Watercolor | Damian Wayne x Reader

                                    

                                          
Description: Damian tries a different angle when dousing your insecurities.
                          
Request: may we have some post coital action with damian pls
                          
Hello, I love your writing! May I request older!damian drawing his s/o nude pls?
                          
Words: 4428
                          
Notes: So, this time Jen and I wanted to try something different. That means that I wrote everything and then she edited it just to make it a little bit more smutty. Basically, we're just really thirsty for older!Damian at all times and we needed a way to vent. Definitely, heavily implied smut here folks.
                          
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You knew, that if the situation were reversed, Damian Wayne wouldn't hesitate to do what you wanted to do. If the sketchbook lying tantalizingly close to you was yours instead of his, he would leap at the chance to see what you had drawn. But that was the thing... This wasn't your sketchbook, it was Damian's.
                          
It was a simple, fair-sized book of sketch paper, kept together by spiral binding and two hard green covers. Anyone who didn't know Damian could have easily mistaken it for a normal book. But Damian carried this tool with him everywhere he went, just one part of his massive arsenal of mysteries that coerced you into attempting to solve him as a whole. The curiosity of all these little secrets surrounding him was what lead you to him. So, in short, this sketchbook was just another part of your beloved puzzle of a boyfriend that you needed to solve. Just thinking about it made your curiosity peak.
                          
So when Damian finally closes his sketchbook of mystery and slides it onto the coffee table to take a call, your fingers are wrapping around the spine the moment he's turned down the hall.
                          
If this was your sketchbook, you'd want no one ever opening the cover without your permission, even a significant other or family. Damian's response to your prying would not be good for his mood nor your relationship, so you decided that asking was always the best option. You looked around the doorframe at him,"Would you mind if flipped through your book?"
                          
Damian leaned against the hall's wall, phone to his ear and brows furrowed. The irritation in his expression was a stark contrast to his tone, which was filled with jest and an odd bubbliness. This was the voice of his true alter-ego; not Robin, but Damian Wayne, the playboy, billionaire's idiot son. You knew just by his face that the act was hard to keep together. With a distracted nod, he turned away and continued talking about this party he'd certainly not gone to.
                          
With his consent, you shot back into the parlor and settled into Damian's favorite armchair, book in hand and smile on face. There wasn't much to be surprised by. Damian was good at nearly everything—especially back-rubs and cuddling, as you'd reminded him a thousand times—so it wasn't a shock to see the detail and picture-like quality of each piece. It was all so realistic you felt you could peel a peach he'd drawn off the page and bite into it. What did come as a surprise, however, was what Damian drew.
                          
And that was, of course, mainly you.
                          
After a couple pages of Titus, Ace, Batcow, and Alfred the cat, came people. In with the bunch was a beaming Dick Grayson, caught half-way through a genuine laugh; an Alfred, studiously raising his trademark eyebrow-of-sass; a Bruce, looking on with nothing but pride on his face; a Talia, who appeared calm and loving. Then you.
                          
You, boredly reading on your phone in a gala dress, temple resting against the banister of the stairs. You, caked in mud and grinning madly. You, cupping someone's jaw—probably his—and kissing their cheek. You, annoyed but calm, holding Jon in a firm headlock as he shook with laughter. You, smiling casually with your hands stuffed in the pockets of your child-sized Robin jacket. By the time you'd reached the more recent sketches, your cheeks were aching from the smile cutting your face in two.