synopsis: you and damian just got arranged married by the league, having grown up promised to each other. it would be so cliche to have sex on your wedding night, right?
warnings: nsfw - smut (uh bro… fingering, they do the deed..)
a/n: this is such an old draft idea but i got inspired now.. ofc cannot thank you guys for your endless patience with me :( i hope you guys enjoy this soo much and i will def try to be more active. also will i ever stop writing paragraphs about damian’s upbringing? prob never 😛 ILY GUYS SO MUCH SRRY AGAIN BUT IM BACKK
marriage, to the league, was duty. honour. never romance. never choice, and certainly never desire.
compassion was weakness. dependency was decrepitude. fatal.
these ideas had been drilled into damian wayne’s skull long before he had ever even learnt how to hold a sword properly. talia al ghul had spoken it to him everyday in the way other parents said goodnight— casually, habitually, as though it was an indisputable principle.
hypocritically, the same league upheld one of the greatest vows of dependency— marriage— and stripped the union of all the elements that made it an intimate attachment, instead transforming it into an obligation the heir owed; thus, damian knew very well the inevitability he would eventually have to accept.
you were the inevitability.
the two of you had been promised to each other before either of you even knew what the concept of marriage meant— two prodigies raised under the same roof of sharpened steel and impossible expectations; two children who sparred like enemies and bled for validation competitively like rivals.
neither of you had good examples of such a union growing up, but still, along the way, swallowed the resentment for it to uphold duty.
the arranged marriage was simply the league’s idea of ‘uniting strong bloodlines’, but the two of you had understood the subtext early: as trainees, the two of you were meant to sharpen each other; as teenagers battling for dominance, the two of you were meant to break each other; and eventually, as young adults? the two of you were meant stand beside each other.
neither you nor damian liked the idea, but it was childish to even think for a moment of your own feelings about the fated entanglement.
it was even more frustrating to damian that you were the one person he couldn’t intimidate; couldn’t out-discipline; couldn’t fully ignore. the one who beat him in drills when he got careless. the one who mocked him when he slipped. the one who smirked when he got scolded to behave properly as the heir. the one he was meant to spend a lifetime with. the one who was in the same boat as him regardless of it all.
it always lurked in the back of his mind: every spar. every function. every league formality, forced to attend together.
as much as you enjoyed getting under his skin and being superior, he bested you too, and often. then you would have the same thought that either mellowed or worsened down the aggression— he would be your husband.
it wasn’t hatred; not quite, and it certainly was not affection. it was something coiled between those extremes— a rivalry inherited and cultivated, seeped into every look, every spar, every word exchanged since childhood. perhaps it was something even more troubling— understanding.
even after damian temporarily left the league for gotham, adopting the name ‘wayne’ more solidly than ‘al ghul’, your existence remained a quiet constant. not only mentally in his thoughts every night as he imagined you training tirelessly back at the league (thoughts he’d shake his head to remove), but even physically when he’d visit— a shadow trailing beside his in every corridor, an echo of his past, and a cruel reminder that his future had already been decided for him.
so when the elders finally declared the alliance formally, when the engagement was announced without either of you being consulted, neither of you protested. you both knew it was coming— just not so soon.
the two of you were barely nineteen.
of course, damian was not joyous. neither were you. he had simply treated it like another mission he’d have to complete perfectly. duty.
the ceremony was perhaps the closest thing to torture, and though the both of you had been trained to endure it, nothing could’ve prepared either of you for the awkwardness during it. the big event, the festivities, the traditions, the elders, the deceit, the political aspect of it all— the closeness.
when the vows were spoken; when your fingers brushed his as the rings were exchanged; when your face softened for the briefest second at the feeling of calloused fingers meeting each other, damian felt something unfamiliar stir inside him.
something dangerous. something not sanctioned by the league. something nothing in his training had prepared him for.
for the past few months before the ceremony, you had seen damian quite a lot, but that didn’t eliminate the emptiness for the years he spent away before that in gotham after growing up together. he got to get away and you bound him. he had to have held resentment for that. you knew.
now, in your forcibly shared grand bedroom on your wedding night with the doors locked, guards dismissed, and a lingering tradition older than either of your bloodlines weighing in the air, the two of you stand facing each other like opponents, as you both did before sparring as kids.
promised to each other since childhood: sparring partners, reluctant allies, competitive rivals, both raised to believe marriage would eventually be another battle to win.
and somehow, through all the bruises and victories, you grew into the only person he could never fully beat.
so the moment you step to the other corner of the room, near the vanity table, and begin to remove your heavy jewellery, damian truly realises you are unbeatable.
the tension in the room is heavy. the room is hot. the silence is deafening. damian’s eyes linger on the way your fingers meticulously remove the expensive earrings; his posture rigid, shoulders locked, jaw set. his breathing is shallow but controlled: guarded and tense. his emerald eyes are too dark and too sharp for someone supposedly indifferent, and the moment your eyes find his in the mirror, he stupidly looks away. he berates himself for the clear give-away. the night has not been easy on the heir.
you break the silence first.
“strange, isn’t it? finally getting married,” your voice is low and controlled, carefully detached, eyebrows raised as if to ask for a penny for his thoughts, watching his expression through the mirror. tactical.
you both know what lingers in the air. the two of you had been lectured on it before in your own time.
marriages are meant to be consummated. completed. affirmed. sealed.
damian allows his head to return to your gaze in the mirror, chin tilted downward, on guard. his eyes narrow. just slightly. just enough for you to notice.
“strange implies a lack of inevitability.”
his voice is low and straight to the point, lacking infliction, disguising all emotion.
and he is right— both of you always knew this would happen. eventually.
but neither of you knew just what it would feel like. and both of you were about to find out.
you let out an unamused hum, instead moving your hands back to begin unzipping your heavy, extravagant dress, wanting to be out of it as soon as possible.
damian’s eyes expand for a millisecond before he snaps his eyes away, down, anywhere but at you. eventually they return when you begin to pace around the room with your hands stretching oddly to try to pull the tight zipper down. his head doesn’t move but his eyes follow you, watching you struggle silently.
he’s no knight in shining armour. he’s not chivalrous. he has no reason to want to assist you. he knows you’re capable enough, you always have been, and would probably refuse his help anyway. it shouldn’t be that hard anyway.
but yet you continue to struggle, shoulders lifting in annoyance as you silently struggle, while the zipper refuses to budge. at that point, damian cracks.
he sighs exasperatedly, eyes narrowed and lips contorted in a grimace as he takes big, languid steps forward to reach you.
“showing incompetency in such trifling matters is abysmal,” he breathes out, eyes dropping to your back as his hands nudge yours away and pluck the zipper in between his fingers, rowdily tugging on it to free it from the fabric. “does marriage abruptly make you abandon all prior ability?” he quips, voice low.
you immediately scoff but allow him to help, arms falling to your sides, hand twitching at the warmth his hands radiate. “absolutely,” you joke back humourlessly, voice restrained, teeth grit. “just following tradition as we should, no?” you spit wittily.
you hear damian’s shallow breath waver.
“if you think marriage means that i am suddenly at your mercy, then you are gravely mistaken.”
you suck in a sharp inhale. god, he is being infuriating, and it is even worse because you know him. you know the front he puts on when he is on edge, and that is bothering. your nerves are on fire. his voice was so cold. so stiff. almost offended.
“don’t presume my intentions.”
the zip finally frees from being stuck in the fabric with damian’s forceful tug. it slides down. way too much. way too quick.
damian’s eyes drop. he sucks in a breath. his hand freezes, fingers absently gripping the zipper.
it’s dead silent for a long moment. when damian’s fingers don’t move, your heart begins to race. what’s wrong with him? you’re about to speak when damian interrupts instead.
his voice is rough and hoarse. “to be clear, nothing has changed.” the defensiveness is prevalent in his barely stoic words, his usual gruff tone.
you can’t help but respond instantaneously. “yeah, only that everything’s changed.”
damian’s eye twitches. his fingers remain lingering at the curve of your spine. “we agreed not to indulge.”
you fire back swiftly. “we’ve made no agreements.”
damian sucks in a deep breath. his eyes flutter shut, eyelashes falling unfairly long against the top of his cheeks. he shouldn’t. he has never before, and he shouldn’t now. he does not know how to.
when his dark emerald eyes open and fall on the nearly exposed expanse of your back, he realises that his other hand had been resting on your shoulder. with the zipper open and sleeves drooping, he can feel the softness of your skin. he lets out a restrained, shaky exhale.
you can feel it. he knows you can feel it. the strain in his touch— the way the calloused pads of his fingers linger cautiously and hesitantly at the velvety skin on your shoulder. you can feel the tight attempt to control his breathing, the need to remain calm, and the way he fails.
your own heart races in your chest. you let the silence linger, uncertain on what to say or do, until the pads of damian’s fingers finally plant onto your skin with enough force to declare their presence. you almost flinch when damian’s low, grating voice follows.
“yes, we did,” he adds to the previous conversation. “since we have both known the conditions from birth,” he pauses. “and now— you are making things difficult,” he accuses blatantly, barely able to keep his tone steady and infliction-less. your lips part in offence at his words. you slowly twist towards him, head tilting to narrow your eyes at him.
“i’ve done nothing. you helped by choice.”
“you were struggling pathetically.”
“when have you ever cared about that?”
damian’s eyelashes flutter as he half-blinks exasperatedly. he takes in a deep breath. he lets his intense eyes persist on yours enough for you to notice them in concerning detail— the deep, rich emerald colour, and the pretty flecks of gold that decorate the edges. he is simply, undeniably beautiful, and for someone not used to possessing things in their life, he is unmistakably yours.
for the first time, something is yours. someone. atop that, someone unjustly irresistible.
it seems damian is thinking the same thing.
damian’s fingers tighten around your shoulder and you take the sign, hesitantly turning more to face him. your eyebrows twist upwards, big eyes finding his.
he hates how his pulse spikes when you look at him.
he hates that he’s wanted you since you were fourteen and beat him in a spar you weren’t supposed to win. he hates that the league chose you for him, because it means his desire feels predetermined, like a weakness planted in him by someone else. but most of all? he hates that he no longer hates you. at all.
“we do not owe anything to each other,” he exhales under his breath, just for himself, but you seem to hear.
“obviously,” you mumble. “you seriously cannot be considering fulfilling a pathetic old custom. are you that much of the league’s lapdog?” you roll your eyes, but the idea prickles under your skin. pollutes your brain. and so does his touch.
“i refuse—” damian takes in a deep breath, voice toneless. “i refuse to allow you to reduce my stature to the degree of acting on a platitude.”
you scoff, this time fully turning to face him. damian can’t help when his eyes drop to the loosened neckline of your dress at your cleavage— how it dips tauntingly. he forces his eyes to return to your challenging gaze.
“we’re not living in the nineteen hundreds, wayne. we don’t have to follow every tradition.”
“we were born to,” damian counters, and you can hear how shallow his breathing has gotten.
“so what if this marriage was predetermined? that doesn’t mean we have to adhere to every pathetic custom.”
“you do not seem to understand,” he leans closer abashedly as if he cannot help himself, his head tilting so his breath hits your cheek. “i am trying—” he takes a deep breath. “not to.. want more than i am permitted.”
your heart drops to your stomach. there’s a strange, unusual sensation in between your legs. you gulp, throat suddenly dry. “and what is it,” your breath shakes. “you want?”
when damian does not respond, you push. “apart from convention?” you almost whisper, vulnerable in front of the boy you’d grin if you made bleed as a kid.
damian shakes his head, downright pathetic. he closes his eyes, eyebrows crinkled with tension and embarrassment. his eyelashes tickle your skin.
“i have been forced to think about you for more than a decade.” damian’s heart aches with how pathetic he feels. “you must know how you have ruined me, since i will never tell you.” his words are pushed out begrudgingly.
damian expects you to call him crazy, but instead you step closer toward him until your bodies brush, and that is somehow worse. everything tightens. his breath. his shoulders. his whole composure.
your voice is a low whisper. “and what you’ve done to me?” your face is so close to his. “you even left me.”
damian suddenly decides he’s heard enough of you with the way his mouth finds yours, sudden and careless, yet meticulous and planned in the way you can tell he has probably considered this idea multiple times in his head the moment the two of you entered his room. he breathes you in as he keeps his lips puckered around you in one long kiss, before breaking away as if he’s been burned.
his hand is tight on your shoulder as he pulls back, lips parted as he breathes heavily, looking at you with sharp, frustrated eyes as if you assaulted him first.
your own chest heaves in nervousness, eyebrows pinched upwards in shock and disbelief. that happened. he kissed you.
damian watches you for a long moment, having forced a weak distance between the two of you. his hand slides down your shoulder, fingers grazing your skin until he pulls it away, fingers curling into a fist. his eyebrow raises cautiously, eyes searching yours.
“i am above this,” he tries, voice breathy and quiet. he holds himself like someone who knows how to control ten thousand instincts at once, but desire? vulnerability? affection?
you scoff. you subconsciously step closer, matching his defensive gaze. “above this? then what is on your level?” you spit, heart thrumming against your chest. “being an extension of those who treat sanctity as duty?
“is that not what you’d prefer?”
youe eyebrows furrow, an offended scoff leaving youe mouth. “of course not, is that what you would prefer?”
damian’s jaw clenches. his eyes dig into yours. you take another daring step forward, just to taunt him, when his hand slides down to your waist, jerking you closer. not harsh, not aggressive, but simply a raw, sharp, unfiltered action. it makes your eyes widen.
“i would prefer you want me.”
your lips part, wide eyes blinking in surprise. your cheeks tint pink, hazy gaze falling to his lips. damian meets your idea halfway, fisting the fabric at your waist and pulling your mouth to his with a sound he’d kill before admitting he made.
his lips meet yours harder than before, like he’s genuinely been holding back. his hand moves up to cradle your face, tilting it so he has a better angle to kiss you deeper. your own hands find his collar and tug him closer, lips parting and enclosing around his as if starved. the kiss is hot and aggressive, mouths gliding against each other, teeth clashing, tounges plunging into each others mouths to filthily twist and twirl around each other. it’s clumsy and sloppy, but somehow, it’s perfect.
a lifetime in the league, deprived of physical connection and depraved by rational pragmatic ideas, all amalgamating into an incoherent chaos of foreign unbridled desire and proclivity.
mid-kiss damian’s hand fists more and more of your dress, the fabric bunching up at your waist, gliding up your leg up till your thigh. he lets out a shaky exhale into the kiss, his lips pausing against yours to savour the feeling. the squelching sound of the kiss breaking rings in your ears and you feel flush with damian’s sharp gaze on yours, his emerald eyes searching yours.
“i have spent my entire life being told attachment is weakness,” he murmurs, voice dark and quiet. his hand continues to move your dress up, other hand hovering over your thigh. “but now, standing in front of you, all i want is to be allowed to be weak.”
you can’t help but press your body against his in return. your eyes bore into his dark, enlarged pupils. “who else could you be weak with if not your wife?”
damian seems to lose it at that comment, because in a second, you’re pushed back onto the bed— a little rougher than intended, but not carelessly. his hand supports the back of your head as he continues to press plush, sloppy kisses to your mouth, his other hand shoving your dress up fully. instead, you push it down, completely taking it off, in which he assists you once he gets the hint.
damian’s eyes loiter over your exposed skin as if he has been starved, lips slightly parted at the sight of you in your underwear. there’s small scars here and there, he recognises, probably from sparring with him. or after.
he kisses your neck. your collarbone. his hands push down your bra, greedily feeling up your chest, before sliding down. his hand finds your thigh, caressing it, and then pulling the plushness of it to the side so he can trail his fingers to the crotch of your underwear, and take in a deep breath at how soaked it is.
“you degrade me for following tradition,” damian’s voice is low, near your cheek. his middle finger glides up and down your slit over your underwear. “but you do not seem to mind that much.”
your eyes snap to glare at him, cheeks hot pink. “i can feel you against my thigh.” damian hears your words and presses his growing bulge harder against your skin.
“because it is no more ceremony to me.”
damian doesn’t let you register his words, instead kissing you so hard your brain feels fuzzy. at the same time, his fingers slide your underwear to the side, hesitating for a moment before pressing between your folds, easily slipping up and down.
his mouth stays against yours, head tilting to get a better angle to lap your tongue in your mouth, lips glued to yours, savouring the opportunity to have you after years of frustration, always wondering why he felt so differently with you than with others he despised.
his fingers glide easily in between your soaked folds, letting them get equally as wet. when you let out a small sound of impatience, his thumb places flat on your peeking clit, the middle finger sliding inside.
“there you are,” he breathes, pulling away enough to look down at the way his finger pushes in and out of your sopping hole. “horrible to know how delightful you have been behind all those snarky comments during training.”
that makes your cheeks burn hot. you tug him down. “horrible to discover that you’re not only good with swords,” you press a firm kiss to his mouth. “but also your fingers.”
damian’s eyes lock onto yours in a daze, genuinely feeling his heart race in a way it has never before. he adds his index finger into your pulsing hole, helping stretch you out. his fingers twist and move in and out, a soft squelching sound filling the room, combining with every wet sound of a smooch.
damian works you open with his long fingers until you let out shaky low breaths akin to whines. “do it,” you whimper, keeping nervous eye contact.
damian’s eyebrows raise, fingers still pushing deeper in. “do it?” he leans closer, clicking his tongue.
“consummate this marriage?” he whispers against your ear, almost shy himself. “cement it with more than just blood? selfishly claim you?”
your entire face feels hot as his fingers start hitting deeper inside, bullying you now. “bold of you to assume that when i’m the one claiming you.”
you hear his breath hitch in real time. you feel the heat crawl up his neck.
his forehead drops to your shoulder. his fingers slide out, hands clumsily moving to undo his pants, shoving them down. you try to look down but he’s too heavy against you.
thick hard mushroom tip against your entrance. he pulls away to look at you with narrowed eyes, glaring with his pretty brown skin shining red.
“i have the title,” he tries, the retort weak, his hand positioning his length properly, being careful to not hurt you. “i claim,” he breathes, almost petulant. his tip slides up and down your pussy, gathering slick.
you almost smile. “you wish.” you look down at his pretty brown cock, red mushroom tip, long and neat, feeling butterflies in your stomach.
he slowly nudges the tip forward. damian’s eyes flutter shut for a moment, eyebrows furrowing as he feels your body protest the entrance, before your arousal makes way for him, allowing him to slip his head inside your pink opening. one of his hands digs into your hip, gripping, the other holding his base as he smoothly moves the rest in, bottoming out.
his pelvis stays against your lower abdomen for a moment before his hand moves down to hoist your thigh up more to bury himself deeper, manhandling you into a more fitting angle.
he twitches inside you at how warm you are around him. you feel him deep, deep inside— even stationary, edging just the right spot.
damian’s eyes open to find yours, searching. you nod, biting your lower lip. his hand moves up to hold your chin, watching your reaction closely as he pulls his long length out, before slowly thrusting back in, grinding his base against your thighs so you can feel him dig deep in.
your head falls back. you let out a small moan at the overwhelming new sensation.
“good,” damian breathes, feeling more and more turned on just by your expressions, thumb rubbing over your wet lip. “so possessive. clenching so hard around me.”
he pulls back, shallower this time, snapping his hips back, harder. almost mean. “and you called me a lapdog.”
your eyes find his, dark and hazy, lips parted to let out soft breaths. your head shakes a little, voice breathless and serious. “this is not for the act.”
he knows what you mean. you know he knows. you don’t have to elaborate.
his fingers tighten around your jaw. he leans forward, eyes heavy with unspoken words. “do you want to break me even more?” he breathes out, chest heaving up and down, hips pulling back and snapping forward, lodging his cock up into your pussy at the perfect angles, careful yet punishing at the same time, taking his time to savour the way your walls take him in. “of course you do. you cruel, cruel woman. always cruel, even as a child. making me think of you even when i was away.”
he pulls away again as his eyes move down to watch the way your hole sucks in his cock, thrusting harder and building up speed now, mesmerised by the sight of your folds around his length, seeing himself disappear into you. it makes him feel things that make his stomach churn.
you physically cannot respond, the feeling of his thrusts building up. your fingers dig into the sheets, hole clenching tighter and tighter, feeling the urge in your abdomen form. it doesn’t help that damian’s thumb moves down over your clit, right on top of it, pushing it around as if it’s his personal plaything. he continues to fiddle with it and your thighs twitch.
he hums, leaning closer, the act breaking even further as his thrusts get harder and deeper, but clumsier. the intimacy builds— they are still careful, but sloppier, more clingy, keeping himself inside you for longer to feel you tighten around him.
it takes a few more harshly calculated thrusts for your release to hit hard. you gasp the moment you feel yourself snap, thighs lifting up, squirming, whining as thick creamy liquid slips out from the sides of damian’s cock, coating him.
his palm places on your lower belly, the other holding your thigh up as he continues fucking into you, watching your face and pussy with pleasure. he feels his own orgasm build, his breathing much heavier, lips curled in distress. he pumps harder again and again to help you ride out your high before letting out a barely audible groan and pulling out. his hand pumps three times before he’s spilling out onto your dress beside you, panting himself.
when he regains his senses, his eyes widen as they find yours, and you’re luckily too busy panting to notice him ruining your literal wedding gown. instead your thighs snap shut as you writhe in the afterpleasure, twisting your face into the pillow from the overwhelming remnants of your release.
as soon as damian’s done, his hand moves to push your hair out of your face. “wait.”
he moves off of you to grab a towel from the shared bathroom, taking your dress to the wash and then walking back to the bed to gently part your thighs, clinically cleaning you and himself up. he returns again, laying on his side beside you after disposing of the towels, pants pulled back up.
damian feels an odd mix of fulfilment yet with a strange disposition. he never thought the night could ever end up like this. never outside of his sickest fantasies. he turns to you, watching your tired breathing, chest heaving up and down. his finger moves out to trace over your collarbone, voice low and almost soft for once in his life.
“our marriage has been consummated.” you can hear the smirk in his voice.
“use that word again and i will divorce you.” your eyes are closed, snatching the covers further over yourself.
“you know you cannot.” damian’s eyes stay on your resting face. he sounds like he is almost smiling tjis time. almost. you cannot tell. you would not know how to either, because he never smiles.
you pause, just breathing for a moment. processing.
“goodnight, husband.” you mumble, pretend irritation in your voice.
the way damian’s voice softens in his response is painfully obvious.
