Damian Wayne Costumes Novels & Stories

A narrow but bushy path to the left had left a trail, and the weeds around the narrow path fled in different directions. “That way!” Damian instructed his men, pointing to the direction of the narrow path as he led the way. His men were all dressed in black suits, including him, except that he had his black hat on and black gloves on his right hand, which accommodated a short-range silent pistol. Four of his men had detachable AK-49s, and the other two had double pistols to the left and right palm. In unison, they followed Damian’s lead. The sun took a break, giving way to the clouds which imitated the colour of their suits.

“Why aren't you listening?!” “He's too busy looking at the chest, I mean the charming people entering the hall.” Johnny chuckled and gained a death glare from Damian. “That's working!” Tom clapped his hands. “If only you saw how Damian was looking at you. He was melting!” Avery blushed and stared at the DJ. “He doesn't look bad either,” Damian was wearing a white shirt along with a simple black blazer. His hair was styled with a black and white bandana, making him look classy and hot at the same time.

He had done that before, but now the gesture felt somehow more genuine. "That outfit is lovely, Pet," Damien said, "but it is not practical for the road. We will have to find something better." I looked down at myself. That morning, Damien had ordered the servants to dress me in a pair of loose, sheer pants and a brief shirt that left my midriff and arms bare. Both were in ice blue silk with tiny crystals sewn in patterns at the waist and neckline. It was one of the less horrible outfits, but it would not survive any amount of travel.

It made me giddy to think of the letterpress invitations and the ripple effect this night would send through our small, hungry city. And yet, even as I delighted in it, my eyes hunted the crowd. Vanity and vengeance are close cousins; where one is indulged, the other sits politely, waiting to be invited in. Through a tint of feathered masks and glittering shoulders, I saw him—Damian. He stood near the bar in a plain suit, the kind of dark cut that said he had dressed in defiance, not decorum. The tie was anemic. No mask. No flourish. He looked like a man who had been asked to play a part and refused to dress for it.

“I’m sorry… I went for a run and I was testing my powers to see if I had any and then the Yokai showed up…” “Hey.” He looks up at me. “It’s ok. I’m sorry, I didn’t know that happened.” “I’m sorry that I’m in here with you, you’re probably so embarrassed. I know I am.” Damian looks so sad. I can tell that he didn’t want to come to me like this but he had no choice. Whatever happened to him in the woods, I’d figure it out for him. Poor guy must be so embarrassed. But actually he didn’t look that bad! I can see his muscles peeking out from his torso. He had the body of a Greek warrior. I only got a glimpse of his lower half but from what I saw, he looked hot!

I furrowed my eyebrows as I continued analyzing Jessica who was shaking nervously. "I'll take care of this." Damian waved to a group of warriors on the other end of the bar. They weren't drinking, and they were on duty to guard the place from what I can tell. They wore all-black combat suits with weapons holsters to their sides. Probably overkill for a function such as this, but Damian was paranoid just as much as I was. "Wait." I put my hand on his arm and looked to him, "What are you going to do?" I whispered.

I never got the privilege to get familiarized with his scent, the last encounters we had it’s either he had blood, all could smell was the iron in the blood or he had a knife to my neck so l could not do it. I have always wondered what he smelled like, he seemed more of a dark fragrant kind of guy. He always looks unreadable so l thought he would be associated with sophisticated scents but he is not. I have so many questions to ask him. He was wearing black a woolen hat with a scarf covering his mouth and nose, a black sweater and dark blue jeans. I do not get the privilege of studying his facial features as always. He looked a bit stronger today, a bit more muscular.

It was war smelling the mate bond. I thought the bond was dead. “You smell like power now,” he growled. “Like storms and the moonlight. What really happened to you?” I stood tall, refusing to hide my body. “I survived. I was what you tried to kill.” Damon’s jaw dropped. For the first time, I felt pain appear right in his eyebrows. “I was wrong, Annie. Cassandra lied to me. I only allowed pride and fear to make me throw away the best thing in my life… my coming Luna.”

I said. Damian walked in. He didn’t look at me. He looked at the room. As if inspecting it for flaws. “This is your space,” he said. “You can decorate it if you want. Within reason. No bright colors. No clutter.” I stared at him. “Decorate? I’m not here to decorate. I’m here to…” “To play the part,” he finished. He finally looked at me. His eyes were dark. unreadable. “And part of that role is looking the part. You need clothes. Real clothes. Not those rags you’re wearing.”

This wasn’t temporary shelter. This was coexistence. Damien walked at the front, shoulders squared, chin lifted, his presence commanding even without effort. He wore no cloak, no armor—just dark trousers and boots dusted from the road. He and the warriors started working on their part of the pack, they arenahed their fence and started building some things. I had to watch him. He was so mesmerizing. And he was not wearing a shirt. Moon above—help me.