Batman Legacy
Copyright© 2025 by Uruks
Chapter 1
Action/Adventure Story: Chapter 1 - The origin story of Batman meant to capture the grit and spirit of the comics. This is just a fanfiction and is not meant for commercial use. While I do my best to honor the original story of Batman, I admit that it has my personal flair in it that you may notice if you're familiar with my work. I used AI to help me refine the book, but the dialogue, plot, and tone are all mine. I've always loved Batman and wanted to write my own fanfic that includes Gotham's full story and his legend. Enjoy.
Caution: This Action/Adventure Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Romantic Heterosexual Crime Fan Fiction Superhero Science Fiction
Jerusalem – The Middle Ages
The heat inside the surgeon’s tent was suffocating. Canvas walls trapped the stench of blood, rot, sweat, and bruised, humid air thick with the metallic sting of iron. Flies buzzed in maddening circles over buckets of pinkish water. The afternoon sun pressed down like punishment upon the crusader camp, and inside the tent, men screamed in French, German, Latin—every tongue carried the same agony.
Henri Ducard wiped his brow with the back of his sleeve, leaving a red streak across his forehead. He was young—barely twenty, but the labor had aged him. His frame was lean, hardened by years under the desert sun. His skin carried the mixed heritage of his birth—tawny from his Mongolian mother, bronzed darker by the crusader camps. His black hair was tied back with a strip of cloth, revealing a sharp jaw and bright green eyes that were too old for his youthful face—almond-shaped, observant, always a step too aware of human suffering.
Blood stained his hands to the wrists. His tunic, once white, now bore the permanent rust-red memories of a thousand cuts and a hundred deaths.
Beside him worked his mentor, Brother Matthieu, a man of fifty with kind eyes and rough hands. A stocky French monk with a thick gray beard and a permanent smell of incense and sweat, Matthieu served as both surgeon and priest—his leather apron dotted with burn marks and patches where he’d repaired it with whatever thread he could find. His hair was thinning, but his voice was steady, collected, soothing even in hell.
“Hold him still, Henri,” Matthieu muttered, voice gravelly from long nights without sleep.
Henri gripped the shoulders of a screaming knight as Matthieu pressed a heated iron brand to the stump of the man’s leg. The hiss of cauterizing flesh cut through the tent louder than the screaming. The knight arched backward, howling as steam curled upward like smoke from a sacrificial altar.
“Mother of Christ,” Henri breathed under his breath.
“Pray later,” Matthieu said. “Bandage now.”
They worked with speed born of grim routine. Henri wrapped the stump tightly, tying the linen so the bleeding slowed. The man passed out from pain, which at least spared him more suffering. Next came a man with a belly wound split open from hip to rib. Henri knelt, hands sinking into warm viscera as he tried to push torn organs back into place. Blood oozed between his fingers in thick, heated ropes. The man begged in Italian, voice gurgling as Matthieu pressed a cloth to his lips.
“We must close it,” Henri said.
“We cannot close what God has already opened,” Matthieu replied softly.
The man died minutes later. Henri closed his eyes, whispering a prayer as Matthieu drew the sheet over the corpse.
“For every life saved...” Henri murmured.
“Another is claimed,” Matthieu finished quietly.
They moved to the next cot—and froze. The knight lying there wore no battle wounds. His lips were blackened. His skin mottled in dark purple patches. His eyes stared upward sightlessly, as if death had boiled the life from within.
Matthieu recoiled, crossing himself. “The plague.”
Henri swore under his breath. They immediately pulled their scarves up over their faces, wrapping them tight against their mouths and noses. Matthieu barked orders to two attendants standing nearby.
“Quickly—burn the cot, the linens, the body. All of it. Now.”
The attendants rushed in, lifting the cot with the corpse with shaking hands and hurrying it outside toward the pyre already burning from earlier contagions. Henri held the tent flap open with his sleeve, refusing to breathe in as the body passed. Matthieu whispered a prayer, fingers trembling through the sign of the cross.
“God preserve this camp,” he murmured. “If plague spreads among the wounded...”
Henri didn’t need the rest explained. They would lose more than a few men. They would lose hundreds. He leaned against the support pole of the tent, letting out a shaking breath. Matthieu placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“Come, Henri. There is still work to do.”
And they returned to the blood. Hours passed. The sun dipped lower, the screams softened to groans, and the groans became silence. When the final bandage was tied, the final body burned, and the tent finally quieted, Henri collapsed onto a wooden bench outside. Night wind carried a merciful coolness. Matthieu settled beside him with two wooden cups and a skin of rum. Henri accepted his drink with a wry smirk.
“Have I mentioned how thankful I am that you are so lenient when it comes to the vices, Master?”
Matthieu chuckled, lifting his cup toward the stars. “May God forgive me,” he said, smiling through his exhaustion. “But I think I’ve earned a little vice this day.”
Henri clinked his cup against Matthieu’s and drank deeply, the burning liquid a welcome contrast to the metallic taste of fear and death lingering on his tongue.
And for a rare moment in that place of blood and ash, they simply sat—two surgeons, one old and one young, grateful to have survived another day in a world determined to break them.
Jerusalem – The Next Morning
Dawn crept slowly over the Crusader camp, the early light spreading in pale gold across the tangled clusters of tents and the weary remnants of an army that had bled itself dry in the Holy Land. The air was cold and thin, carrying the faint scent of smoke, sweat, and the ghost of yesterday’s agony. Henri Ducard—young, sharp-eyed, with the lean build of a man who’d spent more hours on his feet than in bed—stood outside Brother Mathieu’s surgeon’s tent, gathering his few belongings into a cloth satchel.
Henri’s dark hair curled slightly at the edges, still mussed from sleep, and a hopeful energy flickered in his features—an eagerness that no amount of carnage or hardship could quite extinguish. His hands moved with efficient practice, tying off the satchel, checking his knives, ensuring his bandages and medical tools were properly wrapped. Even now, amidst the grimness of war, there was a fire in him: determination, ambition, and something softer ... love.
Inside the tent, Brother Mathieu watched him with quiet fondness. The monk’s broad shoulders were still hunched from a lifetime bent over wounded men, his beard streaked with white, his eyes warm and heavy with years of both sorrow and triumph. He stepped forward, the wooden cross around his neck swaying gently.
“So there’s nothing I can do to change your mind?” Mathieu asked, voice roughened by age and too many long nights.
Henri looked up, admiration shining openly in his gaze. He loved this man—mentor, father, savior—but still he shook his head. “I’m afraid not, Brother Mathieu. While I love the Lord and the Church, I believe that God is guiding me to serve in another way.”
Mathieu snorted softly, though the sound carried humor more than reproach. “I’d say it’s more likely due to the charms of a woman than God’s will.”
Henri barked out a laugh, stepping close and gripping his mentor’s shoulders with genuine affection. “But does not God use the lovers as well as the brothers? After all...” He smirked lightly, “You would have no flock to tend without our work.”
Mathieu gave a short, barking laugh, patting Henri’s shoulder. “I suppose that’s true enough, young Henri. In fact ... in another life, I might’ve made the same choice.”
Henri blinked, interest piqued. “You once fell in love, Master?”
For a moment, Mathieu’s weathered face softened, going distant with youthful memory. “I’m not sure if it was more lust than love,” he admitted. “But it was ... stirring.”
Then he shook his head as though dispelling a spell. “But in the end, I came to accept God’s calling for my life.”
He stepped closer, gripping Henri’s arms with fervent sincerity. “Sora is a good woman. A righteous, Christian daughter of the good Lord.”
Henri’s features blossomed with that unmistakable glow—a young man wholly overtaken by love. “She’s all that and more. I’ve never met any woman with her kindness ... and her strength. She will make a good wife.”
Brother Mathieu’s eyes twinkled mischievously. “She’ll make a good mother, too. And with those marvelous hips of hers, you’ll never want for children.”
Henri flushed instantly, looking away in mortified scandal. “Master, sometimes I think you are as crude as the soldiers we tend to.”
Mathieu laughed loudly. “Nothing crude in the Lord’s truth! Sora is kind and righteous as we said ... but she is also beautiful and vital. These things bear consideration as well, do they not, young man?”
Henri shook his head, but he couldn’t stop the sly smirk tugging at his mouth. “I ... after seeing the kindness in her eyes, I ... did also notice the vibrancy of her form.”
Mathieu shoved him playfully, but his voice grew more serious, more weighted. “Henri, my son ... when I found you as an abandoned urchin all those years ago, I hoped—at least in part—that this day would come. The day I beheld true peace and happiness in your features.”
Emotion tightened his throat as he continued, “I am remiss that our order should be lacking of such a worthy servant of Christ, and such a talented surgeon, but—”
Henri placed a steadying hand on his arm. “The Church will not be lacking. I will still be a surgeon. I will still follow the Lord’s teachings. I will just ... not be so celibate.”
Mathieu let out a warm, shaking laugh and cupped Henri’s cheek with fatherly affection. “God go with you, my son. God go with you and Sora both.”
Henri bowed his head, pressing his forehead briefly to Mathieu’s knuckles in a gesture of gratitude older than either of them.
Then he picked up his satchel, straightened his shoulders, and stepped out into the bright morning—toward love, toward life, toward a destiny neither man could yet imagine.
Jerusalem – Later that Morning
The sun bathed Jerusalem in molten gold as young Henri Ducard stepped into the crowded streets, a pack slung over his shoulder and dust clinging to his boots. The Crusaders held the city—for now—and the bazaar pulsed with life as if eager to reclaim peace before the next storm of war. Stalls spilled into the streets, bright with fabrics and trinkets. Merchants bellowed, arguing over prices in a medley of tongues. The smell of roasted lamb mingled with incense, sweat, and horse dung.
Knights—fresh from a campaign that had left half their number buried in desert sand—celebrated loudly in the taverns, tankards raised high. Some staggered, red-faced, with prostitutes hanging from their arms, the women laughing with painted smiles. Children darted between crowds. Camels grumbled. A monk shouted at a pickpocket. It was chaos, vibrant and eternal.
Henri paused just inside the main square—and then his breath caught. Her. Sorana Rochechouart, though everyone called her Sora. She stood behind a modest merchant stall draped with simple wares—linen, carved charms, dried herbs—and sunlight seemed to cling to her. Golden hair spilled in soft curls past her shoulders, catching the warm glow until she looked haloed. Her eyes—green, bright, and playful—swept over the crowd with the ease of someone who belonged everywhere and nowhere.
She was tall and slender, her posture regal without trying to be. The faintest dusting of freckles brushed across her nose, lending innocence to a face already too lovely for the streets she stood in. Her simple dress of pale blue linen somehow made her more radiant, not less. She looked like she had stepped out of a troubadour’s song.
She had come from a branch of the Rochechouart merchant family—half French, half English nobility through scattered lines—but had left that life behind to make a holy pilgrimage. That was where she and Henri had met: him, desperate for help in the surgeon’s tent; her, leaping in without hesitation, ignorant of medicine but fearless in heart. It had been, as the old stories insisted, love at first sight.
And now—their eyes met across the market. For a heartbeat, both stood frozen. Then they moved. Henri pushed past a pair of arguing merchants. Sora dodged a lumbering camel. A group of drunken knights jostled them both, sending Henri stumbling sideways, but he never lost sight of her. They closed the distance with the clumsy urgency of two souls who had been waiting days, perhaps lifetimes, for this one moment.
At last, they reached each other. Henri barely had time to steady his footing before Sora crashed into him, arms flung around his shoulders. He laughed, breathless, spinning her once as she kissed him—quick, joyful, unstoppable.
He kissed her back for a heartbeat, then pulled away just enough to press his forehead to hers, chest rising and falling.
“Sora,” he said, almost chidingly. “You mustn’t rouse me so. It is not proper of us.”
Sora only giggled, stealing another kiss. “Is it not proper for a wife to kiss her husband?”
“Future wife,” he corrected, though the reprimand held no real strength.
She bounced on her toes, enthusiasm bubbling out of her. “But that is to be remedied today, yes?”
Henri glanced around and leaned in close, his voice lowering to a conspiratorial whisper. “Brother Matthieu has agreed to wed us tonight before we set out on our journey tomorrow. We’ll follow after the Crusader caravan back to England, where I will seek a posting as a physician for the King’s guard.”
Sora’s delighted laugh lit the air like bells. She hugged him fiercely, nearly knocking him off balance. This time, when she pulled him into a kiss, Henri surrendered entirely—his heart pounding, his hands sliding into her golden hair with a fierce, almost possessive tenderness. Her lips tasted like sunlight and courage. He broke away only when he remembered himself, running a trembling hand through her curls.
She tilted her head, studying him. “Henri ... why so pensive, my love?”
He exhaled, struggling to find the words. “A woman like you could woo your way into nobility. You are partially noble on your mother’s side. You could have a knight or even a lord. Why would you want a humble surgeon like me?”
Her eyes glinted with mischief and certainty. “A humble surgeon who also happens to be quite handsome—just as much as any knight or lord I’ve ever known.”
She closed the distance between them again, her voice softer now, intimate. “And knights can only use their blades to take life ... but you use yours to give it back. That alone was enough to win me.”
Henri felt helpless before her—swept up, undone. Her kiss landed on his cheek and then his lips, and he groaned under his breath.
“Confound it, woman,” he murmured, half amused, half tortured. “I mean for us to be pure before God when we take our vows. At this rate, you’ll muck everything up.”
She laughed, hugging him again with unabashed joy. “That is also what won me. You’re sweet when you act so pious.”
And Henri could only smile—because she was right. And because, God help him, he was already hers. Sora worked quickly to shutter her stall, sliding wooden panels into place and tying down the canvas flap. The market noise swirled around them—barkers shouting prices, horses clopping across the stone, soldiers laughing drunkenly as they poured out of taverns with women on their arms. The air smelled of incense, roasting lamb, and sun-baked dust. Hand in hand, she and Henri slipped into the current of the bustling street, their excitement trembling just beneath their skin.
Then Henri stopped dead. His grip tightened around Sora’s fingers, and his eyes locked onto the procession moving down the main road. At its center, mounted on a gleaming destrier, rode Lord Howard Ducard. The nobleman wore polished mail beneath a surcoat of deep red dyed with the Ducard crest—a golden hawk in flight. Sunlight glittered on the edges of his armor, giving him a regal, almost untouchable presence. Knights flanked him in disciplined formation, their banners snapping in the wind. Henri stood frozen, breath lodged in his throat.
Sora followed his gaze. “What’s wrong?”
Henri exhaled slowly. He gestured toward the lord, careful to stay clear of the stallion’s path. “That’s my father,” he said quietly. “Lord Ducard.”
Sora’s eyes widened. She studied the nobleman—his proud posture, his stern features, his air of command—but he did not spare so much as a glance for them as he rode past, utterly unaware of his bastard son’s stare.
“Brother Mathieu pointed him out to me years ago,” Henri murmured. “I’ve tended to his knights many times.”
Sora looked at Henri then—not at the lord, but at the pain behind Henri’s eyes. “Have you ever revealed yourself to him?”
Henri shook his head. “No. He wouldn’t be able to claim me even if he wanted to ... which I doubt. I’m the bastard son of a Mongolian whore brought here by slavers. He would never acknowledge me. It would stain his name.” His jaw tightened. “Sometimes I wonder if he’d rather silence me permanently if he knew I lived.”
Many women might have recoiled at such a confession. But Sora’s expression softened with nothing but empathy. She leaned into him, nuzzling his arm gently.
“I knew your mother was ... a whore,” she said softly. “I knew she abandoned you when she realized your father wasn’t returning, and that Brother Mathieu found you. But you never told me what became of her.”
Henri’s eyes grew distant, shadowed by an old wound. “She died. Caught the plague a few years ago. She was following our caravan when it happened ... though I doubt she recognized me.” His voice faltered. “I tended to her at the end. Eased her suffering as best I could. She ... thanked me before the illness took her.”
Sora’s eyes glistened. “Do you hate them? Your mother and father?”
Henri looked at her, then slowly shook his head. “No. I bear them no ill will. Even if my mother was a foreigner and a woman of ill repute ... I pray for her soul. And I pray for my father as well.”
He slipped his arm around Sora’s waist, drawing her close. “Come. Gladder tidings await us, my love.”
They resumed their walk through the marketplace—only to be halted by a figure stepping into their path. A grungy-looking Arabian man, his beard unkempt and his robes dusty from travel. His name was Nazeem al-Khoury—one of the Muslim traders still permitted within the Crusader-held city. Rumor claimed he and his men acquired some of their goods through banditry, though no one dared challenge him directly.
Nazeem’s smile was thin, almost predatory, as his dark eyes flitted between Henri and Sora. He spoke English with a strong, rolling accent.
“I hear congratulations may be in order,” he said smoothly. “That young Sora will soon leave with the caravan back to Europe. A shame to lose her. She always brightened the marketplace with her smile.”
Sora stepped back, instinctively shrinking behind Henri. Henri shifted protectively, placing himself firmly between her and the trader.
“What Sora and I do is none of your concern, sir,” Henri said coldly. “Now please—let us pass.”
Nazeem lifted his hands in a gesture of innocence, bowing with exaggerated politeness. “Of course. I meant no disrespect.”
Henri tightened his grip on Sora’s hand and began to lead her away. But behind them, Nazeem’s voice drifted after them like a shadow.
“Especially to the apparent son of a lord.”
Henri paused mid-step. His jaw tightened, but he did not look back for long—only a brief, sharp glance over his shoulder. Then he pulled Sora along at a brisk pace, guiding her away from the marketplace and its watching eyes, carrying her toward safety...
and toward the life they planned to build together.
Jerusalem – Just Beyond the City Walls
The surgeon’s tent had been cleared of the wounded for the night, its blood-stained tables scrubbed and covered, floor swept, incense burned to chase away the scent of sickness. In the center, candles flickered in a rough semicircle, their glow warm and golden against the canvas walls. Henri Ducard and Sora Rochechouart knelt side by side in their best—Henri in a clean tunic borrowed from Brother Mathieu, Sora in a simple white shawl that framed her golden hair like a halo.
Before them stood Brother Mathieu, dressed in his patched monk’s robes and wearing the warmest, proudest expression Henri had ever seen on the old man’s face.
“Brothers and sisters,” Mathieu began, voice steady and solemn. “We gather before God to bless the union of these two souls. Let no man tear asunder what God joins this day.”
Only a small handful of Sora’s acquaintances and distant relations were present—pilgrims who had grown fond of her, a few merchants she had worked beside. They watched in silence, faces softening in fond smiles as the ceremony continued.
Henri and Sora clasped hands. His were rough from his work, hers soft from weaving and tending wares in the market. Yet both trembled, equally afraid and equally eager.
“Henri,” Brother Mathieu said. “Do you take this woman to be your lawful wedded wife? To cherish, protect, and honor her for all your days?”
Henri’s voice was thick with emotion. “I do.”
“Sora,” Mathieu said. “Do you take this man to be your lawful wedded husband? To love, comfort, and remain steadfast with him in all fortune and trial?”
Sora’s bright green eyes gleamed. “I do.”
“Then by the authority of the Holy Church,” Brother Mathieu declared. “I pronounce you man and wife.”
Sora leaned forward before Henri even moved, kissing him fervently, joyfully. Henri returned it, laughing into her lips as the small crowd erupted in clapping, cheers, and warm exclamations of congratulations. A few women hugged Sora; several men patted Henri’s back with celebratory force.
Brother Mathieu, wiping his eyes discreetly, ushered the pair to the deeper end of the tent. He lowered his voice and produced a leather pouch from beneath his robe.
“A gift for the newlyweds,” he murmured. “May it bear you well on your journey.”
Henri took it—and nearly dropped it. The weight alone spoke volumes. He loosened the drawstring and saw the gleam of silver and a few pieces of gold.
“Master,” Henri breathed. “I ... it’s too generous. I cannot—”
Mathieu shoved him—none too gently. “Say one more word, boy, and I’ll box your ears,” he snapped. “Pride means nothing when you have a family to feed.”
Henri froze, Sora gasping softly beside him. Before either could protest, Brother Mathieu stuffed the pouch firmly into Henri’s travel bag.
“Speak not a word of it to anyone,” the monk warned. “The roads are treacherous and rife with bandits. There are even some among the caravan who would slit your throat for less.”
Henri nodded solemnly. Brother Mathieu then guided them toward the tent flap and pointed at a smaller tent nearby—humble on the outside, but clearly well-prepared, its linens clean, its entrance decorated with sprigs of desert flowers.
“I have arranged a place for your honeymoon,” Mathieu said, cheeks reddening slightly. “It is a long journey back to England. Best to consummate the union now, so that no matter what befalls you on the road, you will be husband and wife in body as well as spirit.”
The young couple stood stunned—overwhelmed by kindness, generosity, and the enormity of what awaited them.
Henri stepped forward first and embraced the priest fiercely. “Thank you,” he whispered.
Sora kissed Mathieu’s cheek with sincere affection. “We will not forget this, Father.”
He shooed them with flustered urgency. “Go on, then! Hurry! The caravan leaves by sunset tomorrow! It will come faster than you think, especially now!”
Henri grabbed Sora’s hand, and she giggled as he led her toward the prepared tent—two young lovers stumbling into a new life, hearts bright as the desert sky at dawn. Brother Mathieu watched them go, a fond, wistful smile tugging at his lips.
“God go with you, my children,” he murmured.
The Honeymoon Tent...
The flap of the tent fell shut, cutting off the noise of the camp and leaving them in a world of golden, flickering shadows. The air inside was heavy with the scent of desert flowers and the lingering heat of the day, but to Henri, it felt cool compared to the fire burning in his blood.
He turned to Sora, and for a moment, they simply stared at one another. She was a vision in the candlelight—her golden hair tumbling loose around her shoulders, her green eyes wide and shimmering with a mixture of nerves and desire. The simple white shawl she wore did little to hide the rapid rise and fall of her chest.
“Sora,” he whispered, the name a prayer on his lips.
She stepped forward, closing the distance, and her hands trembled as they reached for the laces of his tunic. “I have ... I have wanted this for so long, Henri.”
“And I have dreamed of it,” he replied, his voice rough. “Though I fear my dreams were clumsy compared to the reality.”
She laughed softly, a breathless sound, and managed to undo the knot. She pushed the fabric from his shoulders, her fingers brushing against the skin of his chest. He was lean and hard, his muscles defined by years of lifting wounded men and hauling supplies, but under her touch, he felt fragile. Henri reached for the clasp of her shawl. His hands were shaking so badly that he fumbled with it twice.
“Allow me,” she murmured, covering his hands with hers. She guided him, and together they undid the fastening. The fabric pooled at her feet.
Henri’s breath hitched. He had seen the female form in medical texts, and he had seen the bodies of women brought into the surgeon’s tent, broken and bloodied. But Sora ... Sora was whole. She was magnificent.
Her skin was pale and luminous in the dim light. Her breasts were high and full, capped with pink nipples that tightened under his gaze. Her waist nipped in before flaring gently into rounded hips, and the curve of her thighs led down to legs that seemed impossibly long. She was Venus herself, brought to life in the harsh desert.
“You are ... you are too beautiful for a man like me,” he choked out.
Sora stepped closer, pressing her naked body against his. The heat of her skin seared him. “You are the only man for me,” she said firmly. She took his hand and placed it over her heart. “Feel that? It beats only for you.”
Henri groaned and lowered his head to kiss her. It was awkward at first—their noses bumped, their teeth clicked together, and neither of them seemed to know what to do with their hands. But then, instinct took over. Henri’s hand moved to the back of her neck, tilting her head to deepen the kiss, and Sora parted her lips with a soft sigh.
The kiss deepened, growing wet and hungry. Henri’s hands roamed down her back, marveling at the smoothness of her skin, the dip of her spine. He cupped her buttocks, pulling her flush against him, and she gasped into his mouth when she felt the hardness of his erection through his trousers.
“Is that...” she whispered, pulling back slightly, her eyes wide with curiosity.
“It is,” he said, his face flushing hot. “I want you, Sora. I want you so much it aches.”
She nodded, her gaze dropping to the laces of his breeches. “Then take me. Make me your wife.”
They moved to the bedroll, a nest of thick woolen blankets and linen sheets. Henri stripped off his remaining clothes with clumsy haste, nearly tripping over his boots in his eagerness. When he finally lay down beside her, they were both naked.
Sora reached out, her fingers tracing the hardness his chest—marveling at his smooth and vibrant flesh. Then, with a boldness that surprised them both, she leaned down and took one of his nipples into her mouth, flicking it with her tongue.
Henri hissed, his hips jerking off the bed. “Sora ... that is ... that is intense.”
She smiled against his skin, emboldened by his reaction. She kissed her way down his stomach, her hair tickling his skin, until she reached the dark curls at the base of his cock. She hesitated, then wrapped her hand around him. He was thick and long, the skin hot and velvety. She stroked him experimentally, and Henri threw his head back, a guttural sound tearing from his throat.
“Is this good for you?” she asked.
“It is ... it is too good,” he panted. “But I want to be inside you. I want to be one with you.”
Sora released him and moved back up his body. She settled on her back, opening her legs for him. The sight of her—glistening and pink and ready—nearly undid him.
Henri moved over her, supporting his weight on his elbows. He looked down at her, into those emerald eyes that held his entire world. “This might hurt,” he warned gently. “At first.”
“I don’t care,” she said, reaching up to cup his face. “I want all of you.”
He guided himself to her entrance. He pushed forward slowly, fighting the urge to plunge deep. The resistance was incredible—she was tight, hot, and incredibly slick. He felt the barrier of her innocence give way with a sharp pop, and she cried out, her fingernails digging into his shoulders.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.