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shewhowillnotbenamed1 · 6 months

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Pedestal

Sorry about the hiatus, it's been a while. I've missed writing quite a bit, but because of life I haven't. This is what I hope is a part one, but if not, I wanted to finally share it. I want to say thank you to everyone who's been there for me and so endlessly kind and patient with me. This story is for @ravenfan1242 (your requests are like no other❤️), @bluboothalassophile, @vilavi-2, @athenadione, @opheliawillowbrook, @andthendk, @carnationmilk. Thank you guys for everything!

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"Keep still."

Inertia, a state of being that was completely and utterly unnatural for one to maintain. But this? To stand still and perfectly balanced in one space, without so much as blinking for an immeasurable span of time. To remain poised under forces exacting their will, executing attacks: pulling, poking, prodding. And she, the helpless soul tethered to a body that presently was not her own, while someone else guided it by invisible strings. This is what it felt like to be a marionette.

Or a mannequin.

A mannequin...?

Maybe if her soul-self phased out of her body, it might remain upright of its own volition.

Purple hair lolled forward, Raven's head dipped a fraction of an inch as if testing a theory.

"Chin up." Magda directed.

Raven stiffened, standing with as much tension as she could muster at this point. Much to her dismay, her connection to the mortal coil, however tenuous, endured. She had not become a soulless shell. The seamstress stood back sharply and squinted through cat-eye spectacles. "Tighter, I think? Yes, tighter."

She pinched fabric at the bodice between her fingers and thumb and squeezed another clip into place. Tilting her head to the side once more, Magda pushed two more pins through the material. "There." Raven winced; the last pin had nearly nicked her. Though, it was surprising she even managed to react when she could barely breathe. But of course, her seamstress seemed to have chalked it up to jitters. "Not tight enough..." She frowned. "I'll be back."

Raven grimaced at the folded, filigree mirror to see a pale girl on a pedestal replicate the grimace in triplicate. Behind the four Ravens, an egg-shell colored suit retreated as the seamstress sought out more instruments for the session's ceaseless torture. This was exactly why she avoided boutiques or tailoring whenever she could.

But for the wedding of the season?

The dress had to be nothing short of perfection.

"Wow."

As soon as she registered the low timber, Raven felt her body lurch as it threatened to go over. A strong arm stretched out to steady her, overwhelming her with the heady smell of anise and amber.

"Damian?"

Reflexively, Raven reached for the satin changing room curtain and edged it over herself. A great pause passed between them, before her grasp slackened and it fell back into place. Why on Earth would she cover the dress? That old superstition was outdated and frankly ridiculous. Furthermore, it didn't even apply to them. They were members of the wedding party. As the Maid of Honor and the Best Man surely they didn't have to wait until the 'big day' for a dramatic reveal.

"Um, wow yourself," Raven returned wryly, once she'd caught her breath. "You're here."

A crooked smile crept onto Damian's face. Light stubble grazed her skin as his mouth connected to her cheekbone. "I wanted to surprise you."

"Well..." Raven breathed. "Mission accomplished."

"Hardly." He stalked around the perimeter of the platform, like he was circling his prey and calculating where best to strike. "Whom surprised whom?" She whipped her neck around to watch him. Suddenly his eyes were wistful as though he was pondering something. "It's um... It's really happening, isn't it?"

As she shifted through the silence, Raven reflected that such could be said of any number of things. The completion of the dress. Him escorting her... From the corner of her eye, she caught his, violets planted onto ivies climbing up the mirror.

"Don't tell me you're getting cold feet," she murmured. "Dick and Kori and Alfred will be very disappointed...for starters. Half of Gotham has been planning this wedding—for months, actually it's coming on about a year."

"I can barely believe it's been that long... Sometimes I almost forget."

As if either of them needed reminding between the daily reminders, appointments, and synced calendar alerts. Raven had half-heartedly shuffled along Kori's side to a myriad of engagements, the latest of which: procuring a botanist (other than Poison Ivy) who could manage to hybridize Tamaranian cinnabari blooms with ranunculus flowers in time for the ceremony.

The symbolism of merging the two cultures—two worlds—was not lost on Raven, nor had it been the last time the theme of the wedding was discussed, because Kori was never not talking about it.

Raven exhaled, willing the thoughts of merging species to exit from her mind. Honestly, it was baffling that they hadn't forgone the wedding planners and caterers and simply eloped. She had never seen a pair as eager for matrimony as those two.

"Well, I certainly haven't." She sucked the flesh inside her cheek, until the muscle stretched taut over the hollow. "It feels like everyone's been planning this thing forever."

"Then what are we...the last two sane people left in Gotham?"

He flashed a humorless, but nonetheless distracting grin at her and she cleared her throat.

"In a city whose populace skews infamously low in that percentage..." Raven added under her breath. "Of all things, this tipped the scales. Who would have thought a wedding would whip everyone into a frenzy for almost twelve months?"

"A year—that really is something," he marveled, brushing a finger along the edge of his unusually stiff jaw. When Raven looked closely she could swear she saw a vein quivering.

Just like her insides.

After almost a year's worth of time and planning were invested into this, she would have her life back. But, she found she wasn't imagining the slam of the white limousine door to signal this latest exit from her life.

Not yet.

She shouldn't have been getting nostalgic, she should be glad this whole affair was nearing its end.

Shouldn't she?

"It's more than a little exhausting in retrospect," Raven mustered in a low voice.

"And somehow, I'm not sick of you." He raised an eyebrow. "Although..."

Though he hadn't been forced to endure hours dedicated to dresses, flowers, and seating charts, he'd been subjugated to his own torment. Dick dragged him along to venues, tuxedo fittings, scotch tastings. But Raven would take scotch tastings over seating charts if they didn't come with the additional weight of a Best Man speech. Public speaking? She was hardly glossophobic, though the thought alone made her nauseous enough to never want to leave her apartment.

"Yet, here you are at a bridal shop," Raven pressed.

But Damian didn't so much as flinch, instead he continued staring outward absentmindedly. Was it to challenge her, or perhaps because part of him found this whole ruse amusing? "Strictly speaking, there's no rule that says I can't be here. I don't even recall any such instruction in Kori's five pound 'Dream Wedding Diary'."

"I know there isn't," she shot back cynically. As well prepared a bride as she was, Kori wouldn't have anticipated this any more than Raven had. "I'm just surprised you found the place—I could barely find the place."

So was this it then? One last hurrah for old time's sake?

The end really was in sight.

This meant the end of commiserating with Damian.

There were worse things in the world than sitting next to him at dinners or brunches. Sampling wedding cakes with him wasn't what one would call horrible. And being partnered with him at dance lessons wasn't exactly awful. Actually, he was the perfect partner in every sense. He could pick up on her cues seamlessly, which made for an excellent cohort. They'd spent a decent deal of time conspiring to create an instance to escape the preparations. It was second nature for her to take the shortcut through the sun-room after Sunday brunch to dodge more needless discussions of calligraphy and card stock.

Under Damian's tutelage, she'd even learned how to scale the Wayne sycamore tree. And according to Tim, she could navigate the maze-like grounds better than their landscaper. Raven reminded him that the old man had been with the family for almost forty years, so he was probably going senile. Though the spindly table in the back garden was the perfect reading height for her, she found herself drawn back to the seemingly endless hallways. Before long, she knew nuances of the manor down to its trick steps. The way windswept branches drummed against the windows like heartbeats. The floorboard creaks and the doors swollen with summer heat. Yet Raven almost snorted when Jason mentioned off-hand that she seemed to know the manor better than some people who lived there all their lives and second lives, or otherwise.

That was hardly the case. She simply liked to think of herself as observant.

At times the family sounded oddly suspicious of the two of them, but other times they seemed almost impressed with her. It wasn't a small feat to surround oneself with all things Anders-Grayson for hours at a time while holding one's own by Damian's side. This was a man, after all, who'd incidentally made three employees from top level catering companies cry.

So maybe it was a bit of a marvel, just how far she'd come.

Not to mention just how far everything else had come too.

A sudden heat surge scurried along her spine, spanning outward, lighting up a network of nerve endings throughout her body. It seemed to be an unconscious response when recalling one particularly effective excursion. Raven didn't need to so much as close her eyes to immerse herself in memory. She could still feel the way the grooves of the balcony banister outside his room aligned along the hollows of her back, the moment he first pressed her to it—

"So what," she cleared her throat and dropped her voice an octave—half out of forced politeness that came with these sorts of establishments and half out of a desire for privacy. "What are you doing here?" Raven folded her arms as the thin tulle draping drew tauter across her shoulders. The motion: part accusation, part function to discreetly hold up the dress. "And how did you even get them to let you back here...?"

With noses turned up in disapproval at her thrift store t-shirt, the clipboard wielding, earpiece wearing staff was not dissimilar to bouncers. They brandished their measuring tapes like whips, silently calculating whether she could even afford to be standing in the store. And only begrudgingly had they let Raven into the 'promised land' past the peony covered reception desk.

"You're not serious, are you?" He tutted at her then shot her an infamous Damian Wayne stare, wordlessly asking if she was serious. Then it immediately clicked. And no, it wasn't just the standout smolder of his green gaze that tended to disarm anyone in his path. Not that it somehow served to detract from his standing.

This was one of Gotham's finest bridal boutiques and he was... Well, one of Gotham's finest.

"The amount of security they have here is more minimal than I anticipated." Raven shook her head. Was he judging this by his usual standards? "I'm actually disappointed."

"Right, who needs top level security?" Raven kicked the air with her toe. "I suppose the bridezillas and mothers-in-law can keep the riff raff away," she muttered.

Damian clicked his tongue. "You were right." He took a step closer to her. "I wasn't 'passing through'. I came because I could sense your distress at dinner the other night."

She paused, then blinked. "Distress?"

"After Kori brought up dresses and fittings, you barely ate a bite." She squinted a quizzical purple and he scowled, as if he had to spell it out. "Alfred made mousse, Raven. With Belgian chocolate."

Raven avoided his gaze. "I wouldn't say I'm distressed, so much as occasionally unsettled... You know I've never been in a wedding before. Between dodging the press and planning this bachelorette party, it's like a part-time job."

"And you're doing fine. Better than fine, actually," Damian insisted. "You just need to learn to let me help."

"So..." She started slowly, just staving off a smirk. "This is your way of 'saving me from the circus'..."

"Well... don't get used to it or anything." He shrugged, though the youngest Wayne didn't seem quite as unaffected as he could have. "Obviously, I know my way around an upscale Gotham wedding or five, by now."

"Right," Raven nodded. "And with all those weddings and charity galas under your belt, I expect I'll be making my societal debut in no time at all." She heard him scoff under his breath.

"So..." After a long pause he cleared his throat, eyes roving left and right. "This place is the best?" Damian asked, sounding much more nonplussed. He strode past the pedestal where she stood and she watched him go.

Damian started to scrutinize the shop like the tactician they knew him to be. He stepped around carefully, assessing the whole affair. Soft, rose-tinted spotlights rained down on rack after rack of dresses in a line: gowns in their various hues of white (ivory, eggshell, ecru, cream) and bridesmaids dresses in ranging spectrum. A thinner rack of floaty tulle tapered off: cathedral, chapel, elbow, finger, blusher, birdcage—veils in all sizes. Then, the display shelves, tiered trays, and vitrines of vintage accessories: barrettes, headbands, pins, gloves: wrist length, elbow length, opera length.

There were several tables—entry and coffee—covered in bridal magazines and vases filled with fresh, sweet smelling bouquets in full white: hydrangeas, peonies, gardenias, tea roses. In a far away corner a slim, nondescript dispenser diffused a fragrance down on them periodically. In half hour intervals it misted the room with more peonies and more gardenias. Lastly, the loudspeaker wafted light, shimmering classical over it all. Currently, Clair de Lune. It only seemed to sliver out piano music—hovering between Chopin and Tchaikovsky and back again.

"Well, don't tell Kori, but I have to say with sincerest honesty," Damian paused with an inflection bordering on blasé. "That I can hardly see what any of the fuss is about. Tch."

"I know." Her smirk softened at the sharp, disapproving noise sent piercing through a stretch of air and she let out a lilting laugh. "And can you believe this dress she's making me wear?" Raven snorted.

Of course, Kori couldn't settle on either a strapless or an off-shoulder dress, so she found one that was a combination of both. The melding of these two different concepts kept in line with the loose theme of the wedding.

"Oh, that. I..." He hesitated before he reached out to caress the delicate, sheer fabric on her arms. With its sheer wing-like sleevelets that bloomed out from the bodice, the gauzy fabric draped right below Raven's shoulders and hung softly like translucent curtains. Except of course, when her shoulders were squared or her arms folded as they were now, while she stood appraising him, appraising her.

Damian's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed, then cleared his throat. "No, I can't."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" Raven asked dryly.

But suddenly Damian went quiet again.

Then his hand dragged lower to catch the material cascading over her ankles and as it shimmered in the chandelier light. And a piece of her began to wish they were really alone, if not hidden behind the arched panels of the mirrored divider. "Just... It's come a long way, hasn't it?"

It really had, from concept to the sketches, then swatches... "All of it—I mean you're, well look at you." She shivered, which could have been from the air conditioning blasting a breeze under her skirts.

Or it could have been the way he was staring at her?

"Okay... What are you up to?" Raven cleared her throat and clasped her hands. "Seriously, there is no way in any realm or hell on any Earth—existing or non-being, that you came all this way to discuss sketches and examine bridesmaid dresses selected by your 'soon-to-be sister-in-law'." She took a much-needed breath.

He clicked his tongue, expression easy, but somehow still closed off. "There's no nefarious plot going on here," he crooned. "I came to 'rescue you'. You said it yourself." Damian spied her half empty gold-rimmed flute. His long fingers lifted it off a filigree flower-pressed tray.

May I?

His eyes seemed to ask without asking.

She tipped her head in his direction, without looking at him, feeling more than a despondent sigh bubble up inside her body. It was something like longing, and it was hardly her fault.

Because really, why did he always have to look like that? Some kind of an otherworldly, Brooks-Brothersian beautiful—a dark and handsome heir with an impossible air of mystique. Today, he could sense a damsel in distress because of her dress. And he, being every part the prince swooped in to her aid from straight off the streets of Medieval Manhattan. In his dark green suit perfectly fitted like armor and golden cuff-links shining like the hilt of a sword. No doubt his chariot was waiting below in the form of a sleek limousine.

Surveying her unblinkingly over the rim, Damian continued to sip slowly. Nothing broke the silence or the atmosphere, nothing but the dimples breaking bronze skin. And Raven thought of all of that sparkling liquid splashing over his tongue like waves.

She didn't know how the heat in her body had begun to condense down her belly. Or why her legs had begun to squeeze themselves shut to contain certain familiar stirrings.

Definitely too much champagne.

"So...tell me more about this obvious torture you've been subjugated to," Damian continued while observing her with great interest. It was as if the sight of her in this bridal shop was the most fascinating thing in the world and there was no place he'd rather be.

A weak wisp of breath escaped before the words tumbled out indelicately. "I'm the last fitting of the day. Foolishly I thought it would speed things up. It hasn't—at all. It's been hours. I haven't had much of anything since breakfast, and that," pale fingers pointed at him accusingly. "Is my dinner you're presently polishing off..."

"Hm, I can't say I recall the last time I had strawberries." Damian plucked one from the tray. He fingered it, dangling the ripe fruit from its stem so it hovered above his mouth.

"Actually, I think they're supposed to go in the glass—"

He wrapped his lips around the tart, seed beaded surface and took a bite, lapping up the juices that dribbled over, all the while leaving her in stasis. "Well? I'm listening, Raven," Damian said, his tone as teasing as it was impatient. It wavered as Raven's head swam, dipping below an uneven tide. "Don't leave me in suspense."

"Well..." Raven carefully assessed her reflection, before folding her arms at the image. "I know the bride and most of the other bridesmaids are tall. Cassie and Donna are literal amazonesses." Donna, Cassie, Jessica, and Karen were all over five foot seven; she was very nearly five foot nothing. No doubt the seamstresses weren't expecting the Maid of Honor to be so petite. "But all this hemming, all these pins? It's starting to make me feel like a damned voodoo doll."

"Oh wow, I don't think I've ever seen you like this Raven," Damian purred.

She was beginning to get the sense that a tipsy Raven towering in tulle amused him. In fact, it was probably downright fascinating. He seemed to like hearing what she had to say with some of her filters washed away by the champagne in her veins.

Hell, he was possibly even encouraging it.

"You mean floundering about at a bridal shop, stewing on champagne and strawberries?" She'd had a couple of glasses while waiting and being shuffled about. A necessary hazard at a place like this one. "Trust me, you get used to it. They really ply you with bubbly here. Probably to detract from the endless boredom of the whole charade."

Or once they knew you were a bridesmaid in the most highly anticipated and exclusive wedding of the season anyway.

It didn't need to breathe—not really—but Damian spun the flute anyway, shifting the perlage. "But, I find the sight of you on a pedestal rather interesting..." There was the tinkering noise of set down glassware, a wet plop, then the sound of a strawberry submerged. The bubbles rose up in succession to greet the bitten berry abandoned in the beverage. "There's something about you standing up there."

"Could it be?" Raven stared at their reflection in the dividers of the three-way paneled mirror and straightened her posture. "Is it that I'm nearly eye level with you?" Raven raised her chin mockingly and tossed her shoulders back, her expression haughty. "Are you...intimidated? I think I'm beginning to like it up here."

"Good. Good. Very good..." Damian's vert gaze glimmered under the chandelier's flattering rosy tinted light. "It's about time you learned it's where you belong."

Something in the way he said it would have made a more sober Raven take pause. But for some reason, the sight of him surrounded by all that white satin and champagne colored silk was eviscerating her usual levels of deduction.

"What do you know about where I belong? You're always planning and plotting, aren't you?" She tapped her chin. "To what end this time, I wonder."

"No, no," he shook his head twice. "I'm not going to make it that easy." By now those pine-green eyes held a sheen so bright that it was audible, and Raven could almost hear the laughter in them. "Besides, why would I tell you, when I'd much rather show you...? So, Raven Roth."

Dark hands glided along the bodice of bobbinet curiously, as if having a Kent for a bestie might have convinced him that with enough effort, he might be able to see straight through the material.

His tongue drew across his upper lip. "I think your fitting will have to end."

"My fitting?" Raven's eyes went wide, darting around the room as she craned her neck, and glanced behind her. "Azar's blood, I forgot..." Damian seemed to be the one person who could do the unimaginable: he'd actually managed to make her forget herself. "Where did my seamstress go? She couldn't have vanished—as tempted as I was—and she couldn't have possibly gone home. I need her to help me out of this contraption," she groaned.

Magda couldn't have just left. Suddenly, the shuffling around the circular podium stopped as Raven paused in her paces.

Unless...

"You." Raven let out a shrill sound. An accusing pale finger directed itself toward him, focused like a laser pointer. "You did not."

"Did I?" he asked, still neither confirming nor denying. "What exactly are you excusing me of?"

"Tell me you didn't." The tiny worry muscle next to a purple eyebrow ticked, as if Raven were calculating whether or not the sleeper hold was issued. Or an alternative use for that bothersome tape measure. Her body began to sink downward.

"Damian."

His cool, calm eyes went blank, bored almost. After letting it hang in the air to the point of discomfort, he held up a hand to offer up a little wave of resignation.

"Geez, Raven." A little smirk climbed up the left side of his mouth. "There's no need to look at me like that, is there?" Then, he did a double-take and leaned in close and spoke, his warm breath fanning her neck. "Let's just say she won't be back for a while."

But with Damian's fragmented past and storied tutelage to date, that could mean any number of things.

"What did you do?" The real question should have been why, but Raven didn't dare ask.

"As if you don't know," he crooned. "Or rather, what it is I plan to do..." There wasn't any need to look further when an answer lay in endless green.

Raven had grown increasingly familiar with that look. Surely by now, she knew what succeeded that look. Shredded stockings succeeded that look. Shattered sconces succeeded that look. Showers of haphazardly unbuttoned buttons on hardwood floors succeeded that look. The fact that they were in a well-respected establishment—a bridal boutique no less—no longer mattered, because nothing would stand in the way of a Wayne and his conquest.

And it was closing in on her, the darkening image of a woman's undoing in an unfinished gown.

What was he going to do?

"Just trust me, your fitting is over. And as for you and I... we'll have a little one of our own." Damian's heat brushed her body, as he stood closer and closer to her.

And then, suit and all, he slowly sunk to his knees.

His hand smoothed hotly down her ankle, holding it gently, thumbing over the Achilles heel, making heat rise in a straight shot past her knees to her thighs where it lingered between them and outwardly bloomed.

"There won't be any more adjustments tonight," he repeated in a way that made her core clench somewhere beyond her control. The necessity of hemming became redundant—invalidated, as Damian disappeared underneath the skirts. Raven bit her lip, feeling his words skim the tops of her thighs. "I'll be in charge of assessing all your concerns."

"Damian—Damian?" Raven whispered in shock. Realization dawned on her face, his intentions became clear. "Did you lose something under there, like your good common sense? What in the name of Azarath are you doing?"

"Why am I here?" He pressed his lips to her skin. "What am I doing?" He traced her calves. "So many questions today, Raven. Just relax." And he mumbled guilelessly into silken pale.

Balefully Raven babbled a couple of nonsense words, mostly about the fact that the sheer act of 'saying relax' didn't actually serve to make one relax. "...this is ludicrous and this fabric wasn't made to stretch this way. Not to mention, Damian, if anyone saw us, they'd instantly get the wrong idea. Not that I... I mean anyone would, just based on what this looks like."

He let out a low rumbling laugh. "But this is exactly what it looks like."

"And that is?" she huffed in exasperation. Besides attempting to drive her insane, of course.

"I'm checking out the matching garter," he said simply.

Raven choked out a gasp.

"Well—there isn't one," she hissed when she finally came to her senses. "Now, please—" Hot hands swam over to shins to knees to thighs, taking their time, with fingers outstretched to feel as much of her as he could. Aimlessly searching for something as Raven's restlessness steadied and her back bowed in an arch. "Please..."

He murmured something indistinguishable. "Hmm... no garter... Well that's mildly disappointing."

"I'd love you in a garter... " Both his palms began to adorn themselves upon one of her thighs. "It would look wonderful right about here." The way he was speaking, he could have easily been seconds from savoring a well-prepared dish and gesticulating with his own far more perverted version of a chef's kiss. "I'd lift you up, so you'd be above me, kind of like you are now. Then, I'd slip under your skirt, like I am now..." Raven's heart squeezed into her ribs as she bit her lip. "And then, I'd tear that fabric right off with my teeth." The heated words from his lips caressed her thighs and she almost let out a moan. "I can just see it—can't you just see it?"

What in Azar's name was Damian playing at?

"N-No. Bridesmaids don't wear wedding garters," Raven managed. At least, they didn't typically wear them. "And you really should get up, Magda will be back very soon and trust me, she knows exactly where to stick pins."

"Shame." A dry chuckle escaped her skirts. From a man amused or playing with his food. "But don't worry, Raven, it's all been taken care of. I had the staff close the store early. No one will be bothering us back here."

Closed?

The thudding in her chest and core had to be audible; they fired off in a series of alternating spasms with little chance of slowing.

An upscale, luxury bridal shop had closed early and with two non-employees in it. That meant there would be no one to bother them and no one to hear her scream.

And no reason for him to hold back.

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