#damian wayne robin

[souuular]

normal kid things

[zeldareference]

dumbass kid i love him sm

[cowsnotcrows]

they’re talking shit about u <3

[shisuni]

ᯓ➤ match with me ⊹܀˙

← ʙᴀᴄᴋ. ⋮ ⌞ damian wayne ✘ reader ⌝ .ᐟ .ᐟ

ৎׅ ׄ synopsis ⋮ You don't know your boyfriend is Robin just yet, and to his utter horror—you want to get matching plushie keychains of Robin and Flatline. Damian puts his dignity on the line to get out of this one. word cnt. 3.1k

aka ›››› "Can we make out later?" You whisper. 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

“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

© shisuni all rights reserved

[spicy-apple-pie]

Thinking about that idea of Dick, Jason, Tim, Cass, and Damian all getting deaged and being menaces again.

Imagine Bruce gets an emergency call from the Justice League and they need him really bad. Bruce needs a babysitter. But a ratio of 1:5 seems a bit low. Considering that one is an acrobatic, another has issues with authority, one can't talk or understand speech and won't eat or play unless you tell her to, one is a baby, and the other is Tim. Even with Alfred's help it would be a handful.

So he enlists none other than Steph and Duke to watch over them while he's away. They both have babysitting experience but if they need any thing, he stresses that they should call him. But Steph and Duke are like, "It's just kids, and we're vigilantes, we can handle this."

They can barely handle it.

Eventually, they play a game of bulldog (the game where someone is a bulldog and the others have to run to the other side of an area and not get tagged. If they are, they have to join the bulldogs). The 4 kids are the bulldogs while Steph and Duke are the runners. The kids are thinking this is easy, but Steph and Duke do pull some tricks and give them a struggle.

Eventually, the kids are tuckered out and they go inside for a movie and most of the kids fall asleep.

Steph and Duke are also tired, but manage to stay awake, especially because Duke has a baby Damian sleeping on his chest. Until...

Damian blows out his diaper.

Then they really debate calling Bruce home.

[seaskate]

The Robins meeting their future selves:

---

Robin Dick: So we didn’t kill the man that killed our parents?

Nightwing Dick: Ah, Damian was cosmic justice for what I put B through, got it. That makes so much sense.

---

Robin Jason, craning his head back and looking up at his older self: Oh, I became an asshole

Red Hood Jason, mentally: he's so small, how was I ever this small? When did I ever smile like that?

Red Hood Jason, verbally: Watch it twerp

---

Robin Tim: We are as bad as B was, and why are we still even in the cape business??

Red Robin Tim: first off, rude.

---

Robin Steph: So we finally wore B down completely?

Batgirl/Spoiler Steph, with a bat symbol on her chest: Didn't even have to get adopted like the other idiots

---

Robin Damian, disappointed, with sword drawn: We are the blood son of the bat, and heir to the al Ghuls! We shed blood for others, not heal it.

Doctor Damian, equally disappointed: Was I really the angry and tiny? No wonder Timothy didn’t take my murder attempts seriously.

---

Bonus, Duke:

We Are Robin Duke: We really get to work with the Batman? With the Robins? Wear the symbol?

Signal Duke, who has seen the disaster that the Batfamily is, but wants his younger self to have to suffer figuring that out for himself: Yup, we're the first day time vigilante too

[ilunaako]

a night to remember ⏾

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

a/n: hello! just wanted to disclaim this is my favorite fic I have ever written, but it is not everyone's cup of tea. it's just for fun, so do not mind how the writing is not the best, english is not my first language. hope you enjoy!

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

summary: BRIDGERTON AU! what happens when prince damian wayne is pressured by his father to finally find his own love match?

dearest gentle reader, in just a week marks gotham's newest social season upon us. the new season brings scandal, affairs, and mystery. whether it is marveling at the season's newest debutantes, or eyeing the ever-illustrious rakes, it seems to be a promising season for everyone.

of course, this is no time for speculation. for now, let us sit back, relax, and watch the romance unfold before us.

yours truly, lady whistledown

damian walks into the ballroom where bruce is currently directing alfred and the other servants where to put all the decorations for tonight's ball. it was to be the first social event to kick off the gotham social season. king bruce wayne, the true ring-leader when it came to hosting and directing all the events.

bruce turns around and sees damian walk in, "damian, come, i must talk to you."

damian follows his father to a drawing room where he declares, "damian, i understand that you have no particular interest at all in debutantes or the social season itself, but i implore you to at least try and talk to a nice young lady."

cocking an eyebrow damian replies, "father, i will never marry, and certainly not to some lady barely out of leading strings."

against his better judgement, bruce decides to not bring up how he himself thought damian was just out of leading strings, "you sound like jason."

"is that supposed to be an insult, father?"

bruce almost allows himself a laugh, "no. but at least try to talk to someone tonight damian. you play a crucial role in society and it is time you learn your way in this world."

"i do know my way in this world."

bruce laughs this time, "then you betray your own immaturity."

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

dearest gentle reader, tonight, king wayne hosts the first event of the social season, his masquerade ball. while many eyes are focused on the new debutantes this year, this author's eyes are looking to the king's family.

it is most notable that just last year prince tim drake-wayne got married, just as his elder brothers. this strikes the question, will the formidable king wayne marry his last and final son off to the ton?

prince damian wayne, freshly eighteen, taking so much after his father in stature, mannerisms, and influence. being the least sociable of all the wayne's, this author dares to wonder if putting the light onto the prince will make him shine, or cause him to crash and burn.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

your eyes drag over the gossip sheet as your lady's maid, charlotte, does your hair for tonight's upcoming ball.

"charlotte?"

"yes my lady?"

"do...," you hesitate, nervous, "do you think tonight will go well?"

charlotte stops doing your hair and puts her hands on your shoulders, "I have absolutely no doubt about it, your mother has trained you well."

you sit in silence as she finishes up your hair and light makeup. today marks the beginning of your entrance into society. with an excellent presentation to the king, you've officially become a full-fledged lady.

after completely getting ready into a white dress adorned with silver jewels, white satin gloves which reach up to your elbows, beautiful diamond shoes, and a beautiful mask to fit the masquerade theme, you know it is time.

with charlotte just behind you, you make your way down the stairs to where your mother is waiting for you, her eyes instantly brighten taking you in.

"my darling girl," she says stepping forward and clasping your hand, "you look wonderful."

"thank you mama," you reply, giving her a small smile.

you and your mother say goodbye to charlotte and go into the carriage which will take you to the palace for tonight's festivities.

your mother gives you a smile, "nervous?"

"a little bit, but i think it will be okay."

"that's my girl," she replies, "I will be there to guide you."

the carriage comes to an abrupt stop. the footman opens the door, taking your hand and leading you out onto the carriage, your mother follows but you're too busy admiring the beautiful palace.

you barely even register walking next to her, just staring at the beautiful garden leading up to the doors, and walking inside the palace. it is nicer than you could even depict, gothic architecture mixed with an unfamiliar but not unwelcome modernity.

thousands of guests are inside the palace as well, your mother gives you a look, and you remind yourself that this night could be the most important night of all, the introduction into society. one mistake and you could be ruined.

your mother takes your hand, "be brave now," she says, and leads to introduce you to a lot of young men.

with a smile on your face, you engage in conversation, not realizing the commotion right above you.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

on the indoor balcony, king bruce wayne, is currently at quite a standstill with his son, "damian, i implore you, you must talk with at least talk with somebody tonight."

damian, who is currently, looking down at the thousands of guests below replies, "and what? turn into a lovesick fool like one of my brothers?"

"and what of it? damian do not deflect, you know what that whistledown woman says of you," bruce retorts, walking over to the railing next to damian.

"that i keep to myself? do not complain i'm not a rake like richard, or some hopeless romantic like jason."

bruce sighs, at times damian is a little too much like himself, "just trust me, there is nobody in this crowd that at the very least draws your attention?"

damian scoffs, and before he can even reply, bruce is being pulled away into conversation by alfred.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

you did not realize anyone would join you here. you assured your mother that you were just going to get a refreshment. in reality, you needed a bit of time to decompress. it was nice to meet all the possible suitors, some kind, some boastful, some arrogant.

so now, here you were, in your dress, sitting on the floor in what seemed to be a beautiful art studio, paintings littered the walls, a half-finished painting on an easel. every part of this palace was so grand and beautiful in your eyes.

you take a sip of your lemonade, but your startled when you hear the door slam open. it's a tall boy, you don't recognize him, not like you can recognize anyone here, but it's the piercing green eyes that strike you.

he looks at you, "what are you doing in here?"

you stand up quickly, bowing, "i am quite sorry my lord, i did not realize that anyone would be joining me."

"please, no need to bow, i am curious why you have not joined the rest of the ton outside in the ballroom?"

"sorry my lord, i just came here for a bit of a reprieve, it was getting quite hot and i did not realize i was intruding," you reply, looking at his face. while a good portion is hidden due to his mask, you do think he is really quite handsome.

"ah, well, seems we do have something in common. i'm hiding from the king, and those terrible mamas who want me to marry their daughters on the spot," he says, a smirk on his face, "what is your name?"

"oh, my name is -name, last name-," you say, returning the smile, "what is yours?"

he laughs, "you really do not know my name? i believed everyone in the realm knew my name."

you scoff, your cheeks getting hot with embarrassment and disbelief, "i apologize my lord, that you believe that the whole world knows your identity."

you expect him to be cross, instead a chuckle escapes his lips, "you are like a little fireball, has anybody ever told you that?"

you two then become too caught up in bickering, you barely realize voices and footsteps are drawing closer, the mysterious gentlemen in front of you is too.

he steps forward, laughter in his voice, "you were so caught up deafening me, you haven't realized your glove has come partly off."

the mysterious gentleman takes your right hand, you're pulled into him, and he adjusts your glove. was this room starting to get hot too? was he always this tall?

it is just then, it seems the whole ton is coming into the room, you've forgotten the king often leads the ton on tours of the palace. the king is in front of everyone, his face falling at the sight, several gasps accompany from behind. in appearance, it looks like you are alone with a gentleman, him already starting to undress you.

you're mortified, he is too, you feel him stiffen beside you.

"damian, what are you doing?" the king asks, his brows furrowing, confused at the sight in front of him.

your stomach drops, you were unchaperoned, with the prince of gotham himself, you were ruined.

[montic0]

these two are so dear to me