erin

she/her if i'm not writing, i'm complaining (about my writing)

[erinschantaine]

erin's masterlist

⁜ long fic | ⁂ short fic | ⁑ oneshot

marvel

bucky barnes - lost and found: one, two ⁜ - pull the trigger. you can't, can you? ⁑

c.o.d

simon riley - where he asks for a treat, for the first time ⁑ - where he realizes you are his type ⁑ - where he finds out you like... cats? ⁑ - where he's a very good dog! ⁑

updated: 31.10

if you liked my cute little pieces, please do leave a like/reblog/or a comment! (づ￣ 3￣)づ

[themanwhooncedweltinavault]

[erinschantaine]

for aerion/valarr writers out there... please... what if you guys wrote them in that tiktok trend where a bf goes "you're moody, you're a brat, you're always spending my money" and gf (reader) goes "then leave"

LIKE PLEASEEE HEAR ME OUTTTTTTT

[blackflame-archive]

Well… ok then, I’ll take both please😭

[ziyuanyuan1113]

Ser Duncan the Tall and Egg over the years. Aegon's telling Dunk about some cool dreams he's been having in the second pic

Twitter

Bsky

[alchemyfreak321]

"No more rules" Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 4 - Reveal Trailer

[dailycatsblog]

[dreamed-dusk]

Mask On, Fuck It, Mask Off | Aerion Targaryen

Synopsis: Inspired by the quote: "Aerion was quite the glad child once. He liked fishing." In which supposedly one of Lord Medgar Tully's sons participate within the tourney, yet their face is constantly shielded by a helmet.

Pairing: Aerion x Tully!Reader

Word Count: 16k+

Tags: fem!reader, fluff, slight angst, yearning, hate at first sight, kinda manipulative reader (you just don't realise it), love at first hit (?), ooc Aerion, very self indulgent, unreciprocated!Valarr x Reader (on your side), (mainly onesided) enemies to lovers, canon inaccuracies, happy ending

Note: He wants that fish lol. TLDR he negs her until she decides to beat him up. She ragebaits him. Unedited.

Part 2: Chase A Check

Part 3: Never Chase A Bitch

Aerion Targaryen did not do things in half measures.

Say whatever you would like about the Prince — cruel, vain, wicked — you could not deny that he was committed. Once his heart was set, it did not waver. Dragons did not hesitate, they simply destroyed.

Fire flowed in his veins, he was more divine than mortal. A beauty gifted only by the gods.

Which was why you had to beat the shit out of him.

See, the Prince was not the only one who was obsessive. From the first moment you had seen him, a foreign emotion flooded through your veins. Your heart quickening, your skin flushing, the thought of him unable to leave your mind.

You had never felt this way before.

Loathing; deep, ugly loathing.

This was more severe than hatred — you could ignore hatred. Hatred was simple, hatred was brief. Hatred did not compel you. This emotion interfered with your life; it was all-consuming, addictive.

Your Lady Mother often remarked that you were a gentle child, that despite the fact that you were raised with four brothers, despite your Lord Father raising you as a son also, ensuring that all his children were skilled in swordcraft and combat, you would never resort to violence the way they often would. Unless you were pushed too far.

And Aerion seemed determined to test your resolve.

"Tully." The Prince spat out, sparing a glance to your brothers as he approached your tent. He did not even bother looking at you, presuming that you were simply some fawning lady, and decided his efforts were better used for taunting your brothers.

"Your Grace." Delmar greeted, ever the conciliator. He was the second oldest, the Spare, and unlike your eldest brother, Melgar, he possessed patience and grace. Two components it seemed the Prince was sorely lacking also.

Your other two brothers, identical twins, Brynden and Mervyn, simply observed with apt interest, watching as their older brother dealt with the temperamental dragon. The twins were a few years younger than you, yet despite this they had already reached your height and were certain to surpass it soon.

Aerion continued, either wilfully ignorant of the tension that followed him like thick smoke, forcing everyone around him to choke on its intensity, or just plain stupid. "I will enjoy unhorsing you once the tourney commences, ensure the mare is not a favourite."

You scowled at his words, scoffing slightly as you turned away, trying to find something else to entertain you. You had heard of his brutish behaviour, of how ignobly he acted, harming animals in the pursuit of victory. It was embarrassing.

How pathetic must he be to have to go to such lengths just to secure a win? Either he is a poor jouster, or simply a weak man. You could not decide which was more appropriate.

If you were allowed to publicly engage in such tournaments, you would never resort to such cheap tricks and crookidness — it was behaviour beneath you. No, you were certain that your skill would be able to carry you; you were as accomplished as your older brothers, the only advantage they held over you pertaining to their height and strength. But you were quicker, in both body and mind, able to adapt, treating the sparring matched like a game of cyvasse, always thinking three steps ahead.

But despite the fact that your Father may have raised you as a son, you could never forget that you were still a daughter. You would never be allowed to join the lists of the tourneys, regardless of how skilled you were, regardless of how worthy you were.

His head snapped towards you, sourcing the soft sound, only to find you scowling as you sat so prettily. Sharp violet eyes narrowing, finally addressing you. "Do my words amuse you?"

"I am not so easily entertained, Your Grace." You drawled, your words dripping with vexation as your gaze languidly dragged back to the Prince, only to find him already glaring at you.

The corner of his lips twitched, jaw clenching as you refused to give him the reaction he had anticipated. He had expected swift apologies, stuttering words, fearful glances as many often reacted when he would address them. Instead he received you.

He mimicked your tone, ensuring to speak with equal vitriol. "Well you will certainly be entertained once your brother loses. I will have to dedicate my win to you, My Lady."

The honorific was purred in such a manner it sounded more like a threat rather than a courteous address. You offered a tight smile as a reply, glaring at the Prince who seemed to finally realise that you too were a person; certainly a shocking discovery.

He would hover for a moment, taunting your brothers with spiteful slights despite the fact that his eyes seemed to unknowingly drag back to you, trying to gauge your response. You were not generous however, and steeled your features, not providing him the gratification of your disdain any longer. However, you had done this far too late. Aerion had seen your true colours once, and desperately wished to witness them again.

You appeared like a docile creature at first glance, but you had mistakenly bared your teeth at him, and now he wanted to get bit.

—

There were many times you wished to strike the Prince, but you had more sense than that. You would rather keep all your limbs.

Instead you waited; you were patient. All you had to do is wait for the tourney to complete, and the chances of you interacting with the Prince again were slim.

You had to be patient.

You would not condescend yourself by acting so lowly, by allowing the Prince to cause you to become so volatile — it was not in your nature, you reminded yourself. You were a Lady, and you would act as such.

So even now, when you were in the middle of a cyvasse match with a Ser Knight of Some Small House you had not paid much attention to, you forced yourself not to notice the prowling dragon who watched the game with apt interest, instead claiming the knight's onyx rabble with one of your own ivory pieces.

The knight, whose name had escaped you the moment he had uttered it, responded quickly, far too quickly. A mistake. He claimed the rabble you had left vulnerable.

The knight's knee continued to bounce, impatience possessing him as he waited for your next move, his gaze flickering up to watch you. You appeared to just be analysing the board, fingers busy with twisting your golden rings, the garnet glinting each time it turned around the digit.

You suppressed the grin that threatened to unveil your glee, instead forcing it down. He did not realise he had fallen straight into your trap.

But Aerion noticed the shift that occurred within you. You may have looked as if you were carved from marble, the perfect statue of the Maiden reborn, yet there was a glimmer within your eyes.

"You have lost." Aerion proclaimed, his eyes travelling across the board to decipher how the knight had lost, yet he could not find it. What was the source of your eyes softening? Certainly not the knight… His eyes narrowed as he failed to see your victory. Surely not, it could not be the knight who had caused the smile in your eyes, for your irises to brighten. Yet the knight was not exactly ugly, and perhaps you were as simple as he had initially assumed.

He was so focused on discovering the reason for your sudden joy, he did not realise that it quickly diminished at the sound of his voice, shooting him a glare once he had exposed you.

"Pardon, Your Grace?" The knight managed out, his eyes widening once he realised the Prince was addressing him. Aerion did not bother answering him, only leaning over you to see the board from your perspective. It was beginning to irritate him, what could you see that he could not?

"I am afraid His Grace is correct, Ser." You finally spoke, your skin flushing as the Prince crowded you against your chair, seemingly not caring at the proximity he had forced upon you. You cleared your throat, your pulse racing unsteadily as his arm rested against the back of your chair, lithe fingers brushing against your shoulder causing you to sit up straight to avoid his touch. "Your king will be trapped, defeat in five moves."

Aerion smirked at your confirmation, glad to know that the only thing about the knight that caused you joy was his defeat, and not his stupid face.

"But how?" Aerion demanded, not allowing the knight to react to your words, continuing to lean forward until his head was beside yours. He stilled for a moment, eyes screwing shut as he inhaled from his nose, the subtle scent of lavender and chamomile hitting him.

The knight simply observed, riveted by the scene that was unfolding before him. Perhaps the princeling was drunk, he concluded. It was not strange to see members of the royal house of Targaryen to be publicly intoxicated, the Prince's brother Daeron had long ago normalised such behaviour, even earning the moniker 'The Drunken'. Intoxication was the only reasonable explanation for why Aerion was conducting himself in such a manner.

You stood up suddenly, becoming far too aware of how the knight was watching you, desperate to desert the situation. "My catapult would claim his dragon, leaving his king defenceless."

"But could I not—" The knight began, trying to get you to sit back down, to complete the game. You were leaving so soon, and the knight felt disappointed at losing the opportunity to speak to you longer.

"It is called laying a trap." You quickly interjected, jewelled hands smoothing your skirt as you tried to pardon yourself as smoothly as possible. Yet your pride — the disastrous, fragile thing it was — compelled you to explain how you had won, how you had bested the men before you. "I had baited you through a technique referred to as the 'Ruined Rabble', and through sacrificing one rabble, you were defeated. Now you must excuse me—"

Your voice was quickly interrupted by Aerion placing his hands roughly onto your shoulders, harshly guiding you to seat yourself once more.

"Move." He demanded. The knight quickly obeyed, abandoning you with such swift ease. What a knight he was, you thought bitterly. Leaving you with the dragon.

And the Dragon continued to watch you, scrutinising the prey that refused to flinch under his narrowed gaze. You did not utter a word, simply collecting your pieces with unnecessary detail, purposefully trying to waste his time.

And it worked. Like the knight minutes prior, Aerion could only watch you with a clenched jaw, getting irritated by the amount of time it took you to retrieve your pieces. For Seven's sake, they were all laying before you, it should not take that long!

His index finger drummed a frantic beat against the table, his own pieces already gathered in a cluttered pile (although you quickly noted that he had arranged his dragons in a neat line, as if they were cavalry awaiting for his next command).

"Will you hasten your movements?" He sharply interrogated, his tone mocking as if your actions were motivated by incapability rather than deliberation. You refused to look at him while he addressed you, keeping your attention captivated on your ivory pieces, only furthering his irritation. Why he wanted your sole focus, he was unsure, the sensation foreign as he tried digging it deep, hoping that if he ignored it long enough, it would not haunt him any longer.

"I will try." You replied, your tone light, laced with sincerity despite your movements slowing further. He simply huffed in response, slouching in his seat as his impatient nature demanded for something else to entertain him while he waited. His head swiveled, neck straining as violet eyes travelled along the perimeter of the tent, only to observe the knights that had gathered at another table, his dear cousin in the centre of them. He scowled, the sight of the flock that seemed to gather around Valarr served to irritate him further. They only trailed behind him because he was the Heir's Heir, nothing more. If he did not possess that title, they would flock around Aerion instead, because he was certainly far more interesting than his cousin. Or so he comforted himself.

A smirk threatened to break onto your face as you noticed his distracted demeanor, your hand reached across the board into his territory, selecting your ivory rabble. And while you were certain that he was not paying attention, you grabbed one of his dragons in one swift movement, concealing it in your palm as your hand retreated, allowing it to fall within your sleeve.

"Shall we arrange our boards, My Prince?" You questioned, drawing his attention back to you as you slid the opaque inklike screen into its place, obscuring your vision of his half of the board. Your hands were already moving before he could respond, routinely placing tiles in a sequence your older brother Malger would often use.

Malger was far more skilled in cyvasse than you were, and he was the most skilled jouster in your family; it was a shame he was not attending the tourney, you were certain he would put the temperamental princeling in his place. Your good sister was in the later stages of her pregnancy, and despite your fathers insistence, Malger refused to join the travelling party, meaning that your other brother Delmar would take his place in the tourneys.

Your Lord Father Medgar Tully, also a proficient jouster and swordman, skills hardened through the battlefield, would have participated in the tourney if it were not for the arm injury he had sustained during a hunt. As a result of his inability to participate, he commanded that one of his sons must. You did not bother requesting if you could join, already knowing the answer would be a resolute refusal.

At times you could not help but wonder why your Father had raised you in such a manner, why put a sword in the hand of a child and be surprised once they were accustomed to the weight, the blade becoming an extension of one's self.

Aerion grumbled a halfhearted reply, his attention continuously being drawn to the knights fawning over his cousin, haphazardly placing the tiles. What was so great about Valarr anyways? He hardly possessed the Valyrian features, and he was not that skilled in combat either.

He began to position his pieces, only to still. There was one missing. One of the most important pieces was missing.

His dragon was gone.

"Where is my dragon?" He demanded, his voice rising as he frantically looked around, finding one of his dragons missing from the position he had carefully placed it in.

"Pardon?" You questioned, feigning ignorance as you tilted your head at him, watching with great amusement as he quickly lost his remaining composure. You kept your hands on your lap, the inky dragon's wing digging into your forearm as it remained veiled from his sight. He swiftly stood up, looking over the board to find your pieces attentively placed into their correct positions. "My Prince, you cannot—"

"Do not inform me of what I can and cannot do." He hissed, leaning over the screen to search for his piece. Yet despite his meticulous search, he could not find it. "You have stolen my dragon, return it this instance."

"My Prince, I did no such thing." You lied blatantly, and it simply infuriated him further as he could tell. Your eyes were smiling once more, and they never did that when you were looking at him. Your movements were subtle, your arm dragging forward just an inch, the dragon tumbling onto the floor, released from your sleeve. Your foot found it quickly, gently kicking it forward. You quickly added another remark, unable to stop yourself. "Perhaps your dragon flew away?"

His hands clenched, teeth grinding as he desperately tried to not curse you. He was finally getting the attention of the knights, but not in the way he had wanted.

"Stand. Up." He demanded, his words slow as they gritted out of his mouth. You obeyed, once more moving languidly as you raised your palms in mock surrender. He was making a fool out of himself, and you had orchestrated it perfectly. However you had to admit that you did not expect it to happen so perfectly. And it simply got better, the scene being witnessed by multiple bystanders.

"Is that not your dragon by your feet, cousin?" Valarr called out, feeling an indescribable embarrassment for his cousin and the poor Lady he was harassing. He wished he could rescue the pretty Lady, but it appeared that you were able to handle the situation, offering Valarr a bashful smile.

Aerion looked down, the dragon pathetically laying on the floor. It was certainly not there before… right? His jaw clenched as he nodded, biting his tongue, a subtle metallic taste emerging as he refused to speak.

He grabbed it quickly, suppressing the urge to hurl it across the room, preferably hitting Valarr. Of course, out of every individual within the tent, it was his cousin who had found his dragon. Great Valarr, perfect Valarr. How utterly infuriating.

Aerion sunk back into his seat, huffing like a petulant child as he forcefully placed the dragon into its place. He shot a glare at you, gesturing for you to sit down. This was your fault, he decided. It had to be.

"Witch." He muttered under his breath, his tone accusing as he shot you a glare, and you could only roll your eyes at him.

You pulled the screen, placing it gently on the table, frowning as you took in his board. What in the Seven Hells did he do? There was no rhyme or reason to the position of his tiles and you struggled to decipher what technique he may have used. Another mistake you had made, assuming that he even knew cyvasse techniques.

And it quickly became apparent as you played with him — he barely moved his rabbles, used his catapults when it truly was not necessary, and allowed his dragon pieces to dominate the board. Which, unfortunately for him, led to the death of all his dragons. Truly a reenactment of the Dance of the Dragons, and how fitting that it simply led to the defeat of a Targaryen.

Yet despite how amusing it was to mess with the Prince, the game was a terrible bore. It felt as if you were playing with a child rather than a man grown. You were certain your younger brothers were more skilled than him, all his moves were seemingly motivated by an undeserving arrogance rather than an understanding of the game. He was truly unworthy of your time, you concluded — you had spent more time playing with your rings than actually playing the game, absentmindedly removing and rewearing them, twisting them as you felt your brain ache.

"Defeat in four." You stated, tone bored as your head rested against your fist, suppressing a yawn. You had expected more, but clearly your greatest mistake was just having expectations for the Prince. You had heard the whispers that followed him, of his cruelty and anger — such behaviour was surely sourced by a lack of intelligence, perhaps he would not act so rashly if he simply thought. Advice that was applicable to both the game before you and his life. But you had more sense than to voice such an opinion, so you would simply apply it yourself. It would be for your betterment to avoid the Prince, as each encounter with him only served to increase the urge to strike him.

And you were certain to oblige to such desires.

You could almost forgive the cruelty, it was a common fact that Targaryens were mad — his lineage cursed by the gods for their unnatural practices. But his arrogance, his self-conceited nature was unforgiveable. How blind must a man be to not understand that his birthright could only carry him so far? What did it matter that he were a Targaryen Prince if his character failed in every other aspect?

He remained silent, his hand pressed into his jaw as he leaned towards the board, his head inching closer to yours as he tried to see where his defeat laid. It took its time to register in his mind, but, eventually, defeat was processed. And you stood up as soon as it did, hands smoothing over your silk skirts, the opulent fabric whispering as you moved.

Aerion had never lost before. And he was not entirely sure of how he felt — bitter at the loss, yet it was the addictive sort. He would not mind experiencing it once more if it came from you.

"There are pieces other than the dragon, My Prince." Your tone mocking as you smiled at him sweetly, your eyelashes fluttering as you perfected the facade of innocence. He glared back at you, scowling at his loss.

"The dragon ought never lose." He seethed, his voice low as he leaned over the board, his forearms barracading the game that demonstrated his defeat. Then why are they all dead, you thought sardonically, forcing yourself not to utter your true thoughts. They would certainly get you executed, despite being the truth.

"Certainly, Your Grace." You responded, rolling your eyes deeply the moment your back was turned from him.

Your first victory against Aerion.

It was only afterwards in the silence of your own tent did you realise that your garnet ring was missing.

—

"Lady Tully." A voice called out, forcefully dragging your attention away from the ladies you had were seated amongst.

The tourney was being held in honour of the daughter of Lord Leo Tyrell, Aster Tyrell. It was clear that Leo Longthorn was trying to recreate the famed Tourney of the Field Roses, wanting the beginning of his daughter's marriage to be embroidered with success and greatness. She was to be wed to Karlon Stark, the only son of Lord Barthogan Stark. It was rumoured that Barthogan was not in favour of the tourney, believing it was a waste of time and resources, claiming that war was not a game, but his son managed to persuade his father, hoping that his Winter Rose would be pleased.

Yet Aster did not speak one word of her good father's dislike of the event, instead distracting the ladies around her with the Myrish silks her betrothed had commissioned for her. Not that she would have much use for such luxuries in the North, the Lady would have to sacrifice her low necklines and thin silks for furs and wools.

But you ignored that thought, instead fussing over the beauty of her gifts, fawning and cooing in all the right moments, until a silver-streaked Targaryen had distracted you.

Prince Valarr Targaryen, the very definition of beauty and grace, stood before you, directing a smile so gentle and charming that it had caught you off-guard. Your gaze flickered between his bi-coloured irises; warm amber and soft lavender. It was only until Aster nudged you slightly did you realise that the pleasantness of his smile was intended for you, the Tyrell Lady ushering you to follow the Targaryen Prince.

He shared pleasantries with the other ladies who were seated among you, congratulating Aster so sweetly that she blushed as if she was not to be wed within the moon.

"My Lady, I must apologise for my cousins behaviour earlier." He began, offering his arm as he began to guide you further through the famed courtyards of Highgarden, the ambrosial scent of roses and grapes wafting through the air. "Aerion is quick to temper at times, but he means well."

Valarr did not dare look you in the eyes as he spoke those words, as if recognising the lie he recited so often to excuse his cousin's behaviour. But you simply smiled, fingers curling around the soft velvet of his sleeve as you offered your appreciation, making liars of the two of you.

"There is no need to apologise, My Prince. I have many brothers and am accustomed to such behaviour. I was not offended." You responded, offering false sympathy with ease, watching as his shoulders relaxed infinitesimally, as if you had released a weight he was shouldering stoically.

But your heart dropped, unable to truly experience the satisfaction of getting away with such a small lie, as you noticed something strange.

From your peripheral you saw the glint of silver-gold — platinum glimmering under the harsh sunrays, motionless. A shiver travelled down your spine as you finally registered his unwavering attention, like a prey noticing a predator far too late. You were unable to escape, to return to the refuge of the ladies, to hide behind propriety and decorum. Your smile faltered slightly, yet Valarr did not notice, instead he continued to speak, his attention flittering between your enticing eyes and the flowers before you, finding it difficult to look at you for too long.

Valarr was uncertain as to why he felt this way, why his heart seemed to skip each time your attention was solely on him. So instead he forced his efforts back to his initial intentions — to apologise for Aerion. But why was he so determined to receive your forgiveness, to ensure that you would be pleased? He did not have an answer for that either, and imstead tried to silence the mocking voice in his head.

"You are very kind, My Lady." He responded, stopping briefly before a bed of golden roses, plucking one from its place. He withdrew a small dagger, allowing the blade to glide along the stem, removing the thorns, before returning the blade to its place. "Yet I still feel indebted to you, I should have intervened earlier—"

The silver-streaked Prince was interrupted by a curt voice.

"Cousin." Aerion addressed, hands behind his back as he pinned you beneath his scrutinising stare, not even sparing a glance at Valarr. He had already witnessed enough; how his cousin dared to apologise on his behalf, how you offered your enchanting smile and charming words, clinging onto Valarr's arm as if he were your saviour.

It was pathetic.

And it would stop this instant.

"Aerion." Valarr countered, offering a tight smile to his cousin.

"Lady Tully." You included, smiling slightly at the stupid joke, but it quickly diminished when you noticed the two men remained silent, with Valarr glaring at his nonreciprocating cousin. Instead Aerion seemed more interested in your eyes.

Alluring, beguiling eyes. His steadfast focus remained on them, even as his cousin continued to speak, even when you looked away from the silver-haired prince. His attention remained solely on you.

"As I was saying, My Lady…" Valarr began again, his smile slightly strained as his cousin remained unmoving, offering the rose to you. The blossom was quickly accepted, your fingers tracing the smooth stem, your gaze wandering back to the silver-streaked Targaryen. But once again Aerion disliked the scene unfolding before him, meaning that once again Valarr was interrupted.

"My Uncle has summoned you. He requests your presence immediately." Aerion declared, his nails biting half-moons into his palms as he noticed the glimmer in your eyes return. How dare you direct that look towards Valarr? How dare you deem him worthy of such a privilege?

Valarr shot a look at his cousin, half disbelief, half annoyance. He knew Aerion's nature, deception and bitterness coursing through his veins. And despite this universally acknowledged truth, Valarr could not ignore his words on the off-chance that his cousin was truly not lying.

Of course he was lying, but truly what more could you expect from Aerion? It was Valarr's fault for being gullible.

And so he turned towards you once more, the words he desperately wished to voice dying on his tongue, tasting like ash.

"You must excuse me, My Lady." He murmured, voice laced with regret and disappointment as he hesitantly pulled away from you, allowing his fingers to brush against the flow of your skirt for just a moment. "It appears that my Father requires me."

You responded gracefully, voice soft as you bid farewell to the Princes, grasping the opportunity to flee as soon as it appeared. But this was futile, a steady hand grasping your elbow, fingers digging into the skin as you were guided further into the verdent gardens, further from your refuge.

You inwardly cursed, heart dropping as you allowed Aerion to drag you to a remote corner of the courtyard, the only witnesses being the chirping cardinals and twisting ivy on the sun-bleached courtyard wall.

He did not bother asking what you were discussing with Valarr, did not bother asking why you were in the gardens — instead he simply stared, completely taking you in, searing the image into his memory.

You refused to meet his gaze, nails gently scratching against where the thorns had been removed, fingers travelling to caress the soft petals as they yielded to your touch, the gold parting. This was not supposed to occur. You were not meant to interact with the Prince this much, surely you were cursed.

"Why were you with him?" Aerion interrogated, taking the rose from your hands, scowling at the blossom as if it had caused him offence, throwing it to ground. Deep violet eyes settled on you once more, piercing you with chilling precision.

"Prince Valarr wished to converse—"

"I did not ask about what you were doing." He clarified, stepping towards you, his fingers tracing along the curve of your neck, catching onto the chain of your necklace, the golden links glimmering as he observed your pendant. He could smell chamomile and lavender once more, the addictive scent calming his mind. "Why were you with him?"

Your brows furrowed in confusion, suppressing the urge to flinch at his touch, wishing desperately to create some distance. But you could not, his grasp remaining on your pendant as he watched the garnet stone glint in the sunlight.

"I am not sure what you mean, My Prince." You confessed, your heart racing as he finally yielded your necklace, the cold metal of your pendant hitting the skin above your neckline. The question itself was some sort of trap, you decided. How could you answer as to why you were with the Heir's Heir? There was no option for you, the reason was simply because you could not deny the requests of the Blood of the Dragon.

"You will refuse him in the future." He murmured, closing the gap between you as he caught a lock of your hair, twisting the strand around his finger.

"That would be an insult." You responded, instinctively retreating from his warmth, creating the distance you yearned for. He was far too close, far too much — the scent of sandalwood and ash flooding your senses, perforating into your mind, burning your thoughts and self-control.

He scowled at the movement, before yanking the strand, pain flaring at the base of your scalp as you hissed sharply, your head snapping with the harsh movement. And you quickly responded before you could even think, digging the heel of your foot into his, smiling as he flinched, a curse rasping out his larynx.

But the gratification of satiating your desire was temporary, immediately vanishing as the severity of the situation dawned on you.

Seven fucking Hells.

What did you do?

Terror seized you as you backed away from the glaring Prince, watching as his breathing became unsteady, his lips curling with an emotion you truly could not identify. You turned on your heel, submitting to the fear that guided you as an instinct older than your lineage possessed you.

You had to run. You could not think, your mind haunted with the impending future, of the consequences that would occur. Even if you ran, you would not be able to get far. He would still chase you. He would find you, make you pay for daring to strike a Prince of the Blood.

There was simply no escape.

Yet despite this realisation you still tried, only to be dragged back, his fingers curling around your biceps, nails stabbing through the silk fibres of your sleeve, roughly pulling you into him. You stumbled, back hitting his chest, and you could swear that his nose brushed against your hair as he inhaled sharply.

You struggled against his grip, his hands turning you to face him as your mind racing with thoughts and possible solutions. But they all fell flat as you came to one conclusion.

He wished to strike you. To punish you for such impudence, for such disrespect.

But your mind was silenced as his lips crashed against yours, teeth clashing as he desperately kissed you, chasing the taste of honeyed wine. His hands had travelled, one carded through your hair pulling the strands while the other cradled your jaw, holding you in place.

You froze, your hands steadying yourself on his shoulders, not pushing him away.

What the fuck?

You had accounted for every possible outcome, crafting swift resolutions for the worst scenarios, but you could have never expected this. How in the Seven Hells could you escape this?

Instead of reciprocating his actions, instead of returning his kisses, you bit his bottom lip harshly, the flesh tearing against the sharp of your fang. The metallic taste infiltrated your mouth, blood staining your lips as he finally withdrew wincing at the sudden pain.

His fingers immediately raise to his lips, tracing the torn skin as blood weeped at the injury, a crimson drop trickling down his chin. Your own lips were stinging, swollen and bruised by his harsh kisses.

His pupils were blown, black darkening the deep violet as he watched you with a certain satisfaction. Yet the hungry look in his eyes remained, not completely satiated, gaze fixed on you like a dragon following its cornered prey.

He allowed you to run away this time, to flee from him. He did not bother chasing you.

He had won.

—

Aster had requested a favour from you.

A gift for her wedding, she had clarified, eyes pleading as she grasped your hands. She wished to attend the merriments occurring within the Baratheon tent, but could not conjure up the courage of going alone.

She did not dare ask her betrothed to take her, unsure of how that may have seemed. However she heard that Delmar was acquainted with the Laughing Storm, and it was certain that your brother would attend.

He would be your chaperone, and in turn hers as well. You had hesitated for a moment, your mind still reeling from your encounter with the silver-haired Targaryen. You did not want to risk another interaction.

But you could not deny her, pity striking you at the sight of her furrowed brows and doe eyes. You were weak, and so you joined her, Delmar many paces ahead of you as she whispered excitedly in your ear.

Lyonel Baratheon exceeded any expectation you had for the man; he was loud and boisterous and utterly charming in a way that commanded attention. He was impossible to ignore.

He was already a tall man, yet seemed insistent to tower above every person in the tent as he danced upon tables, his antler crown lopsided on his head of salt and pepper curls. You could not deny that he was handsome, and clearly neither could Aster, allowing the Baratheon Lord to spin her, viridescent silk skirts twirling to the discordant melody of unharmonious singing crashing against the sound of fiddles and flutes. She danced with him, and any other man she ran into, her cheeks flushed pink with exertion, breathless as she grinned so brightly.

Your smile could only mirror hers, watching her joy from the sidelines as you settled into a corner of the tent, sipping costly imported Myrish firewine, the spiced wine burning your throat. But you did not mind the subtle pain, quickly becoming accustomed to it as the feeling was more enticing than any that the offered Arbor gold could provide.

Delmar was also engrossed within the celebrations, stood upon a rickety table that swayed as he sung a bawdy tavern song with one of Baratheon's bannermen, Arbor gold spilling out of his goblet, the fruity wine dripping off his fingers. You wanted to laugh, to mock your brother while he was in a drunken stupor, to share Aster's glee, but you were unable to.

You could not even stomach the food offered during the feast, your stomach turning at the sight of the roasted duck, and instead just sipped your firewine. The thought of the Targaryen Prince haunted you; harming the Prince, kissing the Prince, harming him once more. Your heart was conflicted on how to feel, scandalised at your actions, scandalised at his, fearing what is to come.

But there was one emotion that did not waver. You truly hated him.

You almost wished you could have inflicted more damage. To make the crime worth the impending punishment.

You flinched, the sound of harsh laughter drawing you out of your suffocating thoughts. It soon faded however, but not due to distance. Cerulean eyes found you, the candle light faintly glinting against his irises as his gaze narrowed with a heavy intensity that interrogated you. You returned Lyonel's attention, watching him for a moment before allowing your focus to be drawn back to where Aster whirling, your mind pirouetting with her once more.

But Lyonel's gaze lingered, unwavering as he noticed your demeanour, as if noticing a flaw within the atmosphere he had carefully curated. You were not sharing the merriment.

"Lady Tully." He commented, your name sounding more like a fact rather than an address. "I did not know that Delmar's sister was a terrible bore."

"Perhaps I am, or perhaps I do not see the point of these festivities." You drawled back, your tone bitter despite allowing him to steal the goblet you were grasping like a lifeline. He took a quick swig of the wine, wincing as he ignored the urge to spit it back out. He would have insulted it if he did not quickly realise it was the very firewine he had brought with him from Myr. "No victories, yet you knights are celebrating as if you had won every competition."

He barked out a laugh at your response, not expecting you to cut back, the sound sharp and invasive as it pierced through the loud music of the tent. "How dull would life be if we only celebrated when there was cause to do so?

You remained silent, your focus drifting to your brother who seemed to detest his feet being on the ground, instead having them planted upon chairs as he travelled across the room, another knight placing them to aid his journey. The idiot was going to get injured, but you made no move to stop him, instead taking your goblet back from Lyonel, taking a long sip.

He noted your silence, and was unsatisfied with the response, his hand resting against the small of your back, palm firm against the smooth silks as he placed his antler crown upon your head. It hung loosely on your head, and you quickly stabilised it with a palm as you shot the Lord a questioning look.

"Do you like to dance?" He asked, eyes twinkling as he grinned at you, determined to change your mood. He decided that no one was more deserving of the happiness that was infecting the participants of the festivities, especially with how jaded you seemed. You rolled your eyes at his question, but he could tell he had won you over, your lips stretching into a grin as you began to respond.

But no response came.

The warmth of Lyonel's hand quickly disappeared, replaced by a familiar heat as you felt someone press against you, a hand wrapping around your bicep, laying a silent claim. Sandalwood and ash. Your eyes darted down to the offending hand, heart dropping at the sight of pale lithe fingers that curled around your arm.

And your garnet ring glinting from where a signet ring should lay.

"Baratheon." Aerion's voice called out, you could feel his voice vibrate against your back, his grip tightening as he greeted the Stromlander.

Lyonel responded curtly, his gaze hardening as it darted between you and the dragon that grasped you. He could not identify the emotion on your face, stuck between anger and regret as you glared onwards, not truly looking at anything. But you did not move, did not flinch, simply allowed the volatile Prince to hold you as if you were his possession.

"Leave us." Aerion demanded, dismissing the Lord as if this were not Lyonel's tent, as if Lyonel was the one causing the disruption. His free hand grabbed the crown by the antlers, gently removing it off your head before roughly shoving it against Lyonel's chest.

The Baratheon opened his mouth, mind fuzzy by the liqueur he had indulged in, the border between logic and stupidity blurred as he began to argue against the command. But he was quickly silenced by your glare, your head subtly shaking once to dissuade him. And so he pursed his lips shut, offering a tight smile as he obliged to your wishes, taking his crown and abandoning you to the dragon.

Aerion's hand travelled down the expanse of your arm, tracing the inside of your forearm, following the trail of the veins of your inner wrist, before settling around your wrist, fingers pressed against the skin as your pulse fluttered like trapped bird beneath his grip.

"My sweet Lady Rivers." Aerion murmured, warm breath hitting against the skin of your neck as you suppressed a shiver at the sensation, trying your best to ignore the mocking nickname he had decided to bestow upon you. He moved slightly, finally in front of you as he stole your goblet, unflinchingly drinking the firewine, gesturing for a knight to refill the cup. The knight quickly obliged, before disappearing into the refuge of the crowd, and you could only yearn to do the same. "You seem determined to ignore me."

You did not bother granting him the privilege of a response, instead your gaze was fixed on the fingers curled around your wrist, the garnet stone of your ring mocking you as it glimmered in the low candle light.

"Return my ring." You muttered, your voice drowned out by the intensity of the festivities, your mind clearing as the wine seemed to no longer course through your veins. He pulled you closer, his head lowering so his lips brushed against the shell of your ear.

"No."

Cunt.

Your gaze finally drifted up, head tilting slightly as his face was inches away from you. Violet irises dark and unwavering, restless as they flickered across your face, shimmering like the softness of twilight. The violet was swallowed by the darkness of his pupils, almost seeing your own reflection within the void that threatened to consume you. His lips curled with amusement as he noticed the glare that had settled into your features. You were truly beautiful when you were angry; divine and wicked, appearing like justice personified.

Your eyes dipped to his lips, lingering for a moment as you noticed the wound beginning to scab on his bottom lip, evidence of your bite. Your head spun at the sight, a strange delight coursing through your veins that was quickly extinguished once you remembered exactly why you had inflicted the injury.

He could only swallow harshly as he noticed where your gaze travelled, his mind flashing back to the very moment you were reminded of.

"Then perhaps you will release me, My Prince." The title dripped with thinly veiled vexation, the vowels dragging as if it were an insult. His smile twitched at your request, grip tightening slightly as if the very idea was a slight.

"So you can run off to that Lord?" Aerion accused, his voice low and heavy with a strange insecurity that you could only furrow your brows at. His behaviour was confusing you; perhaps you were more drunk than you had assumed. Why in the Seven Hells was he mentioning Lyonel? A Lord who you had never truly talked to before, finally sharing your first sentences devoid of any courtesy moments prior.

Despite your inhibitions being blurred by the firewine, your mind still functioned to the best of its capabilities. You quickly noticed the poorly concealed accusation, your anger flaring once more. Was he questioning your honour? There was no greater insult to a Tully, no greater insult to a woman. You were just thankful that you did not drink as much as you had truly wanted, as you would have certainly struck him if you had. The desire to do so coursed through your veins, the fingers of your free hand twitching slightly as you denied to fall into the temptation.

You twisted your wrist slightly, trying to release yourself from his grip as you responded. "I am not sure what you are suggesting, Your Grace, but I would like to be dismissed now."

Any trace of a smile vanished from his features, a cruel look brightening his eyes as he scowled at you, displeased by the reaction you provided. Why did you always flee from him? Did you enjoy withholding your presence from him? To make him yearn for your attention?

First his cousin, now some Baratheon lord — his patience was wearing thin, threadbare and fraying from your insistence to entertain the pursuits of lesser men.

His cruel, darling Lady Rivers.

The sound of heavy crashing tore through the charged moment, ripping your gaze away from him, your heart dropping at the sound of cursing and groans. The music stilled, a moment of tense silence washing over the tent.

Delmar, that damned fool.

You wrenched your arm from Aerion's grip, possessed by a newfound strength as you tried to push past him. But Aerion, like he often was, was disappointed by how your interaction was progressing, and grabbed at your skirts to interrupt your escape, vermillion silks bunched around his fist, spilling out between his fingers.

"Do not leave." He whispered, his voice going unheard as you tugged at your skirt, pulling the fabrics from his grasp as you shot him a glare, your eyes wild as you continued your pursuit of finding your brother. You did not hear his plea, soft and vulnerable and wanting, instead your mind was paralysed with a certain blankness as logic evaded you, the thought of your brother being injured anchoring your wits. And so you denied the request you did not witness.

Your heart thudded uncomfortably in your chest, certain to break your ribs as you pushed past the small crowd that was beginning to form, with your fool of a brother stemmed within the centre, unable to move. Your eyes darted around, taking the scene in completely as your mind began to race once more.

The wood had splintered at its leg, shards of mahogany exposing the wound as Delmar gritted his teeth at the pain throbbing through his ankle, desperately trying not to make any more noises. His foot was at a strange ankle, clearly a consequence of landing on it incorrectly.

Lyonel was beside him, grinning wolfishly at the stupidity of your brother while Aster gravitated to your side, her hands grasping yours as she tried to not look Delmar.

Any initial fear that you had experienced was replaced by an anger that you could not explain. Why in the Seven Hells would he act so stupidly? If he could not handle being so intoxicated, why would he indulge?

"You dimwitted wretch." You scolded, scowling at Delmar who certainly seemed more clearheaded, the fall sobering his mind as he offered a sheepish smile. The music began once more, the fiddler clearly dissatisfied by the lack of grievous injury as quick paced notes began to fill the air.

"Such kind words, sister." Delmar grumbled, hands grasping at the slant of the broken table as he attempted to become upright once more. He winced, a shallow gasp escaping him as pain sparked at the weak movement, and Lyonel quickly steadied him, grabbing at the injured man's forearms.

"And truthful." Lyonel added, quirking a brow at you as he struggled to suppress his own smirks, guiding the wounded Tully to lean against him. It would not be a celebration until someone had become injured. And unfortunately that individual just had to be your brother.

You abandoned Aster, your hand tracing against hers in apology as you went to Delmar's other side. A heavy arm draped over your shoulder, and you suppressed the urge to flinch at the smell of sweat and sickly Arbor gold.

"Idiot." You hissed out, the cool night air nipping at your face as you left the tent. "You will wish that the fall would have killed you, because Father certainly will now."

Delmar paled, either from the pain or fear, but you could not find it within you to care.

Instead your mind wandered back to garnets and ash.

—

Your mind felt as if it were splintering.

Cracked shards of incomplete thoughts as pain coursed through the wits that you tried to grasp onto.

"Damned fools." Medgar Tully cursed, face flushing with rage as a vein protuded on his forehead. His gaze dragged over his second eldest son, who was pathetically seated by the table, his ankle bandaged tightly with linens and silks, a wooden crutch beside him. "You have turned us into a laughing stock. House Tully fallen before the tourney has even begun, that is what everyone will be whispering."

You flinched at the sound of his voice, feeling it ricochet against the inner curves of your skull, piercing your thoughts. You groaned slightly, grasping your head as you allowed it to fall against the oak table, trying to block the sunlight that fell in slim ribbons through the ripples of the tent's fabrics. Your head hurts so much. Myrish firewine was clearly something not to be indulged in, yet despite the pain it caused you (during and afterwards), you still craved the numbing feeling it would cause. Perhaps you should seek out Lyonel, delay your hangover by drinking once more…

"Father—" Delmar attempted, unable to look the older Tully in the eyes.

"Silence. You have done enough." Medgar turned to look at you, concern briefly flickering in his eyes at the sight of his slumped daughter. But he steeled it swiftly, he will pity you later. He barked out your name, sharp and quick, the intrusive sound causing you to wince further as you begrudgingly lifted your head. "Your brothers are half-wits, but you should have known better. How could you allow him to become injured? I expected more from you, girl."

You lowered your gaze, the pain of your head throbbing fiercely as your heart began to ache at your father's words. You had disappointed him — you did nothing yet you still managed to disappoint him. It was unfair, it was unjust, yet your lip still quivered at the harshness of his disappointment even though you knew it was unwarranted. You let your head fall onto your arm, shielding your face as you screwed your eyes shut, trying to soothe the sting of tears.

"Brynden will take your place in the tourney."

Your head shot up, neck aching at the sudden movement as you began to protest. "Brynden is hardly even a man, and you expect him to fight? He is not a knight."

Your gaze flickered to the twins, who had simply been loitering around the perimeter of the tent, simply witnessing your father's anger, pleased to not be at the receiving end of it. But now the winds had shifted, and they were getting burnt. Brynden paled, eyes wide with horror as he gaped at your father, unable to utter a single word as his mind stalled.

"He is Delmar's squire, and the rules will permit it." Your father stated, voice stern, his words set in stone. You could not convince him to change his mind, his resolve was set.

But you could try. You began once more, trying to sweeten your tone to not anger him further. "Father, there is no need—"

"Do not speak to me of what our House needs. Brynden will fight, and he will bring us honour. I will go meet with the Master of the Games, to ensure that this change will be made." He hissed, turning to face Delmar, gesturing for him to rise. His voice softened slightly, his gaze travelling over your tired features; dulled skin and shadowed under-eyes. "And perhaps you should not attend the first events, your energy would be better spent resting and gathering some strength."

You did not need him to clarify why. You looked like shit. You could only offer a tight-lipped smile as he left, Delmar following suit with his clutch.

There was whispering in the corner of the tent, hushed and layered, voices arguing over each other.

"What are you whispering about?" You called out, slouching in your chair, feeling the wood dig uncomfortably into your back as you felt your whole body ache slightly. Either you needed to find more firewine, or never drink another drop of liquor for the rest of your life.

The whispering halted for a moment, the twins sharing glares at each other.

"He is saying that he cannot do it." Mervyn revealed, the words quickly tumbling out of his mouth, cursing when his twin punched him. "What? That is what you had said!"

"Well it does not matter anyways, I have to do it." Brynden mumbled, dragging his feet to sit beside you, frowning as he refused to meet your gaze. He was a man of ten and two, yet despite this, the pout on his face made him look even younger. Your heart tugged at the sight, pity striking you as he fidgeted in his seat. Mervyn quickly followed, shadowing his technically older brother (the difference was mere minutes, by Brynden would hold those minutes over his head for the rest of eternity).

"And Brightflame will beat you into the mud, so perhaps we should call the Maesters now." Mervyn taunted, seating himself on the table

"Do not call the Prince that." You scolded, scowling at the mention of the silver-haired Targaryen.

Mervyn rolled his eyes, muttering a response about how the aforementioned Targaryen bestowed that title upon himself.

"But it is true." Brynden complained, letting his head fall against the mahogany in an ungraceful thud. "He had mocked us yesterday, saying that he will be going fishing for trout during the first round."

You cringed at the poorly created threat, scowl deepening at Aerion's gall. How dare he threaten your brothers? First he taunted you, and now them also? You wish that you could beat the audacity out of him.

You could beat it out of him.

Mervyn watched how your features began to neutralise, brows furrowing as you seemed to be absorbed in a hidden conversation in your mind. You were thinking, certainly a dangerous thing.

"I will take your place." You suddenly stated, head snapping to look at Brynden, who only huffed at your relevation.

"She is still drunk." He mumbled to Mervyn, who began to laugh at your suggestion.

"How potent was the liquor Lord Baratheon was serving?" Mervyn questioned in a mocking tone, shooting you an amused glance.

"Potent enough to offer me enlightenment. It is brilliant."

"Brilliance or madness?"

"They are one and the same." You grinned at him, leaning forward, your tone almost conspiratorial. "And we all know that I am as skilled as Delmar, I will actually be able to win, unlike you."

"The man is ruthless, you will get injured."

"Fact." Mervyn interrupted, gaze flickering between his two siblings.

"Not as injured as you would have gotten." You deflected "And must I repeat that I can win?"

"Also a fact." Mervyn interjected once more, a slight downward smile on his face as he shrugged at a glaring Brynden. "She has a better chance than you, and Father would be furious if you lose."

"Are you seriously agreeing with her?" Brynden accused, jaw hanging as he glared at his twin. They were meant to have twin solidarity. Traitor.

"I believe that I have won." You grinned, watching as the squire slowly shut his mouth, his gaze flickering between you and his twin, trying to weigh the decision he would make. Consider the risks and potential issues. But it would be futile.

He would agree.

—

Cyvasse was a great game.

You had hated it initially when your older brother Malger would force you to play it, finding it boring and repetitive, each round ending in your loss. You had no idea how Malger was able to continuously win, as if the Fates had decided that he would be the ultimate Cyvasse champion. All your other siblings refused to play the board game with him, knowing what the outcome would be. But you were determined. You had to win at least one time before abandoning the game. You had studied books on the art of Cyvasse, learning about techniques and methodology foreign to you, even managing to convince your Septa to play with you when you should have been studying the Histories of Westeros.

After your fiftieth loss, he would finally reveal his secret.

There was no point being able to master the game if you were unable to dissect your opponent. Malger would disclose how it was not Cyvasse that you should be playing, but rather your opponent. To investigate their quirks and tells, see what would irritate them, make them impatient. And ultimately distracted. Because when your opponent was distracted, they were unable to think ahead. And this failure in planning their next moves would secure your victory.

You would later learn that this advice was not only applicable to Cyvasse, as Malger would win over his Lady Wife using these same methods. Your good sister was promised to another, but Malger dissected his character, learned his weaknesses and allowed his new opponent to expose his flaws to his betrothed. And she was not impressed, breaking their betrothal while Malger was able to win her over, already having planned this since he had met her. He would soon marry your good sister, the couple stupidly in love, and he would never confess that he had done this.

But regardless you knew, you recognised the very game techniques he had taught you. And you learnt that they were more valuable than you could ever expect.

You knew your opponent.

Aerion Targaryen, an arrogant and wicked man. Impatient and impulsive, all faults that you despised and yet that was exactly where your victory lay.

Aerion did not know that it was you beneath the visor. He did not know that the one upon the steed brandishing the tourney lance as if it were a lethal weapon was the woman he enjoyed to torment. He did not know that you had planned everything perfectly.

Your absence was easily explained, no one would be looking for you resting in your tent, for fear of disturbing you. Brynden was easily concealed amongst the congregation of smallfolk, his face blurring in with the masses. And Mervyn had easily distracted your father, ensuring he would be seated amongst the other nobles while you were steeling your nerves. All you had to do was don his armour, and everyone would be none the wiser.

Your heart rattled in its cage, a heavy anxiety pressing harshly against your lungs as you tried to steady your breathing, sweaty palms adjusting the grip you had on the lance. And despite this, you could not help the stupid grin on your face. No wonder men loved war — if this was simply a taste of the battlefield, you could find yourself becoming addicted to it. The thrill, the liveliness; blood rushing through your veins, your head clearer than it has ever been before.

You could only chase the feeling.

The horn blew, and you pressed your thighs firmly into the steed's sides, guiding the horse to charge. Hooves thundered against the dead grass of the listfield, and you gripped the tourney lance tightly, aiming it at your opponent's shield, the sigil of the tri-coloured Dragon glaring back at you — red, orange and gold. The only thing between you and Aerion was the wooden tilt barrier and space awaiting to be disturbed.

Your lance shattered, splintered through the center as he had deflected the blow with his own.

You scowled slightly — his lance did not break. He would be awarded points for being able to break yours. You returned to your side, gesturing for Mervyn to provide a new lance, biting your tongue so you would not speak. You could not speak, not now. You had to complete this and not be discovered.

Hands brushing against the steed's caparison, tracing over the Tully red and blue, following the embroidered leaping trouts, you took the lance from Mervyn's hand, guiding the horse to turn as you screwed your eyes shut. You could not hear anything. Just blood rushing and your racing heart.

You exhaled forcefully, and charged once more, gaze focused upon the dragonhead helm of your opponent, your lance aiming for his shield once more. At the last possible moment, you tilted the lance upwards, allowing it to crash against the protruding spikes. His own shattered against your shield.

You laughed sharply as the horse rounded the turn once more, the sound harsh and brittle, fueled by adrenaline while hearing Aerion bark out a curse behind you. You were ahead now; breaking a lance against your opponents helm was viewed more highly than anything he had done so far. You simply had to unhorse him now. Finish this before it could continue any further.

"Fucking Tully." You could hear him growl behind you, grabbing the replacement lance as you tried to silence your giggling, your shoulders trembling as you bit your lip, tasting copper as you struggled to suppress your giddiness. You already knew what the crowds were thinking, hearing chants of Tully.

He was losing to a squire. The Bright Prince, son of the Anvil, was losing to a mere squire — a boy who had never even participated in a joust, much less win one. The Dragon was losing to a Trout.

The truth however, was far more cruel and delectable.

He was losing to a Lady.

He was losing to you.

You could not suppress your grin, wild and unbridled, veiled by your helm, only your eyes shimmering through the gaps. There was a strange elation that flooded through you; the power of being able to see without being seen. To assume the identity of another and having the knowledge of your success, despite it being attributed to another. You were unlike the other knights, all fighting for honour and recognition. No, you were fighting to settle your heart. To finally quell the loathing that burned your mind.

To truly win against Aerion — receive the revenge that you had been yearning for.

And he would never know.

He would simply believe that he had lost to your younger brother, and perhaps that would be humiliation enough to deter him from ever interacting with you again. He would truly learn how brave a Tully of Riverrun could be. A pity that he would not know the truth, but it was for the best.

You would just have to be satisfied with besting him, despite no one else knowing.

Your chest heaved unheadily, greedily gasping in air as you readied yourself once more, your gaze skirting over the numerous faces of the smallfolk. Until you finally saw him. Brynden, his face mostly masked by the shadow of his hood, head low but he was watching you. You nodded twice at him, the movement quick as it was quickly disguised by the movement of the horse. But he had seen it and had understood the underlying message. You were to finish it, and Brynden would have to retreat to the tent and change into his twins armour so that he would be waiting for when his congratulations were to come.

Your attention returned to your opponent, violet glaring at you as you charged once more. You aimed your lance towards his shield, planning on shifting it at the last second like you had before.

But there was something strange.

His lance was aimed too low.

Too low to hit you, too low for a rightful victory. He was aiming for the neck of your horse. You snarled beneath your helm, fury biting its unyielding jaws into your psyche. Cruel, monstrous Aerion. How more ignoble could he be?

Was he so insulted by his own inadequacy that he intended to kill the horse? To perhaps injure your darling brother for life? He truly was pathetic.

The joy you had momentarily indulged in was torn away from you, dulled by an inexplicable sadness before being replaced by the ugly poltergeist of your loathing. He was no longer just a participant of the joust, no longer just an opponent — he evolved into something far more unforgettable. He was now a combatant, a hostile foe that you had to deal with.

The sound of hooves firmly planted against dry dirt filled your ears, exhaling sharply as you neared him once more, allowing him to believe that he was truly going to succeed. And perhaps if you were a knight, a lesser individual, he would have. But you kept your lance aimed towards his shield, shifting yourself upon the horse so that you were closer to the tilt barrier despite being slightly unstable, before striking it against his lance before it could touch the soft flesh of the horses neck. The wood splintered immediately upon impact, , and with the remaining lance you firmly gripped, you forcefully pushed at his chest plate.

The impact was unexpected, the edge of the exposed wood scraping against the panelled black steel of his armour, your full body weight pushing against it. He was unseated, his foot tangled amongst the saddling of the horse as it dragged him along the floor, his armour tearing at the dead grass beneath him as he struggled violently, his body writhing as he tried to release himself.

Despite the sight, you did not even smile. The glimmer in your eyes dying, just glaring at the pathetic Prince as a squire ran onto the arena, trying to calm the horse. You prayed the horse would kick its hind legs, let the Dragon suffer blows from both a horse and a Tully. But the gods were cruel, and your prayer went unanswered.

Instead the Dragon snarled at the squire to leave, struggling to his feet as he roared for his morningstar. Dark violet glinted at you beneath the visor of his helm, glaring as he watched you as you dismounted slowly, brushing a soft hand against your horse's neck as you steadied your breathing.

"Get me a trident." You whispered to Mervyn, his panicked eyes frantically flickering over you, his breathing shallow as he guided the horse away.

"This was not meant to happen." He hissed back once he returned, hands gripping the weapon you had requested. You did not bother giving him a response, just turning to face the Targaryen once more.

The cool metal seared against your sweaty palms, your mind racing as you weighed the possibilities. If you lost, all would be exposed — he would remove your helm and force you to yield. You would be punished for your deception, for attacking a Prince of the Blood while disguised. They would claim you had malintentions, that you were acting treasonously, And they would conclude that you were not acting alone, that your kin would have known of your plans, and that they would have aided. Not entirely false, but the truth would be manipulated into a grievous farce.

You could not afford to lose.

You would not lose.

You did not even flinch as the Master of the Games announced that the fight was to continue, now a contest of arms. Instead you steadied yourself, steeling your heart as you advanced towards Aerion, rolling your head slightly, the bones crackling under the motion.

He appeared larger now, the height no longer equalised by being seated upon horses. More menacing too, the dragon helm snarling at you as he prowled towards you, the spikes of his morningstar dragging across the ground, scraping at the dirt.

You whispered a prayer, a silent plea to any god that would listen, your heart clattering unsteadily as you gripped the trident with your dominant hand, twirling it to familiarise yourself with the weight.

Truth be told, you were more comfortable with a sword, the trident being Malger's preferred weapon.

The trident was not truly a weapon utilised in war — it posed too many risks. It was too specialised, its effectiveness relying upon the skill of its wielder. You would have to be fast; swift and agile while you tried to strike.

Your eldest brother would say that it was easier to defend with a trident, especially against weapons that you were not used to fighting with. You had never fought against a morningstar, the club-like weapon foreign to you. Your gaze remained stuck on its spikes, watching as Aerion swung it up, ready to strike you with it.

You gripped your shield tightly, raising it to meet Aerion's attack, the wood splintering slightly under the spikes, the weight of the shield trembling against your forearms. A grunt escaped you at the sudden impact, stumbling back as you tried to create distance as he swung once more, unrelenting in his attack.

You panted out harshly, eyes wild as you tried to look for a flaw amongst his defense, searching for somewhere to strike. Muscles straining, arms weak as you struggled to deflect him blows. You could hear a sharp laugh, the bitter sound mocking you as the situation dawned on you.

You were going to lose if you did nothing. You were going to lose because you were truly not thinking. Because you had forgotten who your opponent was.

He was not some fierce contender — he was simply a cruel, pathetic boy. The realisation repeated itself over and over in your head as you continued to raise your shield in defense, the mantra reminding you of what you had to do.

You had to beat the shit out of him.

Aerion continued to laugh, the sound choked through gasps of air as he raised the morningstar once more, intending to break your shield.

And you struck the trident at his wrist, the spears unceremoniously crashing against his gauntlets, his grip wavering, the weapon crumbling out of his hands as he hissed out a curse at the blooming pain. His arm had moved awkwardly, his shoulder snapping back under the sudden impact.

You did not allow him to recover, ensuring that he would remain distracted by the pain. You could not afford him gaining the opportunity to gather himself. Using your shield to roughly shoulder against him, the metal of his armour grinded against the splintered wood, pushing him away from his abandoned weapon.

He stumbled backwards, both hands gripping at his shield as he deflected at the jabs of your trident. You struck at his head, his chest, his arms, truly any part of him that entered your vision.

You twirled your weapon before swinging the hilt of your trident against his legs, his knees trembling at the blow. Yet he remained standing, trying to use his own shield to hit you as he retreated. The tri-prongs piercing against the wood of his shield, scratching at the painted dragon, defacing the gold.

Sweat trickled down your neck, catching onto the neckline of the linen tunic you wore beneath the armour. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but you ignored it, simply advancing your attack. You could not become distracted. You had to focus, think ahead.

Your head spun, dizzy with adrenaline and rushing blood as you dug your heels into the dirt, feigning left before dodging the way he tried to hit you with the edge of his shield. He stumbled slightly, expecting resistance only to find himself striking at emptiness. And you took this opportunity to pirouette, appearing behind him, trident and shield still in hand as you planted your foot firmly against the middle of his back, kicking strongly while he was still distracted.

Knees trembling, he fell face forward, helm crashing against the floor with a heavy thud, the impact disorienting him. You stabbed your trident at his arm, the prongs piercing into the dirt, barracading his arm between the space of the spikes. You knelt above him, one knee digging into his injured shoulder, smiling as he cried out in pain — the other knee remained planted against the floor, armour rattling as you adjusted your position, effectively trapping him. You discarded your shield; you had no more use for it.

He was unable to move, struggling against you as you grabbed at the spikes of his dragon helm, dragging it back, his neck snapping at the movement.

You did not utter a word, instead just lifted his visor so his face was exposed to the crowd of nobles. You could not see his face, could not see who he was looking at. But you could see them through the obstructed vision of your helm. Were his eyes even open? Could he see that they were all watching in awe as Brightflame was bested by a green squire?

You did not have to demand for him to yield, the words escaped his lips soon, a pathetic whimper as he realised that there was truly no escape.

"I yield."

You released a sigh at the declaration, knees weak as you rose clumsily, hand grasping at the trident that still held his arm hostage, wrenching it out of the ground.

Your heart had finally calmed.

A squire rushed onto the tiltyard, aiding the Prince as you retreated, relishing in the victory that vibrated through every fiber of your being. Your legs felt numb as they guided you swiftly through the tents, finally appearing before Brynden's.

"What took you so long?" He hissed out, watching as you collapsed onto a chair, filling a cup with cool water that you greedily drank. Poor Brynden was dressed in armour identical to yours, his twin's armour that did not witness a moment of fighting. He was practically vibrating with nerves, his heart thudding unsteadily as he feared being uncovered. You had discussed this before the joust; no matter what, he had to wear Mervyn's armour in case anyone else reached the tent before you. You would simply have to hide if that were the case, conceal the armour and retreat to the refuge of your own tent.

"You won." You grinned out, tone teasing, ripping the helm of your head as Mervyn rushed in, his head swivelling, darting between the entrance of the tent, and you, his darling sister that had bested the Dragon.

Mervyn began rattling on about everything that had occurred, his hands busy with untying you from the bindings of the armour he had secured before the joust as he spoke of how your victories, plural. Brynden copied his movements, removing your greave, and then the cuisse, and then moving onto the next leg to do the same. They had to be quick, it would only be a matter of time before your father and Delmar would be storming through the tent, sickened with joy as they would congratulate Brynden for his supposed victory.

All the armour was removed, revealing Mervyn's clothes that you had worn underneath, the linens baggy upon your figure. You grabbed at the cloak Brynden had worn amongst the smallfolk, the heavy fabric swallowing you whole, concealing your face as you snuck out of the tent.

The cool air nipped at your exposed face, shivering as you felt sweat trickle down your neck, the strands that had escaped your tight hairstyle slick against the moisture.

You would return to your tent, giddy at the silence as you removed your clothes, replacing them with a light cotton gown, feeling your body cool, the heat that coursed through your body subsiding as the truth finally settled in.

You had won.

And no one knew.

—

All anyone could talk about was Brynden's victory.

You would later learn that once the commotion of his victory subsided, he was dragged back out onto the tiltyard by your father. By this point, he was no longer wearing armour, he had managed to remove it before Medgar had entered the tent, being found holding the helm that had concealed your face.

The Lord of Riverrun clasped the shoulders of his young son, chortling with pride as he praised him for winning his first joust, against a Prince no less. Delmar beamed at his brother, unable to speak as he watched him with shock.

They would never know the truth, a mercy you forced the twins to oblige by.

Your father would guide Brynden back to the tiltyard as he was summoned by another Targaryen. The Hammer. And so Brynden would have knighthood bestowed upon him by the Heir Apparent, smiling sheepishly as guilt gnawed at his psyche.

He did not deserve the title, he would argue later with you. You would hiss at him, demand that he would be grateful for such an honour as the unsaid truth hung between you.

That should have been your knighthood.

But you would have never been able to receive it. The Realm would never be able to accept that a Lady could be as skilled as a man, that she could be as honourable as a man. Despite the fact that history sung stories of how time and time again women could also be skilled warriors, evidenced by Visenya the Conqueror (although that was a title seemingly reserved for her male counterpart), they would deny this fact. They would claim that the nature of women would never allow them to be worthy of the title of Knights.

It was why no woman sat upon the Iron Throne, despite there having been many opportunities — their claims were always refused in favour of a male's, despite it being weaker.

So now you sat in the main hall of Highgarden, sipping at the sickly saccharine Arbor gold offered, smiling as your father regaled about the way he had trained his children, trying to ignore a bruised Aerion that glared at you.

"From the moment they could walk." He emphasised, tongue loosened as he gushed to the men around him. Lord Tyrell had invited your family to dine with the royals, claiming that the new knighthood was cause to celebrate. "I would train them with wooden swords. Each of my children…"

His voice seemed to drone on, the two senior Targaryens nodding along, although you could tell that Prince Maekar had checked out of the conversation long ago, his eyes distant as he chewed on the roasted venison.

"You must be proud, My Lady." Valarr whispered lowly to you, seated right beside you as he cut through the red meat on his plate with ease. Your head instinctively tilted towards him, drawing closer so that you could hear him more clearly. "Your brother has brought your House honour."

Your smile widened slightly, a soft laugh escaping your lips as you responded. He did not even know the truth; no one did. It triggered a certain glee within you, to be able to get away with such a large lie.

"He truly has." You replied, your voice matching his, hushed as if it were a secret. "And I am certain that if you spoke to my Lord Father, he will tell you exactly how his victory came to be."

Your gaze flickered over to a flushing Brynden, who was being needled by the youngest of Maekar's children, Rhae and Aegon. They were investigating him, pestering him as they shot rapid questions about his supposed performance, how he had been trained, how he had managed to win against Aerion.

Your attention dragged to the other side of you, trying to involve yourself with the conversation Aster was having with Daella, but your replies were sparse, hesitant as your heart skipped as you became aware of being observed.

The eldest of the royal children, Daeron, was silent beside Aerion the entire time, his gaze fixed on you as if he were seeing something no one else could. And Aerion seemed to mirror his older brother, watching you unwaveringly, his glower mirroring the one upon his father's face. Except he was seething, fury flaring at the sight of you whispering with his cousin, sharing secrets and smiles.

Daeron interrupted his sister, who had been talking about Aster's exquisite embroidery, voice loud as he drew your attention back to him.

"A victory like that must truly feel like your own then, My Lady." Daeron commented, tone lazy, almost mocking. Despite that, there was something heavier unsaid, an insinuation that he should not have known the value of. You furrowed your brows slightly, forcing yourself to continue to smile as your mind raced, trying to think of an appropriate response. But he interrupted you before you could even say a word. "You must have been so excited witnessing such a scene."

"Unfortunately my daughter was ill." Medgar intervened, gaze hardening as he observed the three Princes that seemed to prowl around you. He was not blind, he could see how they were looking at you. How Daeron's words carried a strange tone, how Valarr whispered to you. The worst was how Aerion refused to look away from you, his gaze laying a claim on you, unwilling to speak. "But she will be able to witness the excitements of the next. Will you be joining the lists, My Prince?"

Daeron did not respond, scowling at how you were able to escape, sipping the wine. His father responded for him. Daeron was to fight. And there was no arguing against it.

But the Drunken continued to watch you, an unsettling feeling prickling along your skin as you refused to look at the sons of Maekar. The only truly normal one was Aegon, who was busy twittering to your brothers. No wonder the young Prince did not sit amongst his own, insisting to sit with yours instead. He was probably accustomed to their strangeness.

You sat up straight, your fork piercing into a boiled potato, watching as the prongs sank into the carbohydrate.

"Are you also a skilled fighter, My Prince?" You questioned, your gaze returning to challenge Daeron's. You forced your gaze not to waver, ensuring it to remain on the golden-haired Prince and not waver to his brother, who you could see was glaring at you from your peripheral. You smirked slightly, unable to look at Aerion as the sight of the purple bruise that bloomed against his high cheekbone elicited a surge of delight through you. Your own bruises had begun to deepen, littered across the body, mainly concentrated at your forearms when the vambrance had supported your shield to block his blows. You had favoured tight full-armed sleeves, ensuring that they would not be exposed. Aerion did not have the same privilege of hiding his bruises.

"Not as skilled as Aerion." He responded succinctly, offering you a tight-lipped smile as he gestured for his goblet to be refilled once more. This was his third goblet since you had seen him, the plate of food laying untouched as he indulged in the drink provided instead.

Not as skilled as you.

You hummed softly, offering your own smile in response as you bit into the potato you had speared. What excellent boiled potatoes, the flavour sweetened by your own joy. You would not allow these Targaryens to dim your glee, you would ignore their strange words and strange glances.

Valarr drew your attention once more, talking to you about the other jousts that had occurred, of a Lannister that challenged a Stark, and so on.

"I too will joust in the eve." He revealed, his fork sinking into a slice of venison. He hesitated for a moment, gaze flickering to yours, hopeful, almost reverent. "I hope that you will attend. If you no longer feel ill, of course."

"I do not." You replied, voice soft as the Prince nodded gently, your response encouraging him.

"Then…" He began, his throat suddenly dry as he met your unwavering gaze once more, flashing a shy smile as he continued. "Then would you allow me the honour of wearing your favour?"

Your smile dropped slightly, mind stalling as you did not expect those words to leave the silver-streaked Prince.

What in the Seven Hells?

You were unsure of what you had truly expected for him to say, but it had been anything but that. Perhaps you were more dull than you had believed. Your brows furrowed slightly, trying to think of a response (truly any response would do, anything to interrupt the sudden silence that fell on the table), gaze flickering between amber and lilac, trying to search for any hint of jest.

You found none.

"I would be honoured." You managed out, the words stumbling slightly, feeling blinded by the brilliance of his grin as he sighed softly, the fear of rejection finally evading him. Perhaps he is simply asking to be nice? Or as a friend?

But you were not that dimwitted to truly believe that that was the case. Favours were usually bestowed upon the victors of the competitions (something you had regretted not doing, but truly you had no time). You knew why men would ask for the favours of ladies before the joust.

It was an offer of courtship.

And you had accepted.

—

The silence of your tent threatened to consume you.

The only sound was your shallow breathing as you paced across the expanse of your tent, the base of your palms pressed firmly into the sockets of your eyes, small stars dancing along the darkness that obscured your vision.

Fuck.

You were meant to avoid the Targaryens, not court one. How in the Seven Hells did this even occur? What had you done to provide the illusion of even wanting to be courted?

You tried to calm your breathing, steady the sharp gasps that expelled out of your lungs — it was not the worst thing to occur to a person. Being sought after was a compliment, and by a Prince no less.

But you did not want this.

You were greedy and selfish and cruel, and what you wanted was something that you could never have. Something Valarr could never give you. You wanted more.

Perhaps you would have accepted it more willingly if you had never participated in the tourney, if you had never tasted the thrill of victory. But you had, and now the offer of courtship tasted bitter upon your tongue, an unrelenting reminder that you were just a Lady.

People would simply believe that you had one victory, that you had won over the Targaryen Prince with your pleasing smiles and shy words. But this was a victory that held no value to you. Not when you had truly bested a Prince that day, felt him submit beneath you, won on a field forbidden to you.

So you schemed. You could make this situation positive, you simply had to think ahead.

Princes courted ladies often, yet not all courtships ended in betrothals. You would simply have to ensure that neither would this one. You did not know what Valarr had liked about you, every time you had spoken to him, you had lied to the Prince. But you knew that once he saw you for what you truly was his adoration would vanish, disillusioned to all your flaws.

You could still win. No one cared over a failed courtship, rather this would simply increase the amount of betrothals you would receive, in turn allowing you to choose who you would wed. Your Lord Father would be disappointed when the courtship would fail, but perhaps he will be happy if you wed soon after.

Despite trying to dissect the situation for its advantages, your heart remained heavy, the joy you had been experiencing extinguished as you came to the realisation that this was the only was you could make your father proud. Your brothers brought him honour on the battlefield, sword in hand, while you could only bring him honour by wedding well, spilling blood in childbirth.

Was this your next battle? To convince yourself that you could be satisfied with the prospect of marriage?

And that was how Aerion found you, half agony, half hope, pacing in your tent.

He remained silent, prowling through the entrance, steps light as he remained unnoticed.

You did not notice the sudden gust of cold air, did not notice the heavy gaze that followed you, did not notice the presence of another.

Until you shivered. Your spine steeling as you halted, listening to the whispering of the wind that whipped against the side of your tent, the fabric rustling as you sighed out a curse, fingers brushing against your skirts. You smoothed the silks once, twice, a self-soothing act as you finally turned.

You gasped lightly, a sharp inhale of cold air burning your lungs as you grasped at your heart, feeling it jolt in its cage while you suppressed the urge to flinch, finally noticing the Bright Prince.

"Prince Aerion." You stumbled out, your gaze flickering to the entrance of the tent, wishing that he had simply entered the wrong tent. He had not. You finally allowed yourself to look at his face, to memorise the sharp lines, the bruises that marred his unblemished skin. He looked tired, like his mind was haunted by the events of the joust, continuously turning them over and over in his head.

He shuddered at the sound of his name, but did not respond to it. He did not return your greeting either, slowly advancing towards you. Sandolwood and ash, the familiar scent swirling around you as he crept closer.

"Ruined Rabble." Aerion suddenly stated, violet eyes baring into your soul as he gauged your reaction

"Pardon?" You questioned, despite having heard his words as clear as day. You swallowed harshly, forcing your breathing to slow, forcing yourself to show no sign of weakness. The last time you had interacted with Valarr, it had displeased the silver-haired prince greatly, resulting in impulsive strikes and stolen kisses.

What would he do now that you had not obeyed him? That you had not denied Valarr, but rather accepted his courtship?

Aerion continued swiftly, inching closer, his fingers twisting your garnet ring that laid upon his pinky finger. "That is the move you enjoy performing in cyvasse, is it not? A signature of sorts?"

"I suppose…" Your voice betraying a sense of nervousness as you backed away from the Prince, suddenly feeling trapped in your tent.

"I had questioned my uncle on the move, see he enjoys playing cyvasse, you must play with him one time."

"If that is what the Hand wishes"

He ignored your words. "He explained it very well. The art of laying a trap. Of decoys and deflections, setting bait."

You could not respond, your mind reeling as he closed the distance between you. You could not escape. There was no escape.

"The issue is, My Lady." The title laced with derision, leaning in as he grabbed your jaw. "You cannot trap a dragon."

"I am afraid I do not understand your meaning." You felt your jaw tremble slightly as you spoke, your words weak as it failed to carry the weight of your lie.

"Do not act dimwitted, My Lady Rivers, I enjoy your cleverness. It was you who I fought, not your brother." His words were casually cruel, hiding his adoration as he continued to interrogate you.

Your forced a laugh. "Surely you jest, My Prince. How could it have been me?"

He watched you quietly, unsure of how to answer, before pulling up your sleeve, revealing the early stages of a bruise, the skin darkening. "Explain your injury."

"I am terribly clumsy, My Prince. I had fallen." You lied, ripping your arm out of his grasp.

"A simple fall caused this great of an injury?"

"A bruise is not a great injury." You replied, forcing your features to remain neutral. You had to think, you had to escape. "Unless this farce is regarding the injury to your pride."

"My pride?" He hissed out, eyes narrowing, his breath hitting against your face as you forced yourself to glare back.

"Is that not what this is about? I did not deny your cousin, and I do not intend to do so either." You murmured, voice low and cutting as your blood rushed once more, your mind clearing as adrenaline guided you. "Is that why you accuse me of performing such deception?"

"You witch." He growled out, his hand snapping out to grasp at your forearm, his fingers digging into the bruises hidden by your sleeves. A soft pained moan escaped your lips as you struggled to conceal your wince. "This is deceit, your wicked tongue lying so easily? You truly believe that he is worthy of you?"

You glared at him, your irises darkening with detest and an emotion you were horrified by, chest heaving as you allowed your free hand to cradle his jaw. His eyes immediately screwed shut, his cheek pressing into your hand as if he were committing the touch to his memory.

"What does it matter?" You whispered, thumb caressing his silken skin, before pressing it firmly into the bruise upon his face. He flinched, sharply inhaling, yet he did not move.

"He does not see you." Aerion replied, his hands travelling to your waist, trembling fingers brushing against the silk, movements reverent as if worshipping at an altar. "He only views the beauty and grace, only what you allow him to see. But I see you. I know you better than you know yourself. Your soul is mine, and mine is yours. Do not delude yourself into believing that you could ever be his."

You frowned slightly, brows furrowing as you took him in. He was weaker than you had expected. You had to give him credit, you did not expect him to deduce that it was truly you at the joust, but he abandoned his accusation so quickly once you insulted his ego.

"You have known me less than sennight, you do not know me." You responded, tone disappointed as you withdrew your hand, prepared to retreat, to abandon him to remain with confessions that would linger unanswered.

His hand quickly covered yours, fingers curling around yours, the gold of your ring searing into your hand as he pressed it firmly to his face, ensuring it would not leave. He pressed a kiss to the palm, fingers brushing against where your pulse raced, the quick pace soothing him.

"I know that you are more like me than you would ever admit." He whispered, pulling you closer, the grip on your waist tightening infinitesimally. Your chest brushed against his, chaimail dragging across silk, the space between you disturbed. "And that you are my better."

The words hung in the small space between you, your gaze flickering between his darkened violet irises, trying to discern whether he was lying, whether he was trying to manipulate you. You did not find what you were looking for. Instead you found something that terrified you.

Complete, utter devotion. A gentleness that was uncharacteristic to the cruel prince (perhaps you had struck him too hard within the combat of arms, scrambling his wits, you tried to justify).

"And if I deny you?" You questioned, the words hesitant as you became aware of his touch, how close he was to you, sharing the air between your faces.

His lips curled slightly, stuck between amusement and fear, a wounded look flashing through his eyes, fingers flexing against the warmth of your waist as his head dipped low, his nose brushing against the curve of your neck, inhaling deeply. Chamomile and lavender. The familiar scent soothing him.

"Then I would simply have to follow you until you deemed me worthy." He finally answered, the words hesitant, unsure, as if he feared that you would push him away, reject his request.

Your thumb brushed against the softness of his lips, tracing over the healed skin, his breath stuttering at the gentle action. Your eyes were glimmering.

Guiding his head, you captured his lips, revelling in the hungry growl that escaped him as he gripped at you. You swallowed his muted whimpers, nipping at the softness of his lips as he sounded as if you soothed a pain that hauntedhim.

His lips continued to chase yours as you departed, gasping for air as they travelled along your neck, determined to place bruises not gained through combat. Your fingers tugged at the soft silver strands at his nape, grinning stupidly as he kissed you.

During Valarr's joust, Aerion would grin upon the stands, stealing glances at where you were seated. Aegon would be disturbed by his brother's happiness, unsure of what the root of such strange behaviour was.

But Daeron knew. He had dreamt it. He had seen you in his dreams defeating a golden dragon, had seen you with the sigil of fire smeared with blood upon your forehead, your lip and palm cut open with dragonglass.

But he allowed his brother to indulge in his happiness, glee at his victory.

But Aerion was wrong, as he often was.

You did trap a dragon.

♤♡◇♧

Taglist:

@ohgodimgoungtodie

[visenchanted05]

....yep. AND I STAND BY IT FOR HIM-

[only-cat-memes]

[erinschantaine]

i miss writing so much but work's been real tough 🫩 i barely have time for my other hobbies and ACTUALLY restinv

[memories]

surprise, fellow kids. I bet you thought you’d seen the last of erinschantaine

[erinschantaine]

guys oh my god... im back... we are back... our fuckass government tagged this site as a gambling site and banned it... two things i immediately thought: 1) this government should be overthrown 2) what about the fics i've been reading

[treasuredplanet]

I think that when you're overstimulated you should appear kind of grayed out and no one should be able to interact with you like a locked character in a video game

[jamqyu]

relearning how to draw jason 🐣

[srenique]

if the shoe ever fits

summary: growing up with dick grayson meant you never got bored. it also meant you'd get your heart broken.

or you and dick realise you're in love with each other.

contains : tooth-rotting fluff !! mdni, plot was plotting so it's very long, childhood bsf!dick, implied smut, kissing, making out, jealous gf, body shaming, angst, little babies at the start, mentions of death, the foster system, reader is adopted by Clark, pining, blind besties, we love dickie he's a sweetheart, spiceeee, Bruce is like a third father to reader, adopted kent!reader, brief background Jay but hot Jay, jealousy from reader, hurt/comfort, drinking, Dick remembers his Romani heritage and makes Romani dishesss, this isn’t a ‘jump into love’ thing, etc etc.

inspiration : love, rosie + invisible string (t.s), low-key WILDFLOWER (b.e) specifically the line “I know you didn’t mean to hurt me so I kept it to myself” !

twelve.

His parents weren't dead, right? They were just... sleeping. For a very long time.

Little DICK GRAYSON'S feet swung back and forth, heels scuffing the polished tile floor. He could see his face in it, blotchy and swollen with dried tears. The lady who picked him up had given him her handkerchief, now crumpled and snotty in his clenched fist.

He heard the adults talking. The foster system would take months to filter him through it. Too many kids were orphaned in Gotham. That meant there were other children like him, but he couldn't see any. Only serious looking adults who shoved pitiful glances down his throat.

"Wait here, sweetheart." A woman's voice didn't make him look up. He didn't want to see more sympathy. He did see lights, flashing, reflecting off the floor from a pair of grubby blue sneakers. They had purple bows on them. Huh.

You had your hair up in pigtails, odd. Weren't they easy to pull? Why would someone purposely do their hair like that? The boys from his school were mean, they liked pulling girls' hair. You had a packet of gummy bears in your hand, too, you were munching away happily; he wondered if you knew you'd be here a while.

He didn't notice two flying saucer eyes staring back at him, he was too focused on the gummy bears. He hadn't eaten anything for hours, but it was rude to beg for food, wasn't it? So he kept his mouth shut.

The packet rustled as it was held closer to him, beaded bracelets clinking on your wrists. Rainbow. With some charms. All mismatched. But he saw your face, and you were smiling like you'd known him for your whole life, not a second.

"Want some?" That was all you said. "I can't finish it by myself."

A pause. Then a toothy grin, digging for the gummy treasure and stuffing his mouth with it. You didn't care that he did, you just did the same.

"I'm Dick." He said through a mouthful of gummy bears. You gave your name back, same grin, your canimes pointy. Like a vampire.

You tilted your head. Didn't your mom and dad say that was a bad word? "Kids are mean."

He wanted to ask more questions, like what did that mean, where did you come from, and are your parents gone too, but a man walked in. He was tall. Freakishly tall, but he wore glasses and walked like he'd trip over his own feet. That man knelt in front of you.

"Hey, honey." He murmured, smiling. You looked at him in fascination. You'd never seen a man that tall before. Did they make men who almost touched the ceiling? "My name's Clark, I'm here to take you home."

Something about this man helped you trust him. He looked like a warm hug in a person, so you took his hand. You mud-tracked the floor as you approached the door, and he thought he'd never see you again. Maybe you never cared.

You turned around and waved. It made him happy.

He felt weird, going to school in a custom made Prada backpack. All of the bags he had before had Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles on them. At least the butler Alfred got him a TMNT pen.

That was cool.

"If anyone tries to upset you, Master Dick, don't be afraid to give me a ring." Alfred said. He sounded weird, you didn't find many people with Alfred's accent in Gotham. But he was a nice guy, he made Dick's favourite food for dinner on his first night: pizza with little mushrooms on them with dino nuggets on the side. Handmade. "I'm sure your father will be busy at work."

"Will Dad be at dinner?" Dick asked. He'd only seen Bruce once. Alfred had picked him up from the foster centre-thing, and Bruce had only been a passing sight as Alfred led him to his bedroom.

He had a fun time so far. His bed was bouncy, he had a huge TV to play video games on, Alfred always kept dino nuggets in the house, the banister was slide-material. But the house was empty. Like a void. If a void had echoes.

"I'm afraid not." The old man sighed, shaking his head. "He has a investor's meeting that will run late, if the punctuality of the attendees are anything to consider."

Alfred always used such big words.

With a strong pat on the back, he was ushered out. "Off you pop, young sir. Remember, at the first sign of trouble—"

"Call you, I got it." He grinned, hopping out of the Royce. The kids at the gate were gaping at it. "Thanks for the ride, Alfie!" The door slammed shut.

Alfred tsked, amused. "He might be more difficult than Master Bruce was." He had potential.

Dick jogged up the steps to Gotham City Middle School (it was spelled in huge letters on a sign). It looked huge, but murky. He couldn't see his face in the floors, and the doors had dents in them.

Why didn't his dad pay to enrol him in a fancy-schmancy private school?

"Hey, it's you!" It was you, equipped with the same blinding smile he'd seen a week ago. He thought he'd never see you again. You lived in Metropolis now, but it didn't have a middle school. But your new dad got you there very fast.

It was nice to have a friend. "Heya, bear." He teased, rocking back and forth on his heels. "How's the new digs?"

"So cool." You raved, sparkles in your eyes. "My new dad even has a dog. What about yours?"

"My dad has a mansion."

"Woah."

sixteen.

Bruce would never notice. Right?

Dick was all giggles, stupidly large bedroom tilting on an axis as he shoved you inside, shushing you. "Shush, bear. Respectfully. Alfred'll hear us." The man had the hearing of a bat. No pun intended there. None at all.

"Come on, there's no way Alfred can catch us." You flopped on the bouncy bed, rolling in the European goose downs with crushed velvet covers. Dick was so rich.

He produced a bottle of whiskey from his zip up. "Alfred has super hearing." He sat down on the bed, unscrewing the bottle cap. "C'mon, bear, today's the day we become adults."

You rolled to face him. "We're sixteen." But you sat up anyway.

"Humour me." His glance wasn't poisonous, scooching to face you. "Bottoms up?"

"You first." You retorted, wrinkling your nose. Only grown ups drank alcohol. Your dad would not be happy. "Wait, are you sure about—"

It was too late, Dick had thrown his head back and taken a gulp. His heart skips, slows, cheeks flooded with cherry.

Then he coughs. Splutters, even. It burns.

"Oh, golly—" You slapped his back to help him, brows knitted. "Are you ok?"

He's banging his chest with a fist, hacking; the whiskey felt like someone flicked a lighter and dropped it down his throat. His body felt tingly, there was a roasting pit in his stomach— woah.

The world tilted again, giggles bubbling from his throat. Why was he woozy? The lights stung his eyes, his vision swam and floated, ooh, you looked so pretty. "I'm a-ok." He hiccuped, covering his mouth when he handed over the bottle. "T—Try some, it's so good." His spine felt like jelly, head nestling into marshmallows. Pillows. Not marshmallows.

The rim of the bottle touched your lips, golden liquid sliding down your throat, scorching following after. Clapping your hand over your chest, wheezing, the burn suffocated you.

Your brain started floating, like it suddenly weighed a feather, and everything seemed funny. Dick’s room having a whole couch was funny. The large paintings Bruce had purchased on auction were hilarious— how were paintings worth more than you’d make in one lifetime? Why weren’t comedies about how you’re breathing in what you couldn’t see?

How did anyone know air wasn’t out to get ‘em?

The ceiling ended up in your direct line of sight, Dick’s hiccuping head lolling onto your shoulder. “We’re drunk, right?” You whispered loudly.

“I think so.” He whispered back, sniffling. “We drank a tiny bit, m’not sure why.” He pouted, woozy blues staring straight up at you. “You’ll be my best friend forever, right?”

You held up your pinky. He took it.

Swoosh.

Sunlight stung Dick’s brain, the unmistakeable figure of a seventy-something, very amused butler halo-ed in the window. “Master Dick, it is almost noon.”

Oh no. He’d been caught.

With Bruce’s whiskey.

A bony eyebrow was raised. “And, it seems, you have grown a taste for Master Wayne’s Bruichladdich.” He was so busted. You were so busted. “I will arrange a hangover cure, and I will drive the young miss sleeping beside you home later. I have already informed her father where she is.” He paused. “I hope you behaved yourself, Master Dick.”

Huh—

Dick pouted, throwing the covers over his head. You were still peacefully slumbering, crushed velvet cupping your chin. “I hate you.” He mumbled, half-heartedly. Alfred was his grandpa at this point.

Alfred smiled. “The feeling is mutual.” He left the room, shutting the door beside him. Dick’s head popped up from under the covers, turning to you. Your eyelashes fluttered when you breathed, your lips were parted, apples of your cheeks rosy from the whiskey.

He couldn’t stop a smile. Which instantly dropped; why was his belly warm?

eighteen.

Seeing you give a speech as valedictorian was the happiest moment of Dick’s life so far.

It had been weeks of sucking on a lollipop while you slaved over books, whining, pouting, scratching your head in his lap which brought you to the stage with a sash over a black gown. You deserved this. He’d screamed and whooped from his seat, clapping while holding a large bouquet of flowers which Alfred plucked from his arms when they almost went flying.

Everyone looked like they were cosplaying Batman.

Mr Kent had been sat beside him, Lois holding his arm as tears welled up in his eyes — “that’s my baby, she’s so smart,” — which was the first time he’d seen Mr Kent cry. His dad had been watching from the back. He’d showed up from a board meeting just in time to watch his gangly son skip up on stage and receive his certificate.

He’d even blown a kiss to the cheerleaders in the audience. Maybe the kid was more like him than he thought.

Bruce had been keeping an eye on you and Dick the entire time. He noticed things. Whenever he cracked a joke, he checked if you were laughing. He clung to your every word. Stuck by your side like a leech, even when the certificate ceremony was over. His son wasn’t good at hiding it, his earlier point may be disproven.

“Are you proud of your son, sir?” Alfred asked him, both of them standing at the edge of the party like two mismatched security guards. “He’s done exceptionally well.”

“Straight As. It’s commendable.” Bruce replied, his eyes trained on you. He first thought you’d be a distraction to Dick and his work as Robin. A better term to describe you was a help, not a hindrance. Seeing you strive for greatness made Dick spur himself on. Maybe he’d reserve a seat for you in Wayne Enterprises, as long as you wanted one. “The girl. Dick likes her.”

Alfred guffawed a little. “Young love, Master Bruce, young love." There was an opportunity to goad. Bruce would never clap back. "Not unlike you and Miss Kyle, I might say.”

Bruce adjusted the lapels of his coat, stiff. Low blow. “That’s different, Alfred.”

“So you deny that you spent an awfully long time with her in your office at work?”

“Alfred.”

Dick knocked the wind out of you, sweeping you off your feet in a bear hug when all your friends stopped congratulating you. He was probably more ecstatic than you were. “Hey, congrats!” Goofy-grinned, tomato-faced, a firework ready to go off. He was such an idiot. Your idiot. “You were really inspiring. I had an irrational urge to be a better man."

"Ugh, anything but that." You rolled your eyes playfully, fingers digging into his shoulders. You were not falling today. "Do I even weigh anything to you?"

"No."

"Ass."

"Thank you." He put you down, cocking his head. His eyes gleamed, as it did when he had something up his sleeve.

Oh, no. He was thinking. "What?" You deadpanned, crossing your arms. "You're thinking again, that's never a good sign."

"Chillax, I was gonna suggest that we sneak out. You think so low of me." He opened his gown a little like he was showing a fucking gun, your eye catching on to the massive gummy bear packet bursting from his pocket. It was holding on to dear life. "I wanna be a Scrooge and gatekeep these."

Huh. "So, you have a point." You mused. "Where, though?" You already knew. Every day without fail, you two had hung out under this massive oak tree planted by GCHS alumni years back. It was the one place in school that wasn't gross.

"Aw, you know where."

Shade blanketed both of you, Dick shined anyway. Fuck, he did, with the jokes you laughed at even when you didn't get his silly references. He loved niche movies, his favourite pastime was gatekeeping them.

The sweet packet lay half open, rested on his leg, gummies hoarded in his cheeks like nuts in the cheeks of a squirrel on the branch above you. Puffed out, unintentionally pouting. He was so greedy sometimes.

He swallowed the mouthful. "So. Met U, huh? Sounds fancy." You were moving close to home, he knew that was going to happen. Clark lived in Metropolis, and better ground zero for alien attacks than ground zero for every felony known to man. He'd go too, but he'd be spoiled for choice. Where were you supposed to start in a city that big?

"Yeah, I got in that course for journalism. And Dad got his boss to agree to get me an internship while I'm there. Might help me pay off student debt." You decapitated a bear with your teeth. "And you?"

A pregnant pause. He'd never thought about that, he just... he always thought he'd be Robin. Learning from Bruce, saving the city, taking a job at WE so he could pay some bills and keep close to his dad. Can't choose your cards if you don't know 'em all, so. "Well, I got a course in Business at Hudson University. And they have a place on the, uh, on the basketball team. For me."

Pride choked you. You knew he'd worked so hard, more than the mental sense, physically, psychologically. You'd cried whenever he showed up to school with a black eye. He'd cried whenever you got your heart broken by some dumb boy in your maths class, just cause you were. He needed to escape.

You traced his slender fingers with yours. The knuckles that were purple two weeks ago. "I'm gonna miss you, Dickie." Your voice split, dread stabbed him. No. No, that wasn't goodbye. It would never be goodbye, you'd both grow old, still friends, still being mean to each other and sharing Ben and Jerry's till you got diabetes. Sitting foward, he cupped your cheeks, panic radar going off.

"Hey, shh, no, we're still gonna talk. Don't be like that." He assured, his own words fluctuating between registers. "We're gonna find cool apartments and call every day to complain about work and life and guess what? We'll never change." He held up his pinky, grinning. "Promise. Scout's honor."

You wrinkled your nose. "You're not a Boy Scout."

"Just stop and smell the flowers, bear."

You sighed, shifting so you laid over him, he melted into it like butter. Arms winding round you, tucking your gown so it wouldn't ruin your pretty dress, he was a self appointed protector of it. You chose it cause it looked like the one from How To Lose a Guy in 10 Days. His lips blessed your temple, taking in the shampoo you religiously stuck to all these years. Some name he couldn't remember, it disappeared into the haze of the sun.

It was rarely sunny in Gotham. Thank fuck rare occurred today.

nineteen.

It'd been an unreasonably long day. The laptops at the library kept crashing, you spilled coffee all over your favourite jumper, and the dry cleaning line was so long. Where was Lady Luck when you needed her? For fuck's sake.

The clock was your ultimate nemesis. Why did it have to tick so slow? An hour was an eternity, dragging your face through metaphorical mud until you face planted on your bed, your own tiny laptop open, your unfinished assignment lobbing insults at your existence.

Proofreading was hell. What was the point of grammar mistakes? It could read just fine, who cares if you used who's instead of whose? You shouldn't have become valedictorian, you set the bar too high too early. There'd be less margin to fail if you'd dropped out of high school.

A green circular button floated onto the screen, pulsing. Video call from dickie !!, coming five minutes late. You could let him go, or you could be a bitch about it, it was more entertaining to be a bitch.

Click. His voice crackled through the speaker. "Hey, there's my future Pulitzer winner." Dick's starlet smile blinded you from the screen, even though the grain of a crappy camera. Strands of the silky insult he liked to call his hair fell in front of his eyes — huh, he'd grown it out, it looked... nice — and his Gotham Knights hoodie swallowed him up.

"You're late." You pouted, rightfully. "You left me alone for five whole minutes with my assignment. I think it's alive." No kidding. At this point you wake up in a sweat cause it found you in your dreams.

"I'm sorry I can't rescue you from it, bear, sounds horrible." He chuckled, leaning forward. "How's the new digs? Any foul smells, unexplainable substances, posters of the Lorax?"

You raised a finger. "We've talked about this, the Lorax is a hero. He speaks for the trees, and sustainability is a massive problem in today's socioeconomical landscape."

"English, sweetheart." Ker-thunk. Your heart missed a beat. Had he ever called you sweetheart before? No, he’d been calling you bear after the first five seconds of knowing him. Plus the occasional shortcake, if he felt saucy. He always felt saucy, he was the human embodiment of fettuccine alfredo. “I’m kidding. I agree.” He shrugged. “Still.”

You snorted. “You’re so fruity sometimes.”

“I like to call it adapting to the seasons. It’s almost the summertime.” He grinned a shit-eating grin. A pretty grin that made your heart hurt. “Bruce and Alfie say hi. I went to go visit them last weekend, Bats doesn’t like saying it, but he misses you.”

“It’d be awkward if he didn’t.” You giggled, resting your hand on your chin. It was strange, going to university every day and not seeing Dick making leaps and literal bounds beside you. A part of your life was painfully missing. “When are you coming to visit? It’s boring without you here.”

“The moment the private jet is free, I’m there.” He leaned closer, the screen was too huge of a barrier for him. How was he able to be so far away from you for so long? Maybe his brain chemistry was altered. “I promise.” He hadn’t broken one yet, and you trusted him with your whole heart. He was gracious enough to keep his word, at least.

You really shouldn’t question what made you swoon. If memory served you correctly, a skinny little boy with spiky hair and a disproportionately toothy grin was who you first met. He’d grown into the hoodies, his biceps were like basketballs — you exaggerated on that one — he was taller, confidence in spades, he’d grown a striver — always putting in the extra mile to prove himself — but he looked fully proved now. Was it wrong to look at your best friend that way? Maybe, it felt close to objectification.

“I want visual proof.” You retorted, grinning, fighting off the down-bad case of tomato-cheeks. “Once you’re here, then we’ll talk.”

“Hard bargain.”

“Hard? That’s generous.” You joked. The screen could swallow you up if it wanted, all you wanted was to feel close to Dick again. A larger-than-two-hundred-mile wedge between you and him was less than ideal, when threads had woven your hands together, separation didn’t feel great. Your smile thawed. “I’ve gotta get back to my assignment, it’s… due tomorrow.”

He hummed, nodding. “I’ve gotta go too, I have some plans for tonight.” He shrugged, checking his phone. Roy had invited him to some frat party happening in a different dorm, but they were basically orgies between the frat boys and sorority girls, party scenes at Hud U were pretty wild. His business major had been taking his soul out of him, chewing it up and spitting it out, maybe some rest and recuperation was warranted, y’know? He needed some fun.

“See you.” You said before clicking the hang up button, leaning back in your chair. Your assignment frowned at you. “I hate you.” You mumbled.

It hated you too.

twenty three.

Dick’s graduation, your turn to scream like a maniac. Front row, hands cupping your mouth and screaming, all so he’d flush red right before he got on stage. The astronomical effort it took him to make his face its normal shade right before he accepted his graduate certificate was downright embarrassing. Like, c’mon. You didn’t have to do that.

He liked that you did, though.

He knew after this would be a life of doing coffee runs for Bruce and working his way up the Wayne Enterprises food chain, the leg up didn’t do shit. Only cause being the boss’ son would make life hard for him there, while you’d already taken up your position, interning at the Daily Planet. Coffee runs, mostly, but Clark convinced Perry to let you audit in interviews.

You sometimes sent Dick silly selfies at work, the occasional mirror selfie in the break room — it had really good lighting — and he checked every single one of them. You really had the corporate/reporter look going for you, flared pants, badge, pretty blouse.

It was kinda hot.

…

Oh, no—

Your arms strangled his neck, body colliding with his at the speed of light, woah, he had to hug you in response and take a couple steps back to avoid falling. “Oh, hey, silver bullet, slow down.” He chuckled, spinning you around before setting you on the floor. “I’m not a bowling pin.”

Did you care? Probably not, you were humming with the energy of a honeybee. “What?” He blinked. “You’re nonverbal, you’ve planned something, haven’t you?”

You shoved a box in his hands, wrapped in the fanciest wrapping you could find, white with some gold detailing. A lumpy package, with two protruding ends— the fuck could this thing be? His throat swelled at the thought of you getting anything for him at all, so his nail slid under the tape, releasing the paper and unfolding it. He couldn’t damage your hard work.

An electric blue teddy, in the shape of a gummy bear. Little smile, wide puppy eyes, little paws holding a framed Polaroid in its hands, of the two of you, the night of your high school graduation. Cups of shitty beer raised that you used to think was the holy grail. “Oh, bear.” His wrist caught a tear before it fell. “You didn’t— you shouldn’t have—” His arms flew around you, kissing your cheek and your temple. Of course, you almost fell over, he was massive and made your knees fight to avoid keeling.

You hugged him back, the fur of the bear pressing against your back, your dress ruching between his slender fingers. He couldn’t let you go, he didn’t want to, but after this he’d be in Gotham, slaving at Wayne Enterprises while you took on the journalism world with a mighty sword (your pen). He’d be the corporate slug with a night job and you’d accept a Pulitzer or Nobel on a world stage, but wasn’t that how it was meant to end?

Yeah. That’s how it should end.

The day was spent in Hudson’s high street, roaming around with cones of melting ice cream clutched to your chests. Walking hid reality, it stretched the day until it snapped. You’d already been to a couple of thrift shops, your clothes he’d swiped his credit card for hanging in bags from his arms.

Look at him. He was made to carry shopping bags.

“Let’s go to LV, or, I don’t know, Giorgio Armani, I can get you something from there.” He offered, like it was nothing, nodding to the part of Hudson reserved for the luxury shops that showed the massive difference between your wealth class and his. “I really wanna spoil you.”

What? No, you couldn’t take that much money from his bank account. Even if it wouldn’t make a dent. “I can’t do that, it’s too expensive. Plus, thrift shops have the best stuff for cheap. Great way to trend recycle.”

You were something else. In the best way.

He pouted, plush bottom lip jutting. “You don’t ever let me spoil you. It’s the last time we get to pretend to be young and stupid, at least let me splurge on you, bear.”

“No.”

He folded like wet paper. “Your loss.” His hand rested on your opposite shoulder, lips brushing the crown of your head with a hum. “I’ll miss you, sweetheart.”

There he went again. Sweetheart.

Your nose wrinkled. “You make it sound like I’m dying.”

“Well, you’re not dying, I know that, but you’ll live in Metropolis, and I’ll be in Gotham, and I won’t be able to see you everyday.” He sighed. The sun was disappearing below the horizon.

You stopped walking, standing in front of him. Your eyes were beautiful— stop that. “We’re still gonna be best friends. We promised, right?”

You held up your pinky. He took it.

That promise hadn’t changed. You could never let go of him— it would be cruel if you did, letting go of the one thing that made you what to go to school every day. He was your little ball of sunshine — not little anymore, he was big, tall, hot, even — uh, um, where were you? Oh, right.

His shoulders unravelled. “Yeah.” He breathed, kissing your forehead. “‘Course, yeah, you’re right.” His arm slung over your shoulders again. “C’mon, we’re going to Louis Vuitton anyway. No arguments.”

“But—”

“Nope!”

twenty five.

Your FaceTime was blooping, your face on the screen flashing back at you, waiting for Dick to pick up. Two years on and you both made waves that overlapped— he advanced quickly in Wayne Enterprises, proposed a few too many business deals, got ‘em signed, was promoted from coffee boy to VP in record time.

“Keep it up and you’ll be CEO,” Bruce had said. With a blank expression. He was... so emotional.

You’d written a demo piece for Perry on, guess what, Wayne Enterprises and the work on sustainability over the past two years. Coincidentally, Dick was the one who proposed that plan — your advocation for the Lorax inspired him — so Gotham's carbon emissions reduced by 5% and revenue grew by 10%, so Dick was essentially a hero.

Plus, it gave him an excuse to visit you.

Dick's face popped up on the screen. "Hey, hey." He grinned, chin resting on his palm. He looked... so happy. Like he had a great year, which he did. "How's my favourite journalist?"

"I'm great." You giggled, cause your article about him decided to blow up, which meant payday. You took the liberty to buy more groceries than you usually did. Ok, yeah, you found joy in the little things. "The article on your work has been blowing up, the numbers are doing so well. People are finally seeing how valuable you are." The way I do, you added in your brain. You held your tongue, though.

He raised a perfect eyebrow. “Credit yourself, y’know. I did the deed, sure, but you wrote the article.”

You rolled your eyes, making a yapping motion with your hand. He didn’t have to be modest, he could just sit tight and take a fucking compliment, but hey, we can’t get what we all want. “There you go again. Really, Dickie? You revolutionised corporate sustainability and reduced Gotham’s emissions by five percent. Five. Do you know how much carbon dioxide enters Gotham’s air every day?”

Gotham was so polluted even the stars had booked it.

All throughout your rant, you didn’t catch the goofy smile. That’s cause he was doing it… internally. To save face. “Hey, look, I’m just trying to give you your flowers. You could win a Nobel.”

“You should win a Nobel.” You set down your pen. “You proved that you’re not a nepo baby.”

“I am a nepo baby.”

“Dick.”

“Is that meant in a my name context or an insult context?”

“Both.” You deadpanned.

“Right.” He cleared his throat, checking the time. “Well, I better be off, I’m sorry, it was a short chat today, but I’m going out tonight. Bruce gave me the day off today for good behaviour.”

You snorted. “It’s work, not prison.” But you waved him off, shaking your head with a giggle. “Go, have your fun. You deserve it.”

“Cheers, bear.” He pointed at you. “You’ll be ready for next week, right?”

“Ready as I’ll ever be. Now go.” You ushered, cutting the call on his cute-ass pout, setting the phone down. Dick, rose from his chair, finding the mirror by the door and checking himself. The hair looked good, his navy shirt was ironed to perfection, the cream trousers were a little dangerous for a food date, but no matter. She’d like it.

He flicked his hair out of his eyes one last time, checked if the guyliner wasn’t too obvious but subtle enough to make his eyes look sexy enough, smoothed down his pants— yep, looked perfect. He clicked his tongue, smiling to himself. “Don’t mess this up, Grayson.”

He pulled out his phone, dialling a number and holding the phone to his ear, rubbing the back of his neck. “Hey, Morgan. Yeah, I’m heading out right now, will you be out in five minutes?” The response made him laugh. “I’ll wait all night if I need to, sunshine. Alright, see you in a moment.” He pressed the red button, grabbing his keys and a bouquet, shutting his front door.

Click.

Dick showed up next week in Metropolis. Sure, the drive was long cause he was impatiently waiting for when he'd see you, but long nonetheless. He was biased.

Hauling his suitcase out of the cab, muttering to keep the change, he forked out a small pile of fifty dollar bills and gave it to the very puzzled cabbie, who drove off with plans to spoil his wife formulating in his head.

"Dickie!" You gasped, sprinting, and he was ready, catching you as you launched yourself onto him, arms secure around your waist as he spun you around. His laugh was loud, his suitcase fell over, but he finally felt at home.

You were home.

A lady watching turned to her husband. "What a lovely couple." She muttered, heading on her way.

"Hey, bear." He grinned, setting you down and propping his suitcase back up again. His cheeks hurt from all the smiling, but no matter, he'd keep at it till they fell off. He was a self proclaimed masochist. "How's my favourite girl?"

"She's amazing, now come on, I wanna show you my new coffee machine." You grabbed his hand, dragging him through the street to your apartment building.

You really were happy with the simple things. His eyebrows raised.

"Say no more."

Ok, the coffee actually was incredible. And you followed the instruction manual by the letter, imagine the wonders you could perform without it.

"Huh. Didn't expect it to taste this good." He shrugged, sipping the beverage. "Or maybe the coffee at WE programmed me to like coffee anywhere else. No offence meant, of course, to you."

You nodded in agreement, sipping your own. "No, I see what you mean, the coffee at the bullpen tastes like balls dipped in ass and lathered in pickle juice."

Woah. Weirdly specific— wait, hold on.

How did you even know what that tastes like—

He nodded. Slowly, like he knew which corner of your high functioning brain you pulled that from. "Sure. Yeah. Totally normal but accurate description." A pregnant pause. "Have you... had balls that were dipped in ass and lathered in pickle juice? Out of curiosity." And out of a strong urge to fill in the blanks of your life when he wasn't here.

"No." You shrugged. "But if the coffee at the Planet had a description, that would be it."

"Fair enough."

You pointedly sipped your coffee, watching him check his phone with the same stupid smile he had when his high school, tenth grade, on-and-off girlfriend Tracy Mathers texted him. "You're seeing someone.” The words felt sick in your mouth. They’d felt like poison

He jumped, the very expensive phone almost clattering to the floor. "Hm, what?" He blinked. How did you know? Were you psychic? Did you develop some sixth sense working at the Planet? It would make sense, you needed to have one to be a reporter. "Huh? How'd you know?"

"I can read minds." You said solemnly, then shrugged. "Donna told me. Why didn't you say anything?"

His demeanor changed. He looked like a lovesick puppy, tongue tripping over words, rubbing the back of his neck. "Well, Donna knew cause I met said someone through her, and, well, I wanted to see if this was going anywhere, if she could handle, y'know, my night job."

Nightwing was a huge part of his life, of course, sometimes he'd be abroad for missions Bruce would assign him, Bruce's VP was a pretty fucking good cover. "Yeah, of course." Your voice warmed. "Is she nice? What's her name?"

"Morgan. Morgan McAdams— what are you doing?" He'd made the mistake of telling you her full name, cause you were already on Instagram, scrolling for her profile. You know, reconnaissance. You found her profile immediately, wow.

You didn't know Dick had game like that, she was stunning. Vogue pretty— oop. Yeah, she'd been on the cover of Teen Vogue at seventeen. When you were seventeen you were on the cover of your high school's theatre production flyers.

Wait. Why were you comparing?

"She's hot." You mused, nodding. Was she handcrafted by a man's wet dreams? She was perfectly proportionate, to the point where the creator of the golden ratio would burst out crying. Her red hair almost reached her ass, just the right amount of freckles smattered her nose and it slapped you in the face. Her clover green eyes looked like gemstones in the light of one of the pictures, taken at a wedding, not hers. She was perfect.

Yeah, you could see why Dick was seeing her. “You have to tell me how you pulled this off.”

“How I pulled this off?” He scoffed. “I’m charming, and charismatic, I dress nicely—” He checked his current clothes to see if he was well dressed enough to make that claim. Yes, he was. “Yeah, I dress nicely. And I love spoiling a lady, I’m not a heathen.”

“Frat boy you was a heathen.” You muttered into your coffee, which he caught, that was the point, but he snapped his fingers jokingly.

“Hey, what happens in sorority houses stays in sorority houses.” Frat boy him was a heathen, god. “I swear, you know my darkest secrets.”

“I’m sorry for knowing what goes on in your life, dear best friend since we were twelve.” You snorted over your mug.

“I do.” He chuckled, then straightened up, the I wanna propose something posture. “I want her too meet you. I want… Morgan… to meet you. Cause I want your approval, and I’ve asked Bruce to come to the dinner as well.”

You raised an eyebrow. “And he’s actually coming? He agreed? By himself.”

“After some puppy dog eyes and recruiting Tim and Alfie to be a part of the convincing team, yes.” He chuckled. “Dark days when my puppy eyes don’t work on him anymore.” The answer was that was probably puberty.

“Dark days.” Dark days, indeed.

“He’s seeing someone?” Lois gasped through a mouthful of pancakes for dinner Clark made. “That’s it, I’m getting my baseball bat.”

“I hid it at the Fortress, honey.” Clark said softly, his wife had threatened assault too many times he was being cautious, setting a plate in front of you with a kiss to your hair. “Here you go, sweetie.” He winked at the glare Lois shot him, chewing. She couldn’t be mad, though, the pancakes were divine. Fuck her husband and his perfect cooking. “And if Dick chooses to date someone, that’s his business, Lois.”

Lois waved her hands around wildly, hand almost catching the sugar pot. Clark put it farther away. “But, they— they’re, y’know, remember their graduation from university?” That affair had Jimmy bawling his eyes out from the corner.

“I remember, but he’s a twenty five year old man.” Clark blinked at his words, reaching up to adjust the glasses he’d left on the counter. His hand hovered by his eyes. Oh. “Golly, I’m old.” He muttered under his breath.

Lois rolled her eyes, reaching across to grasp your hand. Why were they treating it like your heart was broken? You were fine. This didn't affect you. Dick could date, he always had. "He doesn't get it, hon."

"I get it—"

"Smallville, respectfully, I'm comforting our daughter." Lois smiled, her hand wrapping around his, lifting it to her mouth to soothe the blow. "Look, Dick's an idiot, but he's a smart idiot, he'll come around."

Clark was going to say something about the noun and the adjective contradicting each other, but he held his tongue. "Look, sweetheart, how do you feel about this?"

You took a deep breath, your lips tugged into a smile and shrug. "I'm fine. By what he's told me, she's nice and he's happy, I'm fine as long as he is." At least, that’s what you told yourself.

Clark and Lois shared a look. Words were quieter than face in this case, your smile didn’t reach your eyes. Your eyes crinkled when you smiled, it didn’t this time. Your pancakes were left untouched. You hesitated before you said you were fine.

They didn’t like that. Clark had raised you for thirteen years, this was the first time he’d seen you genuinely upset about a boy. You were his best girl, it hurt his heart to see you like this.

“Stay the night.” He said finally, abnormally large hand resting on your shoulder, squeezing, your hand instinctively rested on top. His father-side was rearing its head; he couldn’t leave you alone when you were hung up over your best friend. “It’s late. I’ll set up the guest bedroom for you.”

As he left for the guest bedroom, Lois sighed. “I know that boy’s trained by Batman or whatever, but if he hurts you, he’ll find my foot so far up his—”

“Honey.” Clark interjected firmly, popping his head out from the guest bedroom. It almost made you laugh. “Behave.”

Lois shrugged dramatically. “What? I’m just being honest.”

You held back on the bear hug this time.

Dick stepped out of his car, that stupid, immaculate crisp black fitted shirt and blue jeans, a chain hanging from his neck, enough to look hot but not sleazy. A couple of decorative rings hugged the fingers of his left hand, which he reached out to open the passenger side door.

You first saw a Louboutin.

Black, sleek, red sole, stiletto heel hitting the pavement with a soft click as the longest leg you’ve ever seen emerged from the car, and there she was, in all her glory. Morgan. Her hair was tossed behind her, those earrings were probably worth more than your paycheck, a purse hung from her arm. Fuck, even her smile was perfect. Her lips were painted scarlet, lips that she placed on Dick’s as a sweet thank you, manicured nails carding into his hair.

He melted.

His body melted after two seconds, eyebrows twitching, like he couldn’t believe someone that perfect was entertaining him. Like how you wondered how someone like him could even talk to you. God, when did this all go so wrong?

“Thanks.” She whispered, pecking his lips one more time and wiping some lipstick off him with her thumb before turning to you. “Oh, this must be the famous bear!” She laughed, a weirdly in tune laugh.

Dick hurriedly stepped forward, his hand on Morgan's waist. "Uh, yeah, bear, you know Morgan, Morgan, this is—"

"Oh, handsome, I know who this is, I'm such a huge fan." She beamed, hugging you. Huh. She was so nice. "I've read all your articles in the Daily Planet, they're so fascinating, especially your articles on Superman and global issues. It inspired me to speak out more on my Instagram."

Checked out. She had posted a lot of stuff about world problems on her account, Tim had reported back to you about it. After his Internet deep dive, of course, he needed to see whether this girl was legit.

You weren't... participating in this. To be clear.

"No one looks that way without a tit job," Had been Jason's unhelpful comment. It was his way of trying to cheer you up, he just got a smack to the nape from Steph.

"T—Thank you." You stammered out, arms still outstretched from the hug. This felt so... weird. You couldn't find flaws. No personality flaws so far, no physical flaws, clearly, she was nice and sweet and loved your best friend.

And he loved her.

Dick yanked the suitcases from the trunk. "Tell me the lift was fixed." He begged, his puppy eyes almost made you blush in front of his girlfriend. Maybe they did still work.

"Yeah, it was. Don't get your panties in a twist."

"I won't, they're silk." He joked, carrying both suitcases inside.

You blinked. Were they really?

Morgan took your arm in hers, babbling happily. "This is the first time I've been to Metropolis, the air's so clean here, we should totally go shopping together tomorrow, that would be so fun—"

Your heart sunk to hell.

“Do we like her?” Jason whispered in your ear, folding his arms across his chest, not taking his eyes off Morgan, who was yapping to a mildly traumatised Bruce, who made polite conversation back. He hated too-long conversations. Yeah, she was objectively hot, Jason'd be a hater not to admit that, but it didn’t feel right. Not to Tim, not to Alfred, or Barbara, she filled the you-shaped hole.

Whether she was sweet or not, that was good reason to hate her.

Jason was another reminder that time ticked on. He’d been a skinny, overconfident kid who thought he could take on the world in red spandex, the little brother you never knew you’d have but loved. His resurrection came with the added perk of a whole, like, seven inches to his height and an overload of protein, he had to bend down so you could ruffle his hair. Then again, it wasn’t a dysfunctional Wayne family without exceptionally tall men.

Tim would have his time too.

How had Jason been convinced to attend this thing anyway? Dick had asked just Bruce to come and meet Morgan, and with him came Jason. Luckily, Jason wouldn’t actually be there for the dinner, he just had some work in Metropolis.

He shuddered to think what work meant in Jason’s dictionary.

“She’s Dick’s girlfriend.” You forced, in the same stance beside him, just more… rigid. An incredible feat, by the way.

“Great observation. Not my question.” He shot back immediately, glancing to you. “Do. We. Like. Her?”

You wanted to say no, she was horrible, no one should like her, but she’d made breakfast for you that morning, had lent you her expensive leave in conditioner, and had bought you a YSL dress as a ‘first meeting’ present. You couldn’t say anything bad. “Yes.” You mumbled, head hanging.

His eyes narrowed. So, he didn’t like Morgan.

Everyone over the past few days had been treating the situation like you and Dick had broken up with each other, broken up with a man who was never yours. He was a grown man with his own autonomy, you had no stake to claim. If only you did.

“Dinner’s ready.” Dick called from the kitchen, the aroma of sarmale, made pita bread and zacusca floating into the living room. “C’mon, guys, can’t let it get cold.”

“That’s my cue to leave. Dickhead gets annoying about food.” Jason patted your shoulder, squeezing it. “Text me if you need me to bail you out.”

“It’s not prison, Jay.” The laugh jumped out of your mouth.

“Might as well be.” He didn’t say a word that sounded vaguely like patronising you, or like people thought you were crying over ice cream. He just bowed his head for your hand to ruffle his hair.

You didn’t miss the chance. “Stay safe.”

“You know it.” The moment the door closed, you felt alone again, feet dragging you into the kitchen, where Bruce was sitting himself as far away from Morgan as possible, meaning that you sat in front of her.

Absolute silence. “So,” Morgan chirped as Dick served the food, “Mr Wayne, I wanted to know more about your company, it seems so interesting.”

“I don’t share details about my company if the public doesn’t know them first.” Bruce said simply, stacking on the tension as he started eating with his knife and fork. “You understand, it’s a privacy concern.”

”Oh, that’s fine.” Morgan giggled, taking Dick’s hand mid sentence, his cheeks flooding red. Her eyes landed on you. “How long have you and Dickie been friends, hon?”

You choked through a bite of pita and zacusca, swallowing it down with the aid of Bruce’s hand patting your back. “We’ve been, um, best friends since we were twelve.”

“Oh, how cute!” She gasped, turning to Dick. “You’ve been friends for that long?”

Dick nodded, clearing his throat. “Yeah, we—” His phone started ringing— his secretary, Eddie. “Sorry, I’ve gotta take this.” He excused himself, heading into another room.

“Holding a friendship that long is impressive. Wow, I would’ve gotten sick of you by now.” That…

That comment didn’t sit right with you. The way Bruce’s forehead creased a little, it didn’t sit right with him either, but there was no malice to prove, she looked like she meant it as convo grease, but it wasn’t the tone, it was the you. The you echoed in your head.

Dick came back in, breaking the silence with his soft footfalls. “Sorry, work call.” He grinned, unaware of what just happened. Blissfully. He chuckled. “Where were we?”

“The food is delicious, Richard.” Bruce muttered, now not bothering to address Morgan directly. He didn’t know if her words were a dig at you, but he wasn’t taking chances, any insult thrown at you was personal to him. His hand reached under your table to briefly pat your knee.

Morgan hummed in agreement, turning Dick’s chin to face her, his lips fell apart, like he was transfixed. “Your dad’s right, you did an amazing job.” Her lips met his, not a chaste kiss, cause, you know, his dad was right there, a full, I’m trying to eat your mouth kiss that had everyone’s eyebrows raising, including Dick’s as his pretty lashes fluttered and lids fell shut. Bruce swallowed down the last mouthful, standing up abruptly, the chair screech breaking the kiss.

“It’s late.” He said stiffly. It was seven in the evening. “I should go to the hotel, thank you for dinner, it was lovely, meeting you, Morgan.” He briefly kissed Morgan’s hand as a gesture of feigned goodwill, taking his jacket, laying his hand on your shoulder, squeezing. “Dear.”

You laid your hand on top of his, smiling gratefully. Thank you. “Bruce.”

He picked up his jacket, promptly leaving, Dick blinking in surprise, the corner of Morgan’s mouth turning down for the first time.

Dread filled you.

Three weeks since and you’d been on around three outings with them, the third wheel on a dysfunctional car, watching Morgan hug Dick’s arm to her like he was candy on her pinky finger. He wasn’t a possession, he was the sweetest man you knew, and he hung onto her every word.

Jason knew he hung onto Morgan’s every soft syllable with the intensity he used to do with you. Bruce knew he hugged her the same way he hugged you at your college graduation. Clark knew he held you in the same gaze he held Morgan. Alfred understood that, deep down, Dick Grayson wished it was you instead. Even if he didn’t know it.

Tim had done a secret scan for any love toxins. None. She’d just enchanted him with sweet words and adoring eyes.

You’d been zoning out on this ‘date’, staring out the window of the cafe while Morgan traced her name on Dick’s hand with her scarlet manicure, at least he felt like the only guy in the world. That’s all you wanted, as long as he felt special, it was enough for you.

You didn’t mean to love him, you kept that close to your heart.

“Hey, bear.” Dick’s honey-soaked voice pulled you out of your haze, no one else could do it. He was staring expectantly, interested, insistent on keeping you in the loop and flow of the drifting conversation. “How’re your articles going?”

“They’re ok, just writer’s block.” You muttered. The block was him. Clark, so far, had been finishing your pieces for you so Perry wouldn’t be on your ass, suggesting a co-write credit. Losing control of your work life would just make you spiral.

When did you give so much of yourself to your best friend?

Even he seemed out of it, overwhelmed by Morgan’s every affection, transfixed with every touch of her fingers to his chin, it felt like you were peeking in on something you shouldn’t. A window of his life you wished would never have existed. Maybe if you knew sooner.

You’d turn back time, but that wouldn’t erase your memories of this.

She’d been launching subtle, snide comments for those few outings, like I love your charity shop clothes; God, he spends so much time with me, doesn’t he? I hope it doesn’t bother you, like she knew what was ringing in your head, the calling to devote your life to loving your best friend.

You’d been nonverbal. His calls came everyday, but sometimes you responded with some work excuse or family excuse, like dinner with your dad and Lois or that Perry needed you to work a story. Every time you’d been out with Morgan and Dick, you’d texted Jason to bail you out, just like now.

He delivered on that promise.

Get me out of this, you typed out to him beneath the table, five seconds later, you got a call, Jason’s name flashing on your screen. Your thumb pressed the green button, phone lifting to your ear.

“I’m dying,” He drawled, words drier than the Sahara, you had to hold back a laugh, “no, seriously, I’m on the floor, there’s an icicle about to hit me, Grey’s Anatomy style, come save me.” He could at least be a little more convincing.

You choked back a giggle. “On my way.” You glanced up to Dick. “Sorry, it’s Jason, he needs me.”

Dick’s brow furrowed; that was the third time Jason had needed you when he was out with you. Jason wasn’t the problem, it was the excuse being repeated. “Again?” He asked, eyes saddening, but he pulled out his wallet. “Don’t worry about your bill, I’ll take care of it.”

You opened your mouth to protest, Morgan’s hand hovering over his wallet, as if was about to say no, his hand dodged hers. “No. No arguing, I always take care of the bill.” He sighed. “You’ll be here for the birthday dinner, right?”

You’d never miss it. “Of course.” You assured, smiling at them both before hurrying out. “You almost made me laugh, Jay.”

“You asked for bail, not for five star acting.” He chuckled. “Enjoy your day, wren.”

“Thank you, again.”

You’d cried before Dick’s birthday dinner.

You’d depuffed, cried some more, depuffed again so he couldn’t tell, spent the night before with Clark so he could emotionally support you with Krypto as backup, Lois coming armed with as much Ben and Jerry’s as she could.

Like how Dick used to do with you, but this heartbreak was one he couldn’t solve. You finally saw why people treated it like you were dying, pieces of you died the more Morgan chipped away at you.

Bruce had stopped coming to see Dick when Morgan was around, Jason didn’t address her, Tim gave her death glares, Babs gave Dick himself death glares, and all the while no one said a word about what the problem was. Had he done something?

But the dinner was going well, there’d been polite conversation, where he was gauging your reactions, weighing them out, trying to use systematic deduction to figure out why you were pulling away. You’d never done that. Every time you were upset, you talked it out, never stayed mad at him for more than two hours. Bile burned his throat at the mere thought.

“Hey, thanks.” He grinned stupidly when Morgan handed him a gift— a Cartier watch gleamed from beneath a glass casing. A Cartier watch which Dick already had in his closet, he’d worn it on his third date with her. The thought was forced down, she’d cared, that’s all that mattered. “Wow, this is— it’s gorgeous, Morgan, thanks, baby.” He pecked her lips, of course she made it anything but chaste. His eyes were closed, hers half open.

You had your gift in your lap, about to present the lumpy, small package when the food arrived— your food a larger portion than you’d anticipated, Morgan’s eyes locked onto it. You braced.

“Wow, that’s a lot of food.” Her tinny laugh stabbed you. “You sure you don’t want to share it? I mean, you seem like you wanna cut down on your intake.”

That was your last straw.

There was a clatter as your fork clattered to the table— and Dick’s. He was wide eyed, staring straight at Morgan, at her sweet smile, but it was poisoned. Fuck, how didn’t he see that before? She was staring straight at you, at your horrified face, at the colour draining from your cheeks, anger flooding into his—

You stood up, rushing out, black tears streaming down your face, mascara smudging onto your wrist as you rubbed them away.

He was mortified, standing up too, putting on his jacket hurriedly. “That was disgusting.” He fumed, taking out his wallet, leaving cash on the table, enough to cover the meal and the server’s tip. “Fucking disgusting.”

She scoffed, like nothing was wrong, laying her hand on his. “Dickie, I didn’t—”

“You did, don’t bullshit me, Morgan.” He adjusted the lapels of his jacket. “I won’t let you insult my best friend like that.”

“You’re throwing a tantrum over her feelings?” She snapped back, standing up.

“Oh, yeah.” He put on his scarf. “I’m throwing a big tantrum, Morgan. It’s not her feelings, you — you body shamed her — forget it. We’re done.” He left, the glass for swinging beside him, sprinting to his car and getting in, driving to you.

How long had this been going on? How long had he not noticed? Everyone else had, he was too busy being a lovesick puppy for a girl who hated you. Who could hate you?

He’d been out of it the whole time dating Morgan, leaning into every touch because blinking once made him see you, not his girlfriend. Another blink and he’d gone back to seeing her cherry-lipped smile. Maybe he’d been hallucinating. He hadn’t been, there were signs that he shook off because one girl treated him like he was God’s gift to women.

The car ride mulled over his thoughts, his shaking shoulders, knuckles blanching at the wheel until he stopped outside your apartment. Rushing up the steps, knocking hurriedly on your door. “Bear? Bear, please, let me in.” He found your spare key, unlocking the door and entering, finding you against the kitchen counter, a present held in your hands.

Fuck.

"Bear, sweetheart, I'm so sorry, I had no idea." He pleaded, hands stopping short of your face, dropping. You didn't yell. Or step back, you just looked into his eyes with glassy ones. And held out his present, wrapped in his Nightwing blue, lumpy, small, rectangular in its essence.

His heart tore into two.

"Happy birthday, Dickie." You mumbled, oh, your voice was small. Your body was shrinking in on itself, he'd never seen you like this before. And you still had it in you to wish him a happy birthday. You needed to yell at him. Be angry, throw curses and insults, kick him out, give him the silent treatment, but you wouldn’t. You physically couldn’t.

"I—I broke up with her, ok?" He stammered, eyes darting between the gift and you, the gift and you, back, forth, up, down. "We're over, I couldn't stand her saying that to you—"

"Happy birthday." You said firmly, insisting on giving him the present, so he took it. The wrapping paper fell away, a fluffy blue teddy bear in his hands, Polaroid between its little paws, of the two of you on the night of the launch of his economic sustainability plan. The bear was shaped like a gummy bear. Just like the one from his college graduation.

"Want one?"

He was a blur. The bear wobbled on your kitchen island, warm hands covering your cheeks, hot lips on yours, open mouthed, breathing the oxygen in from your lungs, he needed it to stop feeling dizzy when you were around. Your hands flew to his waist, his shirt bunching under your fingers, head spinning, reacting instinctively.

Fuckin’ finally.

Every insistent, desperate press of his lips stacked up to outdo your daydreams, small, sharp moans coming out between him stealing your thoughts and locking them away. Thoughts were future you’s problem.

“I love you,” He shuddered in a breath against your lips, arms hooking under your thighs, lifting you up, almost moaning when your legs locked around his waist, your hands burying into his hair, hips rolling forward into his. Lordy, this was surreal. Were you really kissing the boy you used to share gummy bears with?

He felt the pressure hit the right place, a breath sucked into his lungs as his lips broke from yours, sloppily burning down your jaw and your neck, tongue soothing over every kiss, hand shifting to grab your ass, other palm encouraging you to grind on him by pressing on the small of your back. “I—I’m sorry,” He sat you on top of the kitchen counter, panting against your shoulder.

His hair was messy. His cheeks were flushed, pupils wide, staring up at you through his lashes. “I just— shit, bear, this is a long time coming, you’re so fucking pretty, I—I get it if you don’t—”

You moved forward to silence him with your lips, he melted, even before you kissed him again, his hands taking yours, guiding your fingers to the buttons of his shirt.

Your body was warm the next morning. The covers were toasty, like they were weighted, dragging you further into sleep. The weighted part was Dick’s arm, thumb brushing up and down your stomach, tracing your name into his skin. It was the only word that mattered right now, gazing down at you, bathed in soft sunlight.

His nose traced a line from your pulse to y the slope of your shoulder, mouth open, kissing hearts into your skin, tickling you with a gentle brush of his knuckles to your side.

“Mm, stop. M’trying to sleep, Dickie.” You mumbled, swatting his arm, still revelling in the beautiful ache in your thighs and the hum of your body. He held you so highly.

He laughed, kissing the corner of your mouth, tilting your head with a thumb on your chin, lips dragging across your skin to kiss you slow, deep, a hum swallowed by your lips. “No can do, sweetheart. I need a repeat of last night.”

“We had five rounds.”

“My lucky number’s six.”

© 2026 all rights reserved - nxbodysangel. do not modify, repost, plagiarise or claim my work as your own without permission.

author’s notes — enjoy, my loves! if you spot some parallels, lmk!

[shotmrmiller]

Valentine's day is Simon's favorite day of the year.

No one would ever guess. No one would ever think to guess. He knows when the shops start putting out red hearts on their windows. He knows when the chocolate starts hitting the shelves in bulk. He knows exactly how many days until you'll walk in wearing that red sweater again.

It's the same one every year. The knit has loosened slightly at the cuffs, and there's a snag near the hem you keep meaning to fix. He noticed the day it happened; he remembers which locker corner caught it.

(The locker isn't there anymore.)

Every year, like clockwork, you show up with your sleeves pulled over your hands, carrying a pocketful of those cheap heart-shaped candies that taste like chalk.

And every year, you hand them out like blessings to men who have done things that would curdle the sugar in your mouth if you knew.

Soap gets a fist full because he makes a spectacle of begging. Kyle pretends he doesn't care but takes two anyway. Price shakes his head, muttering something about sugar rotting teeth, but pockets one when you insist.

Simon watches you make your way across the room, and notes who lingers when your fingers brush theirs, who bends down closer than necessary to hear you better, and who laughs too hard at something that wasn't that funny.

He knows exactly how many hearts are left when you finally stop in front of him.

"Don't start," you say lightly, holding out a little folded card and a candy. "It's tradition."

He takes them without looking at you and waits until you've moved on before he looks down at his palm. A delicate pink— BE MINE— and when he lets it dissolve on his tongue, eyes tracking the sway of your red sweater, he imagines it tastes like the gloss on your lips.

That night, in the quiet of his spartan flat, he places the new card beneath a heavy book to keep it from curling and takes the old ones out of a tin box he keeps hidden behind spare ammo to read again, all of them dated in pencil on the back.

To my favorite person. Don't argue ❤️

You’ve written it every year, same wording, same little heart slanted to the right. The ink bleeds a little more on the cheaper cards. One year the paper was glossier, and in another, your pen ran out halfway through the word favorite and you pressed harder to make it last.

He knows your handwriting well enough now to read you in it. The loops are bigger when you're tired, pinched when you're stressed. The heart is fuller when you're in a good mood, and smaller when you're not.

He could replicate it if he needed to.

This year, when someone jokes about snatching you up before someone else does, Simon doesn't even look up from cleaning his weapon. He knows who he is. He knows the way the man stands— weight heavier on his right leg from an old injury. Simon also knows the man who signs off on deployment rosters and knows exactly what that man owes him.

Deployment rosters are delicate things; names get bumped all the time. Sometimes upward into a position they're not ready for, sometimes sideways into places much less comfortable for longer, and sometimes they fall off the list entirely, lost in administration reshuffling no one has the time to question.

“She’s already spoken for," Simon says flatly, cloth dragging down the barrel in slow, even strokes.

You blink at him. “By who?”

He looks at you then. Finally.

“Don’t argue,” he says quietly.