#x reader insert

Maekar Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate after the worst event in your life

Maekar didn’t believe in this soulmate nonsense. It's just tales told to children so they have them hope for nothing. Maekar didn’t even believe in it. What were the chances that among thousands of people there was only one meant for you? Especially when he had already loved. His marriage to Dyana was happy, the many years spent together. She had bore him children he loves dearly. For what reason did a man like him need for a soulmate? Then tragedy struck. Where once Maekar was a devoted husband, he has become a widower. He did not weep. He did not beg or pray for the gods. He just stood there, unmoving and silent. 

People offered sympathetic glances, kind words, a hand placed on his shoulder. It did nothing. For his wife was dead. She is gone where he shall never see her again, left with children who have no one else to seek but him. “My prince,” the voice called to him when he thought he was finally alone in the hall. It was you. He didn’t remember you for a second before it clicked. You were one of Dyanna’s ladies in waiting. Dressed in black with a seldom expression on your face as you offer your condolences. Maekar barely hears your words, wanting nothing more than to be left alone. 

Then you touched his arm. A small gesture. Nothing more. An offer of comfort. It would have earned you a scolding had anyone else seen it. But Maekar merely froze. Staring at you with wide eyes feeling a pull within his chest. Something that is deeper than his grief. For a moment, you looked radiant, almost alluring. An urge almost overtaking him to just pull you in his arms. It couldn’t be. It fucking can’t be. The prince harshly tore his arm away from your touch, storming away. Leaving you staring at his back in confusion and dread as his footsteps echo through the hall. 

Lyonel Baratheon + Soulmate marks are only visible after touching

The laughing storm never thought much of soulmates as many men in his time. He laughed at the idea often enough. Jesting his soulmate might be somewhere in the Essos cities dreaming of his touch. Until he came upon you. You weren't even meant to be in his tent. Your house was a minor one not like the Beesbury or the Fossoway; small enough to remain humble. Yet you defied your father and slipped into the tent. Music played, people laughed and drank, and there was Lyonel Baratheon dancing among them, his laugh filling the tent. 

Eventually you joined the dancing, enjoying yourself. Till you were paired for a moment with Lyonel, your hands touching. And there it was, both of you hissing in pain. A line forming across your skin; itching and burning on the surface. Lyonel too gripped his wrist, staring in disbelief where the same mark appeared on his skin. Around you the party continues, blind to what’s happening right in front of them. Swallowing nervously, fearing what he might say or do and also fearing your father’s fury - you try to slip away. But Lyonel caught your wrist, pulling you to him. “Stay, you’ve only just arrived haven’t you?” 

You had no choice as he led you to his table, his grip still around your wrist. He nudges you to take the chair next to him. His men stared in confusion while Lyonel pays them no mind, filling your cup with wine and taking a sip before passing it to you. You sip too, trying to ignore your lips are where his lips once were, all while his eyes are on you, an amused smile on his face. “So soulmate, can I at least have your name?” Gasps are heard from the men around you. And you can only think of how to explain this mess of a situation to your father.

Valarr Targaryen + Soulmates having their names on each other's wrists

Your parents held their breath the day you showed them your wrist and they saw the name. Valarr Targaryen. Of all the possible soulmates, yours had to be the prince. The heir to the iron throne right after his father. Your family was from a minor house. Approaching the royal family, offering them your hand with nothing but the only reasoning of being the prince’s soulmate would be laughable at best, insulting at worst. So you were instructed to keep it hidden. Always. 

People will talk and if Valarr perhaps weds someone else, his wife may take offense to the words being said and your family simply couldn’t afford such a scandal. It was why with the tourney coming up, your father refused to take you at first. But you pleaded for days on end until he finally relented, making you promise that you would draw no attention to yourself. You fully intended to keep to your word. Till you accidently collided with the prince at the gathering before the tourney. Valarr instinctively grabbed you before you fell. 

He asked if you were alright. But words were stuck in your throat, heart racing at the sight of him. It couldn’t be, it shouldn’t be. Your friend behind you who witnessed it all, calls your name asking if you are alright too. Watching as realization washes over Valarr’s face. He repeats your name back to you and you shake your head. “You have the wrong person, my pri-” “Show me your wrist.” It wasn’t a request. With shaking hands you allow him the honor to lift your sleeve, inhaling his breath when he sees his name on your skin. Valarr made you return back to your family, praying the matter was finished. So why was Valarr approaching his father, whispering something to his ear? And why has the heir of the throne now approaching your father directly?

Raymun Fossoway + Red string around your pinky is attached to your soulmate's pinky

Soulmates were a comforting thought to Raymun despite everyone else belittling him for it. He often wondered what you might be like. Were you beautiful? Were you out there thinking of him too? After all, you shared a piece of each other’s soul. It was said being far from your soulmate ached and losing them is described as the same pain one would feel if they took a spear to the chest. Sometimes when he was bored or upset, Raymun tugs the string gently just to gouge a reaction, his way of saying hello. 

And every time he felt the sting being tugged back, he smiled. Sometimes he even did it at night when he couldn’t sleep, feeling a bit guilty if he woke you up. His cousin mocked him whenever he caught him staring at his pinky playing with the string invisible to the eye. It was one day in his cousin's tent, he was speaking with another squire. Then he felt a sharp tug on the string. It was stronger than usual, almost moving his hand forward. The realization struck him. Were you possibly close?

Without thinking, Raymun excused himself and stepped outside of the tent, ignoring the squire's concerns in the process. Raymun follows the invisible pull until it led him straight to you. He paused for a moment. Even from afar, you looked absolutely beautiful. Were you a servant, a traveler, a lady? Raymun truthfylly didn’t care as he approaches you, clearing his throat to catch your attention. “You’re my soulmate,” he blurted a little too loudly. People close to you both turned to stare. Raymun mumbled an apology before asking if he could speak with you alone. 

Aerion Targaryen + Timer for when you shall meet your soulmate

Like his father, Aerion dismissed the idea of soulmates as foolish nonsense. Rolling his eyes whenever his sisters would dreamingly talk of meeting theirs. Content to never find his. He was a dragon, he had no need for such bonds. He hated that timer on his wrist. Felt like it was mocking him, making him feel that lack of control; that he couldn't escape it. Aerion ignored it for years, covering the timer with sleeves long enough so his eyes wouldn’t accidently peek. 

But one day, while preparing for a feast, he noticed it. Only a few hours? Aerion frowns, squinting to make sure he is seeing it right. He dismisses it; it's just ridiculous. Until during the feast, sitting next to his father. He curiously glanced down again and saw only one minute lift. What stupidity, what mad- but his thoughts are cut short. There you were, approaching his table. Nudged by your mother to greet your hosts. Politely introducing yourself, curtsying even complimenting the prince.

And Aerion. He was staring. Couldn’t tear his eyes off you. Till his father called his name in confusion before Aerion realized he had been silent far too long. “Yes- yes, that’s kind of you,” he mutters before watching you return to your family once more. Then he notices you glancing down at your own wrist, frowning. And feeling a pair of eyes on you - you look up to see the prince already staring intensely. Was it lust? confusion? Hatred? As he watches you piece it all together.

Daeron Targaryen + Meeting your soulmate in your dreams

Ever since he was a boy Daeron had been haunted by his dreams. Only becoming harder and harder to cope with over the years. The sweet taste of wine helped at first. Before he started drinking more and more he ought to forget just for a moment. But in the middle of it all, there was you. The only thing he found calming. At first he assumed you were part of his visions. Till he realized you reacted to him, understood his words and spoke back to him. When he touched you. You felt real. 

You didn’t appear as often as he wanted. Other times his head was filled with prophecies he couldn’t decipher; dragons, fire, death. Whenever you would show, relief washed over him. Daeron cherished those few moments he had. Begging you not to leave when he felt you slipping away, back to the conscious world yet again. Waking up with your name on his lips. And when he finally saw you in the flesh. Daeron was almost trembling. Gods, you were just as beautiful as you were in his dreams. 

He wanted to take you in his arms right there and then. But too many eyes were watching, his father among them. When he finally had a moment alone, in a dark hall with no one in sight. Daeron pulled you close burying his face in your neck. “You’re here,” he whispers shakingly, “Gods, you’re here”.  Sighing in relief, breathing your scent, letting his lips touch the skin of your nape. Daeron doesn’t care if your family came to summerhall for a mere visit. He doesn’t care what his father might say. He finally had you here, in his arms. He can’t afford to go back to the days where he just had you in dreamless nights. 

Duncan The Tall + Time slows down when you meet your soulmate

Dunk had always been told soulmates were frivolous nonsense. Ser Arlan has said it more than once when the topic came up in passing. So Dunk moved through his days never giving it much thought. It wasn’t that he didn’t believe soulmates existed. He just assumed it wasn't meant for a hedge knight like him. Not until the chain of events. Trying to enlist in the tourney, meeting a little boy who goes by egg, speaking with prince Baelor himself. 

As Dunk stood in the hall, pausing for a moment to catch his breath. “Ser,” he heard you address him, not realizing he was in your way. When Dunk turns to look at you. It happened. The world was slowing down, figuratively and literally. Dunk blinked a few times. Has he gone mad? Every sound was stretched out, every breath louder than it should be. Both of you lock eyes with one another, confusion shared. A second passes and everything snaps back to normal. Still, you and Dunk remain transfixed on one another, realization dawning your faces. 

Damian’s statement put Tim’s fears to rest; Tim’s hair was tousled, and he had a twitch in his eye from the stress that had built up in just a few minutes.

A growl sounded below them.

They both looked down. A pair of piercing eyes glared at them angrily.

“And you won’t tell him about this.”

Another growl was heard, but this time two fangs were visible.

“Oh, God,” Tim exclaimed, pulling off his mask and pressing two fingers to the bridge of his nose. “Jason is going to kill us.”

“Todd won’t find out.”

“And how can you be so sure of that? Look at her!” he said, pointing with both hands at the cat in front of them. “They turned her into a cat, and we don’t know how to reverse it!”

“Drake,” Damian exclaimed irritably. “Jason won’t be back for another two days; we have more than enough time to figure this out.” Damian’s gaze shifted to the white-furred animal with black spots. “Maybe we can bribe her with tuna.”

The cat hissed at what she considered a degrading comment about tuna.

“Tt. Calm down. We’ll call Zatanna first thing tomorrow and sort this out.”

Tim sighed wearily and nodded at Damian’s words.

“It’d be best if you stayed tonight. It’ll be easier… for everyone.”

Ever since Bruce was a child, it had been perfectly normal to see Alfred walking through the hallways of Wayne Manor, cleaning and tidying things up.

What wasn't a common sight, however, was a cat trying to reach the doorknob of one of the manor's many doors, trying to open it.

Alfred let out a sigh.

“Master Damian really needs to start exercising some self-control around animals.”

With patience and grace, he made his way toward the door, while the cat waited for the butler. Alfred turned the doorknob, and the animal wasted no time in entering the room.

“I should remind Master Jason to tidy his room,” he muttered to himself. “Or at least ask him to let me do it.”

As the butler thought aloud, his gaze never left the cat, which was slipping between Jason’s clothes on the bed.

With her tiny paws, she gathered the clothes together, and when she decided she’d had enough, she lay down on top of them, relaxing her little body as if letting out a sigh with her body language.

Alfred’s eyebrows shot up in a frown. “Interesting.”

The man couldn't help but notice the strange detail around the cat's eyes. A perfect line around each eye, strangely reminding him of Jason's girlfriend and the eyeliner she wore every time they met.

Not wanting to get involved in another vigilante problem, he decided to simply pretend he hadn’t seen anything.

He left the door ajar, just enough so that Jason’s girlfriend could come and go freely from the room.

Tim and Damian were running all over the manor, searching for the sudden—and temporary—member of the family.

“Where is she?!”

As they frantically rushed through the rooms, they disrupted all the order Alfred had worked so hard to maintain.

When they reached the second floor, they stopped abruptly upon seeing Alfred.

“Alfred, by any chance haven’t you—?”

“Don’t finish that question, Master Tim,” he said wearily. “What you’re looking for should be in Master Jason’s room.”

Without another word, the butler left, leaving the two young men alone in the long hallway. And without wasting any more time, they both headed for Jason’s room.

“Can you see her?”

They both started moving around the room, not caring if they made a mess of it. That was the last thing on their minds.

“Where the hell did she go?”

Tim picked up the pile of clothes on the bed and carelessly tossed it onto the floor so he could search through the sheets.

A loud meow of surprise and indignation echoed through the room.

Both boys turned their heads toward the source of the sound.

Two pointed black ears poked out from among the clothes, and soon a white body covered in black spots appeared.

“I’m sorry,” Tim apologized, murmuring your name.

The cat snorted indignantly.

How dare they toss you into the air like that when you were sleeping so peacefully among your boyfriend's clothes?

Oh, you would never have thought of something like that, but you were hoping someone would come over so you could bite their hand.

The sound of an engine cutting off in the driveway caught the attention of the three people in the room.

Damian and Tim were sitting on a couch, far away from where she was. Even though the cat had already bitten them when they got careless trying to lift her off the floor, they didn’t want to take any more chances.

The three of them looked expectantly toward the door, hoping to see Zatanna so they could resolve this once and for all.

But what appeared was far worse, in Damian and Tim’s words.

An excited meow echoed through the room the moment Jason appeared in the doorway. The cat’s small, furry paws slid off the armchair and pushed off, landing on Jason’s chest, its claws digging in slightly to keep from falling.

“What the hell?” the newcomer grumbled. “Come here and get this thing out of here, you little demon.”

An annoyed growl escaped her lips. How dare he call you a thing?

Jason met her gaze.

Just like with Alfred, he furrowed his brow when he noticed the eyeliner on both her eyes, highlighting the color of her eyes that had him so smitten.

Jason shifted his gaze to both boys, then back to her. He stayed that way for a few seconds, until his brain managed to connect the dots.

“Doll?”

A meow was the answer he needed to confirm that it was his girlfriend.

“What have you done?” Jason asked the two men, his annoyance evident in his eyes and the tone of his voice. Meanwhile, he cradled his girlfriend in his arms as she purred, happy to be there.

“It was an accident, Todd.”

Tim also chimed in, trying to calm things down. “Zatanna is just a few minutes away; we were waiting for her.”

“Yeah…” Damian said. “We thought it was her at the door. What are you doing here, Todd? You were supposed to arrive tomorrow.”

“My mission ended early,” he replied simply. He looked at his girlfriend, transformed into a cat, sleeping comfortably on his arm. “And when I didn’t see my girlfriend at home, I figured she’d be here… but I didn’t expect to find her like this.”

With a hint of hesitation, he stroked her behind the ears, receiving a soft, contented purr in return.

“Stop laughing, Jason!” the woman pleaded, exasperated. “It’s not funny! Your brothers fed me nothing but tuna for two days! Do you have any idea how humiliating that is?”

“But you looked so cute.”

The woman slapped his chest with her hand, trying to get her boyfriend to stop laughing.

“Maybe we should get a cat,” he said out of the blue, “that way you’ll have a friend the next time this happens.”

She grumbled in annoyance.

“That’s it! I’m going to ask Zatanna to turn you into a fish, so I can flush you down the toilet!”

“I’m going to break up with you,” Damian mutters as you shift him by the shoulders, turning him around beneath the skeletal winter trees of the Gotham park, their bare branches webbing together overhead like veins against a washed-out sky.

Snow crunches softly under your boots as you move, the kind that hasn’t decided yet if it wants to melt or commit, and Damian can hear the giddy lift in your breathing even before he hears the faint jingle of metal as you clip the plush Robin keychain onto his backpack. Your fingers are swift but careful, fussing with the tiny ball chain like this is something sacred, like if you don’t secure it just right the whole day might fall apart.

“You love me,” you coo, voice bright and teasing, making absolutely sure the clasp is fastened before you gently turn him again and rest your chin on his shoulder, your scarf brushing his jaw, warm and soft against the sharp cold of the air.

“It doesn’t even look like him,” Damian sighs, gesturing with his chin toward the small stand set up along the park’s pathway, where a folding table is draped in a faded black cloth and weighed down at the corners with stones so it doesn’t lift in the wind.

You look anyway, at the angry little chibi face of the plush that's no taller than ten centimeters, expression stitched into a permanent scowl, tiny blush marks sewn into its cheeks. It’s surrounded by others just like it, all handmade, all a little uneven in that earnest way. 

“It looks exactly like him,” you say without hesitation. “Now pay the nice lady, Damian.”

He grumbles as he reaches into his wallet, fingers stiff from the cold, but when he hands over the cash there’s a small, barely-there smile he doesn’t bother to fight. “You’re the Robin fan, not me,” Damian says as he turns back to you, snowflakes catching briefly in his hair before melting away. “Why do I have to wear the Robin keychain?”

“We’re going to match,” you grin, already turning back toward the stand like you’re being pulled there by gravity itself.

Two tables have been pushed together, forming a long, uneven display: the popular heroes clustered on one side where most people stop—Batman, Superman, Wonder Woman—Robin placed neatly beside Batman like it’s the most obvious thing in the world, and then, as the stand stretches on, the choices on people get stranger, more niche.

“Match?” Damian repeats, softer now, the word settling somewhere behind his ribs. His ears might as well perk up, even if he doesn’t realize it. He already knows the keychain will disappear into a drawer the second he gets home, hidden from judgment and siblings alike, but right now, standing here in the snow with you smiling up at him, he can’t bring himself to care.

Then something catches, sharp and unexpected.

The last time you wanted to match with him, it had been phone charms—two little chibi anime characters swinging from your cases, identical except for color.

Love interests.

The memory lands quietly but heavily, like snow piling up until a branch finally gives.

“Who are you picking?” he mumbles, resting his chin on your shoulder as you look at the stand, voice low enough that it almost blends into the hush of the park. Your hair tickles his cheek, your scarf smells faintly like your perfume and something warmer beneath it, and if the world were kinder to him, if this weren’t Gotham and public and complicated, his face would already be buried in it, pretending the cold didn’t exist at all.

Damian feels his stomach drop the moment you reach for it.

Your fingers hover for only a second before lifting the Flatline plushie from the stand, the small fabric body light and unassuming in your hand. You hold it up to show him like it’s obvious, like it’s already decided, snow catching briefly in the stitched hair before melting away. “Matching set, see—”

“No.”

The word cuts through the cold air sharper than it has any right to, abrupt enough that it startles even him. His smile is gone before you can register it, wiped clean like a slate dragged through snow.

You blink at him, confusion flickering openly across your face, your brows knitting together as if you’re trying to reorient yourself in a conversation that just took a wrong turn. “What do you mean no?” you ask softly. “Aren’t they dating?”

“No,” Damian repeats, faster this time, too fast, shaking his head with a firmness that feels rehearsed, defensive, like if he says it clearly enough it’ll become truer than it already is.

You hesitate, then glance back down at the plushie in your hand. It’s cute in that deliberately rough way—stitched eyeliner, a crooked smile, jagged strips of fabric meant to pass as hair. Someone put care into it. Someone thought it was charming.

You would agree.

To Damian, it’s a mirror he didn’t ask to look into.

From the outside, it probably looks like you’re considering whether to buy another toy. From the inside, he’s fourteen again for half a second, standing too close to a decision he made when he was younger and louder and trying very hard to be something other than a child. A pretty idea, he thinks bitterly. That’s what it was. Not good. Not smart. Just pretty in the way things are when you don’t yet know how sharp the edges can be.

Only a fourteen-year-old boy would do that to himself, he thinks—would step into a relationship with someone whose morals clashed so violently with his own and call it maturity instead of what it really was: curiosity dressed up as bravery. Damian was acting his age without realizing it. Making mistakes not because he was careless, but because he didn’t yet know what was worth protecting then.

“I swear I saw them kiss in some magazine when I was like fourteen,” you mumble, tilting your head just slightly, blinking that way you do when you’re genuinely confused, the kind of look that would melt someone else entirely, maybe make them brave enough to reach out and take your hand. But Damian has priorities right now.

“Nope.” He shakes his head firmly, voice low and final, cutting through the muffled hum of the park.

“Well… she’d still go really cute on my bag,” you murmur, eyes dropping to your black purse with its silver clasps, silver catching faint light and matching the tiny chains on the plushie like a cosmic coincidence.

“If you want something to match your bag—get like… I don’t know… Black Canary? I’ll get Green Arrow and—”, Damian starts up hopelessly.

You pause, shrugging, as if you can’t quite see the logic or consequences of this little suggestion.

“Do you have something against emos?” You chuckle, awkwardly, nervously, because the way he’s gripping the strap of his backpack and staring at the plushies like they’re miniature conspirators is absurd and almost endearing.

Damian wants nothing more than to bury himself in snow and never come out, to let the cold cover him like armor, but there’s warmth in your voice, stubborn and bright, that sticks to him anyway, like the last ember before winter fully claims the city. He shifts, quietly, unsure whether to scowl or laugh, and the snow keeps falling, silent witness to the chaos you bring.

“Babe… I go to Comic Con,” Damian sighs, rubbing a hand over his face like he’s already exhausted by a battle he knows he’s losing. “What do you think?”

“Then…” you brighten instantly, voice lifting with dangerous cheer, “…I’m buying her!”

It’s obvious now—you’re doing this on purpose. Less about matching, more about poking him until he reacts. You pivot on your heel, already half a step past him, snow crunching under your boots.

“So you hate me,” Damian says, loud and dramatic, pitched just high enough to be heard over the low murmur of the park.

That’s what stops you.

You freeze mid-step, breath fogging in front of you as the words settle in your chest. It’s ridiculous. It’s harmless. And it sounds exactly like something a clingy, needy girlfriend would say to get her way.

Worse—you’re pretty sure you’ve said it to him before.

Slowly, you turn back around, eyes narrowing with interest instead of concern. 

Oh. 

Oh two can play that game.

“Oh?” you hum, leaning into it, letting your shoulders slump just a touch. Your voice softens, exaggerated, wounded in a way that’s almost theatrical. “So… you don’t trust my taste?”

You glance down at the plushie in your hand, thumb brushing over the stitched smile, then lift it up beside your face like a comparison photo, tilting your head. Snow dusts into your hair and clings to your scarf, framing you like you’re part of the display.

“You don’t think she’s pretty?”

The park seems to go quiet around him—snow falling heavier now, lights blurring, the vendor’s stand glowing too brightly in his peripheral vision. Damian feels heat crawl up his neck as if Gotham itself is laughing at him, every flake of snow another accusation.

He stares at you, at the plushie, at the smug little curve of your lips that he wants to kiss off.

More importantly though, Damian wants to bury himself in the snow.

After he kills himself.

Preferably before you say anything else.

Two options.

Yes—okay, fine, I’ll buy it for you—let’s match. And Damian knows the second he plucks up the courage to tell you his secret, the real, hidden identity beneath all the layers of leather, gadgets, and shadow, he’ll never be able to let it go. It will linger like a blade at his ribs, a promise unfulfilled. Fuck, maybe you won’t even care that he called his ex-girlfriend pretty in front of you, but he will. Damian holds honor like a lifeline, grips it harder than he does his own shadow, and the last thing he wants is to ever diminish yours—even with something so small, so meaningless to everyone else and possibly you.

No—just pick something else. And he has to watch it: the flicker of disappointment cross your face, subtle but sharp, like icicles breaking underfoot. Your shoulders slump, just a little, your smile forced and small, fragile against the cold wind curling through the skeletal branches overhead. It lingers for what feels like an hour in the still, gray Gotham afternoon, punctuated only by the soft crunch of snow beneath your boots. He hates it already.

So he picks neither.

Instead, Damian’s sharp gaze flicks past the smaller plushies—the chibi Robin, the little Flatline you’d picked up with careful hands—to the towering, overpriced giants at the back of the stand. 

Batman and Superman, looming like they’ve stepped out of a newspaper cartoon, stitched with care, their soft capes catching the faint light of the hanging bulbs strung along the vendor’s table. 

The tags gleam, $150 each, bold and unapologetic. 

Or.

Hold onto a spinning pull up bar for 10 minutes for a chance to win.

“We match with those,” he says, voice low but decisive, a knife of authority cutting through the quiet hum of the falling snow.

You blink, heart tipping forward in your chest, tracking his line of sight, eyes glistening as they flicker between him and the plushies. Your words come out hesitant, fragile, soft as frost melting on bare skin. “I…I don’t know, Damian…those are…a little pricey. And if your thinking about the second option I don’t want you to strain yourself—”

Not a no.

Damian practically runs to that fucking bar.

There’s a small wait, stretching like it’s testing your hesitance, the snowy Gotham afternoon muffling the usual chaos of the park. Two boys, maybe fifteen, fumble at the little bar, their hands slipping over the smooth surface. You wince when the taller one loses his grip entirely and falls backward into the snow, boots flailing, a small puff of icy powder puffing around him. 

Your scowl sharpens as the old man running the bar part of the stand cackles, the laugh too loud, too brittle, a sound that makes the air feel colder.

You open your mouth, “Hey, I don’t know—” and stop. Mid-sentence, your gaze falls on Damian. And all the chatter, the clatter, the wind whipping icy flakes into your scarf, fades. He’s there, quiet but unyielding, every movement precise, deliberate. His shoulders squared against the cold like a prince, his hands adjusting the straps of his backpack, the faint tilt of his chin, the way he surveys the small chaos of the park as if he can contain it all with sheer will.

And he notices you. Not the boys or the falling snow or the absurdly loud old man—just you. The way your fingers curl slightly tighter on his coat sleeve, the tilt of your head, the slight flush rising against the winter chill. 

You can feel it in the way he shifts, the careful calculation of his steps, the subtle angle he takes to stand beside you rather than in front of you, the gentle awareness of your personal space. He carries you in that way, like he’s holding both of you in balance without touching too tightly, a quiet knightship that leaves a warmth behind.

Okay. 

Weirdo.

The thought strikes, soft, unbidden, curling like smoke into your chest. Determined, stubborn, impossibly careful—he’s all of it and somehow still this impossibly magnetic presence, grounding and wild all at once. You notice the sharpness of his jaw under the winter light, the way his silky black hair captures a few snowflakes, the way he carries himself like every small motion is meant to shield you, protect you, be near you without needing to touch.

…Your weirdo.

And it hits differently now. You can’t help it; you watch the way he shifts, just the faintest tilt of his head toward you, the way he glances at your footing on the cracked snow covered pavement, small things that are just for you. You want to reach for him, to lean into that protection, to let yourself melt into the care he carries in the simplest motions. 

The thought betrays you before your mind can resist: he’s yours, always has been, and the snow, the park, the ridiculous little plushies, they all fade to the edges. All you can see, all you can feel, is him.

“Hey.” You mumble it so quietly it almost dissolves into the cold air, more breath than word.

Damian glances down at you, dark and thick brows knitting just slightly, thrown off by how suddenly your demeanor shifted from hesitant to soft, how the energy around you has shifted. The park hasn’t changed—snow crunching under boots, the two teenage boys still failing spectacularly at the bar a few feet away, the old man hovering near the stand like a gargoyle—but it feels like the space between you has narrowed anyway. The fair hums around you, crowded and loud in theory, yet everyone is wrapped up in their own little worlds, conversations overlapping and blurring together until it’s all just background noise.

“Mhm?” he murmurs back, instinctive, distracted—and then his hand is at your waist, firm and warm through layers of fabric, guiding you just a little closer to him, just a little farther from the walking path. It’s protective without being obvious, the kind of touch that says I’ve got you without ever needing to say it out loud.

You hesitate for half a second, then lean into your scarf, hiding your mouth and nose like it might save you from your own boldness. “Can we make out later?” you whisper, the words barely surviving the cold, ridiculous and sincere all at once.

For one frozen moment, Damian short-circuits.

Then he physically shoves you back toward the walking area with the most controlled and gentle force you've ever felt, his free hand flying up to yank his scarf over the lower half of his face, eyes wide and burning as red creeps up his ears. You burst out laughing immediately, loud and unrepentant, the sound bright against the gray winter air.

He turns away sharply, shoulders stiff, absolutely refusing to look at you, while you’re still cackling like you’ve just won something. And maybe you have—because even as he pretends to recover, its like his hand can't leave your side even for instant, lingering just enough to remind you that he did not say no.

“Happy?” Damian mumbles once the two of you are back in your apartment, the door clicking shut behind you with a soft finality. The space feels different immediately—quieter, sealed off from the cold and the crowd and the noise. No one else is home. Just you, just him. The heater hums low in the background, and somehow the room already feels warmer than it should.

“Very,” you say brightly, grinning down at the Batman and Superman plushies cradled in your arms. They’re oversized, ridiculous, far more expensive than anything you’d ever justify buying for yourself.

Damian hadn’t even broken a sweat.

The memory flashes uninvited: the way a small crowd had slowly gathered as he stepped up to the bar, coat shrugged back just enough, gloves still on, expression bored in that familiar way that always means he’s about to show off without admitting it. The effortless strength in the way he’d lifted himself, clean and controlled, hanging there like gravity was optional. The man at the counter growing redder by the second because he must have been sure the bar was polished to the point of only causing slip. 

The murmurs. The phones discreetly angled because Damian Wayne is practically a B-list celebrity. 

And Damian—trying and failing to hide his grin because you were staring at him like he hung the sun and strung the moon.

Even bundled up, even half-hidden behind winter layers, the way you looked at him had warmed him more than the coat ever could. He’d felt it in his chest, in the way his balance wavered for just a split second when he caught sight of your face.

Especially when you’d turned that sharp, unapologetic glare on the small group of women giggling nearby, daring them to keep looking.

That glare—Gods. It was the only thing that almost made him lose his grip entirely.

Now, back in the apartment, he watches you from a few steps away, plushies in your arms, cheeks flushed from the cold and excitement, eyes bright and satisfied as you find a place on your bed to situate the one you want to keep. His shoulders finally loosen, tension bleeding out of him as he exhales.

Yeah.

You’re happy.

The proof of it makes his heart settle.

⸝⸝ ₊ ⊹ damian wayne-al ghul tag list tag-list (check pinned post for info on how to be added .ᐟ ) : @foivetimesacharm, @tasia13, @nightlights-and-twiklingstars, @strawbrysapphic, @theonlyshowgirl, @i-gotta-go-so-much-bigger, @kekeanna266, @nayy-a,

reblogs and replies always appreciated, lmk what u think .ᐟ

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Hey guys, so when I made this post, I was extremely frustrated and annoyed. Now that I’m way more mellowed out and had the chance to read a lot of reactions and responses, let me act my age and actually clarify some things.

First, I want to apologize to those who were deeply upset by my post. My post overall was towards those who claim they don’t write for a specific audience, and yet put specific descriptions in their work. There is absolutely NOTHING wrong with adding certain details to your reader, such as gender or body type. The issue comes in when you don’t properly title and tag it as so, or completely ignore it altogether.

If you see my post as an eye opener and want to change up your work, then you have every right to do so, but please do not think that this is an attack or jive directed at you. It’s just that some of us readers want exactly as promised. That’s like blindfolding someone, telling them that you’re gonna feed them an apple, and then making them bite into a banana - peel and all.

I know some writers have said that they want to be more inclusive in response to my criticism. If that is what you truly want, then by all means, but I cannot stress enough: write what YOU want to write. Do not feel as though you’re being pressured to change what you put out; it’s just a means of how you categorize it.