Damian didn't see any merit in using social media. It was a waste of time, plus, given his secret identity, using a platform that showcases every second of his life every single day and night, it was frankly stupid.

He used to think a lot of things were stupid before he met you.

You seem to post him quite a lot on your social media, he's seen. Nothing too over the top, just one picture of the two of your hands intertwined together, lost in one of your many photo dumps. Or a collage on your story, with a song from your shared playlist. Or a cuter picture on your Pinterest. The list goes on and on.

He knows you'd never ask him to do anything that he didn't want to, but he saw how happy it made you whenever you were posting the two of you together. And who was he to deny you your happiness, even if you never asked him to oblige?

He fills out his details and makes an account, all while you're asleep on his chest, dozing off peacefully. It almost shocks him how many followers he gets, even without a single post or a profile picture. He opens his camera, and it shows the top of your head, your hair sprawled against his chest. He runs his fingers through it, watching through the phone screen.

That's his only post. A picture of you, on his chest, him running his fingers through your hair. He groans at the amount of DM's he gets instantly, turning off his notifications and throwing his phone on the bed, returning all attention back to you when you stir in your sleep.

Damian runs more of a fan account than one of his own, but he's happier that way.