowls of henna paste. The scents of saffron and orange blossom oil wafted up from the paste, filling the air with their delicate sweetness.

One of the older women, her face weathered but her movements steady, took your hand in hers. She murmured a soft prayer in Arabic, her words a blessing of happiness, prosperity, and love. Her voice was low, almost musical, and it set a calm rhythm to the start of the ritual.

The henna artist began her work with a fine-tipped wooden stick, dipping it into the paste and carefully drawing the first intricate lines. The cool touch of the henna against your palm sent a shiver through you, but the sensation was soothing. Slowly, your hands were transformed into masterpieces of swirling patterns—vines, flowers, and delicate geometric designs. Every mark held meaning: fertility, joy, and the union of two souls.

As the design extended to your wrists and the tops of your feet, a small detail caught your eye. Hidden within the patterns were two tiny Arabic letters – د and و . Damian’s initials, cleverly concealed within the ornate artwork.

“You’ll have to show Damian where to look for his initials,” one of the younger women teased, her dark eyes sparkling with mischief. “Unless you want to make him work for it.”

You laughed softly, shaking your head. “He’s observant enough to find them – if he really tries.”

The ritual continued with more blessings and the presentation of gifts. Talia herself brought forth a large velvet box of gold jewelry, its contents dazzling in the sunlight. Delicate bangles, a necklace set with a teardrop ruby, and a pair of earrings that matched were placed before you.

“These are for you,” she said, her voice carrying a quiet pride. “They belong to the family now, as do you.”

The weight of her words struck you deeply, and you bowed your head in gratitude. “Thank you,” you murmured, your voice steady despite the swell of emotion in your chest.

The feast followed, a decadent display of roasted lamb, spiced rice, honey-drizzled pastries, and fresh fruits. The scents of saffron and cinnamon mingled with the smoky aroma of grilled meats, and the flavors were as vibrant as the colors of the courtyard. Between bites, you shared smiles and stories with the women around you, their warmth enveloping you like the silk shawl draped over your shoulders.

As the day transitioned to evening, the final part of the ritual began. A servant brought forth a brazier filled with glowing coals, over which they placed the bukhoor . The fragrant smoke rose in gentle plumes, its scent deep and earthy. The brazier was passed among the women, each of them waving the smoke toward themselves in a gesture of blessing and protection.

When it was brought to you, you hesitated briefly before following suit, your hands moving gracefully through the smoke, fanning it towards you. The fragrance clung to your skin and clothing, a tangible reminder of the sacredness of the day.

By the time the celebration ended, you were exhausted but content. The designs on your hands and feet had darkened as the henna dried, their intricate beauty a testament to the care and tradition poured into the day. The jewellery rested in a chest in your quarters, and the memory of Talia’s blessing stayed with you as you returned to the room you shared with Damian.

He was waiting for you when you arrived, standing by the window where the moonlight framed him in silver. When he turned, his gaze immediately fell to your hands, his green eyes narrowing slightly as he took in the intricate patterns.

“Hidden letters,” he said, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You’re making me work for it.”

“You’ll find them,” you teased, holding up your hands so he could see them better. “If you’re clever enough.”

Damian stepped closer, his fingers brushing lightly over the patterns on your palm. The tenderness in his touch made your heart skip a beat. “They’re beautiful,” he murmured, though his eyes remained fixed on you rather than the designs.

“So is the one who wears them,” he added, his voice low and reverent.

The quiet that followed was filled with unspoken promises, the air between you charged with an intimacy that no words could capture. And as he leaned in to press a soft kiss to your henna-stained hands, you realized that this day, and the life that awaited you, was more beautiful than anything you could have imagined.

The room was quiet except for the gentle crackle of the brazier’s coals, their glow casting flickering patterns across the stone walls. Damian’s fingers lingered on your hands, his touch deliberate as if memorizing every intricate line of the henna patterns. His gaze, sharp yet soft in the low light, traveled slowly from your stained palms to your face, holding your eyes with a gravity that made the world beyond this moment feel irrelevant.

“You look like a vision,” he said, his voice quiet but steady, as if the words carried the weight of truth.

The compliment sent a warmth blooming in your chest. You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, a small smile curving your lips. “You always know exactly what to say,” you murmured, though your voice wavered slightly under the intensity of his gaze.

“Only when it comes to you,” Damian replied, his lips twitching into the faintest of smiles before he leaned closer. His hands left yours to cradle your face, his thumbs brushing lightly against your cheekbones. The air between you felt charged, the space impossibly small and yet infinite all at once.

Damian’s lips hovered just a breath away from yours, his gaze searching your eyes for any hesitation. Finding none, he closed the gap, his kiss soft but firm, a silent declaration of the love he held for you. His hands cradled your face with a gentleness that belied his strength, his thumbs tracing small, soothing circles over your skin. The faint scent of the bukhoor clung to both of you, mingling with the jasmine in the air and heightening the heady intimacy of the moment.

When he deepened the kiss, it was unhurried, as though savoring every second. His tongue traced the seam of your lips, seeking permission that you willingly gave, parting them to let him in. The kiss grew more fervent, yet never lost its tenderness, his tongue gliding against yours in a dance that sent warmth coursing through your veins. The world outside the room faded away, leaving only the shared rhythm of your breaths and the quiet crackle of the brazier.

Damian’s hands slipped from your face to your shoulders, his fingers brushing against the delicate scarf that adorned your hair. He paused, his lips leaving yours as he rested his forehead against yours. “May I?” he asked softly, his voice barely above a whisper, his reverence for you clear in every syllable.

Your heart swelled at his care, and you nodded, your voice caught in your throat. With deliberate slowness, he removed the scarf, folding it carefully and setting it aside as though it were as precious as you were to him. His fingers threaded through your hair, his touch both soothing and electric as he tilted your head back to meet his gaze. His emerald eyes held a devotion so deep it made your breath hitch.

“You are breathtaking,” he murmured, his voice rich with sincerity. His lips found yours again, this time with more urgency, his hands sliding down to your waist and pulling you closer. The heat of his body seeped into yours, chasing away any lingering chill from the mountain air.

Damian guided you backward until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed. His hands lingered at your waist, steadying you as you sank onto the silk bedding. He followed, his movements fluid and purposeful, positioning himself beside you. His kisses trailed from your lips to your jaw, then lower, his breath warm against your skin. Each press of his lips was a promise, each caress an affirmation of his adoration.

When his mouth found the sensitive spot just below your ear, you couldn’t suppress the soft gasp that escaped you. The sound seemed to spur him on, his lips curving into a faint smile against your skin. His kisses continued down the column of your throat, his tongue darting out to taste the faint traces of jasmine and salt. The sensation sent shivers coursing through you, your fingers instinctively tangling in his dark hair.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” Damian murmured against your skin, his voice roughened by his desire but still threaded with care. “I want this to be perfect for you.”

“It is,” you assured him, your voice trembling with emotion. “You are.”

Your words seemed to ignite something in him. He kissed his way down to your collarbone, his hands carefully working to loosen the intricate ties of your dress. Each movement was deliberate, his fingertips grazing your skin as though it were the most delicate silk. When the fabric slid from your shoulders, pooling around your waist, he pulled back slightly to take you in. The way his gaze softened, the awe in his expression, made you feel cherished in a way words couldn’t convey.

“Beautiful,” he whispered, his voice barely audible over the sound of your quickened breaths. His hands traced a path down your arms, his touch featherlight, before settling at your waist. Leaning down, he kissed the curve of your shoulder, his lips lingering as his fingers began to explore, drawing patterns against your skin that mirrored the henna on your hands.

When his mouth descended to the swell of your chest, he paused, his eyes flicking up to meet yours, silently asking for permission. The tenderness of the gesture sent a fresh wave of affection through you, and you nodded, threading your fingers tighter into his hair in encouragement.

His kisses were reverent, each one slow and deliberate as though he were memorizing the taste of your skin. His tongue flicked out, tracing a line along your sternum before moving lower, his lips worshiping every inch of you they touched. The heat of his mouth and the gentle scrape of his teeth left you breathless, your body arching instinctively toward him.

Damian’s hands moved to your hips, his grip firm but grounding as he guided you to lie back fully against the plush bedding. He shifted to hover over you, his lips never leaving your skin as he continued his descent. When he reached the intricate henna designs on your abdomen, he paused, his breath warm against your skin as he traced the patterns with his fingertips.

“Every line tells a story,” he murmured, his voice filled with quiet wonder. “Every detail a part of us.”

His lips followed the path of his fingers, his tongue darting out to taste the salt of your skin. The sensations he stirred within you were almost overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and the deep emotional connection you shared. When he finally looked up at you, his green eyes darkened with desire yet softened by love, you felt as though you were the only person in the world.

“Are you all right?” he asked, his voice rough but laced with concern.

“Yes,” you breathed, your hands cupping his face to pull him back up to you. “More than all right.”

He captured your lips in another searing kiss, his body pressing against yours as he deepened it.

Damian’s kisses grew more fervent as he trailed down your body, every touch a deliberate testament to the devotion etched into his soul. He shifted lower, his strong hands gently parting your thighs as he positioned himself between them. The cool mountain air contrasted with the warmth of his breath against your skin, sending shivers racing up your spine.

His emerald eyes locked onto yours, an unspoken question lingering in the depths of his gaze. You nodded, the anticipation tightening your chest, your fingers finding his hair and threading through the silken strands. Damian’s lips brushed against the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, soft and reverent, his kisses slow and purposeful. Each press of his mouth seemed to speak volumes, a silent promise of his love and desire.

He lingered, his tongue tracing lazy circles, tasting your skin as though savoring a rare delicacy. When he finally moved to your core, his hands cradled your hips, grounding you with their firm yet tender grip. His mouth descended, and the first touch of his tongue sent a bolt of electricity coursing through you. You gasped, your back arching off the bed as the sensation rippled through every nerve.

Damian was meticulous, his tongue exploring every inch of you with a skill and precision honed by his unrelenting focus. He worked slowly, teasingly, his lips closing around your most sensitive spot and drawing soft, deliberate pressure that left you breathless. The heat of his mouth and the gentle scrape of his teeth combined in a symphony of sensation, each movement building a tension deep within you that threatened to snap.

Your breaths came in shallow gasps, your fingers tightening in his hair as he continued his ministrations. Damian’s hands held you firmly, his thumbs stroking soothing patterns into your hips as if to anchor you to the moment. He was unyielding in his purpose, every flick of his tongue and gentle suction driving you closer to the edge.

“You’re exquisite,” he murmured against you, his voice husky and low. The vibrations of his words sent another wave of pleasure crashing through you, your thighs trembling around him as you struggled to contain the building intensity.

“Damian,” you gasped, his name a prayer on your lips. He looked up briefly, his gaze meeting yours, and the sight of his flushed cheeks and the glistening evidence of his devotion only heightened your desire.

“You deserve this,” he whispered, pressing a kiss to your thigh before resuming his focus. His pace quickened, his tongue moving with more urgency as he sensed you nearing your release. The tension coiled tighter and tighter within you until it became unbearable, a white-hot crescendo that left you crying out his name as you shattered beneath his touch.

He didn’t stop, drawing out every aftershock of your pleasure with gentle, soothing strokes of his tongue. When you finally stilled, your body spent and trembling, Damian pressed a final kiss to your thigh before moving back up to you. His lips found yours in a kiss that was both tender and passionate, the taste of your release lingering on his tongue as he poured his love into every movement.

“You’re incredible,” he murmured against your lips, his voice filled with awe and affection. You smiled softly, your hands cradling his face as you pulled him closer, the connection between you deeper than ever.

Damian’s lips remained a whisper away from yours, his forehead pressed to yours as your breaths mingled in the charged stillness between you. His hands, calloused yet tender, caressed your sides with a deliberate slowness, his touch leaving trails of heat across your bare skin. The silk bedding beneath you cradled your body, but it was his presence above you that truly anchored you to the moment.

“You have no idea what you do to me,” Damian murmured, his voice rough with restraint yet dripping with raw desire. His emerald eyes burned with intensity, their glow softened only by the deep affection he reserved solely for you. The contrast was dizzying—his unrelenting strength and the reverence with which he touched you.

“I think I do,” you whispered, your voice trembling as your hands roamed over his sculpted back, tracing the lines of muscle beneath his taut skin. Your legs wrapped around his waist instinctively, pulling him closer as the heat between you grew unbearable. “You’re mine, Damian. And I’m yours.”

The declaration hung between you, heavy with unspoken promises and an unwavering truth. He captured your lips in a searing kiss, his body pressing against yours as though he couldn’t bear to be apart from you even for a moment. His arousal pressed insistently against your core, the heat of him making you ache with longing.

Slowly, Damian’s hand slid down your side, pausing briefly to brush his thumb over the sensitive curve of your hip before settling at your thigh. He gripped you firmly, his fingers digging into your skin just enough to leave a pleasant sting as he guided your leg higher around his waist. The motion brought him closer, the hard length of him rubbing against you in a way that sent sparks skittering across your nerves.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he said softly, his voice edged with concern but weighted with need. His other hand cupped your cheek, his thumb stroking along your jawline in a soothing rhythm as he waited for your response.

“It’s not,” you breathed, your voice catching as you tilted your head to press a kiss to his palm. “I need you, Damian. All of you.”

The words were all the encouragement he needed. His lips claimed yours again, the kiss hungry and consuming as he began to move. With a deliberate slowness that spoke of both his control and his desire to savor the moment, he positioned himself at your entrance. The blunt head of his arousal pressed against you, the heat and pressure drawing a gasp from your lips.

“Look at me,” he murmured, his voice like velvet, rich and commanding. You met his gaze, the green of his eyes deepened by the flickering light of the brazier. He held your stare as he began to push into you, the stretch and fullness stealing your breath.

“Damian,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders as your body adjusted to him. The sensation was overwhelming, a delicious ache that left you trembling beneath him. He paused, his jaw tight as he fought for control, his hands steadying you with their grounding touch.

“You feel…” He trailed off, his words swallowed by a groan as he finally seated himself fully within you. “Perfect.”

The word sent a rush of heat through you, and you arched against him, your body pressing closer in silent encouragement. Slowly, he began to move, his hips rolling in a rhythm that was both unhurried and devastatingly precise. Each thrust sent waves of pleasure rippling through you, building a fire in your core that burned hotter with every moment.

Damian’s lips never left your skin, his kisses trailing from your mouth to your jaw, down your throat, and across your collarbone. He worshiped every inch of you with his mouth and hands, his devotion written in every deliberate movement. The sound of his ragged breaths and low groans filled the room, mingling with the soft gasps and moans that spilled from your lips.

“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough and reverent. “So perfect. I could spend a lifetime like this and never get enough of you.”

The sincerity in his words left you breathless, your heart swelling with emotion even as your body burned with desire. You clung to him, your legs tightening around his waist as he quickened his pace, his thrusts growing deeper and more intense. Each movement sent pleasure coursing through you, the tension in your core coiling tighter and tighter until it was almost unbearable.

“Damian,” you gasped, his name falling from your lips like a prayer. “I’m so close.”

His green eyes darkened, his gaze locking onto yours as he adjusted his angle, the new depth sending you hurtling toward the edge. “Let go,” he urged, his voice thick with passion. “I’m right here. I’ve got you.”

The words were your undoing. Your release crashed over you like a tidal wave, leaving you crying out as your body shuddered beneath him. The pleasure was blinding, every nerve ending alight as you clung to him, your nails raking down his back in a desperate attempt to anchor yourself.

Damian groaned, his movements becoming erratic as he followed you over the edge. He buried himself deep within you, his body trembling as he released with a low, guttural sound that sent a fresh wave of heat through you. His hands gripped your hips, his fingers leaving indents in your skin as he rode out the aftershocks.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the mingled rhythm of your breaths as you clung to each other, your bodies still tangled together. Damian pressed a soft kiss to your temple, his lips lingering there as he whispered, “You’re everything to me.”

The words settled deep in your heart, their weight a promise you knew he would always keep. You smiled softly, your hands brushing through his damp hair as you murmured, “And you’re everything to me.”

Damian shifted slightly, careful not to break the connection between you as he gathered you in his arms. He held you close, his warmth a comfort as you basked in the afterglow of your shared passion.

You could feel his fingertips tracing the intricate designs on your skin, each delicate touch sending a wave of warmth through you until they paused at your wrist. There, he traced the hidden initials.

You chuckled softly, your voice a whisper. "You knew they were there all along, didn’t you?"

A faint smile played on his lips, his voice low and velvet-like as he responded, “You underestimate me, beloved.” He pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head before his fingers moved, entwining with yours, as if marking the moment, forever sealed between you.

As the night deepened, you both drifted into sleep, held in the quiet strength of each other’s embrace, knowing without a doubt that you would never face the world alone again.

I hope you all enjoyed this! I drew a lot of inspiration from the many Henna parties I have attended over the years, I know that these span over many different countries and cultures, but I mainly focused on the Arab traditions as that is what I am most familiar with

#damian wayne x reader #damian al ghul x reader #damian wayne x female reader #damian wayne smut

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