Work Text:
Damian Wayne’s first time. When asked, he would fumble—for once in his life—and sputter, face an embarrassingly nervous shade of pink. His hands would tremble ever so slightly.
He was fifteen, a boy with a crush he would never admit. Not only were crushes practically a one way ticket to distraction, which would heavily displease Batman—but this girl was older. Not by much, he rationalizes, just enough to make him keep the story to himself.
Stood in the spotlight, subject to his siblings’ teasing remarks, Damian feels his heart racing, his palms beginning to sweat, his eyes averting to the wall just offside of Dick’s head.
He is very sure that he has not felt such shame—such… perverse longing disguised as nostalgia—and guilt at reliving the day, the emotions clinging to his skin like droplets of dew on blades of grass.
As a more… advanced student during his schooling years (which feel oh so long ago, now that he’s 19), he often found himself in classes with those in grades above his, often leading to either ridiculing or jealousy.
Especially ridiculing.
So, when a cute upperclassman (who he would never admit was the subject of his admirations…) asks ever so politely for him to teach her what she’s struggling with in mathematics, who is he to say no? You were so sincere when asking, too, which made it much easier for him to say yes, not fearing a juvenile prank from his, in his words, ‘unevolved classmates.’ The boy has a way with words, one must admit.
He had come to your house, let you lead him to your room, legs shaved, soft, shiny… The thoughts had seized his mind before he realized you were waiting for him to join you on your bed.
‘I can handle this,’ he’d repeated internally, nodding as if it would save him from his achingly obvious awkwardness.
The two of you sat there for a long while, you next to him, glossing over math problems. After a bit, you had shifted, focusing on him in a more obvious way.
Had you been waiting? How long had you been staring at him? Was he missing something? Did—
Your lips had pressed to his, promptly silencing the thoughts that flooded his mind beforehand.
Oh.
Damian, in all his glory, had never felt that. Sure, he knew what kissing was. But it wasn’t like he had ever done it! He was busy being Robin, busy with school, busy… being awkward and shying away from the girls in his classes who were older and confident and probably with men older than them by at least a year. Damian Wayne felt out of place.
But, when you shifted, laying yourself down in increments to ensure that he would follow your lips, Damian decided he could be a man too. He decided, in fact, that this was a way to improve his maturity and skills. Nevermind the fact that your lips had tasted of cherry, your hands soft and leading and curling in his unruly hair, your body warm where it had ended up beneath his.
Maybe he was doing it for the sake of crime fighting, maybe he was just a selfish teen boy, who knows (he knows, he has confirmed it was selfish. Though, he only confirmed this after hours of pestering and much to his chagrin).
Either way, he found himself atop you, bodies pressed against each other, shifting ever so slightly. Damian was sure you could tell he was a virgin—his lips were sloppy and either too fast or too slow, his hands were shaking and pressed to the bed like he was scared to touch you (he was), and your lips kept swallowing the pitifully nervous noises he was making.
You pulled back, stared at his face for a long while, and asked the dreaded question—“Damian, are you… a virgin?” You had let a grin slip onto your face as well. It certainly hadn’t helped matters. Maybe he was sensitive (is…), but it just felt as though you were mocking. So, he had pulled back, face pink, and scoffed.
“And? Plenty of people my age are. I don’t understand why it’s of such impo—“
You had cut him off, laughing. One of your hands pulled him back down, holding his hair, and you kissed him again, smiling. “It’s cute,” you had mumbled, nose caressing his skin. “I feel like I’m corrupting you. Can’t believe this is, like, your first time.” His flush deepened to a deep red, the heat of it creeping down his neck slowly.
He glared at you, hand finally latching onto your waist with fingers that were calloused in a way that made you curious, grip tight enough to bruise. Looking back, he chastises himself for being so eager. So… clingy. Whatever.
The past is the past.
He had murmured something, something you hadn’t quite caught. Your head tilted, brow raised, and he just stared back at you. “Must’ve been the wind, I suppose,” you huffed, eyes rolling. He remembers the way that little action had made him stiffen. Virginal boy he was, undone by a joke. Batman would be displeased, he had repeated, the phrase internalized, imbedded deep. However… he was looking at a pretty girl, not Batman, so past Damian was probably making the right choice. Correction: the sexier choice.
Once again, you and Damian had found yourselves in a rhythm. A sloppy one, clearly composed of a virgin and a girl he had considered too good for him. You let your hands pull him closer, intent on getting him out of his shell. He kept his body hovering slightly. Though, he wanted nothing more than to lay atop you, bodies pressed together, your legs wrapped around himself.
Creative imagination, this kid.
His lips, in a sudden burst of knowledge, had moved to your neck, attempting kisses and sucks. Hickeys were a thing of great research. Damian had been very curious before this all occurred. Bruce assumed puberty, Damian hid behind that excuse. Your fingers curled in his hair, tugging gently, until he groaned. Part of you had expected a whine, but no. Damian groans. It made your hips buck—much to his surprise and… fear? It had thrown him off mentally. He was unsure of what to do with this situation, with the information that you liked hearing his noises. Should he keep going? Should he be quiet? Are some noises good, some bad? Damian’s mind had raced a million miles a minute. Until, of course, you kissed him again.
He truly hadn’t even noticed that you had tugged him away from your neck until your tongue traced along the seam of his lips. That was new. Damian had jolted, then relaxed, lips parting just barely. He was receptive, just… scared. Nervous, really. “Sweet boy,” you had muttered, breaking apart just to get the words out, a small line of spit connecting your lips. Damian found it gross, but oddly enough, he didn’t care.
He wanted your lips back on his (effective immediately).
So, he took initiative, fingers drifting beneath the fabric of your shirt and curling possessively against your skin. His lips, once nervous, were demanding in nature, fervently pressing against yours until your lips parted. He did not attempt tongue—fear of embarrassment prevented him from being too bold. However, he did manage to nip at your bottom lip, smiling when your hips bucked. He was already getting used to the sensations—quick learner and all.
He maintained this awkwardly sexy kiss for a long while until you pulled off for air. Damian’s face—red from both lack of air and heated embarrassment—curled into a pout.
It didn’t stay that way for long; the moment you shifted to try and remove your shirt, his face lit up. Damian had seen porn (he was a fifteen year old boy, of course he had), but the real thing was different, more exciting.
New.
So, he let you, hands shaking as he attempted to be useful in some regard. Once off, bra exposed, Damian found himself waiting to see if you’d take it off as well. His face curled into that familiar pout again upon realizing you were keeping it on for that moment. It had made you giggle, head shaking.
“What?” You had questioned him, brow raised curiously.
His lips parted but no sound came out. He stared at you for a moment before speaking, barely getting a soft “please” out. One hand, his right, traced the section of rib beneath your bra.
You smiled, shifting up again. Resting on your elbows, Damian semi in your lap, you shrugged. “Take yours off. Fair’s fair,” you had argued, clearly just as eager as Damian, just better at hiding it.
That same eagerness flowing through his veins is the same reason he nearly flung himself in his effort to rip his shirt off. Now, Damian wasn’t a body builder or anything of the sort. However, being Robin did make a boy strong, and it showed. Your eyes had trailed, lingered, followed the dips and curves of what you believed was sculpted perfectly. You didn’t ask how or why or what amount of time Damian spent in the gym. You just accepted it, liked it, and then moved to take your bra off, as you had promised to Damian as repayment for him taking his shirt off.
Once your bra came off, Damian lit up, eyes already glued.
For all his wit, he is easily distracted. By breasts, of all things, but alas.
His hand shakily came up to rest on your ribcage. He debated asking, debated just placing, wondered if you even liked that.
‘Do girls want boys touching their boobs? Do only guys like doing it? Is that a guy thing? Am I weird?’
He had decided it wasn’t weird—that he wasn’t weird—and asked, courage mustered up awkwardly.
“Can I… touch your boobs?”
Bless his soul, he cringes upon recalling his phrasing. The awkwardness, the word choice, the bluntness. Not even a ‘please,’ for heaven’s sake.
You simply nodded, sparing him the embarrassment of pointing out his word choice while he sputtered to defend himself—or worse, laughing while he flushed a deep crimson that rivaled his Robin colors. It was almost mortifying. Except… he was too focused on the fact that he currently had your tit in his hand.
It was soft, fingers squeezing gently, nipples peaked beneath his touch. It was almost surprising to him. In a ‘wow, I did that’ way. Damian is not easily impressed—but something about your chest had him feeling proud of himself. Slowing down, he let his fingers linger, his left hand brushing your thigh.
“Damian,” you said softly, staring at him in a way he was sure was meant to disarm—it worked. The way you said his name had him fumbling. No girl had ever spoken to him this way, let alone while he had his hand on her breast. “Do you want your first time to be now?”
This part, specifically, is one very fond memory for Damian. He recalls it with much contentment. You had always been highly sweet both to and on him, especially in this moment. He remembers his heart, swelling (along with his achingly hard cock).
Nodding erratically, Damian had let his grip tighten, fingers nearly dug into your skin. Then, upon realization, he relaxed, clearing his throat in an effort to appear nonchalant. It hardly worked, but you spared the poor boy.
“Then let me take your pants off,” you whispered, pulling him back down, lips near his ear. “That okay?”
‘Much much much more than okay,’ he wanted to say. Damian was, however, very stubborn and liked to pretend he was much calmer than he was. He finds himself doing it to this day, in fact, funnily enough. “Yeah, that’s—that’s fine,” he mumbled, shifting his legs to try and help. He only made an ass of himself, nearly kicking you. Luckily it had made you laugh instead of angering you. Your hands, calm and gentle, unbuttoned his pants, taking your time to unzip them. Damian remembers the way it had tortured him. Looking back, he was sure you weren’t doing it intentionally, just trying to help. He wished you had just torn them off.
He let you keep going, eyes staring down at your tits still.
(What? A man can’t enjoy the view?)
“Am I supposed to—“
You shook your head, effectively silencing whatever he wanted to say, and pushed his pants slightly down his hips. “Just let me take care of it, don’t worry,” you assured him. “It’s your first time. Not mine. Let me make it good.”
Safe to say, Damian was sure he was gone, brain melted. He was (is) a very bright boy, but your voice had hit him like a freight train. He was not complaining. Not then, not now. Nodding, he let you take over, hovering and shifting where you needed, nervous. Eventually, you had sat up, gesturing for him to lie down. He did, of course, lie down, but his heart was racing, pounding against his chest.
Your body settled above his, legs spread over his hips to straddle him, as you placed both hands on either side of his abdomen. He felt semi-exposed with shirt off and his pants opened. That thought died down when you moved your hands and started shifting out of your own bottoms, thumbs catching the waistband of both your pants and your underwear, sliding them down.
It took a moment, the position slightly awkward, but you managed, your bare body pressed against him. You were, to him, the prettiest woman he had ever seen.
Even now, years later, Damian struggles to find a good candidate for ‘prettiest girl’ that isn’t you (or his mother, he loves his mother).
You finally, after letting Damian wallow out of fear of rushing him, had pulled his boxers down. He wasn’t huge—he was fifteen, after all—but goodness he was pretty. Average, a little thicker than most, golden in the way the rest of his perfectly tanned skin was, black hairs coily and surprisingly more well-mannered than the unruly hair on his head.
Your body slid forward, resting above him, waiting. “You okay?” He nodded immediately, desperate. His hips almost jerked up, but he decided he wouldn’t allow himself to let that happen—too embarrassing. You thought it was cute, evidently, smiling down at him.
Your body slowly pressed downward, your hand guiding him in, the other pressed to his chest. “You’re so smart, so big. I’ve had a crush on you for… forever,” you gasp, letting him enter inch by inch. It’s not hard, just stretching. He was wonderful, truly. The praise had swam in his head for ages. Not only were you boosting his ego with intelligence compliments, but physical ones? Damian had felt self-conscious about being with you in this way (because, surely you had been with ‘real’ men), but to hear you compliment him? It was as if part of him fed off of it. His hips jerked upward and you squeaked, pleasantly surprised. “Mhm, I mean it.”
You continued to sink until you were fully seated and he was twitching. It took a lot for him to relax enough for you to feel comfortable moving. Poor thing, you probably thought his head was going to explode with the way his hands, slowly reaching for yours, were shaking. He didn’t grab you, didn’t hold your hips, just reached for your hands. So, you held them, smiling.
You lifted up an inch. Held it a second. Then down again. Damian thought he saw heaven. Lifting up, then down, hips pressing to his oh-so-gently, you watched his face contort in pleasure, his usual expression giving way to one you had never seen—one of pure bliss. The movement was driving him crazy. It had practically killed him, then brought him back, the mental comparison sparking thoughts of Jason briefly. Was this what the Lazarus Pit felt like? Damian figured, if true, he would willingly go into the Pit.
His head was empty, his hands sweaty and holding onto yours, fingers entwined, his bucking helplessly. He was going to finish fast, he could feel it, much to his virginal chagrin. Finishing early is embarrassing, isn’t it? Or so he assumed.
He truly just hoped you wouldn’t make fun of him.
“Please, I—I think—“ He groans, voice cracking as he pouts, trying his hardest not to finish. It only worked for so long, his body giving in despite his stubbornness. You didn’t seem to mind, just continuing your actions, one hand squeezing his ever so gently.
His lips parted on a gasp, body twitching beneath you, as he came. It was a beautiful sight—eyes screwed shut, flushed pink cheek, sweat-coated chest heaving with large pants and gasps for air.
His cum inside you was hardly a problem—quite the opposite. It had come in spurts, warm and filling, coating you in a way you had only ever felt from Damian. It made you smile.
Pregnancy wasn’t a concern.
When Damian finally settled, softening cock twitching inside your warmth, you brushed a lock of hair off of his face. It must have moved there when he was losing his mind trying not to finish.
“‘M… sorry,” he mumbled. “I couldn’t…”
Poor, sweet boy. He hardly understood your lack of concern about his stamina. He was a virgin, after all. If anything, you were just happy he seemed really blissful about his first time.
“You’re cute.”
He remembered blushing, sputtering something, and then offering to help you. You said no, rolled off him, then curled into his side gently.
It was, Damian recalls, one of the best parts. After telling the story, he pauses, clearing his throat and flushing furiously, eyes averted still.
Well, that’s certainly one way to entertain.