Afterparty - Damian Wayne
One of the many advantages, or rather disadvantages, as Damian would argue, of dating who the world believed to be the successor of the great Bruce Wayne, was the galas.
Exaggerated parties where the richest of the rich let their teeth bare in pursuit of more, more money, more power, more connections.
Parties you would have no way of attending unless you were donning the toned arms of one of their own.
The differences in how you and Damian were brought up were obvious from the very beginning, but sometimes, in those rare moments of peace and stillness that you found such comfort in, wrapped tightly between Damian’s arms, you let yourself forget.
Since the two of you shared your relationship with the Wayne family, the galas and the need for your attendance have been unending.
You know Bruce means well, only wanting to cement his son’s place as the future of Wayne Enterprises, but having to deal with the judgemental and hungry eyes of the one percent has started to get rather exhausting.
Damian tries to shield you as much as he can, making up excuses for your absences, biting back with harsh words wrapped in his silk-like deep voice, every time someone makes a cruel remark about your birth, your upbringing, or your heritage.
But even his efforts are useless against the demanding expectations that come with being Damian Wayne’s partner.
You tell him that you don’t mind, try to fill your face with childlike wonder and self-deprecative awe at the sight of sagging skin shoved into ill-fitted designer clothing, at the sound of Louboutin heels clacking harshly against the marble of the Wayne Manor.
And in some way, you count yourself lucky, to be allowed into these parties as something more than the server. The magic seems real when the champagne seeps into your veins and dizzies your mind. But then you’ll notice a young boy or girl, dressed in black and white with a sleek bowtie hanging around their throat, reminding you of a tightening noose, as they face the brunt of some old rich guy’s complaints about the coldness of his whiskey or a woman’s shrill about the colour of the champagne and the silk that has been wrapped around your eyes slips, the grandiose fading into the harsh reality of dim lighting and loud conversations.
But you solder on, for Damian’s sake if not your own.
You know the friendships you make here, the connections that may only come because of Damian’s last name but that exist nonetheless, will only help your future career, that the people who you sit next to in University will shape the future of Gotham and the rest of the country.
So you shut your mouth when one of them makes an unsavoury comment about the less than fortunate of Gotham, their eyes sliding over to you, awaiting your reaction like wolves, ready to tear you apart. You smile and nod, swallowing your tongue, the unladylike words that spring to mind at the sight of their smug faces.
But through it all, ready to defend your honour, is Damian Wayne, with his sharp eyes and sharper wit, belittling those who wish to do the same to you.
He is why you don’t stomp your feet in front of Bruce Wayne, refusing to attend any of his stupid galas. Because you know, even though he doesn’t plan on following in his father’s footsteps, these are still the people who surround him, people whose acceptance matters to you more than it does to him.
As boring as the galas may be, however, you find yourself actually looking forward to the afterparties.
When the few of the rich kids with trust funds housing more money than you’ll likely ever see in your life, get together, filling their veins with champagne and their stomachs with caviare.
These people, the ones that steal each other away from the judging gazes of their parents, you actually like.
Sure, they’re a little unaware of their standing in society, then again, if you’d been born into that life, you doubt you’d care much about the state of the world outside the glass walls of your penthouse either, but they sure know how to party.
The party is loud, even in the bathroom, music blasting through the oversized speakers, infiltrating the small room through the thick door.
The Dior lipstick is heavy in your hand as it glides smoothly against your lips, your YSL perfume, courtesy of Damian Wayne, filling the bathroom.
The black dress clings to your curves, red bottoms causing your heels to ache. But when you push the cap of the lipstick back on and take a look at yourself in the dimly lit mirror, you can see your eyes glisten, lips drawn in a knowing smirk.
You look like hell on heels and Damian is losing his mind.
You can hear him outside the bathroom door, talking to someone in Arabic, the language heavy and ancient on his tongue. You never get tired of it, of hearing his mother tongue uttered by his full lips, voice reverent and worshipful, the love for his language evident in every word.
You fight the urge to put your ear to the door, to listen to how deep his voice gets compared to English. But you can hear the impatience in his voice, can hear the tapping of his foot against the marble floor.
And who are you to deny him the woman he loves.
The change in his demeanour is immediate when you open the door.
The conversation is forgotten as Damian straightens up, his posture rigid, hands shoved deep into his trouser pockets as his eyes rake over you.
You can see him gulp, his throat free, no longer confined by his tie, as it rests around his neck, jacket thrown on loosely around his shoulders.
He looks like a dream, expensive and alluring.
You don’t notice when the person he was talking to departs, you just note that you’re alone when his hands close around the dip of your waist, mouth finding residence in the crook of your neck.
“You smell amazing.” You hear him mumble against your skin.
He’s drunk, off of the alcohol, off of you, your scent, your body.
“We should get out of here.” His speech is slurred in the tiniest way, his breathing ragged.
“Your friends are expecting you.”
“Fuck my friends.” You fight the urge to giggle. Damian never swears, never finding the need to. But now, beneath the dimly lit chandelier and the effects of alcohol, he finds himself desperate to urge you away somewhere private.
“Now, now, play nice, Dami.” You purr against his ear and he groans.
“You’re so mean to me.” His voice comes out in a whine and you try to imagine his parents’ reaction to how their forever-composed and cold son is pouting against you right now.
“I know, baby.” You drawl, voice thick with amusement. “But we have duties to attend to. Like making friends and making sure those friends stay our friends.”
“I don’t need friends.” Damian draws on, petulantly. “I have you. You’re all I need, hayati.”
You chuckle deep in your throat and Damian runs his nose down the curve of your throat.
He lifts his head, eyes hopeful, but the pout is back on his lips when you lead him towards the party instead of the exit.
When you enter the room, you can hear a few of the kids on the couch whistling.
“And where were you, Mr and Mrs Wayne?” A girl your age, red hair, tan skin, deep brown eyes, coos.
You feel yourself flush at the title and Damian chuckles behind you at your reaction.
He pulls you down with him when he sits down on the couch opposite the girl, all but pulling you into his lap.
“She was using the powder room, I’ll have you know.” His voice is playful, the teasing lilt you know and love dripping into his words as his slender fingers brush the hair behind your ear.
The boy next to the two of you, tall, with dark curly hair and brown skin glowing under the chandelier light, passes you the bowl of caviare.
The taste is salty in your mouth as you pass the bowl to Damian who just shakes his head, watching you carefully as you pass in on to the next person, swallowing slowly.
“Do you like it?” His voice is hoarse against your ear, thighs adjusting under you as he leans closer.
“I liked the red one better.” You turn to him with a smile on your face and the grin on his lips is wolfish.
“Then I’ll buy you all the red caviare in the world.” You laugh softly as his mouth lays a soft kiss against your cheek. “I’ll have it brought to you on a silver platter all the way from the Black Sea.”
You giggle, turning your head to face his.
“You’re very dramatic when you’re drunk, my love.”
“I’m always dramatic when it comes to you, beloved. Remember my love confession?”
You smile at the thought.
You remember, of course you do.
It was raining, your hair plastered uncomfortably against your neck, mascara running down your face in what you imagined was a very distasteful way. But Damian didn’t seem to mind when he held his heart out for you, crashing his lips into yours, acting impulsively for the first time in his life.
“How could I forget?” You say after a moment.
The look in his eyes is so reverent, so worshipful that you find yourself needing to look away, heat crawling up your throat.
You look around the room, the smoke from the cigars, the boisterous laughter of Damian’s friends, who have now found a special place in your life and heart, at the way they celebrate, drowning themselves in champagne and whiskey, cloaked in Gucci and Armani and YSL and find yourself wanting to steal your Damian away somewhere private.
You turn to him, nose almost bumping into his with how close he’s gotten.
The change in him is immediate. His nose nudges your cheek and he helps you stand up, bidding goodbye to the group as he reaches for your coat.
The room is sad to see you go, booing you in mock disappointment, your laugh echoing off the wallpaper as Damian slips your coat over your shoulders, his own forgotten over his elbow.
“I’ll see you guys in class on Monday.” You shout over your shoulder as Damian ushers you away, sounds of the party following you down the corridor.
Once you’re out of the pool house, the asphalt beneath your feet turns to gravel and you curse under your breath.
“Louboutins were not made for rocks.” You laugh into Damian neck as he steadies you.
“Take them off.” His command is soft.
“But I’ll rip my tights.” You frown.
“I’ll buy you new tights, just take them off.” He laughs, the sound breathy.
“What’s with you and buying me things?” You ask, teasing, as you watch him kneel before you, slipping the heels off your feet.
“I want to spoil you, is that so bad?”
“You’ll spoil me rotten, at the rate that you’re going.” You laugh and he smiles, before scooping you up bridal style.
The yelp out of your mouth is quickly followed by a girlish giggle.
“Put me down!” You protest. “I’m heavy!”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Damian seems almost offended by your words. “I could carry you while fighting crime and still not break a sweat.”
“Cocky.” You tease, wiggling your brows.
“Is it cocky if it’s the truth?” You think for a moment.
“Yes!” You say nodding and then break out into laughter.
“Looking who’s talking, Mr Wayne.” You boop his nose, the title teasing.
He looks at you for a minute, not breaking his stride as he heads for the car.
“Don’t cast stones from a glass house, Mrs Wayne.”
You freeze, your face turning to stone.
For a second, you see Damian start to worry, something akin to fear pooling into his deep green eyes.
But then you flush all over, fighting a giggle as you burry your face into his throat, and you feel him relax under your touch.
“Whatever.” You mutter into his collar, before gasping.
“What is it? What’s wrong?”
“I stained your shirt collar!”
Damian laughs then, really laughs, from the bottom of his lungs.
“You’re insane.” His eyes crinkle at the ends.
“Yeah, but you love me.” He hums, lips finding your cheek again.
You’re fighting the urge to fall asleep by the time you reach the car, barely even noticing the driver opening the door for you.
Damian thanks him in a hushed tone and then you’re wrapped in the warmth of the car.
You open your eyes when he sets you down against the leather seat.
“No.” You mumble. “I wasn’t sleeping.”
Damian hums in disbelief.
Not long after, you feel the car come alive under your bare feet.
Your back is pressed agains the leather-clad door, the window between the front and back of the car shut.
You watch Damian adjust in his seat, looking down at the watch on his wrist.
You don’t know what does it, the alcohol, the way he’s laid back against the seat, his curls flying in a million directions, his smell, or the way this feels oddly reminiscent of the life you’ve dreamed for the two of you, but you find yourself making your way towards him.
Damian’s eyes widen when he sees you crawl to him on the leather seat, hooking your thighs over his hips, your dress riding up to show more skin than he cares to admit he can handle.
Your breathing gets mingled with his, chests pressed tightly against one another, as his hands rest heavy against your exposed thighs.
You don’t even mean to do it, you think at this point it’s just your body’s reaction to him, but you roll your hips over his and Damian hisses under you, his left hand landing at the small of your back.
“What are you doing, habibti?” He asks in warning.
You just smile, coming alive at his reaction.
You press your lips softly against his and feel him groan all the way down your spine.
“You’re a minx, do you know that?” Green eyes look up at you with dilated pupils. “Sent to torture me until the end of my days.”
You say nothing again, but you don’t need to, because his lips are moving against your own, slowly but deeply.
You don’t know how long passes like that, with his lips promising more to you, but then the car hits a bump and you gasp, grinding over his obvious erection.
All it takes is a single moment and then his tongue is in your mouth, hot and wet and exactly how you like it.
You moan into his mouth and he swallows the sound like a man starved, rolling his hips up into yours.
“Dami…” you gasp into the air when his mouth moves down to your jaw.
“Say my name again.” He all but purrs into your ear and what can you do but oblige.
He keeps kissing up and down your throat, mouth hot and scorching against your skin.
You don’t know how long it lasts, but you feel him detach his lips from the redness he etched into your throat.
“We’re home.” His voice is quiet as he leans his forehead against your throat.
“Okay.” You try to calm your breathing, try to maintain a semblance of propriety before you step out onto his family’s land.
“I want you to go up to my room.” His fingers wrap around your chin feverishly, forcing you to look at him. “I’m going to get some champagne and two glasses and any food that I can find and I’ll come up, too.” You nod.
“And then what?” You ask, propriety be damned, when he doesn’t continue.
“Then we’ll carry on where we left off.”
His lips are heavy with promise when they slide against your own and, before you know it, you’re seated next to him on the leather of the car, he’s opening the door and offering you his hand, eyes hungry with a look that does nothing but cause giggles to bubble beneath your ribs.
It’s 4 am and i’m sleep deprived, but i needed to get this out of my brain before i sleep.
