Under The Table- Damain Wayne
Tags: [mlw] [friends to lovers] [bratty Marinette] [teasing] [public teasing] [slow burn] [flirty banter] [drabble]
Word Count: 1,217
Marinette had been a menace all damn day.
From the moment she waltzed into the manor, she had been insufferable.
It started that morning, when she plopped onto the couch beside him, phone in one hand, a perfectly iced coffee in the other, and had the audacity to flick at the collar of his dress shirt.
“Do you ever unbutton this thing, Dami?” she teased, sing-songing his name with that knowing smirk that made his eye twitch. “You dress like a mafia boss at all times—ever heard of casual wear?”
“I am casual.”
She snorted, reaching up before he could stop her and undoing the first button herself. “There. Now you look a little less like a CEO and more like a person.”
He shoved her hand away, scowling. “Touch me again, Dupain-Cheng, and I will have Pennyworth feed you decaf.”
Her gasp of betrayal was nothing short of theatrical. “You wouldn’t.”
He would.
She narrowed her eyes, obviously plotting her revenge, and that should have been his first sign that the day would only go downhill from there.
By lunchtime, she was relentless.
When he was reading in the study? She flicked at his ear.
When he was training? She sauntered past, snagged a water bottle, and smirked. “Careful, Dami—if you furrow your brows any harder, they might get stuck like that.”
When he was working on an important file for Wayne Enterprises, she plopped down beside him and stole his pen, twirling it between her fingers as she hummed, unbothered.
And when he made the mistake of snapping, “Dupain-Cheng, I swear—”
She simply blinked at him, lashes fluttering as she held the pen out of reach.
“Make me.”
…He clenched his fists, counted to ten, and reminded himself that throwing his best friend out the window was frowned upon.
And then came dinner.
Wayne Enterprises was hosting a formal charity gala, and Marinette, of course, had been invited.
She looked breathtaking in a sleek black dress, her dark hair pinned up with a few loose strands framing her face—not that he was looking—but the problem was that she knew it.
“Careful, Angel,” he murmured when she linked her arm with his. “Wouldn’t want people getting the wrong idea.”
She gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to her heart. “The wrong idea? You mean the correct idea?”
He exhaled through his nose. “We’re friends.”
She batted her lashes. “For now.”
He chose to ignore that.
And then, of course, she flicked a damn pea at him.
It hit him square on the forehead, rolling onto his plate.
The room was full of important people—investors, politicians, Gotham’s elite. It was not the place to engage in a war.
But Marinette didn’t care.
When he slowly turned his head, she was smirking—arms crossed, one brow raised, waiting for his reaction.
“Oh, please,” she mused. “It was just a pea.”
He took a deep breath, forcing himself to remain composed.
That was the final straw.
Which is why, five minutes later, his palm now rested firmly on her thigh under the banquet table.
Her breath hitched. He smirked.
Finally. Silence.
"Something wrong, Angel?" His voice was smooth, unbothered, but the pressure of his hand against her skin said otherwise.
Marinette swallowed, shifting in her seat, but the movement only made things worse for her. His fingers flexed, inching up, dangerously close to where she definitely didn’t want him to be.
Scratch that. Where she shouldn’t want him to be.
“You—” she sucked in a breath, eyes narrowing at him, “—are insufferable.”
Damian leaned in, looking the picture of innocence to the outside world. “Pot, meet kettle.”
She tried to shove his hand away, but his grip only tightened, thumb brushing the hem of her dress. His touch was slow. Deliberate.
A warning.
“You were being a brat,” he murmured, lips a hair’s breadth from her ear, “so I had to remind you who’s in control here.”
Her face burned. “I’m not a brat.”
The barely-there squeeze of his fingers had her thighs clenching together, and his answering chuckle made her want to throw her champagne in his face.
“You sure about that, Angel?” His voice was a taunt, rich with amusement. “Because right now, I think you’d do just about anything to get me to move my hand.”
She turned her head slightly, lips ghosting over his jaw as she whispered, “Keep talking like that and I’ll make you regret it.”
His grin sharpened. Oh, he loved a challenge.
“Is that a threat?”
Marinette smirked, batting her lashes at him as she placed her hand over his… and slowly pushed it higher.
Damian’s breath caught—just for a fraction of a second—but she felt it.
Now it was her turn to smirk.
“Consider it a promise.”
His eyes darkened. And then—before she could react—his fingers dug into her thigh, a firm squeeze that sent a sharp jolt of heat up her spine.
She gasped, back going rigid, hands gripping the edge of the tablecloth.
The bastard chuckled. Low. Dark.
"Now, be a good girl," he murmured, lips grazing the shell of her ear, voice smooth as sin, "and maybe I'll give you a reward later on."
Marinette bit her lip, cursing herself for the way her body reacted to his words.
Because damn it, she really wanted that reward.
