coramei

Theres a easier way tho

I could take one for the team and get you pregnant

I'll be strong for you

It's hard rasing a kid on your own

To all of that, he'd simply replied, It's raising, then went right back to patrol like you hadn't just offered to impregnate him.

"Sweetheart, there's a send button," he replies with the patience of a saint. Gunshots erupt in the background and there's a curse thrown carelessly.

You’re attempting to send him the playlist you had made. It was a mix of songs perfectly curated to ones that reminded you of your best friend. There was a lot of dad music, a touch of heavy metal. You were tempted to throw in a love song, but dealing with the aftermath of doing so held you back.

"Don't sweetheart me, the fucking thing isn't loading now," you groan, tapping aggressively.

"You know, that doesn't make it go faster, right?" He grunts. There's a loud boom from his side.

"Says the guy who broke my TV because he thought hitting it would bring it back to life," you retort, squinting at your phone screen. You go to turn the brightness down.

 "'M still better at technology than you," he says, then shouts, "Robin, I said on my left!" 

You hear Robin's voice, but you can't make out the words. Something insulting, probably. 

"Little shit can't even listen to basic instructions."

"Me or Damian?" you ask without missing a beat.

"Both."

Once the playlist loads, you tap the send button without much thought. "Kay, I did it, listen to it now," you demand, lying back down on your bed.

"Sure thing, doll. Lemme just stop the Joker from turning Gotham into his playground."

"Gotham's already his playground," you mumble. 

For a while, you're quiet, listening as Jason occasionally shouts orders through the comms. It should be unsettling. The gunfire, the crashes, the constant danger he's in. Instead, it lulls you to sleep. He's here, breathing, and on call with you like he didn't want to part either.

"You done yet?"

"I'm putting it on. Happy now?" His hoarse voice brings you out of your thoughts. It's deeper than it was before. Nicer, too. 

You grin, sitting up as your blanket pools around your hips. "Only if you come over too." 

"Demanding little thing," he scoffed. But you know he's already on his way. 

A few minutes pass. You can hear the distant hum of his motorcycle through the comms.

Then he clears his throat. "Baby making music?"

Horror crashes over you. You snatch your phone off the bed so fast it almost slips from your hands. "Shit,' you whisper, frantically searching for what you sent. 

And lo and behold, it's that playlist, not the one you'd carefully curated for Jason. "Jay, I can explain—

"Fucked my way up to the top reminds you of me?" There's laughter in his voice now.

"No!"

"Guilty as sin?" He snorts.

"Oh my god, Jason, stop." Your hands are covering your warm face, phone lying on your bed. You're never living this down. 

He pauses. "There's a lot of Lana Del Rey,"

You swallow, your fingers curl around your blanket. "Well," you start quietly. "Don't get it twisted, you're pretty Lana Del Rey, but your dad? He embodies a Lana Del Rey song—

"Stop talkin' about Bruce like that," he groans.

"Your dad's hot." 

"You're trying to change the subject."

"Your older brother's also hot." You muster up the courage to add, "and don't call me that."

"Doll," His voice isn't teasing anymore. It's lower, like that comment about Dick took away all the humor.

"I've run out of age appropriate family members," you swallow. Except Jason. But you couldn't exactly say that. "Does Kate count? Bruce's exes? cause they're fine as hell too."

He grumbles under his breath. "Open the fucking window."

"You're here?" You freeze, voice coming out breathless.

The window snaps open with a sharp bang. The sound travels all the way to your room. You close your eyes. Why did it feel like you were in trouble?

The thump of boots echoes through the room. When it finally stops, you open your eyes to find Jason leaning against your doorframe, arms crossed in a way that makes his muscles more defined under the fabric. He’s taken off his helmet, his hair slightly damp, strands falling messily over his forehead.

And his eyes.

They’re on you, fierce and darker than what you're used to, like he’s a second away from hauling your ass straight to Arkham. It sends a pleasant feeling through you. 

You laugh nervously. "Heyyyy, you're not still mad about me finding your brother—what the fuck are you doing—

He stalks over to you until he’s standing right in front of you, close enough that you have to tilt your head back to keep eye contact.

"You're acting weird," you tell him, trying to keep yourself still.

"That playlist—

"Was a random one I accidentally sent!" 

He tilts his head. “So. You wanna play me the right one now?"

He shifts, sliding onto the bed beside you, his shoulder bumping yours as he settles in. You grimace. No way he’s had time to shower, but you don’t move away. Not when he’s this close.

You give him one of your wired earbuds.

Your head bumps his when he puts his on. You bite back a smile at sharing earbuds with him.

You hit play on your phone, sneaking a glance at him, trying to read his reaction.

He’s already looking at you. Then he rolls his eyes and looks away.

“Can’t believe I remind you of a Radiohead song.”

“Would you prefer fucked my way up to the top?”

masterlist

once again i’m not sure what i wrote

His fingers, the very same that hesitated to stop you, now traces over his cheek. Lashes fluttering as his eyes shut, he can still recall the warmth he had been graced with that night on the rooftop. You had felt so real then. Not a figment of his imagination, but his, in a stolen moment that had been punishable with your anguish mere moments later.

He had been so incandescently happy, that he had lost the art of forming words that night. It was pure disbelief, to witness you in his reach, that he had forgotten that it was only temporary.

Even recalling something as sacred as a faint memory did not spare itself of its accompanying pain, guilt writhing in its ungiven turn, mocking him for ever wanting more than he deserved.

He had known from the moment he saw you, that he was done for. Damian was built off pre-built calculations and the trained brutality of survival. Whatever rationality he had prided over, it has since been reduced to nothing but an aching longing. He had known that step he took towards you would destroy him irreversibly. He didn't even hesitate on the first.

You were more than anything he could have envisioned, and even now, his waking reality fails him. He wonders if you have ever dreamt of him even once—like he constantly does, or has he been replaced with the version that saved you, whose reality was deemed more deserving of you?

His chest writhes uncomfortably, and he feels selfish once more. You are alive, that is all that matters. Still, there was no you to remind him at present of that miracle, so he'll have to settle for the phantoms that ghost along the surfaces of the room he lingers in. The shadows of both you and him seemed to be livelier than the still statue he's become, seated alone on his sofa, waiting for something to kick his life back into motion.

Perhaps he was only reminded of how stagnant his life had been, before you had made it move forward. He doesn't mind the sting, even if the stagnancy now runs stale on his tongue. For an impossible moment.. he had lived for more than he had in years.

He doesn't break. Not as he should. Somewhere right behind his ribs, he feels a faint ache that he echoes your name wherever he goes. The days have already begun to pass by in a similar motion, and he readjusts, cooperates with his side of reality. He doesn't push for whys. He knows the world better than to ask.

So, he only allows himself this. Small, inconsequential moments of greed, where he recalls memories of you that are only purely his. In the morning, he'll wash it away and perform as he has done for years. For tonight, he is yours. He has always been yours.

reader's damian after her return:

"When you look at me, it's as if you're envisioning someone else."

You flinch, realising you've been staring at Damian again. At the shadows casted on his side profile, the freckles dotting his skin, the crook of his nose. Detecting any probable differences, a habit ingrained in your mind to find the gaps between them.

It hurts, physically so, when you catch him in a certain light, doing a specific movement that renders your breath stolen. They're so alike, but not at all.

"I didn't mean to." You whisper. "Sorry."

"Don't be." His mouth strains into something trained, distant. "It is not your mistake."

"...Damian."

You know the events that have occurred are irreversible. On you, in the moments where you forget just enough to be reminded of the gaps that matter. On him, in the moments where he is reminded that there is a version of him that shares something with you he is not privy to.

"I know there are—areas I lack." He answers briskly, gaze flickering to you. "But I am willing to learn. To be who you want me to be."

Your heart instantly shatters. "I don't want you to be anyone but yourself, Damian. I don't need you to be someone else."

He pauses, assessing your words with a careful blank expression. He doesn't believe it.

"Then, at least describe him." Damian does not plead, but you hear a strain in his voice you've never encountered before. "Or I will drive myself insane imagining. There is a version of me who you miss. Who you think of even here. I would like to know what he was like."

Your lips purse, unsure. Still, the way he was looking at you, you know how Damian's mind works when he's missing information. He fills the gaps, and nothing in that process will hurt him any less.

"You were kind." You mutter, gaze drifting far—to a place that no longer exists. "Steady. Reliable. A partner."

His jaw tightens briefly, gaze pained but he remains silent, hanging onto your every word.

"And that is no different from you." Your gaze flickers back to him. "You are kind, helping others when you think no one is looking. You have been nothing but a steady presence while I was recovering from the remaining effects on my body."

"You brought me back. You are my partner." You press on, needing him to listen. "Don't hold it against yourself, Damian. I have forgiven you, and I need you to forgive yourself."

"I just—" His breath hitches, hesitant. "I don't know how to be a version that's enough. To be here, and be enough."

Your words falter, staring at him speechlessly. You had an inkling, but to hear it directly from him? To see the Damian Wayne you know, an unyielding soldier who's never truly learnt to soften his edges, admitting that he's afraid of not being enough—for you?

"Damian, you are enough." Your hand reaches out, brushing over his arm. He stills completely, but he doesn't push you away. Not anymore.

"No, I am different." He answers with a finality. "That is a fact I remind you of by merely existing."

You blink, grip faltering. His hand moves quicker than your own, and his fingers tentatively... intertwine with yours. Hesitant at first, but his hold grows more decisive—sure.

"I can accept that." His gaze sharpens. "I’ll be deserving as he was.”

If only he knew. How the Damian that haunts the space between the both of you, sees your version of Damian as the one who was deserving. The one who saved you, the one who was able to bring you back.

You know there's no convincing him. You know him, even if the years before this—had been shrouded with misguided hatred. Instead, you give him a chance to speak his mind, what he's been keeping silent of ever since your return.

"What happened?" You mutter. "When I wasn't here?"

He blinks, taken aback by your question. You spot the stiffness in his stance, as if pulled back to a time he never wanted to envision again. He closes his eyes, just for a moment. As if deciding how to answer you best.

Then, his eyes open and you see he's decided on honesty. "Torture."

You blink slowly, processing his words. The tender, yet iron grip of his hand—as if reminding himself that he wasn't dreaming.

"I don't recall the blurred boundary of my life before and after you. Without the instinctive knowing of your existence, without you being a constant presence in the back of my mind." He answers. "When you disappeared through that portal, I realised almost instantly, that I simply couldn't picture that before. It had never been a consideration."

"Failure is unacceptable." He states. "But this—losing you? I would have spent the rest of my life finding a way to bring you back, because I do not know how to exist in a reality without you. I had rather spent the rest of my life centering my purpose towards you, than even fathoming a life without you in it."

"So—" His strained smile grows wry. "—I had created my own personal hell. That's what happened."

Shock is too light of a word to describe the agony that hits you. Your tongue feels heavy, something wet pricking at your lashes. Damian notices, of course he does.

"I apologise." He stammers roughly, regret pooling his features. "It was not my intention to burden you—"

"No." You answer immediately. "Don't."

How long had he been holding this in—since you came back? Through your recovery, a slow adjustment back to reality, he had remained by your side without complaint. He had taken it all in silence, and you were clueless to the additional pain you've dealt by gazing into him as if he were a mirror.

"I think we've gone too long misunderstanding each other." You admit, voice croaking in the back of your throat. "I'm tired of it. Of trying to fit you into what I know, and what I don't. I want to see you as you are, Damian. I realised that too late, but I want to try."

He swallows, the silence stretching in a long pause. Yet, you spot it. His composure, slowly being let down. "I have wronged you in every possible way." He answers honestly. "I don't—know if I'm worthy to be known."

Your smile lifts, softer in a way it hadn't been previously. "If you had to trust me on anything, Damian—it is that you are."

He looks to you then, his gaze flickering with a multitude of emotions that you're starting to recognise. Among all of them, gratitude was one.

Those words still ring hollow, a repeating drone of his voice as you watch the familiar city pass by the windowpane. It is Gotham, but not. Unfamiliar stores fill the streets, similar roads but not quite, small inconsistencies that are enough to remind you that this isn't your home.

That the person in the driver's seat beside you is a complete stranger.

"Who am I to you?" You question, casting your glance back to that stiff, perfect posture of his as he makes a turn towards his apartment.

That hug from earlier, if you could even call it that, still lingers like a shadow, casting goosebumps over your skin whenever the memory overstayed its welcome.

You spot the whitening of his knuckles, the pads of his fingers squeezing into the steering wheel before the colour returns, as if his composure never faltered.

"You were my assigned partner." He answers briskly.

Were. There's finally one consistency, at the very least. To your relief, the version of you here didn't seem to get along with him either.

Your small amusement is quickly diminished at the rise of another concern of yours. If there was another version of you running around this city, you can't even begin to fathom the potential fractures of reality if an encounter truly happened.

You're already playing a huge risk in letting this Damian assist you. Still, you had no one else.

Your comms had contacted him, not that it was to any surprise of your own once the initial panic died down. It wasn't likely that you still had a connection to your own world, much less an existing channel with your Damian. It was pure luck that you still had use for the device at all. Or at least, you hoped you could consider it luck.

Your gaze lingers over his features. The likeness between him and your Damian was uncanny. The same nose bridge, freckles, and even that faint scar running down his jawline. It was all so familiar that you had to snap yourself out of it when you found your body conditioning itself into safety, as if forgetting he's a stranger.

"Well, I hope you'll let bygones be bygones." You answer wryly. "There wasn't anyone else I could contact. If you can help me find a way back home, I'll be out of your dimension in no time."

The silence grows terse. A shift has occurred, even if you're unsure on the why. You had only stated the obvious. Perhaps his moods were in line with what you were familiar with after all, and that is no soothing relief if it meant having to face that same temperament that landed you here.

"I'm already offering my help." Damian answers after a moment, as if he's finally settled for a response he was satisfied with.

"I hope so." You mutter, eyelids falling shut in your exhaustion. The sight of the city was making you nauseous. "It's kind of your fault I ended up here. The other you, anyways."

He hums, finger tapping once against the steering wheel. "Typical."

This Damian has an apartment akin to a serial killer's. The barest necessities, minimal decorations—it's as if every surface has gone untouched. If you hadn't seen it with your own eyes when he unlocked the door with his thumbprint, you would've assumed no one had ever stepped foot within these walls.

"Ever heard of decoration?" It lands wrong, and you internally wince. It's difficult, to not fall back into that same push-and-pull when you see Damian's figure in your peripheral vision. To not be mistaken with familiar company.

He watches you for longer than he should. He keeps doing that, the staring. "There's no reason for me to do so." He answers eventually.

Your brows furrow. Something about his responses from the moment you met him unnerved you, as if he's leaving his words purposely vague. Clues buried within that mask of his, where an unanswered story that didn't belong to your reality lingers in his.

"Where am I currently in your dimension?" You decide to settle at the sofa, stretching out your limbs. "If she's still in Gotham, I need to be careful not to be seen."

Ever since you arrived, your body has been aching horribly. It hadn't been this obvious when you had arrived, but now, it's stinging down to your nerves. Maybe the adrenaline had finally worn off, and you're left to deal with a body unequipped to the frantic mess your mind is trying to sort out.

"It won't be a problem." He answers, lips pursing into a thin line. "She's gone."

Your head tilts questioningly to meet his gaze, but he avoids yours. Pulling open his kitchen drawer, there's a taut tension in his body as if he's been expecting your question and dreading it all the same.

Gone could mean anything. Out of the city borders or—

Your eyes flicker down to his disappearing hand, and find his reappearing fingers gripped around pain ointment. Your stretch pauses halfway, the strange alertness of being noticed without your permission sending a chill down your spine.

Forcing your hands down back to your sides, you eye him warily as he makes his way round the couch, stopping before you. His hand extends, lifting his offering silently.

It's unfamiliar, and even if you try your hardest to reason to yourself, that this isn't the Damian you know, it doesn't make it any easier to allow him to assist you. You half expect mocking, a glimpse of his smirk when your gaze flickers to the ointment held out in front of you.

A low breath escapes his lips, and you expect him to give in. To understand that you don't require more of him other than his specific assistance to send you home—only for him to lower himself.

Damian Wayne—even if he isn't the one you're used to—is kneeling down to meet your gaze. Your breath stops, your chest seized tight as you stare at him, unable to hide your surprise.

He doesn't falter, his fingers mindlessly dipping into the ointment before placing the jar by your side. His free hand goes to grip your wrist, tugging gently to expose the bruises trailing along your arm from your fall.

"If it is me you have come to for assistance." He mutters with a click of his tongue. "Then, I expect you not to be stubborn."

You swallow, your jaw ticking as you find your tongue heavy with a lack of an adequate response. His unwavering concern, this intensity can't be tied solely to you. There has to be a reason for why he is looking at you this way.

"What did you mean?" You ask quietly. "By gone?"

His fingers, still coated with the ointment, brush gently over your thudding pulse. His gaze finally lifts, but you can't read him. There's a pull to his gaze, and the answer reveals itself by the time you recognise what is held within his eyes isn't irritation or indifference. It was grief.

"She's dead."

It's a strange feeling to know you're stepping into a world where a version of you used to exist. A sick form of good luck, a technical elimination of complications.

Except that it's only made everything more complicated. You had no idea on how to deal with the Damian in front of you now that the truth's been revealed.

When he first admitted that he wasn't the Damian you knew, you had quickly assumed that whatever dynamic he shared with you from this dimension was a parallel to the one you shared with your Damian. Forced tolerance, a begrudging partnership. No, you had needed to assume it so. Anything different would have shattered this fragile alliance you had with the stranger sitting across you, because despite everything you felt about your Damian—you relied on him as a partner.

Now, you weren't sure if you could trust the Damian in front of you. You had assumed that if he answered your questions, you would have cleared the air—but it has only raised more.

You can feel his attention while you're thinking. You swear with the intensity of his gaze casted onto you which you pretend not to notice, it's as if your existence only materialised when his eyes are on you. There's a strange urgency in his unblinking stare, as if to remind himself that you're still in front of him.

It's too much. It was the same back when he first saw you as well. Damian hasn't mentioned his strange reaction since, and his lack of an explanation for why he had embraced you clues you on nothing still, on what you meant to him.

"I'm not her." You mutter after a moment. You don't know why, but you feel you have to say it.

There's some form of attachment he must've had with you, and you couldn't let yourself be tangled into the mess of what's been left behind. This isn't your world, and the last thing you needed was a blur of that line.

"I know." He answers quickly. Without pause, as if he's been repeating it to himself before you had even verbalised it.

Your hesitance must be palpable because he lets out a sigh not long after, heavy from his chest.

"I didn't offer you my help because I think you're—" He swallows, pain etched into the lines of his grimace. "I understand that you are alone in this world. That some mistake of mine from your end caused this. I am taking responsibility for it—to bring you back. There is nothing more to it."

You watch him as he did to you, noting a delicate fragility to him you've never seen before. You had been so wrapped up in your situation, that you failed to notice the frantic quality of his gaze or the exhaustion plaguing his features. As if being around you—drained him from the impossibility of seeing you alive and breathing.

"Okay." You answer eventually. "I believe you."

His shoulders, tense and taut, finally loosen slightly at your response.

"Do you—" Your voice is plagued with exhaustion, and you struggle to find the words, the composure to hide your desperation. "—have any idea on how I'll be able to get back?"

Relief flickers briefly in his gaze, replaced with a familiar efficiency that slots over the dark pool his eyes held mere seconds ago. This, you were used to. Whenever he was asked to perform a duty, that was when you both cooperated the easiest.

"If it were me, I'd predict that there will be a two-way mechanism." He suggests automatically. So, he had been considering his own theories this entire time.

Leaning in, his elbows pressing against his thighs, he continues. "An entry will not be possible without a tunnel. To find the connection and restart it as you had before in your dimension, it should trigger an opening."

"I also considered the possibility of a tunnel." You frown, your fingers drawing a thin, edged line across the sofa's fabric. "The only problem is that when I arrived, before contacting you—I looked around the premise. I really tried."

"There was no opening." You admit, dread digging slowly into your bones.

"Perhaps it will only be activated if it was triggered in the same process as before." He suggests.

"...Doesn't that rely on Damian—" You falter, meeting his gaze. "—my Damian restarting the trigger on his side?"

He nods, even as his lips purse slightly at the mention of the other him. "Your only chance depends on him coming to the same realisation we have."

You draw a short breath. "Shit."

Damian doesn't hesitate when you ask by the third hour of silence—to accompany you back to the construction site when the passing hours has done enough in driving you insane.

You hate waiting. Your Damian knows that. This Damian seems to know too.

He follows you like a silent shadow, tracing your steps and overlooking the same rubble caused by your fall as you try to find an anomaly. Anything that proves to your stubborn anxiety—that you are actually doing something to feel less trapped.

"There is nothing here." He states.

"You don't know that." You wish your voice sounded stronger. "I wasn't in my right mind when I landed. I might identify something I missed."

His jaw ticks once, but he doesn't stop you. He doesn't argue—and that unnerves you. The Damian you know doesn't hesitate when picking a fight, and frankly—you miss that. You needed something to distract you—and he was merely standing there like he was watching a phantom.

"I thought you said you would help." Your voice breaks.

Fuck. Swallowing back your revealed fright, you finally slump down onto the dust-covered concrete, pressing your palm against your eyes.

You hear a shuffle, the fabric of his coat landing heavy next to you. You uncover your eyes, catching him as he crouches beside you. His gaze meets yours head-on—and you nearly drown in the weight of it.

"There's no relief in digging through a dead-end." He mutters, peering over your features. "It'll only worsen the thoughts."

You grow quiet. You didn't need a verbal confirmation, not when just his gaze alone tells, that he wasn't only talking about your situation. Your chest heaves, the scent of concrete filling your nostrils.

The silence stretches, an uncomfortable sensation of helplessness filling the air.

"...Do you like pizza?" He asks after a moment.

Blinking once, you must've misheard it. You can't help the snort that escapes you, the sound broken and unsteady. "What?"

"I dislike it." He mutters. "The ones in Gotham. It's too much grease, and lacking of any true nutrients."

That... sounds very Damian of him.

You raise a brow, and his lips purse together. Letting out a regretful sigh, he gestures with a tilt of his head. "There's an adequate franchise down the street."

Lifting himself off the ground, he holds out his hand towards you. "Since this dreadful day has been awfully unproductive, I suppose a meal like that is befitting."

Your gaze flickers between his hand and that unfamiliar, warmth in his eyes. Of how you had been in a similar position mere hours ago when he had offered you pain ointment. Of how he has been consistently extending his hand towards you, accompanying your side—ever since you entered this dimension.

This time, you take his hand.

Strangely enough, the fluorescent lights of 'Gotham City Pizzeria' and the smell of floor disinfectant—combined with the peculiar sight of Damian lifting a soggy pizza slice with a grimace did lift your spirits. If this was your dimension, you would have bothered with taking a picture to capture the sight of him clashing with an environment so strongly, but you couldn't afford to let this rare moment of normalcy be dimmed by that reminder.

"Should I be concerned that the Damian Wayne in this dimension consumes Gotham pizzas?" You murmur, wiping a streak of tomato at the corner of your mouth.

His lips quirk up slightly. "Even I have my faults."

Clearing his throat, he murmurs. "Your turn."

You raise a brow, confused.

He leans back, dusting his hands against the napkin. "I haven't learned anything about you since you arrived."

Oh. You had assumed that he didn't want to. Outside of the boundaries of your circumstance, he hasn't really pushed much further other than details he needed to have, to piece a solution together.

"What do you want to know?" You shrug.

His lips tilt upwards again, more intently this time. "Do you like pizza?"

Your smile lifts instinctively. "I do, detective. How'd you guess?"

His smile strains a little, and you realise why.

"Ah." You murmur.

"No." He stops you before you can retreat. "Don't stop on my account. I want to know what you like."

You swallow, fingers running over the crust flakes coating your thumb. You suppose you could answer, there wasn't any harm done. "I do like pizza. It's the only thing that's comforting enough after a long night of patrol. I think when I enter a familiar place at an hour like this, when there's no one else around, it's like the world closes in to exist in just this spot, y'know? I get to forget about my worries for a little while."

He nods, listening to you speak as if he intended on memorising every word. Like he may miss the chance to do so ever again.

"So, why'd you pick this place?" You return the question.

"...As I told you before, I'm not fond of it."

"So, why are you here?" You push.

A slow exhale escapes his mouth. "I suppose, it was like you said. Comforting—in a sense, to be surrounded by something familiar."

You can see him struggling, on what to say and what to keep buried. This provided company of his—it's like you're digging into a wound he's openly showing you.

"What else do you like?" He reiterates.

Your smile reappears, almost easing. "Need a full catalogue?"

"Yes." He answers almost immediately. It takes the breath out of you, the humour still stuck on your tongue with the way he looks at you, all-consuming. "I would."

"I suppose... I could tell you things I never told anyone." You whisper almost conspiratorially. "Something tells me you'll keep quite a good secret."

His lips lift, curving a small dimple by his cheek. "I swear."

"I guess..." Leaning your cheek against your palm, you take your time in truly looking at him. "I always did like your eyes."

He blinks, not expecting your answer. "My eyes?"

"Yeah." Your grin comes easier to you now, seeing him uncharacteristically flustered. "Made me unreasonably jealous at times. Green eyes like that, and you spend half the time glowering."

He scoffs lowly, but it holds no bite. "I wasn't aware there was a way to utilise them."

"No, you do it right when you're not thinking too hard." You murmur, lost in thought. "When you don't pretend to be strong, your eyes go soft. Just around the edges."

The moment those words leave you, you realise you're pushing too far, saying something so intimate, it should have never been verbalised.

He watches you, and to your dismay, he does it right then and there. The sharpened edges around his gaze softens, and so does Damian.

"You're direct." He mutters, almost fondly.

You swallow, averting your gaze. "So I've been told."

"I like that."

You shift your focus back to him immediately, a soft thudding in your chest. He has never averted his gaze. Rarely, you realise, does he pull his attention away from you. It's like he's treasuring it, the small impossibility of this conversation, of your presence in this pizzeria illuminated by the neon lights.

"Do you feel like you're dreaming?" You ask. "It feels like I know you even though I shouldn't."

His lips quirk. "It is a fair exchange for reality, if I get to meet you."

Your heart is thudding louder now, and you don't find it instinctive anymore to avert his gaze, no matter how much the depth feels like drowning.

"A once in a lifetime phenomenon." You declare. "Let's not waste it."

Gotham's cityscape takes a less intimidating turn in the weeks following your exploration with Damian, as the hidden beauty within begins to reveal itself. The confusing streets become interesting puzzles, a guessing game on what road could be an alternative to the ones you frequent in your dimension. When night falls? That's when this Gotham truly sings, coming alive.

Without the late nights being reserved for the sole purpose of patrol, Damian guides you within the ins-and-outs of alleyways, leading you through slot machines, bars that still had the hum of human company despite the late hour. Eventually, you both land on a rooftop that lets you oversee the entire city.

It's terrifyingly easy to enjoy his company when you're not busy pretending otherwise. There's a symphony to your shared steps, the trailing of his shadow that plays out like a familiar, comforting rhythm.

"It's different." You mutter almost excitedly. The faint buzz of exhaustion from the late hour leaves you increasingly lax, your hand tugging at his sleeve towards the Wayne Tower in the distance. "Ours is all red hues and sharp angles. I like yours more."

He hums, sounding amused. His gaze is still trained on you, not focused on your pointed finger towards the building at all. Letting out a huff, your hand, numbed by the freezing wind, lifts to cup his cheek.

He blinks, a rare vulnerable expression crossing his features at your touch.

"Stop looking at me." You gesture, trying to tune his head towards the cityscape. "You're missing out."

"No, I'm not." He answers honestly.

You blink, hand faltering over his cheek, but he raises his own to cover yours.

"Sorry." He murmurs, lashes lowering with his gaze as he closes his eyes momentarily. "Allow me to be a little selfish, just this once."

Your fingers shake in response, but you don't remove your hand.

"That's not very fair of you." You mutter.

"I suppose I have never practiced that trait well." Opening his eyes, you're faced with that tenderness, the one that leaves you breathless. "Does it make me hateful?"

"No." You answer honestly. "You've always been bad at that."

"At being fair?" He asks.

"Making me hate you." You admit quietly.

His gaze softens imperceptibly. "I suppose we're both not very good liars."

The touch of his cheek burns your skin. This is dangerous, your mind faintly warns you. You promised yourself to never hesitate in your decision, not even after meeting him. You were always meant to go home.

He spots your hesitance, and his warmth falters. His lips set back into that familiar, distant line as he lets your hand go.

"I apologise if I over-stepped." He says before you even have time to clear the air.

"No, that isn't it." You wince, drawing your hand back to scratch at your cheek. "I was just thinking. Maybe—it isn't so bad if I could stay a little longer. There's no guarantee on when the portal will open again, so it's not a ruled out possibility."

Your suggestion is a toss into the wind. A complete silent, interpretation that maybe that's what he'd like as well.

You don't even have time to process the slight hope in his gaze, the consideration of your words before something—no everything seizes. Your body collapses to the ground, the pain of your atoms glitching, seizing to exist, and reforming again, is nearly indescribable.

A near howl escapes your bitten lips as you crumple towards the floor, only for Damian to catch you in his arms, down on his knees in front of you. Your fingers grip tight around his wrists, steading yourself as your vision blurs in and out. By the time you've strained your neck to look back up at him, you see the pain contorting his expression, wiping it loose of all composure.

"I—I'm okay." You breathe out, even as you can feel how cold and clammy your skin has become.

He doesn't answer. He merely stares, a rush of emotions flooding too fast through his mind for you to read, before it falters. His grip is your only anchor, but he's trembling too.

"This isn't a good sign." He states, dread falling over his features. "You must return, soon."

"So, you're saying—" You recall his words faintly. "The longer I stay in this dimension, my body will begin to disintegrate?"

Those technical words, theories that sound ridiculous on paper, thread thinly in a reality where your body was now a self-destructive timer. He gives you a short nod, his dark circles illuminated by the hologram of his research. Despite it being your life on the line, he looks wrecked.

What had started out as a happy night, ended with the reminder that you're not only endangering yourself but him. He's faced losing you once, and your existence in this dimension that should have never happened—he might go through it all over again if you don't find the portal in time.

"Damian." You call out, spotting the weak composure he's trying to display. "Look at me."

He refuses to listen, or maybe, he's completely blocked everything out with his gaze trained on the coordinates and running calculations. Standing up from the couch, you move slowly towards him to not startle him. Your hand briefly touches his arm, and he flinches.

"Damian, we've been over this." You speak as calmly as you can. "There's no opening unless it's opened from my side."

"Then, why hasn't he done it?" He snaps.

You blink, taken aback by his reaction.

"I can't—" He swallows, jaw clenched as he stares at you with a raw agony. One he's been hiding from you since you arrived, that you had caught a brief glimpse of when he first embraced you in his panic. "I won't fail you again. I refuse to."

"Damian." Your brows furrow, hands intertwining with his to force him to feel your touch. "I need you to breathe."

His chest heaves, and you recognise a panic attack before he's even verbalised it. Pulling him towards the sofa, you force him to sit, hands still connected with his.

"It isn't fair." Damian shakes his head. "Nothing ever is. Either way, it feels as if I'm losing you all over again."

Your breath trembles in his admission, and you can do nothing but sit here and listen.

"It was my fault." He confesses, grief-stricken. "A mission gone wrong—and my arrogance. I had overestimated the ambush, and we were cornered."

His body goes still as he drowns in his memory. "You hadn't hesitated stepping in the way. I could do nothing but watch."

"I am unworthy for many things." His voice lowers, with such an encompassing belief in his words. "But not being able to save you? That is a punishment I will never recover from."

"To lose you again." He mutters, broken. "I won't know what to do."

"Damian." You whisper. "I'm scared too."

He looks up at you then, and tears are welled in the corners of his lashes.

"But I'm glad." You emphasise, squeezing his hand. "That it's you, that you're the one here with me."

He blinks, barely able to process your words. "Why?"

"Because you have been by my side, from the moment I arrived." You answer genuinely. "Even if it hurts you, and I know it does. You stuck around, and you got to know me. You didn't have to do that, not when it costs you everything to do so."

He swallows, his expression shattered as he listens.

"I would have never known this side of you, if you hadn't found me." You push forward. "And no matter how terrifying it is to be in a whole other dimension without knowing if I'll make it home, it doesn't change that I'm glad I met you."

He breathes out, as if your words were a sucker-punch to his gut. His eyes trace over your features, a hidden longing unravelling the longer he carried out his intent focus, wanting to capture everything.

"Can I be selfish one more time?" His voice is a quiet plea, and you don't resist to how weak it renders you.

You nod gently.

Leaning in, his fingers tremble as he reaches up to brush away a stray strand from your cheek. His warmth lingers over your skin, eventually brushing over your cheekbone as his gaze pours into you. He looks at you the same way he had countless times before, and you had never been able to put it to words. Till now.

When his lips touch yours, it feels like a goodbye. A wish made impossible, fulfilled for only a mere moment. It's softer than you ever expected, gentle in a way you had never been treated from anyone else before.

When you open your eyes, you watch his expression carefully draw back into his composure. He's doing it for you, picking up the pieces that's broken so you won't have to face it.

"Let's get you home." He promises, and you believe it.

As the days pass by, with your body experiencing more frequent glitches, Damian's kindness runs a deeper wound above your heart. Whenever you insist that you're fine so he can focus on his work—he merely accompanies you by your side like some personal torture he inflicts on himself. Whenever your body seizes into another episode, split between the fractures of reality—he's there, waiting for you to reach for him so you can feel real again.

He listens with a seared focus now whenever you tell him stories, of yourself—of your world, like he's running out of time. You both are.

It's the seventh day, when the daily scans of the construction site run by Damian finally begin to detect increasing abnormal activity from where you landed.

"The debris movement seems to reverse every time I run the scan." He mutters. "As if there's a disruption in the space."

You swallow dryly, eyeing the replay he's showing you. "Do you think it could mean.."

"Yes, I'm certain." Damian nods firmly. "The portal is being triggered on the other side. The only concern now is when we should be at the site."

This... is it. Despite everything you've prepared and anticipated for, the obvious fact that you should be relieved you have a chance of making it home—the realisation comes with a bitter-sweet note.

Damian doesn't comment further past the facts. He merely focuses on the hologram screen, inputting commands to verify an estimate window to make rounds at the construction site. Despite calling himself selfish, you had never seen him so composed, silent on his true thoughts of this discovery.

"In two days." He answers, staring unblinkingly at the figure. "We won't miss it."

That settles it. In two days... you're going home.

"I hate waiting."

"I am aware." Damian murmurs.

"Stop agreeing with me." You sigh.

"Alright."

Your head snaps, an unamused expression taking over your features.

His gaze flickers from his device to meet yours briefly, and his lips quirk up slightly. "Sorry." His voice doesn't sound apologetic at all. "You've made it too easy."

You can't help but scoff, chin leaning against his shoulder. "This is worse than the glitches."

"Have I mentioned that you're a horrible liar?" He mocks.

"Numerous times." You hum, eyeing the scan with a narrowed glance. "What if your calculations are wrong?"

"I ran over them one thousand and fifty-three times." He frowns. "The chance for error are near zero."

"Wow, from the looks of it—you seem rather eager to get rid of me." You tease.

"Was I that obvious?" He shrugs.

"Who's the bad liar now?" You tease.

He opens his mouth, ready to produce some quick retort—but something catches his eye.

Shifting your gaze to follow his, you catch movement from where the ground had been stagnant. The rubble—is beginning to move in an anti-clockwise direction.

"Now." Damian stands abruptly, a hand wrapping around your waist to lift you to your feet.

The shift in the atmosphere as a distant rumbling occurrs beneath your feet, it's much more aggressive than you expected. Damian tugs you back, just in time before a fracture cracks in the ground.

"The portal." You recognise, eyeing the glow beneath the fissure, something dreadfully familiar.

Your breath is almost winded, coming up short as you stare at the formation in trembling anticipation. Your gaze whips to Damian, your heart slamming against your ribcage—only for your words to fail you when you meet his expression.

Broken, that's all you saw. The same way he had seemed when you first met him.

"Damian." You call out, hesitant, but he shakes his head.

"I never got to tell you." He starts.

Your brows furrow. He had been nothing but honest since you got here. There isn’t a wound that he hasn’t uncovered in front of you, no vulnerability he hasn’t revealed. You know him, because he had let you.

"I want you to know that I am glad." He confesses, his voice picking up in pace. He sounds terrified that he won't be able to finish what he's started. "That I got to know you. There wasn't a moment where I regretted it, not even for a second."

"I must tell you." His voice cracks. "That I'd choose you, in a hundred lifetimes, no matter what reality, I'd always choose you."

The words are lost on your tongue. I'd choose you too. He has to know, even when the tears well up in your eyes.

He holds you tight, as if he's trying to sear this very embrace into his memory. "At least, I'll know now that somewhere out there, the person I am in your world was able to bring you back. That a version of me didn't lose you."

"I know it's selfish." He whispers. "But I wish I could keep you."

Contrary to his words, he lets go of you the moment he says it, his arms parting from your frame to remain firmly at his side. He's restraining himself, you realise. Damian, the very image of self-control, is barely keeping himself together. He’s letting you go, and in doing so, he’s saving you.

"Thank you." He murmurs in goodbye, casting you a solemn smile. "For sparing me the mercy of meeting you again."

"I hope he understands just how fortunate he is." A bittersweet smile graces his lips. "That he'll cherish you, and protect you always."

You think you ask him to wait. For more time. You remember briefly on how your hand extended towards him, before the portal had pulled you in. It was silent after that, and the loss of something indescribable hits you by the time the world comes back—roaring to life.

Tumbling onto the ground, you choke out a breath, saliva coating your lips as your fingers press numbly into the ground.

You're home. A quick glimpse of your surroundings is enough to confirm the familiar machinery, the abandoned lab. Yet, flashes of Damian's unmoving gaze before his frame completely disappeared, staring at you like he wanted to commit you to memory.

How could he have called it mercy, when he was so shattered?

Your tears slipped, and you feel a strange gap in your chest.

A rushed call of your name echoes before you can even name the emotion that consumes you. The syllables barely forms in your mind, as your head whips up in a daze. Your tear-stained expression is broken, completely unhidden—when you see Damian. Your Damian.

"Damian." Your voice croaks out. The name sounds strange on your tongue.

He freezes, unsure on how to process this version of you. Whatever he expected when he got you back, he must've never anticipated this. The version that has just lost him, and a part of you always will.

Pushing yourself to your feet, you stumble in your steps before collapsing into him. You're convinced he'll push you away, as he always does.

What you didn't expect was the steady warmth of his arms wrapping around you. Tense, but protective—as if he were trying to fend off the inner turmoil that's consuming you.

"It's alright." He mutters, voice stiff but his grip doesn't falter. "You're safe. I am here."

That breaks a silent sob out of you, and you bury your face into his chest. He doesn't push you for answers, nor does he distance himself. He remains planted exactly where he is, grounding you with his presence while you mourned for something that should have never been yours, and what you should have never lost.

He is embracing you so tight, it gave you a violent sense of déjà vu. The lines are blurring, and you can't find it in yourself to be angry when you know you should be.

"I am sorry." He mutters, voice breaking in composure. "I did this—I am sorry. I failed you."

"No, you didn't." You answer, your voice hoarse. "You brought me back."

It was the truth, broken into a hundred pieces.

In time, you will tell him. Of how he protected you even in another dimension. Of how that version of him will forever know that in another reality, he had saved you. That there was a Damian who didn't experience losing you.

Of how you'll never forget him. Even when he's out of bounds, but forever engraved into your existence, a memory that should have never existed.

But for now, you'll let yourself rest, knowing that you're home.

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

[extra pov] - alt! damian + reader’s damian after her return

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

You nearly sobbed (you should be asking him that), but choked back the sound by pressing your nose into his shoulder. In many ways, Ryland continuously reminded you that regardless of the situations he found himself in, he gave up his comfort (and his physical body) to help. He was a constant string of sacrifices, an endless loop of giving. 

It made an ugly feeling strike through your gut. When was the last time he asked for something in return? 

Closing your eyes, you sunk deeper into Ryland’s hold and hoped to convey wordlessly that he could hold you the way he needed to. That he could hold you tight; grip you selfishly.  

The seconds ticked by, and the awkward silence that had settled over the ship began to morph into something softer. You realised that Rocky was also in the room, but hadn’t made a single sound. Not even his translator echoed mechanically in the air, asking questions.

Ryland quietly cleared his throat. “Did you want to—uh, talk… about it?” 

His question was followed by his thumb rubbing a small crescent into your back. You turned your head to press your cheek against Ryland’s shoulder, gaze idly running along the floor. 

“No,” you murmured. “But thanks for asking.” 

Ryland nodded his head, exhaling through his nose. After a short moment, you felt his cheek press against the side of your head. 

You couldn’t say when the two of you began to sway, but, at some point, your heart rates had synced with one another, beating in tandem while your bodies rocked side to side. There wasn’t any music to accompany you; you weren’t sharing a romantic dance.

Your lips briefly twitched with a faint smile as you imagined Rocky asking you about it. 

Why Grace and Y/N move to side on repeat. Question. 

You weren’t good with numbers or molecular biology like Ryland, but you knew a lot about the human body. And you knew that people rocked themselves when they needed comfort. Maybe Eridians did something similar? You’d explain it to the overly enthusiastic alien, but the thought left you when Ryland moved his hand up your back, palm splayed against your spine.

“This is nice,” Ryland whispered.

You hummed, and tears crowded the edges of your vision. 

“Same time tomorrow?”

You let out a wet giggle, muffling it into his shirt. 

Ryland lets out a soft huff, his smile trailing after his breath and hidden from view.

--------------------------------------------------

thank you for reading, God bless <3

Spying Damian from the corner of your eye, he must've certainly forgotten about you by now. He's probably used to the mass attention from The Gotham Times, enough to forget the mess that happened between you and him. That you made horrible, ruthless fun out of his feelings, taking every chance you could to piss him off, using the fact that his heartbeat would race around you against him.

"Master Damian and you have fond childhood memories together." Alfred comments. "I'm sure he will be delighted to see you."

Is that what it looked like to the adults? The strange push-and-pull you once had with the only blood heir in Wayne Manor?

"Hi." Your voice comes out brash—awkward, not at all the confident persona you wanted to portray. Damian was even more intimidating up close, with his gaze narrowed down on you, emotions completely hidden behind a perfect blank, towering over you in a way he never did before.

"How are you, Damian?" You try again when he doesn't answer. You might as well ask for the foundation of Wayne Manor to swallow you whole. You'll find better use supporting the infrastructure than in this dead-end of a conversation.

He blinks slowly, at least a suggestion that he's somewhat human. His scowl deepens, arms crossed. "You've somehow become more unimpressive, if that's even feasible."

Your jaw drops. Out of everything, forced curtesy, straight-up ignorance, you didn't expect that. It takes you a second to recover, and it only makes you feel more foolish. "That's uncalled for."

"I don't recall you taking consideration of what others think before spouting nonsense." His assault lands roughly, despite his tongue never quickening in its pace or abrasiveness. In fact, his coolness as he directly insults you only buries you deeper in shame.

It's a strong sense of alert, to abort this mission of reconciliation. "This is making me nolstagic already." Your grin splits too wide, desperation seared into your tone. "Good to see you haven't changed either."

His expression darkens, and you've somehow pissed him off with your harmless comment.

"I have changed." He answers briskly. "And I can guarantee that this new version of me... won't tolerate you so easily."

Before you can even blink or process his outright threat, you feel his shoulder brush harshly against yours, bumping you to the side as he walks off.

Yeah... he definitely remembers you.

Damian proves to be relentless in his promise to be intolerable of your presence.

When you had wandered your way down to the West Wing’s kitchen in your Superman pajamas, you’re greeted with a glare from Death himself when you find Damian sitting across the counter.

"Hi." You greet, almost afraid your voice will shatter the pin-dropping silence the atmosphere has suddenly descended into. You really have to stop with that horrible greeting.

His expression sours further at the sound of your voice, as if you've confirmed his worst nightmare really exists at eight in the morning, standing in his kitchen decked out in Superman merch. His gaze drops pointedly to your attire and grimaces, before shoving another spoonful of his breakfast down his throat.

"No trimming Alfred's hedges included in your morning routine?"

Your joke in an attempt of familiarity clearly strikes the wrong nerve, as the only response you receive is the harsh creak of his chair. He stands abruptly with a point to look on forward as he makes his exit, as if you didn't even exist in the very room.

It's fine. It's only been your first day back. He'll warm up to you... eventually. You just have to prove that you're not that annoying kid anymore, who thought poking fun at a child assassin prodigy who harboured grudges like no tomorrow was a smart move.

You’ve still managed to harness some luck. When you open the cabinets, you find it fully stocked with all your favourite tea brands and flavours. Bless Alfred, his kind soul.

Damian does not warm up to you. When you found him resting in the study, laid out on the leather couch, you barely make it past the barrier of the wooden doors before he slams his book shut. The loud echo vibrates through the entire room along the oak bookshelves, freezing the atmosphere before you even have a chance to say a word.

When you take a seat beside him for dinner, he makes it a mission to have a pointed remark for every attempt of yours at small talk. That slithered tongue of his somehow turns every conversation into a violent game of chess, with his strategy as outright assault, leaving you on the defense.

It's tiring, infuriating. This wasn't even punishment; this was hatred.

You’re at your wits end when you find yourself in a moment of surrender, perched at your balcony, watching the starless sky above you. Sleep doesn’t find you easily when the person roomed beside you hates your guts.

You don’t deny that stationing out here in the cold didn’t serve a purpose. At least there was one thing you could still predict about Damian, and that was his habit of lingering on his balcony, only a few feet away from yours, for a moment of reprieve after his patrols.

He’s just come out from the shower, water droplets catching at the ends of his dark locks, dripping small streams down to the towel around his neck. His eyes are closed, head pressed against the brick stone, but a furrow deepens between his brows. He knows that you’re watching him.

Your fingers tighten around the railing, and for once, you keep your mouth shut. The silence stretches, taut and timed with each vivid heartbeat that hammered against your rib cage.

“Are you going to keep staring?” His voice, raw and tired from patrol, finally breaks through the tension. Yet, you can’t conjure a semblance of hope, even if this was the first time he started a conversation since you arrived at the Manor.

“Depends on how long you plan on avoiding me.” You answer truthfully.

He scoffs, a low unamused rumble in the back of his throat. “You are unbelievable.”

Your frown deepens, irritation flaring at his tone. “You’re seriously the one to say that? You’ve been—”

His green eyes peer open, meeting yours. There’s a challenge in his gaze, daring you to address his behaviour.

Swallowing back your insults, you force yourself to look away. “If I'm making you that uncomfortable, fine. I’ll keep my distance. I wasn’t planning on staying long anyways.”

Eyeing his reaction from your peripheral vision, you expect him to be relieved, ecstatic even that you’re leaving after all the effort he's gone through to be a horrible host. You don’t expect to see the rare look of hurt displayed on his face.

Your head twists fully to face him, convinced you must have hallucinated, but he’s already turned his back. His imprudent leave ends with the harsh slam of his door, leaving you alone to the freezing wind whipping at your face. Yet, you feel that being on the receiving end of his hatred is much colder than being out here alone in the dark.

When Tim returns from his mission, you’re practically in tears in the light of your saviour. You love Alfred, but even he is beginning to tend to the gardens more, in an attempt to avoid your distractive antics from his never-ending tasks around the manor. Bruce is a terrible converser outside of the cameras, too tired to put on his charm or his patience when he’s busy sleeping till noon, and off on another patrol by sundown.

Tim, the second closest person you have to your age, and often too insomniac to garner the needed strength to send you away—is your closest chance of normal bantering without feeling like you’re one step away from becoming a murder victim.

"He hates me." You rant, hands resting over Tim's armrest, watching Tim sort through his cases using a system he calls 'chaotic orderliness'. "I’m not kidding. Damian genuinely despises me."

Tim snickers, placing another unceremonious stack on the desk. You doubt there was much improvement from his sorting, but he's convinced it works. "Trust me. Damian does not hate you."

"What will you call it then, Wonder Genius?" You groan. "Annoyance? Irritation? Loathing?"

"Did you know he personally restocked the kitchen with all your favourite tea packets?" Tim blurts out.

Your frown dissipates, his words slowly sinking in. "I—thought that was Alfred's doing."

Tim shakes his head. "He claimed that you would only be more of a nuisance if it wasn't done right."

He continues on, suggesting that he was paying attention more than he led on. "The bookshelves were completely revamped by genre too, even when he finds it distasteful. He also lets you tackle Titus, which he has never allowed any of us to do."

"He has a hard time communicating how he feels." Tim mutters. "Trust me. I’m well aware of that. So, don't take it too personally. He's just processing your presence and what you mean to him."

"Processing?” Your brows furrow. “What could he possibly need to process on such a level?"

Tim tosses you a ‘Are you seriously asking me that question?’ look, but the sound of a loud revving of an engine cuts off his further explanation. You spot the Batmobile entering the cave, its lights blinding your sight as the giant machine stops in its tracks.

The wing door lifts, and out steps Damian, home from his patrol. His domino mask is nowhere to be found, and that's how you witness firsthand that he's glaring daggers into your soul. His gaze doesn't leave you when he shuts the door with a solid slam, even when it flickers between you and Tim, assessing the situation.

For some reason, seeing Damian in his suit makes your mouth dry, eradicating all line of thought from your conscience, leaving you to stare at him speechlessly like a gaping fish. Gone were the silly tights and hooded cape. You don’t recall Robin ever looking that sinfully good, it was almost unfair.

You’re distracted—and the fact that he was coming towards you in a rapid, terrifying pace as if he's found his next victim, steals away precious time for a proper escape. Realising you’re still leaning over the armrest in contact with Tim's arm, who's watching the entire exchange with unhidden amusement, you inch away with your hands raised.

"Damian, if you're mad I snuck into the cave—"

He doesn’t deign you a second more to explain, grabbing your wrist and tugging you harshly towards the exit.

He's definitely mad. His entire body is tense, forming harsh movements as he drags you across the hallway. It takes you a moment to guess where he's heading, when he passes the study, the kitchen, up the stairs—to his bedroom.

He was going to murder you, and no one would be any wiser of his crime. Except for Tim, who betrayed you seamlessly, still typing away at the Bat-Computer after giving you a sarcastic wave when you had twisted your neck, silently begging him for non-discreet assistance.

Damian’s hands never part from you when he slams the door closed with you pinned against the wood. His glower alone is enough to incinerate you.

"What did I do this time?" Your sigh is honest, a tired numbness of this pretense of trying to be amiable with him. Your ability to read his deflecting moods has long gone dormant.

"Did you seriously think it wouldn't affect me?" He sneers. "You've made a big show of making Drake the next victim of your tiring schemes."

Your lips part, brows creased in frustration. "What are you talking about?"

"Isn't it enough?" He snaps. "Driving me insane with your presence. Now, you must attack Drake as well?"

"I am not doing anything!"

"Really?" He scoffs. "So, you laughing over his jokes during dinner, finding him in the Cave, asking him to show you around the city as if you didn't live in it yourself once—it's all just you naturally being insufferable?"

Your brows furrow in utter confusion. This sounds maniacal, and... seething with jealousy?

"It's not like I can ask you.” You retort. "You'll probably blow up the city before you would even consider the suggestion of showing me around."

"I would never consider taking you anywhere." He hisses.

"Exactly—"

"You'll just wrap me around your finger, and render me incapable of all sense."

"...What?"

"You're a weakness." He mutters. "Being around you only amplifies this fact. But—"

"I refuse to let you parade around Drake." Inching closer to you, you can’t tell if his desperate refusal is pointed at you… or himself. "That will only ruin me more."

Your lips part and close, shock visible in every nerve pulled from your facial expression. "You sound... jealous."

His jaw ticks, and he stares down at you, lips pursed.

"So, what if I am?"

His hands come up to either side of your face, trapping you with nowhere to face but his cold expression. His eyes have darkened to an almost-black, swarmed by his pupils that are focused on you.

"What will you do then?" He mocks. "Will you terrorise me? Laugh in my face? Trample my heart and smile as if you didn't do anything?"

"I'm curious." His voice grows bitter, almost resentful. "Just how will you torture me this time?"

His question sucks all the oxygen out of your lungs. There's something all-consuming about his gaze, staring at you with such vivid conflict, a desperation swirled with frustration... and longing.

"I thought your crush on me was over." You whisper.

His jaw flexes, annoyance on full display. "Of course, you would still use that infuriating term."

You don't even have time to process it. His lips meet yours in a harsh clash, but it's only fitting that a kiss broken out between the two of you would be a fight of push-and-pull. You've long driven each other mad, and now this tension, dragged to its peak, has finally crashed—and it feels akin to tectonic plates shifting off-course.

You expect him to push you off when he realises his impulsive mistake—or pull you closer, you don't know. In his strength, he can easily do it. Break this kiss and berate you as he once did, cheeks flushed and rage consuming his vision.

Yet, you find your hands tangling into his hair, releasing a series of groans that sound inhuman coming from his mouth. He chases your every movement, consumes, and you're left with nothing to hold onto, to think of—but him.

His hands find their way through your hair, maneuvering you easily to slot your lips however he wanted against him. You've never felt him so unrestrained, so destroyed and desire-driven.

"Damian." You gasp, twisting your head when you realise just how intense the session was getting. You still didn't know his intentions, the reason why he dragged you into his room. "Wait, we need to talk."

He's half-conscious, kisses peppering your jaw from the access you've given, and when he finally stops, parting just enough for you to face him again without him attacking you—you sense his impatience, his detested longing bridling right below his mask.

“Did you ever think about me?” His question comes out softer than you expected, weak and hoarse from his lips that are bitten.

“What?" You breathe out, chest still heaving from the intensity only he could create. "Of course I did.”

Suspicion clouds his gaze, because for some reason, he can’t seem to fathom that you’re wrapped around his finger just as much as he claims to be around yours.

“Why did you think I teased you so much?” You confess. “I was a silly kid, who had a big crush on a boy who refused to admit he has a heart! I wanted to get a reaction out of you... because it proved to me that you liked me even half as much.”

His frown deepens, unsatisfied. "Yet, you don't even remember."

Your brows furrow. "Remember?"

"The—" The rarest shame coats his features. "Promise you made. Before you left."

You try to recall a promise, anything you must've said that remained in his memory for as long as it did. Before you left—yes, Damian had bid you farewell. If you could call it that.

"You're leaving." Damian states. It's a fact, not a question.

Honestly, you thought he'd be more pleased. He was always going on about how you were a distraction, a nuisance, and some other colourful vocabulary you've added to your adjectives list for your English homework, which you'd proudly shown him in retaliation.

Yet, here he was, standing at the front door like a barrier to the outside world, staring holes into your luggage as if it had done a personal crime against him. Knowing how easily offended he could get, maybe the wheels ran over his polished shoes once.

"I'm not leaving forever." You tease. "Promise I won't let you be free of me so easily.

"Who says I want you back?" He scoffs, ears reddening as he averts his gaze. "You'll just cause more problems, as you always do."

You grin, hand parting from your luggage handle and tackling him into a hug. He lets out a string of curses, all Arabic and undecodable to you. Still, he doesn't push you off like you expect. Maybe he's deigning you some honour, because this will be the last you'll see him in a really long time.

"I'll come back soon." You promise. Casually. In an after-thought. Unknowing of its effects on a boy who took each promise as a solemn vow. "So you won't be alone in this big, lonely manor all by yourself. Who else will you threaten to kill at six in the morning?"

You feel the stutter of his voice, the huffs in his breath as he tries to restrain himself. Cute.

You part from him, pressing a soft kiss on his cheek just to tease him further. His cheeks blossom that signature red and you see the sizzling in his gaze, like he's ready to blow from shame and rage.

"Don't change, Dami." You murmur. "I want everything just the way it is now when I come back."

You never expected him to hold you to a ten years old promise. You wouldn't have remembered it, if it weren't for the look he was giving you now. Your vision was fracturing, multiplying with the Damian of your past and the one right in front of you.

Right. Back then—hadn't he looked at you in this same way? With a quiet, desperate plea to not leave him alone? It had stuck with you, as the car turned away from the Manor, watching his silhouette disappear into a smaller frame at the door, unmoving till you were out of reach.

"You waited." Realisation creeps in with an unexpected guilt. He held you to that promise. That’s why he kept the arrangement of the books the same way in the study, and the tea packets, and your room.

"And you came back." He huffs. "Carelessly smiling as if you had forgotten. I should've guessed that you did. You handled promises as easily as you handled my heart."

"We were kids—" You splutter.

His gaze narrows. "I was four when my grandfather handed me the expectations he had of his heir. Six when I understood what an assassination attempt meant. Eight when I learnt not to flinch when ending a life. How much do you think promises are worth to a boy who went down that path?"

"...Everything." You whisper.

"Everything." He mutters. "You had always been different. Light, free of burdens. I despised you for it, and… I craved your normalcy. You made me feel human, and I had mistaken that for weakness. When you left, I realised then that your absence felt worse than keeping any weaknesses near."

"Dami..."

His body shudders involuntarily at your call, arms still caged around you. He grits his teeth, glare enough to pierce through your skin. "Don't do that."

"I'm not pitying you." You answer, even if he hasn't uttered his accusation. You can see it in his vulnerability, how it aches for him to even admit this to you. That you matter, and your promises matter.

"I'm sorry I didn't keep my promise." Your hand comes up to cup his cheek, and his lashes flutter, shock registering at your warm touch. He doesn't pull away, even when conflict arises in his gaze. "I really am. I know you think I'm some trickster, and that you can't depend on my words."

"But truthfully, I was most excited to see you." You admit. "I had been away for so long, but whenever I thought of Gotham, of home, I thought of you. I wondered about how you must've become so much stronger, smarter, and still carried that heart you tried so desperately to keep hidden. That you were the most capable, and striking boy I ever laid my eyes on."

"Now, I see who you've grown up to be." You exhale, eyes tracing over his features, and you can't help but smile. "Even all of my dreams couldn't have pictured who you are now. You're amazing, Dami, and I'm sorry if I ever made you feel small, or unworthy of promises."

Pressing a soft kiss to his cheek, as you once did when you were children, you think it's time you made a proper promise. One you'll remember, and one you hope he'll give you a chance to keep. "I've fallen for you, Dami. Whatever crush I had on you when we were kids? It pales in comparison to this—snowballed into something even I can't control."

"I'm here now." You remind him. "With a promise to stay. I'm no longer that silly kid, who runs her mouth without thinking. I keep my promises, especially if it's for the one right in front of me, who's taken my heart from the first moment I laid my eyes on him."

A low rumble escapes his chest, satisfaction hidden within his features. In moments like this, he really reminds you of a feline. Hard to please, and yet, you find yourself in awe of that soft glow in his eyes.

“You’re mistaken.” He murmurs, and your heart drops. “What I feel for you is not even close to half.”

"I waited, even when I knew the chances of you remembering was close to zero." He admits. "Because I chose you. From the moment you entered my life, my heart already sealed its fate to yours, even if you hadn't known."

"I would've kept waiting—and if you took too long." He leans in, nose brushing against yours. "I would find you. And make you live up to that promise."

"And now?" He smirks, turning his head as his lips brush against your palm. Even a soft touch like that was enough to make your heart combust, and the trace of his lips makes you hyperaware of your own, still swollen from the kiss earlier. It's the intimacy, the way he's completely unraveled in your hands that reminds you of just how much power you have over him.

"I'm holding you to your new promise." He mutters. "You'll stay. In Gotham, with me."

You nod breathlessly. "I'm staying."

"Good." Even in his composure, you sense the drop of his shoulders, his relief in hearing you say it again. "You have a lot of wasted time to make up for."

"How should I make up for lost time?" You tease, lashes fluttering as your gaze diverts between his lips and his darkened gaze.

"I'm sure you've invented all sorts of new ways to terrorise me." His voice deepens into a dangerous lure, rendering you speechless. "I'll give you some freedom to explore that."

Your hand still lingering on his cheek traces past the corner of his mouth, right over his lip. His gaze lowers to your touch, and you sense the impatience that slips through his restraint.

You tilt his head to face you, and he's waiting. You never realised how patient he was when it came to you.

Leaning closer, your lips brush over his again, and you feel his fingers still tangled in your hair tighten, inching you closer.

"Is this allowed?" You tease, gaze flickering back up to his.

He huffs out a low breath, and when he descends, you get your answer. Damian Wayne has always held restraint like a perfected soldier, but when it came to you... he finds that control is an overrated concept.

Now that you're finally here, in his arms, all his, he's making you live up to your promise.

extra: timmybird: have you guys worked on processing his feelings? ;)

likes, reblogs, and comments are highly appreciated! <333

dc masterlist -> damian + other dc works

He stood beside his parents in his uncles solar of the Red Keep, hands slightly clammy clasped behind his back, listening as Maekar Targaryen and his wife were announced. The doors opened, and in swept heat from the late summer air, and with it, noise. A child’s cry.

High, pleased babbling echoed against the stone walls.

Valarr’s spine went rigid.

Maekar entered first, tall and imposing, his wife followed, smiling warmly, and in her arms.

Valarr blinked.

You were smaller than he expected.

Wrapped in pale silks, white threaded with faint red embroidery, you were all soft curves and bright, curious violet eyes. Your hair was fine and light, silver-blond catching the sun pouring in through the high windows. You made an indignant sound when your mother shifted her grip, little hands fisting in protest before settling again.

The adults exchanged greetings. Polite words, and familiar courtesies.

Valarr barely heard them.

He was staring at the little dragon wrapped in her mother's embrace.

“You remember my brother, Prince Baelor, of course,” Maekar was saying, gesturing to Valarr’s father. “And this is his wife, and his son.”

Introductions continued, and then.

“And this is our youngest,” your mother said, voice warm with unmistakable pride. “Our daughter.”

She tilted you slightly forward, inviting admiration.

Valarr swallowed.

You stared back at him.

Your gaze fixed on him with startling intensity for someone so small, eyes wide and unblinking. A slow smile spread across your face, gummy and delighted, as if you’d found something you very much approved of.

Valarr had the absurd thought that you looked…pleased. As though he were a novelty.

“Well,” Baelor chuckled, “she seems like a lively one.”

“She always is,” Maekar’s wife replied fondly. “Especially when there are new faces.”

Your attention did not waver. Your small hand lifted, fingers opening and closing in a clumsy, curious motion.

Valarr shifted his weight.

This was fine. Perfectly fine. You would be admired, cooed over, perhaps passed to a septa or attendant. He would smile politely from a distance. That was the proper order of things.

He relaxed, just a fraction.

And then Baelor said, far too lightly, “Valarr.”

Valarr felt dread bloom instantly.

“Yes, Father?” His words coming out to meek for a prince of his stature.

“Why don’t you greet your cousin properly?”

Before Valarr could respond, before he could so much as draw breath to suggest an alternative, Maekar’s wife laughed softly.

“Oh, would you like to hold her?”

The room seemed to tilt.

“I-” Valarr began, his mind urging him to refuse his uncles good wife.

It was too late.

You were already being transferred.

Your mother stepped closer, carefully placing you into Valarr’s arms with practiced ease, as if handing over a bundle of linens instead of a living, breathing child. Your weight was unfamiliar, warm, solid, and alarmingly fragile.

Valarr froze.

His arms locked in place, instinctively stiff, elbows tucked awkwardly at his sides. He stared down at you in open panic, acutely aware of how many eyes were on him.

You blinked up at him.

For a heartbeat, there was silence.

Then you reached for him.

Your tiny hand latched onto the front of his doublet with startling strength, fingers curling into the embroidered fabric just below his collarbone. Valarr inhaled sharply.

“Oh,” Baelor said, amused. “She’s taken a liking to you son.”

Valarr did not move, and you tugged harder.

The Targaryen crest, three-headed dragon molded from steel, pulled under your grip. Valarr watched in horror as the stitching around it strained.

“I think-” he said faintly, “I think she has to strong a hold on me.”

You made a pleased sound, babbling happily as you tightened your grip and brought the emblem closer to your face, examining it with grave seriousness. Your other hand joined the first, fingers patting and scrunching the sigil as though testing its texture.

Someone laughed.

“Careful,” Maekar said dryly. “She’s strong.”

Valarr believed it.

He looked up helplessly at his mother, who was smiling far too serenely.

“Support her head Valarr.” she reminded gently.

Valarr shifted one hand, too fast, then stopped again, terrified he’d done it wrong. You wobbled slightly, offended, and let out a sharp sound of protest.

Valarr’s heart leapt into his throat.

“I’m sorry,” he blurted instinctively, as if you could understand him.

You stared at him, then promptly shoved a fist into your mouth and chewed on it, apparently satisfied.

The adults laughed again.

Valarr flushed.

You, meanwhile, were delighted.

Your attention drifted back to his chest, to the shining emblem that had caught your eye in the first place. With unwavering determination, you tugged again, harder this time.

The thread held, barely.

“Oh-no, no,” Valarr muttered under his breath. “You cannot-”

You could.

With a triumphant little noise, you yanked, and Valarr felt the stitching give way slightly beneath your grip. Not fully torn-but loosened enough to make his stomach drop.

“She’s stealing from you,” Baelor boomed in laughter.

Valarr looked up sharply. “She’s taking the emblem father.”

“It seems fair,” Maekar said. “She is a Targaryen after all.”

Your mother laughed softly, eyes shining. “She’s always liked shiny things.”

Valarr looked down at you again.

You were beaming now, utterly content, clutching the piece of metal like a prize you’d won through sheer will. Your chubby fingers were red from gripping it so tightly.

He should have handed you back.

He should have insisted.

Instead, something strange happened.

You leaned closer, entirely unprompted, and pressed your forehead briefly against his chest, a clumsy, affectionate bump. Then you sighed, a soft, sleepy sound, and settled.

Still holding the sigil.

Valarr went very still.

The room seemed to fade at the edges.

You were warm, and real. Breathing softly against him, your tiny weight anchored in his arms as if you belonged there. His panic dulled into something quieter. His awareness heightened, careful not to drop you.

You trusted him.

For reasons entirely beyond his comprehension, you trusted him.

“Well,” his mother said softly, “I don’t think she intends to let go.”

Valarr swallowed.

“I-I don’t think I can move,” he admitted.

Maekar’s wife smiled at him, something knowing in her expression. “You are doing just fine my prince.”

You shifted slightly, adjusting your grip, fingers still curled in the dragon’s heads stitched over his heart.

Valarr thought, distantly, that he would remember this.

The weight of you.

And how, for the first time that day, he hadn’t minded holding onto a babe.

Valarr realized, belatedly, that the problem was no longer holding you.

The problem was that no one seemed inclined to help him stop.

You had settled fully now, cheek pressed against his chest, breath warm through the layers of his doublet. Your fingers remained tangled stubbornly in the loosened embroidery, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for you to keep hold of him.

Valarr stood there, acutely aware of every inch of himself, his posture, his breathing, the tension in his arms. He had never been more conscious of the fact that he was alive and responsible for something far smaller and more fragile than himself.

“I think,” he said carefully, after a long moment, “she is…asleep.”

You were not, not quite, but your eyelids had drooped, lashes resting against flushed cheeks, your mouth slack in the way of someone very close to drifting off. One hand still clutched the sigil. The other had gone lax, resting against his collarbone.

“She does that,” your mother said cooed. “Decides she’s comfortable and refuses to be moved.”

Valarr attempted to shift his weight again, just enough to ease the strain in his arms.

You responded immediately.

A small, displeased sound escaped you, sharp and indignant, and your fingers tightened. Valarr froze mid-motion, heart hammering.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, absurdly earnest.

This time, you opened your eyes.

They were a pale, bright violet, too clear, too knowing for someone so young. They focused on his face, studying him with an intensity that made Valarr’s breath catch.

Then you smiled.

A small, satisfied curve of your mouth, as if to say: There. Don’t do that again.

Baelor laughed outright.

“Oh, she’s clever,” he said. “Look at her. She’s got you trapped.”

Valarr shot his father a look that was half plea, half accusation.

“She’s-she’s holding my clothes,” he said, as if that explained everything.

Maekar stepped closer, studying the situation with a measured eye. He reached out, fingers brushing gently against your hand.

You did not release the sigil.

Instead, you drew it closer to yourself, little brows furrowing in displeasure.

Maekar paused.

“Well,” he said slowly, “she’s claimed it.”

Valarr stared at him. “She cannot have it.”

“Why not?” Maekar asked mildly. “It’s hers as much as yours.”

Valarr opened his mouth, then closed it again.

He had no answer that wouldn’t sound ridiculous.

Your mother hid a smile behind her hand.

“She’s never taken to strangers like this,” she said. “Usually she fusses.”

Valarr swallowed.

“I’m not-” He stopped himself. “I mean, I don’t-”

He trailed off, at a loss.

You shifted again, settling more securely in his arms. Your head tucked just beneath his chin now, breath puffing softly against his throat. Valarr stiffened instinctively, then forced himself to relax, lowering his head just enough to keep you steady.

He could feel the warmth of you through the fabric. The slow, steady rhythm of your breathing.

Something quieted inside him.

“Valarr,” his mother said gently, stepping closer. “You may hand her back now if you like.”

He hesitated.

He did want to, or he truly did. His arms ached, and he was painfully aware of how ridiculous he must look, standing there, rigid and wide-eyed, holding a baby who had apparently decided to take possession of him.

And yet, he looked down at you again.

Your fingers had loosened slightly now, grip slack but still determined, the metal sigil in between your touch. One foot stuck out from the folds of your linen enclosure, kicking faintly with contentment.

You trusted him, completely. Like how a small cat would nap near its siblings.

The thought landed with surprising weight.

“I think,” Valarr said slowly, “she’ll be upset.”

As if to prove his point, his mother reached out carefully, attempting to slide your fingers free from the the sigil.

You woke fully at once.

Your grip tightened. Your face scrunched, and a sharp, offended cry burst from you, loud enough to echo off the stone walls.

Valarr startled.

“Oh-Seven-” He pulled you closer without thinking, one hand coming up to support your back. “No, no-please don’t-”

Your cry cut off mid-sound.

You blinked and sniffled.

Then settled again, apparently appeased, cheek pressed firmly against his chest.

The room went silent.

Then Baelor laughed again, softer this time.

“Well,” he said, “it seems she’s made her choice.”

Valarr stared straight ahead, cheeks burning.

“I didn’t-” he began weakly.

Maekar gave a low huff that might have been amusement. “She’s stubborn,” he said. “Takes after her brothers I reckon.”

“Gods help us all,” your mother murmured fondly.

Valarr felt oddly proud.

The realization startled him.

He had done nothing to earn it. He had simply…existed. And yet, something about the way you clung to him, unbothered by rank or expectation, made him feel, as ridiculous as it was, chosen.

Minutes passed. Conversation resumed around him, drifting to safer topics. Valarr remained still, barely daring to breathe too deeply in case it disturbed you.

He adjusted his grip minutely, learning your weight, how to support you without startling you. The tension in his shoulders eased by degrees.

Eventually, your breathing slowed again, deeper now, unmistakably asleep.

Your mother watched closely.

“She’s truly out,” she said softly. “Now might be our chance.”

Valarr nodded, careful.

He shifted, slow and deliberate, loosening your grip finger by finger with infinite patience. You stirred but did not wake, lips pursing briefly before relaxing again.

The sigil slipped free at last.

Valarr exhaled, relieved.

But when he began to pass you back, something unexpected happened.

Your hand shot out again.

This time, instead of grabbing the piece of metal, your fingers curled around his.

Valarr froze.

The contact was brief, and clumsy, but it sent a strange jolt through him. Your grip was weak, barely there, but the intent behind it was unmistakable.

Don’t go.

He looked down at you, heart doing something uncomfortable and unfamiliar.

Your mother paused, watching the moment with quiet interest.

“Oh dear...she’s going to be a handful,” she said softly.

Valarr managed a breathless laugh. “I can tell.”

Eventually—carefully, gently—you were transferred back into your mother’s arms. You protested faintly, a soft sound of displeasure, before settling again against her shoulder.

Valarr stepped back, arms suddenly empty.

The absence felt…strange.

He smoothed his doublet automatically, eyes flicking to the loose threads that once connected the metal symbol of his house. The sigil sat askew now.

He didn’t fix it.

“Well,” Baelor said, clapping a hand lightly on Valarr’s shoulder, “you’ve survived.”

Valarr nodded, still staring at you.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “I think I have.”

As your family prepared to depart, Maekar paused beside him.

“She likes you,” Maekar said, matter-of-fact.

Valarr glanced at him, startled. “She is but a babe.”

Maekar’s mouth twitched. “Even so.”

Valarr looked at the dragonian symbol in his hands, then he lifted it up towards his uncle, "perhaps she might search for this when she awakes."

Maekar slowly took the sigil from the young boy, thanking him quietly.

They left soon after, the solar returning to its usual stillness. Valarr remained where he was long after the doors closed, fingers curling unconsciously where yours had been.

He looked down at his chest, the lack of the dragon symbol apparent.

Valarr thought, with quiet certainty, that he would never forget this.

And though he did not yet know why, he suspected it would matter.

—

The journey from Summerhall to the Red Keep was loud with celebration, though none of it felt particularly official to you, only familiar.

Your father indulged you shamelessly.

When you lingered too long admiring the view from a rise in the road, he ordered the caravan slowed. When you expressed even mild interest in a ribbon from a passing merchant, it appeared in your hands before the day was done. He listened when you spoke, smiled when you laughed, and waved off any suggestion that you were being spoiled.

“She’s allowed,” Maekar said flatly, daring anyone to disagree.

Your brothers hovered like they always did.

Daeron walked at your left, satchel of wine in hand. He was relaxed but watchful, ready with a joke or a steadying hand. Aerion stayed closer than necessary, sharp-eyed and territorial, correcting servants before they could fumble and scowling whenever someone stared too long.

“She doesn’t need all this,” you said at one point, gesturing to yourself and at the attention.

“She absolutely does,” Aerion replied. “And more.”

Attendants fussed endlessly.

Your hair was brushed and rebrushed. Your sleeves adjusted. Your jewelry inspected, removed, returned. At one point, an older attendant fastened a small trinket at your neckline, a simple piece of metal sewn into a ribbon, shaped like the three-headed dragon of house Targaryen.

You touched it absently, as you always did.

Your favorite.

No one remembered where it had come from. You certainly didn’t. It had simply…always been yours it seemed. You liked the way the jagged metal felt beneath your fingers, worn slightly dull with time. It calmed you.

Behind it all, your mother watched.

She said little, but her gaze was sharp and measuring, tracking every indulgence from the attendants. She saw how easily you were loved, and how easily that love might become leverage.

And quietly, without your knowledge, she decided.

You would be betrothed to Valarr Targaryen. for why should her daughter, beloved by the realm, settle for anything other than the heir of the heir.

—

Trumpets announced your arrival.

The Red Keep rose before you, pale stone glowing in the afternoon sun. Courtiers gathered, and servants hurried.

You felt it, even if you didn’t flinch.

Your father rested a hand briefly at your back. Your brothers closed in slightly. The attendants fluttered, whispering reminders.

Inside the keep, Valarr Targaryen was being given the vaguest instruction of his life.

“Be attentive,” his mother told him calmly. “She is important.”

Important could mean anything.

Valarr smoothed his doublet, fingers brushing the sigil at his chest out of habit. The old one had been replaced many years ago, but his hand still went there without thinking.

“You’ve met her before,” Baelor added, almost as an afterthought. “Once.”

Valarr looked up sharply. “I have?”

Baelor smiled faintly. “She was very small.”

The memory struck like heat.

Tiny hands, the warm weight. The dragon tugged loose beneath her grip.

Valarr went still.

“I remember,” he said quietly.

—

You entered the hall with sunlight caught in your hair, laughter soft on your lips as Daeron murmured something in your ear. You looked unguarded, and entirely yourself.

Valarr saw you immediately.

And then he saw it.

The trinket at your neckline.

The dragon.

Not the polished sigils worn by courtiers, but a small, slightly worn, metallic mold, attached with a silk bow and silver chains.

Valarr’s breath caught.

His gaze dropped without permission, tracking the familiar shape, the way the ribbon and chains pulled ever so slightly at the edges.

You noticed his stare and followed it down, fingers lifting automatically to the trinket.

“Oh,” you said lightly. “This?”

You rubbed the embroidery between thumb and forefinger, absent, affectionate.

“Well, my prince, I’ve always liked it. ever since I was a child.” you continued. “I don’t remember where it’s from. It’s just…mine.”

Just like that.

Your fingers curled around it.

Valarr felt as though the room tilted, the same familiar feeling from when he held you as a boy all those years ago.

—

Conversation carried on around you, but Valarr heard very little of it. His attention stayed fixed on your hands, on the unconscious way you held the sigil when you laughed, when you listened, when you grew thoughtful.

At one point, you leaned closer to him to inspect the one on his chest.

Your fingers brushed over the smooth metal.

The motion was instinctive, and terribly familiar.

Valarr’s pulse jumped.

Years ago, you had done this exact thing, clutched the dragon over his heart with all the certainty of someone who knew what they wanted and refused to let go.

You did it now without realizing.

Valarr swallowed hard.

“You favor that trinket,” he said carefully.

You smiled at him. “I suppose I do. It makes me feel safe.”

The word struck deeper than it had any right to.

—

Your mother noticed.

She watched Valarr’s expression shifted, how his composure cracked just enough to let something genuine through. She saw the way he looked at you as if seeing a memory made flesh.

She said nothing, although she didn’t need to.

Your father further discussed something Daeron said, while Aerion shot Valarr a warning glance from across the table.

And you, utterly unaware, tilted your head toward Valarr, curiosity bright.

“You’re very quiet,” you observed. “Is court always like this?”

Valarr smiled faintly.

“Not usually,” he said. “I don’t think it’s ever been quite like this.”

Your fingers tightened on the dragon again.

Valarr knew then, with quiet certainty, that this was no coincidence.

You had found him once before, And somehow, you had found him again.

—

Valarr told himself it was coincidence the first time.

The Red Keep was enormous, after all, vast halls and endless corridors, gardens that folded in on themselves, staircases that led nowhere and everywhere at once. It was entirely reasonable that paths might cross. Entirely natural.

He repeated this to himself as he rounded the corner of the eastern gardens and nearly collided with you.

You stopped short just in time, skirts swaying, breath slightly quickened as though you’d been moving fast.

“Oh,” you began, then blinked. “My prince.”

Valarr straightened instinctively, his court etiquette snapping into place before he could stop it.

“Princess,” he greeted.

You rolled your eyes immediately.

“Please don’t,” you said, smiling despite yourself. “I was trying to escape that.”

He followed your gaze.

Daeron and Aerion stood several paces behind you, mid-argument, clearly in the midst of deciding who was more responsible for whatever irritation had driven you off. Daeron gestured animatedly; Aerion’s arms were crossed, expression sharp.

Valarr’s lips twitched.

“I take it they’re the cause of your flight.”

“They always are,” you said lightly. “One of them decided I needed guarding inside the Red Keep of all places.”

“An unforgivable offense,” Valarr agreed playfully.

Your laughter surprised him.

It was bright, and it eased something tight in his chest. You shifted your weight, fingers lifting unconsciously to the dragon trinket at your neckline, rubbing the worn thing between thumb and forefinger.

Valarr noticed.

“I won’t keep you,” he said, though he made no move to leave. “Unless you’d prefer my company to theirs.”

You tilted your head, studying him.

“I think,” you said after a moment, “that I would.”

Daeron noticed them. He paused mid-sentence, gaze snapping to Valarr. Aerion followed a heartbeat later, eyes narrowing.

You turned just enough to wave them off.

“I’m fine,” you called. “Go bother someone else.”

Aerion’s jaw tightened, and Daeron sighed theatrically.

“You’re certain sister?” Daeron asked.

“Yes,” you replied. “Unless you’d like to argue in front of the prince.”

That decided it.

Your brothers retreated, reluctantly, casting Valarr one last look that was all warning.

When they were gone, the garden seemed quieter.

“I’m sorry,” you said. “They mean well.”

“I know,” Valarr replied. “I imagine I will be similar if not the same if I were to ever have a sister.”

That earned him another smile.

You walked then, not formally, just drifting along the garden path side by side. The silence between you wasn’t awkward. It settled easily.

Valarr found himself glancing at you when you weren’t looking, to preoccupied with the budding flowers or bugs on the leafs.

At the way you moved without self-consciousness. At the way your fingers kept returning to the trinket, as though drawn there by instinct. At the faint crease between your brows when you grew thoughtful.

He told himself, again, that this meant nothing. he was being courteous is all.

The second time happened in the library.

Valarr had retreated there deliberately, seeking refuge from council murmurs and polite inquiries. He’d chosen a far corner, half-shadowed, shelves towering overhead, the quiet thick and blessed.

He was halfway through a page when he heard footsteps.

Light, feminine steps.

He looked up.

You stood a few paces away, scanning the shelves with open curiosity, an attendant hovering helplessly behind you with a stack of books already in her arms.

“Oh,” you said when you noticed him. “My prince, we meet again.”

Valarr closed his book slowly.

“Should I be offended,” he asked, “or relieved?”

You smiled, stepping closer.

“Relieved,” you decided. “I was hoping for something more interesting than titles about trade tariffs.”

He gestured to the shelf beside him. “History, then. Slightly more intriguing.”

Your eyes lit up.

“You read history for fun?”

“I don’t recommend it,” he said. “But it does grow on you.”

You leaned closer, scanning spines, and without realizing it, without even looking, your fingers found the dragon again.

Valarr’s breath caught.

The same motion, the same unconscious curl of your hand.

“You do that often,” he said quietly.

You glanced down, surprised, then laughed softly.

“Oh. That. I suppose I do.”

“Does it mean something?”

You considered.

“I don’t think so,” you said. “It’s just familiar, and it comforts me.”

Valarr looked away before you could see his expression.

“Yes,” he murmured. “I imagine does.”

You chose a book then, thick, well-worn. You tucked it under your arm.

“Borrowing this,” you said cheerfully. “I’ll return it. Probably.”

“I’ll hold you to that,” he replied.

When you left, the space you’d occupied felt suddenly empty. Valarr sat there for a long moment afterward, staring at the shelf without seeing it.

Twice.

Coincidence, he told himself.

The third time made him laugh.

It was a narrow corridor near the royal apartments—one he rarely used, chosen out of habit more than intention. He rounded the corner quickly, deep in thought—

—and stopped short.

So did you.

For a heartbeat, you simply stared at one another.

Then you laughed first.

“This is becoming suspicious my prince,” you said.

Valarr found himself smiling before he could stop it.

“Either the Red Keep is smaller than I remember,” he said lightly, “or you’re following me.”

Your laughter rang out, a genuine one.

“I assure you,” you replied, “I’d have chosen a more dramatic approach.”

Something in Valarr loosened at the sound.

He relaxed visibly, shoulders easing, the careful distance he kept from most people slipping without effort.

And as you passed him, close enough that he caught the faint scent of summer on your clothes, he realized something unsettling. He hoped it would happen again. That you would always be their as he turns every corner. That you'd inhabit the spaces he so commonly ventured into.

—

Later that evening, as Valarr found himself choosing paths he might run into you on, he stopped short.

And laughed quietly to himself. Valarr did not mean to look for you.

That was the lie he told himself as he chose the longer path through the eastern wing the following morning, one that curved past the small terrace overlooking the Blackwater rather than cutting straight through the council corridor. He told himself he wanted air. Quiet. Space to think.

He did not tell himself he hoped you might be there.

The terrace was empty.

He felt an unreasonable flicker of disappointment before he caught himself and frowned, annoyed at the thought. Ridiculous. You had your own schedule, your own obligations, attendants, family, duties he barely understood. It was foolish to expect-

“My prince?”

He turned.

You stood in the doorway, sunlight at your back, one hand braced lightly against the stone as if you had only just decided to step outside. You looked surprised to see him, and then pleased.

“Oh,” you said, smiling. “There you are.”

There you are.

The words settled somewhere uncomfortably warm in his chest.

“I could say the same,” he replied, a little too quickly.

You stepped onto the terrace, skirts whispering softly against the stone. An attendant hovered briefly behind you, then, at your gentle insistence, retreated inside.

“Everyone keeps telling me where I ought to be, these days,” you said. “It’s exhausting.”

Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. “They do that.”

You leaned against the balustrade beside him, close enough that he could feel the warmth of you without touching. Below, the water moved steadily, indifferent to courtly fuss.

Your fingers lifted to the dragon trinket again.

Valarr watched the motion.

“You always go to your neck, when you’re overwhelmed,” he said before thinking better of it.

You blinked. Looked down.

“Do I?”

“Yes.”

You considered that, rubbing the sigil thoughtfully.

“Hm,” you murmured. “I suppose I do. Although my prince, you shouldn't stare at a ladies chest so much, some may find it indecent.”

He could feel the teasing notations behind your words, but he didnt entertain it further. Settling instead to cough into this fisted hand and wait for the warmth of his cheeks to wear off.

—

The feast that evening was unavoidable.

Your nameday demanded it, music, laughter, long tables heavy with food, and a sea of eyes eager to measure, compare, and whisper. Valarr entered with practiced composure, scanning the hall without conscious intent, finding you immediately.

You sat with your family, your father at the center, your brothers flanking you like loyal guards. You looked radiant, not because of your finery (though that was impossible to ignore), but because you were comfortable. At ease. Laughing openly.

Valarr realized, distantly, that he was smiling.

“Careful,” Baelor murmured beside him. “You’re staring son.”

Valarr straightened. “I was not.”

Baelor’s expression said everything.

Valarr, wanting to ignore his father, made his way toward the high table, intending to sit where protocol dictated. Halfway there, you glanced up.

Your eyes met his. You smiled small, and unmistakably meant for him.

Valarr changed course without even noticing he’d done it. By the time he realized, he was seated beside you.

Your brothers exchanged a look. Daeron raised a brow, and Aerion narrowed his eyes.

You, blissfully unaware, leaned closer.

“I was hoping you’d sit here my prince,” you said.

Valarr felt the words settle into him like a promise.

“Was that so?”

“Yes,” you replied simply. “You make this all fuss feel much less loud.”

Conversation flowed easily, about things he had truly no interest in. Although when you would talk he'd find himself straining his ears just to hear you a little clearer. You spoke of Summerhall, of books you’d borrowed and not yet returned, of how strange it felt to be celebrated so publicly. Valarr listened, found himself answering with more honesty than he ever offered at court.

At one point, Aerion leaned in.

“So,” he said, tone deceptively casual, “dear cousin, how long have you two known each other?”

Valarr hesitated.

You answered first.

“Oh, not long brother,” you said. “We just keep running into each other.”

Daeron snorted. “Funny how that happens.”

Valarr hid a smile behind his cup. Your fingers found the trinket again as laughter rose around you. He noticed how you stilled slightly when someone down the table laughed too loudly. How your grip tightened just a fraction.

—

After the feast, Valarr told himself, again, that he would sleep early. Instead, at the dead of night, he found himself wandering. The corridors were quieter now, torches casting long shadows across stone. He passed servants and guards, nodded politely, turned corners without thinking.

And then, there you were.

Seated on a window bench, skirts gathered around you, moonlight painting silver into your hair. You looked up at the sound of his steps and smiled as if this were the most natural thing in the world.

“Do you ever sleep?” you asked.

Valarr laughed softly. “Rarely.”

You shifted to make room. He joined you without hesitation. For a while, neither of you spoke. The silence was companionable. Comfortable in a way Valarr had rarely known.

“I think,” you said at last, “that the Red Keep is playing tricks on us.”

“Oh?”

“Yes,” you continued. “It keeps putting you in my way.”

Valarr glanced at you, amused.

“Or,” he said lightly, “you’re really following me.”

You laughed. “You’re impossible.”

He liked the way you said that.

Your hand drifted, again, always, to the dragon at your neckline. You rubbed the thread slowly, thoughtfully, eyes distant. Valarr watched, heart tight.

“You don’t remember where you got it,” he said.

It wasn’t a question, you shook your head in response.

“No. I’ve asked before. No one seems to know. It’s always just been with me.”

He swallowed.

“Do you mind that?”

You considered.

“No,” you said finally. “Some things don’t need explanations.”

Valarr thought of a baby’s grip, of laughter, of a torn sigil mended too carefully to discard.

“Yes,” he agreed quietly. “Some things don’t.”

Later, when Valarr finally did return to his chambers, he paused before the mirror. His gaze dropped, unconsciously, to the dragon over his heart.

He smiled faintly.

Across the keep, you slept with the trinket curled in your fingers, unaware of the pattern you were weaving.

And somewhere between chance and intention, between memory and instinct. The prince who kept finding you realized something dangerous. He didn’t want to stop.

—

Valarr did not believe he was flirting.

That was the first and most critical misunderstanding.

From his perspective, he was being thoughtful. Attentive in a way befitting someone who had been told, rather unhelpfully, that you were important. He listened when you spoke. He answered when you asked. He made sure you were comfortable, and safe.

None of that, in his mind, constituted flirting.

It did, however, result in him saying things like—

“You…walk very quietly.”

You paused mid-step, turned to look at him, and burst out laughing.

“That is a compliment?” you asked.

Valarr felt heat rush to his face.

“I meant,” he said quickly, “that you move without-without drawing attention. It’s…efficient.”

“Efficient,” you repeated, eyes bright with amusement. “How flattering.”

He winced. “That came out wrong.”

You smiled anyway, and that somehow made it worse.

From then on, it only escalated. Valarr overthought everything.

Every word was weighed twice. If he spoke too much, he worried he’d bored you. If he spoke too little, he feared he’d offended you. If you smiled for longer than a heartbeat, he went quiet, convinced he’d said something foolish and you were being kind about it.

You, meanwhile, assumed this was simply how he was. Polite, reserved, and earnest Valarr, in an almost awkward way.

You found it endearing. Everyone else found it obvious.

Daeron noticed first.

It happened during a late afternoon walk along the inner ramparts. You were speaking animatedly about a book you’d borrowed—still hadn’t returned, Valarr noted—and he was listening with the kind of focus usually reserved for council matters.

Daeron watched him for a long moment, then leaned closer to you.

“He looks at you like you’re the only person in the keep sister,” your brother murmured.

You blinked. “He does not.”

Daeron hummed skeptically.

Aerion noticed next, and was far less subtle about it.

“So,” he said one evening, arms crossed as Valarr approached. “Is this intentional?”

Valarr stiffened. “Is what intentional?”

“This,” Aerion gestured vaguely between the two of you. “The constant proximity. The hovering around my sister.”

Valarr opened his mouth. Closed it.

“I am not hovering,” he said finally.

Aerion’s gaze sharpened. “You haven’t been more than three steps away from her all evening.”

You laughed, nudging Aerion’s arm. “You’re imagining things brother.”

Aerion looked unconvinced, but said nothing more.

Your father noticed.

Maekar watched the way Valarr adjusted his pace to match yours, during your now daily strolls in the garden with the prince. The way he angled his body toward you, shielding it, he obviously did so without realizing it. The way his expression softened when you laughed.

He had said nothing.

Your mother noticed, and smiled.

She noticed the unconscious gestures. The way your fingers always found the dragon when Valarr was near. The way his eyes followed that motion, every time, as though it were something precious. If it was any man she'd have him beheaded for looking at the princess in such an inappropriate manner.

She did not intervene.

Valarr, meanwhile, was miserable.

He stood in his father’s study one evening, hands clasped tightly behind his back, pacing in short, agitated turns.

“I don’t think she knows I like her,” he said finally.

Baelor looked up from his writing, expression unreadable.

“She doesn’t?”

“No,” Valarr said, running a hand through his hair. “She’s kind. She laughs. She speaks to me easily. I think she assumes I’m merely, being polite.”

Baelor studied him for a long moment.

“You escort her everywhere.”

“Yes, but—”

“You seek her out daily.”

“That’s coincidence.”

Valarr hesitated.

Baelor set his quill down.

“Valarr,” he said gently, “my son you are courting her in plain sight.”

Valarr froze.

“I am?”

Baelor smiled.

“You compliment her, terribly,” he added. “You grow flustered when she teases you. You go quiet when she smiles at you too long, and you look at her like she already belongs beside you.”

Valarr stared at him, horrified.

“That’s-” he stopped, swallowing. “That’s obvious?”

“To everyone but you and her it seems,” Baelor replied.

Valarr sank into a chair, covering his face with one hand.

“She deserves someone-,” he muttered. “-Someone who knows what he’s doing.”

Baelor chuckled softly.

“She deserves someone who sees her,” he said. “And you do.”

The realization hit Valarr slowly. Every interaction replayed itself in his mind with new clarity.

The garden. The library. The corridors. The way you smiled when you saw him. The way your fingers curled around the dragon without thinking.

He had been courting you.

Not with grand gesture, with care. The next time he saw you, he was acutely aware of it.

You approached him in the courtyard, sunlight warming the stone beneath your feet. “There you are,” you said easily.

Valarr’s heart stumbled. “Here I am,” he replied.

You smiled at him, that same unguarded smile, and for once, he didn’t look away.

“Can I walk with you?” he asked. You didn’t hesitate. “Of course.”

And as your fingers drifted, once again, to the familiar trinket at your neckline. Valarr thought, with equal parts terror and certainty.

Seven help me. I am in love with her.

—

The solar was quiet in the way only old stone rooms could be, thick walls holding in the warmth of the afternoon, shutters half-drawn against the sun. Baelor stood near the window, hands clasped loosely behind his back, gaze fixed not on the city beyond but on the reflection in the glass.

Maekar did not sit. He never did, not when something mattered.

“You wished to speak brother,” Maekar said, arms crossed, voice level. “So speak.”

Baelor turned slowly, studying him. He had known Maekar his entire life, knew the set of his shoulders when he was bracing, the way his jaw tightened when he expected to be challenged.

“This concerns your daughter,” Baelor said evenly.

Maekar’s expression hardened at once.

“Then you should choose your words carefully.”

Baelor inclined his head slightly. “I intend to.”

Silence stretched between them.

“She is remarkable,” Baelor continued. “Unaffected by court in a way few are."

“She is young,” Maekar replied sharply.

Baelor did not argue that.

“I have no intention of rushing anything,” he said. “But I would be remiss not to acknowledge what is already plain.”

Maekar’s eyes narrowed. “Plain to whom?”

“To anyone with eyes,” Baelor said quietly. “Valarr, most of all.”

That did it. Maekar let out a low breath through his nose, something between a scoff and a warning.

“My daughter is not a consolation prize for a prince who happens to notice her,” he said. “Nor is she a political convenience.”

Baelor held his gaze steadily. “I would never suggest my niece to be that.”

“She has brothers who would tear this keep apart for her,” Maekar went on. “She has a father who has bled for this family. I will not hand her over lightly.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Baelor replied.

Another silence.

“She is fond of him,” Baelor added carefully. “Even if she does not yet know what that means.” Maekar’s jaw tightened.

“And what of Valarr?” he asked. “Is he fond, or merely intrigued?”

Baelor did not answer immediately. “He is…earnest in his affection,” he said at last. “In ways that do not always serve him well. He is thoughtful to a fault. He remembers things others forget.”

Maekar’s brow furrowed. “Such as?”

Baelor hesitated only a moment. “She wore something today,” he said. “A small dragon. Worn with age.”

Maekar stiffened. “That trinket,” Baelor continued, “once belonged to Valarr. Or rather, she took it from him.”

Maekar stared. “She was a baby,” Baelor added. “She grabbed the sigil from his chest and would not let go. We thought nothing of it at the time.”

Maekar said nothing. “Valarr did not forget,” Baelor finished quietly.

The silence that followed was heavier than before. Maekar turned away, pacing once across the room, boots striking stone. When he spoke again, his voice was lower.

“She does not remember,” he said. “She knows nothing of that moment.”

“No,” Baelor agreed. “But she repeats it.”

“She touches the dragon whenever she is overwhelmed,” Baelor said. “Without knowing why, and my son, Valarr notices every time.”

Maekar closed his eyes briefly.

“That does not mean I will give my consent,” he said. “I have seen what the crown does to good men. I will not watch my daughter be swallowed by it.”

Baelor nodded. “Nor would I.”

Maekar looked at him sharply. “Then why are we having this conversation?”

“Because,” Baelor said gently, “whether we sanction it or not, something has already begun.”

Maekar’s hands curled into fists at his sides.

“She deserves a choice,” he said.

“So does Valarr,” Baelor replied. “And he has made none lightly.”

Maekar studied him for a long moment. “You speak as though this is decided.”

“No,” Baelor said. “I speak as a father who sees his son walking into something that matters, and I am speaking to another father who would burn the realm before seeing his daughter harmed.”

That, at least, Maekar understood.

“She will not be pressured,” Maekar said firmly. “She will not be paraded. If Valarr wishes anything from her, he will earn it."

Baelor smiled faintly. “I would expect nothing else.”

Maekar turned toward the door, then paused. “If he hurts her,” he said without looking back, “he will answer to me. Crown or no crown.”

Baelor met his back with calm certainty. “He knows.”

Maekar left without another word.

Baelor remained by the window long after. Some bonds, it seemed, did not need memory. Only time.

—

By the final days of your nameday celebrations, the Red Keep no longer felt like a palace.

You had lost track of how many feasts had been held in your honor. How many gifts had been pressed into your hands. How many times servants had bowed too deeply or courtiers had smiled too brightly, their eyes lingering just a moment too long.

Your father indulged you through all of it.

When you complained of sore feet, he waved off protocol and had chairs brought where there should not have been any. When you grew tired of sweet wines, he ordered something lighter without question. When you asked to walk the ramparts late at night, he assigned guards but did not forbid you.

“She’s had enough ceremony for a lifetime,” he said once, flatly.

Your brothers hovered relentlessly.

Daeron teased you about the attention, about how often your name was spoken in halls not meant for it. Aerion said less, but stood closer, watched harder.

Attendants fussed like it was their sole purpose in life. Everyday their were new gowns, new ribbons, new jewels, and endless adjustments.

—

Valarr had never hated celebration more.

Not because of the noise or the spectacle, he had been raised in it, but because celebration demanded visibility ,and with visibility came the scrutiny. And over the course of the week, every look he cast your way felt noticed.

He had not intended for things to become so obvious.

He had not intended to escort you so often, to linger so long, to learn the rhythms of your presence the way one learned music, without effort, without realizing it had happened.

Yet here he was, standing beside you again as musicians played softly in the gardens, torchlight flickering against stone.

“You look tired,” he said, immediately regretting it.

“I am,” you admitted cheerfully. “But it’s a pleasant sort of tired.”

“You’ve been generous with your time,” Valarr said.

You laughed softly. “As if I had a choice.” Your fingers, like oppositely charged magnets attracted towards the sigil at your neck.

Valarr’s gaze followed the motion before he could stop himself. You noticed this time.

Instead, you smiled. “You keep looking at it,” you said.

“I-” Valarr stopped, then exhaled. “I’m sorry, it’s familiar.”

“So you’ve said.”

He hesitated. “Do you ever wonder where it came from?”

“You've also asked that many times," you laughed lightly. “It is all the time I wonder, but I don’t mind not knowing.”

He wondered if you ever would.

—

By the sixth evening, no one pretended anymore.

Servants seated Valarr beside you without asking, musicians timed quieter songs for moments when you two would grace the dance floor. Courtiers bowed a fraction deeper when addressing the two of you as a unit.

—

It was late when you found yourselves alone in a quieter corridor, the sounds of celebration distant. Torches cast long shadows; the keep felt hushed, expectant.

“Valarr,” you said suddenly.

He turned to you at once. “Yes?”

“You’ve been…different,” you said carefully. “This week.”

His heart stuttered. “Different how?”

You considered, fingers worrying the three dragon’s.

“Like you’re thinking several things at once,” you said. “And none of them are simple.”

He laughed quietly. “You’re perceptive.”

“I have good teachers,” you replied.

Silence settled.

“There’s something happening,” you said slowly. “Isn’t there?”

Valarr’s instincts screamed to protect you from it, from politics, from expectation, from the weight of what was coming.

“Yes,” he said honestly. “There is.”

You looked up at him, searching his face. “And does it frighten you?”

He met your gaze. “Yes.”

That answer surprised you. “And yet,” you said softly, “you’re still here.”

Valarr’s voice was very quiet. “I don’t want to be anywhere else.”

—

Baelor stood beside Maekar in the high gallery overlooking the hall below. The music swelled. You stood among the guests.

“And if she says no?” Maekar asked bluntly.

Baelor did not look away from the scene below. “Then we listen,” he said. “And Valarr will learn to accept it.”

Maekar nodded once. “She will be told tonight,” he said. “Not as an order.”

“No,” Baelor agreed. “As a possible match for the future.”

Maekar exhaled slowly. “My daughter deserves nothing but joy,” he said.

Baelor’s gaze shifted, just briefly, to Valarr, standing close at your side, speaking quietly. “She may have found it already brother.”

—

The final feast of your nameday week was grander than the rest. Banners hung high. The hall glowed with torchlight. The air buzzed, not with celebration alone, but anticipation.

You sensed it. Something about the way servants moved more carefully. The way your mother adjusted your sleeves herself. The way your father’s expression was unreadable.

Valarr felt it too.

When he offered you his arm, his hand trembled just slightly. “Whatever happens,” he said quietly, “I hope you know-”

The music swelled suddenly. A hush began to ripple through the hall. Baelor rose, and your father straightened.

Somewhere deep in your chest, the dragon trinket warmed beneath your fingers.

The hush had crept over the celebrations.

Conversation softened, laughter thinned, the musicians’ tempo slowed until even they seemed to sense it, bows drawing more gently, notes stretching longer than intended. One by one, heads turned toward the high table.

You felt it before you understood it.

Your fingers tightened around the dragon trinket at your throat, the familiarity pressing into your skin. The warmth there steadied you, even as something in the air shifted.

Valarr noticed immediately.

He had been speaking to you, something small, something meant to distract, but the moment Baelor rose, his words faltered. He straightened without thinking, shoulders squaring, expression composed with effort rather than ease.

Your father stood as well.

Baelor waited until the hall was fully still before he spoke.

“Lords and ladies of the realm,” he said, voice carrying easily through the vast space. “We gather tonight to mark the close of a week of celebration, one honoring the nameday of a daughter of House Targaryen, my lovely neice.”

A polite murmur followed.

You felt suddenly visible in a way you had not all week.

Baelor continued.

“It is fitting,” he said, “that such a celebration should also look forward, toward the future of our house, and the bonds that will strengthen it.”

Valarr’s heart began to pound. slow and heavy.

This was it.

He had known it was coming. Had felt it circling the edges of every conversation, every look, every carefully chosen word. And yet, the reality of it struck him all at once, sharp and breathless.

You glanced at him then, not in fear, more so in question.

Oh his sweet girl, he wishes he hide you away now, to not bother yourself with these pagentrys. But he could not, all he could do now was squeeze your hand slightly under the table.

Valarr met your gaze and held it, Whatever happens, his eyes seemed to say, I am here.

Baelor turned slightly, gesturing.

“It is with the blessing of both families,” he said evenly, “that we announce a betrothal.”

Your breath caught.

Maekar spoke then, voice firm and unyielding.

“My daughter,” he said, “has been raised with choice, with care, and with the understanding that her happiness is not a thing to be traded lightly.”

Your heart thundered.

Valarr’s chest felt tight.

Maekar turned fully now, his gaze sweeping the hall before settling, briefly, deliberately, on Valarr.

“She will be wed to a man who has shown her respect,” he continued, “who has sought her company without demand, and who understands the weight of what it means to stand beside her.”

A pause.

Then Baelor finished it.

“To my son, Prince Valarr Targaryen.”

The hall erupted.

A whirl it was, all the whispers rushing like wind through banners. Gasps, and murmurs. The rustle of silk as courtiers leaned closer, already weaving narratives in their minds.

You did not hear any of it, you were staring at Valarr.

He was staring at you.

For one suspended heartbeat, the world narrowed to the space between you.

Your fingers clenched around the dragon.

Valarr swallowed.

“I-” you began, then stopped.

Daeron reacted first.

He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply through his nose, a crooked smile tugging at his mouth.

“Well,” he muttered, just loud enough for Aerion to hear, “that explains a great deal.”

Your mother reached for your hand. You realized then that she had known.

“How long?” you whispered, not looking away from Valarr.

She squeezed your other hand gently. “Long enough.”

Baelor raised his hand, the hall gradually settling again.

“This betrothal,” he said clearly, “is made with the understanding that it honors not only tradition but prosperity for the realm.”

Valarr felt his lungs finally draw breath.

You turned toward your father. Maekar’s gaze softened carefully.

“My dear girl, you are not commanded,” he said quietly, meant only for you. “this is an offering.”

You looked back at Valarr. He had gone still, utterly still, waiting.

“I accept,” you said. The words felt solid in your mouth.

The hall erupted properly this time.

Cheers, applause, exclamations too loud to track.

Valarr’s breath left him in a rush so sharp it nearly made him laugh. He bowed his head, briefly, respectfully, then turned back to you.

His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. Almost reverent. “Are you certain?”

You smiled. “Yes.”

Your fingers relaxed, then, without thinking, reached for his sleeve.

Just for a moment, the same way you had when you were a babe.

—

Later, much later, you stood together on a balcony overlooking the city, the noise of celebration dimmed by distance.

Neither of you spoke for a while.

Finally, you laughed softly. “So,” you said. “I suppose this explains why everyone’s been looking at us strangely.”

Valarr huffed a breath of a laugh. “I was told I was courting you.”

You glanced at him. “Were you?”

He considered. “Yes,” he said honestly. “Very badly.”

You laughed again, leaning closer. “I didn’t mind.”

Moonlight caught the dragon at your throat.

Valarr reached out, hesitant, and careful, and brushed his fingers lightly against it.

“You took this from me once,” he said softly.

You blinked. “I'm sorry?” Clearly not understanding his words.

He smiled, warm. "You were only a few moons old, when Lady Dyanna had me hold you, you found the symbol on my chest so captivating you had to have it. So you did, taking it right from my doublet."

Your face grew slightly red, facing the view instead of the prince in front of you. To ashamed to think you had done something so egregious in your early years. "Did I really?"

“Yes,” he said. “And I think I’ve been waiting for you to return it ever since.”

You did not pull away, some bonds, after all, did not need memory.

Only time.

Under regular circumstances, you wouldn't have made an appearance at the Tourney. Though you suppose searching for marriage prospects is a special occasion. Many would claim it is the grand centrepiece of a young noble girl's transition into womanhood, but for you, it had always been nothing less than daunting.

It was not for lack of options, your house was well-known, well-funded and well-liked, and this called for many, many suitors. Rather, the predicament seemed to revolve around your disposition.

In the past, many had seen your nature to be one of disinterest, though you yourself preferred the term 'shyness'. You struggled to make eye contact with those you did not know and had to actively remind yourself to try and maintain it. Though you did not stutter when you spoke with new people your nerves meant that answers could fall short of what men expected from a woman from such an esteemed house.

That is, if they were interested in your character at all, you'd found that many men only vied for your hand in order to get their hands on the abundance of your house's wealth and lands.

To put it plainly, you were quiet.

Your family never saw the issue with this, though in truth, they did not see the problem. See, your anxieties only affected you around those you did not know. You could speak just fine for hours when you held a connection to whoever you were talking to, but as soon as a stranger entered the picture, your chatterbox nature simply faded away.

Your father hoped to find a suitable match for you at the tourney, someone who could understand your nature and who was not cruel. He would remind you often that you didn't need to love your match, as long as you felt comfortable living alongside them would be enough.

Your attention had been fixed on the field below, where squires hurried between restless horses and armoured men with the brisk, purposeful movements of those long accustomed to tourney days. The lists were nearly ready. House banners snapped overhead in the wind, and the smell of trampled grass, dust, and horse sweat hung thick in the afternoon air.

It was loud enough, busy enough, that it gave you something to look at besides the nobles packed around you. Which, for a time, was a mercy.

You sat beside your father in the nobility section, hands folded tightly in your lap, and tried to keep your face composed as more lords and ladies took their places. The royal section sat nearby, and every new arrival only seemed to make the space feel smaller. Prince Baelor sat proudly as he watched his eldest son ride onto the field.

Your father spoke to you now and again, gesturing towards a man cloaked in green, low enough that no one else might hear. "That is Lord Rowan's second son. The Hightower boy has a temper, if the stories are true." Another pause, as a knight in polished plate was helped into the saddle below. "And there, the Prince."

You followed his gaze before you could stop yourself. Prince Valarr sat astride a dark horse near the edge of the lists, helm tucked beneath one arm while a squire made some final adjustment to the strap at his vambrace. Even at a distance, there was something unmistakably princely in the way he carried himself, upright, still, self-possessed.

"Do not turn too quickly," your father said, his voice so mild it might have been a remark on the weather.

Your fingers tightened over one another. "What is it?" He did not look at you. His gaze remained fixed on the field. "The prince has been looking this way."

For a moment, you thought he meant some other prince, some other direction, some other girl.

"Prince Valarr?" you asked, voice barely above a whisper.

"Mm." Your father's expression did not change, but you knew him well enough to hear the note of attention. "More than once."

Heat rose to your face so quickly you had to turn your head away. "He is not looking at us, surely," you said, and hated how uncertain you sounded. The royalty box was so close he could easily be looking for his father's gaze. Besides, he was probably too far away to truly be able to pick apart those in the audience.

Most men did not concern themselves with quiet girls tucked among the nobility. If his gaze had swept your row, it was by chance alone, toward your father, perhaps.

"Perhaps not," your father said. There was no comfort to be found there.

Below, a herald's voice rang across the grounds, announcing titles to a swell of cheers. You fixed your eyes on the lists and tried to breathe through the tightness in your chest. It was foolish to be so rattled by a thing you had not even seen for yourself.

You would not look, you told yourself. That promise lasted all but three seconds.

When you lifted your eyes, it was meant to be quick, discreet, no more than a glance toward the field. Besides, even if the prince was looking this way, it was such a distance that he would not see your eyes turned to him; there were so many people around you, he couldn't possibly assume you were looking at him.

Instead, your gaze found him at once. Prince Valarr was no longer speaking to his squire. The strap at his arm had been fastened, his reins gathered, his posture set for the lists, and still he was looking intently up into the stands.

He did not smile. There was nothing mocking in his expression, nothing of the easy arrogance some noblemen and royalty wore like perfume. If anything, he looked startled in the strangest way, as though his attention had fixed where he had not meant it to, and he could not quite pull it free.

"Father-"

"Composure," he murmured, not unkindly.

You nodded, though your pulse had begun to pound so hard you could feel it in your throat. Around you, the stands had grown louder, the crowd sensing the start of the tilt. Somewhere to your left, ladies were already whispering behind their hands, though whether about the prince or some other matter, you could not tell.

When your eyes lifted, Prince Valarr was settling his helm at last, the steel catching hard in the sunlight. His horse stamped once, impatient.

The herald called his name, and the crowd answered with a mighty roar for the Young Prince.

He should have turned fully to the lists then. He should have fixed his attention on the knight across from him, on the lance being brought to hand, on the pass ahead.

Instead, before the horn sounded, he looked up toward the nobility seats one last time.

Valarr had ridden in a dozen processions before crowds no smaller than this one, and he had long since learned how to wear attention as if it weighed nothing. As the heir of the heir, it was expected of him.

At tourneys, especially, eyes tended to follow him wherever he went. Sons of noble houses measuring him up, knights judging his seat in the saddle, and noble ladies whispering to one another, pretending not to stare. He knew how to sit straight beneath it, how to keep his expression composed. That didn't mean he took any true enjoyment in the attention.

His horse shifted beneath him, restless with the noise and motion. Valarr steadied the reins with one gloved hand while his squire fastened the strap at his vambrace.

Around him, the field was steadily descending into some form of organised chaos, squires were running amok, and the smallfolk were shouting for their favourites from the fences. He heard none of it clearly. His attention had fixed itself elsewhere.

At first, he had only looked because the seats sat close to the royal section, and his gaze had drifted towards his father. It was nothing more than a habit, some passing inventory of colours and houses. His attention had snagged on one person in particular. She was not the most extravagantly dressed, but that did not take from her comely appearance. In fact, it very well may have amplified it in his eyes. Valarr was often dissuaded by the acts and appearances of other nobles, much like his father; he was not fond of those who flaunted their wealth through their materialism.

The lady sat with her hands neatly folded in her lap beside an older lord, her father, if he hazarded a guess. She carried herself with such careful stillness that it caught his eye at once in the crowd of excited nobility. While others leaned close to gossip or to access a better view of the lists, she seemed to be trying with all her might to take up as little space as possible.

Yet he could not seem to look away.

Her expression held no courtly ease or excessive invitation. There was nothing practised about her features, something he had learned to spot at court as a young boy. She looked toward the field as if anchoring herself to it; perhaps the movement below gave her some shelter from the crowd around her. She was particularly focused on the horses; perhaps she held a liking for them?

Valarr did not know why that struck him so sharply, only that it did, and it shouldn't have mattered so deeply.

"My prince." He blinked out of his reverie and looked down at his squire. He was finished with his strap and was waiting, lance not yet in hand, clearly uncertain whether to speak again.

Valarr simply gave a short nod, more to dismiss him than to answer. Instinctively, he looked back up before he could stop himself. The lady had not yet seen him, which should have been a relief. Staring was unbecoming for a Prince, after all. Instead, he found himself with an absurd, sudden irritation of wanting to know whether she had noticed him at all.

He shifted in the saddle, waving his squire over who had collected his lance. "Who is she?" He asked, as if his squire would know whom he was speaking of naturally.

The boy glanced up to the stands, then back to him, lost in his confusion. "My prince?"

Valarr was yet to take his eyes off her. "In the nobility seats. Beside the lord in blue and silver." His voice remained even despite the impatience that had begun to edge it. "Find out her name, her house. Whatever you can."

The squire stared a half breath too long, surprise plain on his face, before he looked back to the stands, this time successfully locating the woman Valarr had described. "...At once, my prince." Valarr barely heard him take his leave.

He really should have been watching his opponent. Instead, he watched the lady in the stands lower her head as though someone beside her had spoken. Her father, most likely. He had not looked towards the Prince, but his posture had changed. It seemed he had noticed the Prince's gaze.

Valarr ran a hand down his horse's neck as she stamped her hooves impatiently. Then, the woman lifted her eyes. The distance should have blurred her and obscured her face. There was too much movement, too many people between them and yet none of it mattered. Her gaze connected with his directly, and both went still.

There were nerves in her face and surprise enough that he could see it from where he stood. He supposed that is a reasonable reaction given their predicament. She looked away first. Not playing coy or performatively. A simple desire not to maintain eye contact any longer.

Valarr reached for his helm, glancing up one last time after sliding the steel onto his head. He had no business thinking such things at a time like this. he had to focus.

And maybe show off a little, for no particular reason.

He did manage to regain his focus, in the end. Enough to avoid making a fool of himself.

By sunset, the field was all churned mud and broken lances, and Valarr had endured the cheers and the congratulations. His squire, at least, had proved useful.

He had a name now.

He repeated it once under his breath as he changed for the feast, testing the sound of it in private, and found that the sound pleased him more than it ought.

The tent at Ashford was bright with candlelight by the time he entered, loud with talk and music and the clatter of cups. Lords who had shouted themselves hoarse at the lists now laughed over wine, and ladies glittered beneath gold and silk in the heat of the room.

Valarr scarcely saw any of them. He found her near the middle tables, seated beside her father once more. If he had thought her striking from the field, dust and distance between them, then the gods were crueller than he had first suspected. Up close, there was nothing to hide behind.

Even now, amidst all the noise and candlelight, she carried that same careful composure he had noticed in the stands. Her hands rested neatly near her cup. She spoke when spoken to, but sparingly. Her gaze dipped more often than it lifted. Not submissively, but rather politely.

Once, her father leaned nearer and murmured something that made the corner of her mouth turn, not quite a smile, but near enough to one that Valarr felt the shift of it like a hand closing around his attention.

He did not mean to stare. Again. But he supposed the intent meant very little now.

He waited through the first course. Through half of the second. Through two tedious conversations with men who seemed to think recounting their sons' tilts in detail might somehow improve them. At last, when Lord Ashford rose from his place to speak with one of the stewards, Valarr took the opening and crossed the tent.

"My lord Ashford."

Ashford turned at once, surprised, then pleased. "Your Highness. I trust we serve as well as the lists did."

"You do," Valarr said politely. "You have hosted the day admirably. A worthy celebration for your daughter's nameday."

Ashford inclined his head, accepting the courtesy with visible pride. "You honor us."

Valarr let his gaze drift, carefully, as if only taking stock of the space. He did not linger overlong on her table before looking back to Ashford.

"I recognised one of the houses seated near the centre," he said, tone easy. "I know the banner, but not the lord himself as well as I ought. The one in blue and silver. You invited him, I assume?"

Ashford followed the glance and gave a small sound of understanding.

"Ah. Yes." His expression warmed at once. "A good man. We've been friends for years. Steady, fair, not given to boasting, rare enough among our sort." He named the lord, though Valarr already knew it. "One of the first invitations I sent."

Valarr nodded, as though filing away a simple courtesy.

"He seems well regarded."

"He is." Ashford's mouth twitched, amusement rising. "And if you're asking after him, you're not the first tonight."

Valarr lifted a brow. "No?"

Ashford lowered his voice a shade, the look in his eyes turning faintly wry. "His daughter has had no shortage of attention. That tends to happen when a girl is pretty, well-born, and comes with a father sensible enough not to sell her to the first smiling fool."

Valarr kept his expression neutral, though something in Ashford's phrasing settled sharply in his chest.

"Sensible enough?"

Ashford snorted. "He's here to seek a match, same as half those attending, but he's not hunting titles for sport. He wants her settled kindly. He'd sooner take a decent man with less land than a cruel one with twice the banners." That, inexplicably, pleased Valarr.

She was listening to the lady at her other side, posture attentive, though she had not yet answered. Her father said something then, low and brief, and she turned to him at once, more at ease in that single movement than she had seemed with anyone else at the table.

Ashford followed Valarr's gaze, then huffed softly through his nose.

"Some mistake her quietness for disinterest," he said. "They're wrong." Valarr looked back at him. "She's shy," Ashford went on, plainly now. "Reserved in company she doesn't know. There are men in this room who've already decided she must be proud because she doesn't chatter and simper for them." His expression soured for a heartbeat. "Most of them have spoken to her for all of three minutes."

He could picture it too easily: some grinning heir pressing too close, mistaking her silence for invitation, or else taking offense at it when she did not perform as expected.

Ashford gave a half-shrug. "Truth is, she needs time. She must first warm to people, that's all. Once she's comfortable, she's quite the speaker. More eloquent than most. But she won't force herself into easy conversation just because a man comes to her with marriage in his eyes."

Ashford's words settled into place with an ease that irritated Valarr with how quickly they made sense. A young lordling had made his way over to speak with her and was leaning too far in her direction, inflated by his own importance. She answered politely and made brief eye contact here and there, her fingers tightened around the stem of her cup. Nothing in her posture invited him to continue, and yet he did so anyway.

Valarr felt his jaw set, not with jealousy (well, maybe a little, but only because he hadn't had the chance to talk with her yet) but impatience on her behalf. It was a familiar thing, the male entitlement. His father had pointed it out to him numerous times as a child, as advice for the future. Things not to do. As a man, he would likely never fully understand, but hopefully, he wouldn't make others feel less than because of uncontrollable factors.

"They are like flies to honey." Lord Ashford followed his gaze to the Lady.

Valarr kept his voice level, though there was a hint of sadness to be found there. "And she endures it."

"That she does," Ashford answered. "Because she's well-mannered, and because others are watching. But it wears on a person, Your Highness. And despite what the other Lords may think of her quiet disposition, she is not one to simply roll over for others. I imagine it is tiring to live in that juxtaposition, between what she wishes to do and what she must do for the sake of appearance."

Valarr could see it clearly, the tightness of her shoulders paired with the way she glanced at her father as if measuring what was expected of her. He looked back at Ashford. "If time is what she needs, this tent must be the last place to approach her."

Nice one, Valarr, very inconspicuous.

The lord huffed out a laugh. "You've the right of it."

The prince hesitated, he meant to keep it as a simple courtesy. He should keep his interest quiet so that Aerion doesn't hear of it, that's the last thing he needs right now. The words rose in him all the same.

"How should one approach her," Valarr inquired, "if they wished to do it properly?" Ashford's brows lifted with amusement and then softened into something more considered. He knew better than to tease a prince, and perhaps he understood that Valarr was asking this in earnest, which was more than could be said for the rest of the buffoons at the feast.

"Gently," He finally advised. "Preferably without much of an audience. She'll speak openly when she feels safe to, but for that, she must have a feel for your character, so be honest. If you come on too boldly too early, she'll retreat."

Valarr nodded along, organising the information in his mind. "And her father? Would he take offence if a prince were to speak to his daughter?"

"Offence? No. He will take caution. He is protective, and attention from a prince can turn a girl's life upside down even without meaning to." Valarr could not argue with that. "But as long as you are respectful, he'll give you room."

Okay, he could do this. He's done harder things... maybe.

Valarr's gaze drifted toward the royal table this time. Daeron was away in his cups again. His father and uncle were the only ones who sat at the table. Aerion had chosen to eat alone, not wanting to sit with the mongrels, as he'd put it.

His father sat at ease but his eyes swept the hall... and caught his son looking. Baelor's brows rose slightly, then, with the smallest turn of his mouth, more a knowing curve than a smile, he inclined his head toward Valarr, a silent question.

The young prince felt heat rise beneath his collar and was faintly annoyed at how easily his father could see through him. He excused himself from Lord Ashford with a quick thanks and a courteous nod before crossing to the Royal table. He was careful to move as though he'd always intended it, but in truth his mind was stuck thinking of only one thing.

Mercifully, his father waiting until he was within the shelter of the table before he spoke. "You rode well, even with your mind wandering."

"My mind did not wander, father." Valarr would later swear on the Seven that he did not roll his eyes like a child that did not get their way.

Baelor hummed, completely unconviced, and took a slow drink of wine. "If you say so." Valarr stayed quiet, refusing the tease. He would not be dragged into boyish fluster with half the Realm in earshot. "Lord Ashford looked pleased with you. Did you praise his daughter's nameday, or interrogate him about his guests?"

Valarr met his father's eyes. There was only quiet amusement to be found in them; he had always been observant, especially when it came to his boys. One of his more infuriating qualities, Valarr decided in that moment.

"I spoke with him," Valarr said evenly.

"And?" Baelor asked, gesturing his right hand outwards.

The young prince's jaw tightened before he spoke, quieter now. "He says she is shy and doesn't take well to the usual sort of attention."

"A fair and sensible trait to have." Baelor nodded his head.

His fingers curled once against the edge of the table. "Men keep pressing themselves upon her as if pestering is a virtue."

His father regarded him for a long moment. "That displeases you."

"It is unseemly." Valarr stated firmly.

The elder prince's eyes warmed. "Yes, it is. Though, you seem to be considering your options to rectify it." There was no accusation in Baelor's tone, only a kind of gentle, knowing prodding that would've been unbearable had it come from anyone else. "You look as though you're weighing a campaign."

He let out a slow breath through his nose. "I am weighing how to speak to her without making her wish herself back in the stands."

"If she is as Ashford says, then do not make a spectacle of it. That is not your nature anyway. She won't be won by grand gestures." Valarr's throat tightened. He had heard his father speak of it before, in quieter moments: not only duty but the rare, stubborn hope of finding one who makes their world feel less like a board of carved pieces.

The one, Baelor had called it once, with a softness that had made Valarr look away, for he knew the man was thinking of his late wife.

"You have always spoken as if such a thing is real, a match made from interest." Valarr said, and could not keep the faint edge from his tone.

Baelor's smile was small. "It is. Rarely. And not always kindly. But yes, it can be found. Once you do find it, you must take it with both hands and don't let go for anything."

Valarr did not know this girl who had caught his eye, not truly. But it seems that something in him had stubbornly decided that this was not acceptable, that he at least needed to try even if nothing would come from it.

"Then I will speak to her properly, as a man with honour should." Baelor inclined his head, a wordless permission.

His mind was already moving, assembling pieces. A crowded tent simply would not do.

He would probably have to catch her outside, with a chaperone near enough to satisfy propriety but far enough to allow breath. She seemed like the type of woman who would enjoy stargazing or a simple wander to catch some air. He smoothed his sleeve once as if the motion could settle the restless energy in him.

The light of the morning came cool and pale, the kind of chill that made breath visible. The camp was quieter than it had been the night previously, at such an early time the drunken lords from the previous night are still sleeping off their cups.

Valarr dressed without fuss, no heavy riding armour yet, only soft apparel fit for a prince of the realm. His two-toned hair was faintly damp when he stepped from his lodgings, and the air woke him more sharply.

A single guard shadowed him at a respectful distance as he walked as if he had nowhere in particular to be, greeting a knight here and there. He paused by the practice yard long enough to seem purposeful.

In truth, he was hunting for a coincidence. He'd heard it from a squire the night before as idle chatter that she likes to take early morning walks to help her breathe. It wasn't meant to be significant but the prince had taken it as instruction.

He walked the paths on the edges of the camp where the paths were widest but kept his pace unhurried. It took an hour before his plan came to fruition. She was coming along the path between the outer tents, a cloak pulled close to hold off the chill. A maid walked a respectful few steps behind with her hands tucked into her sleeves.

She looked less braced than she had at the feast. More alive or more herself if it were even possible for Valarr who had never spoken to the Lady before to discern that.

Calling for her across the path would be a boyish thing to do, so he simply altered his course, casual, so that their paths would meet naturally.

Perfectly innocent, he told himself.

She noticed him when he was a few metres away. Her pace faltered slightly, from shock most likely, but she did not stop entirely. She dipped into a curtsy, quick, neat and perfect. "My Prince." Her maid followed in kind.

Valarr inclined his head in return, with what he hoped was a kind smile, offering her the respect her station deserved and perhaps a little extra. "My Lady."

A beat of silence followed, only filled by the soft rustle of leaves on the wind. Valarr had rehearsed this, once or twice, in the privacy of his own thoughts. All he had to do was give a small greeting, make conversation about the weather, maybe ask about how her family was doing. Something that let her reply without pressure of being judged, especially by a prince.

Instead what left his mouth was something like this.

"I saw you yesterday." He froze as soon as the words lingered in the air. Her brows lifted as though she did not expect him to be so forward, in truth neither did he.

She did not look put off though she looked as though she might ask a nervous question. Valarr cleared his throat at once, moving as swiftly as he would have to correct poor posture in a spar. "In the stands," he added much too quickly. "I mean, I noticed you in the stands."

That did not sound any better.

He felt his ears warm beneath his hair and cursed himself silently. Then, to his immense relief, the corner of her mouth turned as if she was trying not to smile. The prince had no way of knowing but she had realised after he continued that he meant nothing by his odd words, though his haste to rectify himself amused her.

"As opposed to... where else?" She asked, softly enough that it felt like a secret. Valarr blinked, then a small smile escaped him too. "Yes," he admitted, the two of them had never met prior to this of course and she had noticed his avid attention on her. "That is fair."

Her eyes flicked up and she held his gaze for a second longer before looking to his left, though he knew there was nothing there to look at. That was another thing that struck him, she did not seem to hold eye contact. Even with her father, though she did hold it longer then.

"It's quite alright. I wished to speak to you as well," Her words were careful but sincere. Valarr perked up at their content. "To congratulate you." She continued. "You rode very well."

The praise landed strangely, not like cheers from a large crowd did or flattery offered at court. This was honest.

"Thank you, my Lady. Frankly, I had thought my focus might have faltered."

Her eyes landed back on his and there may have been the urge to retreat there but she did not fall silent. She then looked towards the stables, and her voice warmed a fraction as she spoke. "Your horse is beautiful. Well bred, I imagine."

So she does like horses, Valarr's expression softened without his permission. "She is," he agreed. "She knows it as well, which is her greatest flaw."

His words earned him a small sound, half laugh, half breath, as if she had not expected a prince to speak of a horse of all things with affection.

"You like horses." Valarr said, mostly a statement but with the option to answer as a question, to offer her an easier path.

She nodded once. "Yes. Though, I've been told I have an affinity for most animals. I would have to agree."

Valarr took the opening carefully, mindful of Ashford's counsel. "Do you ride?"

Her fingers tightened briefly at the edge of her cloak. "Sometimes," She admitted, and then with more certainty. "Not as often as I'd like."

Valarr didn't pounce on it the wat other men might've, he did not turn it into a challenge, or an offer, or a boast about what he could do to provide or fix it. He simply nodded. "I understand that, the life of a noble man, or woman, isn't always kind to private habits. Too many opinions on what others should or should not do as well." He didn't need to point out that riding wasn't always considered a 'ladylike' activity, she'd likely been told that numerous times over in her life.

When Valarr looked back at her, he met her assessing gaze. Somewhat surprised he had labelled it so plainly. Other men she'd met had pretended they did not see the pressure at all, or worse, they acted as though the pressure was a compliment.

Valarr was a prince, pressure was probably his oldest companion she thought to himself. He was the heir of the heir. He was expected to be the perfect prince by many, and he withstood this even though he was a man. Princes didn't have to play by the rules the same way princesses do, and yet Valarr seemed to play by them anyway.

Her shoulders eased a fraction and her hands loosened their grip on her cloak. The maid behind her remained a respectful distance but the Lady no longer looked as though she were bracing for a blow from the conversation alone.

"When you do ride, what do you prefer? A fast horse, or a steady one?" Valarr asked with a gentle tone.

Her eyes shifted towards the stables as if she were envisaging the horse held inside, comparing their traits. "Steady." She ultimately decided. "Fast can be thrilling, yes, but that requires trust. Steady is honest, and safer."

Valarr gazed at her side profile. "You sound as though you've already thought about it."

"I think about most things," she admitted, and there was a hint of self-consciousness in the way she spoke, as if it were a flaw she'd been teased for. The she added, quickly. "Too much, sometimes."

He shook his head once. "It isn't too much, as long as it does not tire you."

She continued her slow pace, and wordlessly Valarr followed alongside, she took a glance at him as though weighing whether he was being truthful.

After another few steps, she spoke again, voice almost casual, perhaps too casual, as if she were trying to make her voice so small it would not sting if it landed poorly. "I was... a little nervous," she told him.

"Because of me?"

Her mouth tightened faintly, and looked down at the path ahead of them. "Not of you." she said. "Not truly." There was a pause before she continued. "Rumours travel far," She went on, lighter now. "Even to those who try not to listen."

Valarr's expression went still in a way that was practiced and automatic, she glanced up at him, catching the shift, and hurried to add on before he could take offence.

"About your cousin," she did not need to specify who, Aerion. "And... Prince Daeron, as well. He was-" she hesitated, choosing her words. "-unpredictable last night."

Meaning he was acting like a drunken fool. No surprise there. Valarr's jaw tightened, not at what she was saying of course, but the truth of it. He had spent years learning how to make other people's (usually his cousins) disasters appear smaller than they were. There was no point in pretending to her now.

"You needn't dress it so kindly," he said, looking down at his shoes. "He was drunk."

She showed some surprise at his plainness. It seemed to reassure her rather than unsettle her. "And Aerion..." she added, so quietly as though simply saying the name too loudly would summon trouble. "I had only heard things but my father prefers we keep our distance from... those that might think themselves above consequence."

"A sensible preference," Valarr said grimly, recounting his interactions with his cousin. "That is wise." She looked into his eyes for longer this time. She'd expected anger or at least irritation for her words and found none. "Aerion enjoys being talked about. Rumours are a kind of worship to him, even when it is unflattering. It's best not to feed it if possible."

Her lips pressed together. "And you?"

"Me?" Valarr felt his brows raise.

She tilted her head slightly, the gesture hesitant and small but brave nonetheless. "You are of the same blood." she said carefully. "People like to pretend that blood is destiny."

Something in his chest twisted, not pain exactly but an old irritation at being compared to someone else's sins. He didn't let it show as the irritation was not truly aimed at her. She was right to be hesitant. Targaryens had a record for each generation being worse than the last, it couldn't be denied that being of the dragon's blood seemed to doom them all.

Despite all the words he wished to say he kept it simple. "It isn't. I am more like my father than my cousins."

She nodded in response. That made sense afterall, Baelor was his father. Baelor had raised him. Baelor was good.

"Truthfully, I had worried you might share their sentiments. Though, I think I was wrong." Valarr focused on the latter of her speech.

"And now?" He asked, softly.

Her cheeks warmed faintly, and she looked away so that he could not witness the redness. "Now, I can see..." She searched for the appropriate word, then decided to say the first thing that came to mind. "You are nicer."

The prince blinked, before a small startled laugh left his lips. "Nicer." It might not've been what he was expecting but he'd take it.

She looked back at him, mistaking his tone and thinking that he'd taken offence or that she had misstepped. "I only- I mean it as a compliment, My Prince. You seem... more princely."

"More princely," Valarr repeated, there was amusement in his tone but also something far softer. "Than my cousins." Who are princes, he didn't need to add.

She winced. "I should not have said that."

Valarr shook his head slowly. "No, it's alright. I prefer honestly, truly."

The tension in her shoulders eased, and she exhaled a breath she may not have realised she was holding.

"I'm glad I've been able to speak to you. I was worried I might've made you uncomfortable." She gave a small, helpless shrug that Valarr could only describe as endearing.

"You did." She stated, before raising her hand and holding her thumb and index finger a small distance apart. "About this much." She added, now smiling wider with a teasing lilt. Her smile was more open, and just for a moment it changed her whole face. Then her expression calmed. "I am glad you spoke to me as well. It's been easier than I expected."

Valarr's chest loosened at her admission. He was careful not to stride ahead in his eagerness. "I am glad." He said, and meant it.

They walked a few more steps in quiet. Valarr let the silence exist without rushing to fill it, and she did not retreat into it the way she might have earlier. That alone felt like a kind of progress.

He glanced back, subtly.

Her maid remained at a respectful distance, as a maid ought, gaze lowered and dutiful. She seemed far more relaxed now, as if a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. His guard, too, had slowed, lingering near a tent line as though he had found something of interest in the grass. Far enough away that words would blur.

He cleared his throat, suddenly aware that what he was about to ask was, by all reasonable measures, ridiculous.

"My lady," he began, then paused.

Her brows lifted slightly. "Yes?"

Valarr looked ahead at the path as though it might offer him courage. "When we are... in company," he said carefully, "it is proper that you call me my prince or Your Highness. I understand that."

She nodded once, calm, attentive.

"But-" Valarr hesitated, the smallest fracture in his composure. He recovered quickly. "But when we are not in company, when it is quiet, as it is now… would you be willing to call me by my name?"

Her steps slowed a fraction. Valarr immediately regretted the phrasing. It sounded too intimate. Too forward. Too much like a claim. Fuck, he thought to himself.

He added quickly, voice gentler, attempting to make it smaller so it would not frighten her. "Only if you wish to. Only when we are alone-" he corrected himself at once, remembering the maid behind her, the guard in the distance, propriety like a net between them. "-when we are private. When it would not put you at risk of tongues wagging."

She stopped walking entirely for a heartbeat, then took another step, slower now, as if she needed the movement to think. Valarr kept his eyes on the path, trying to give her the room to answer without feeling pinned beneath his gaze.

When she finally spoke, it was soft, almost careful. "Valarr," she said, as if trying the sound.

His name, in her voice, did something unreasonable to him. He turned his head before he meant to, and caught her looking at him, nervous, curious, gauging his reaction.

"It suits you," she added, quieter. "Better than 'my prince.' I think."

Valarr let out a breath that was almost a laugh, but not quite. "Good," he managed. "Because 'my prince' makes me feel as though I am being scolded by my father."

Her eyes widened, then she let out a small sound clearly not expecting him to say anything so... ordinary.

"It is not meant as a scolding," she said, amused now.

"I know," Valarr replied, the corner of his mouth lifting. "But it is difficult to be at ease when everyone is reminding you what you are."

The amusement in her expression softened into something thoughtful. She looked down at her hands, tucked into her cloak, then back up again with a little more courage than before.

"And what are you," she asked, quietly, "when no one is reminding you?"

Valarr felt the question land like the first touch of a hand, light, but meaningful.

For a moment he considered giving her something witty. Something princely. Instead, he answered simply.

"A man who likes a black horse too much," he said, and then, because he could not resist, "and who makes foolish plans to walk the same path as a lady who prefers the morning."

Her cheeks warmed again. She ducked her head, but the smile returned, unmistakable now.

"I thought it was a coincidence," she said, teasing.

"It was," Valarr replied smoothly. "A perfectly innocent one."

She laughed softly, and the sound was quiet enough not to carry, but it warmed him more than the morning sun ever could.

They continued walking, the path narrowing again between tents. A sleepy squire shuffled by in the opposite direction, rubbing at his eyes; Valarr offered him a brief nod, and the boy hurried past as if chased by dragons.

When they were alone again, Valarr spoke.

"And what should I call you?" he asked. "May I use your name as well?"

Her breath caught, just slightly, and her gaze flicked toward her maid behind her, then back to him.

"Yes," she said honestly. "Though only when we are in private."

Valarr's answer came quickly. "Of course." It felt like a small trust being placed into his hands, light as a feather and just as easy to harm if he grasped too tightly.

They walked a little farther with the camp slowly waking around them. Valarr kept his pace, careful not to crowd her, and careful not to look too pleased with himself.

He miserably failed at the latter.

He could feel it in the way his mouth kept threatening to curve into a smile, in the way his thoughts kept skipping ahead. She had said yes.

It was ridiculous, a tiny victory but it was also the most hope he'd felt in longer than he cared to admit.

They were nearing the point where she would inevitably have to turn back and Valarr would need to properly prepare for the day ahead. He didn't want to steal more of her morning or press to hard so he stopped briefly at the end of their walk.

Her name came from his mouth before he could hold it back. She turned to face him, expression a little shy but warm as well. "Yes, Valarr?" She asked, and the fact that she'd used his name without being prompted made his chest tighten. He hoped it didn't show.

"I should let you go. Your father must be looking for you."

"Yes. I should return."

"I am glad," Valarr said, choosing the words with care. "that you did not find me as dreadful as you feared."

Her lips parted, then her smile returned, small and genuine. "You're not dreadful at all." She said. "Perhaps, a little odd."

Valarr huffed a quiet laugh. "Odd?"

"Only a little." She smiled wider once more. "Besides, being odd is good. It makes you unique. Unforgettable."

Unforgettable. Valarr's heart skipped a few beats. That was good... right? That was promising.

"I will treasure it," He promised solemnly, to cover his true feelings, the amusement in her eyes brightened for a heartbeat. "If you walk again tomorrow morning," his tone lighter, "I will not pretend I am above another coincidence."

She nodded once. "Then perhaps... I will take the same path."

He bowed his head. "I will be grateful for my good fortune."

"Have a good day, Valarr." She finished softly.

"Have a good day," he replied and then because her maid was drawing closer. "My Lady."

She gave him one last look, then turned and continued on, cloak brushing dew from the grass.

Valarr stood where he was until she disappeared from sight. He turned to leave and touched two fingers to his mouth, as if to keep the smile from escaping too openly, he walked as if he had not just been unmade by a single conversation.

He had no way of knowing that she'd gone straight back to her private lodgings, avoiding her father completely, and that the instant she was alone she flung herself face-first into her pillow to muffle a delighted squeal while kicking her legs like a girl half her age.

Utterly and hopelessly charmed.

This might be a multiple part series.

Oscar Morgan, you have bewitched me body and soul. I've literally been working on this since seeing him for the first time. He slayed his miniscule amount of screentime and lines.

it’s halloween when you go looking for him.

the neighborhood’s louder than usual, porch lights blinking orange, fake cobwebs sagging between railings, kids running in packs with sugar-high laughter that carries a little too far.

people say it’s harmless, say it’s tradition, say it’s just jokes. you hear someone mutter something about bad luck and black cats and you feel that familiar, irritated pull in your chest.

you grab a jacket and your keys and head out before you can overthink it.

you don’t have a plan, exactly. just a feeling that sits wrong in your chest, heavy and insistent. the kind you’ve learned not to ignore. halloween does that to people—gives them permission to be cruel and call it tradition, lets them dress it up in superstition and laugh while they do it.

you cut through the block behind the strip of houses, where the lights thin out and the noise dulls into echoes. trash cans line the alley like a bad idea, lids dented, wheels squeaking when the wind nudges them. one of the dumpsters is tipped slightly open, lid rattling every time a car door slams somewhere nearby.

something’s been left behind near it—a kid’s bike tipped on its side, one wheel bent in on itself like it was kicked too hard. a plastic pumpkin is still taped to the handlebars, cracked straight down the middle, grin split and useless now. it feels intentional. like someone decided it was easier to break something than carry it home.

at first you think you’re imagining it.

then you hear it—soft, panicked, trapped.

you slow to a stop.

there’s laughter, too. not close, but close enough. you round the corner and catch the tail end of it: a group of kids in cheap masks, one of them kicking the side of the dumpster before darting off. “bad luck,” someone says between laughs, like it’s the punchline.

“hey,” you snap, sharp enough to cut through them. “get out of here.”

they scatter, startled, bravado evaporating the second they’re noticed. the alley goes quiet again, except for the rattling lid and the small, broken sound coming from inside the metal bin.

you crouch immediately.

“it’s okay,” you say, softer now. “they’re gone.”

a hiss answers you—thin, defensive, more fear than threat. you peer inside and see him pressed tight into the corner, fur puffed up, eyes blown wide. black as midnight except for a clean white stripe cutting through his fur, stark and unmistakable, like it was painted there on purpose.

someone wedged the lid down.

your jaw tightens.

“that’s not superstition,” you mutter. “that’s just being cruel.”

you don’t reach in. instead, you grab a stick from the ground and use it to prop the lid open, slow and careful so it doesn’t clang shut again. the sound makes him flinch, body tensing like he’s bracing for another scare.

“hey,” you murmur. “i see you.”

your voice comes out softer than you expect, like you’re talking to something fragile instead of something everyone keeps calling dangerous. you don’t move closer. you don’t reach in. you just stay right there, knees pressed to the pavement, hands loose in your lap so he can see you’re not a threat.

he only settles when your hands stay where he can see them, fingers still.

his body stays coiled tight, every line of him drawn inward, claws scraping faintly against metal as if he’s deciding whether fear or hunger gets the final say.

the sound is sharper than you expect. harsher. it makes something flicker in your chest, a brief, unwelcome thought slipping in before you can stop it—maybe they’re right.

you let him.

you breathe slow on purpose, make yourself small in all the ways that matter. the night air smells like candy wrappers and cold metal and something burnt from down the block. somewhere a car passes, bass rattling windows, and he flinches again, a sharp little shudder that pulls at your chest.

“you’re okay,” you say gently, like reassurance is something you’re offering, not demanding. “i promise.”

you reach into your pocket carefully, narrating the movement without thinking about it. “i’m just grabbing something, sweetie. that’s all.”

when you pull out the treat, you don’t hold it up like a prize. you set it down instead, just outside the dumpster, sliding it across the pavement with one finger before pulling your hand back into your lap.

then you wait.

it takes time. long enough for your legs to start aching, long enough for another burst of laughter to float down the block and fade again. every sound makes him tense, but he doesn’t retreat further. that feels important.

finally, he leans forward. sniffs the air. pauses like he’s waiting for punishment.

none comes.

when he jumps down, it’s clumsy, awkward, like he hasn’t trusted his own footing in a while. he eats fast, eyes darting up between bites, waiting for the trick, the grab, the laugh.

you don’t give him any of it.

you just sit there, quiet company in a loud world, letting him finish.

when he’s done, he stands there uncertain, tail flicking once, twice. you slowly extend your hand, palm open, stopping well short of him.

“it’s okay if you don’t want to,” you say softly. “i’ll still stay.”

that’s what finally breaks something open.

he steps forward and presses his head into your palm like he’s been holding the night up by himself and finally decided to put it down. his purr starts hesitant, like he’s embarrassed by it, then grows steadier when your fingers scratch gently behind his ear.

you smile without realizing it.

“hi baby,” you whisper, fond and warm. “there you are.”

he looks up at you when you say it, really looks, and that’s when you notice his eyes—green, bright even in the low light, sharp in a way that feels more observant than aggressive. they soften a little when your fingers keep moving, slow and steady, like you’re not afraid of what you’ll find if you linger.

you smile without thinking.

“what’s your name, cutie?” you murmur, like it’s the easiest question in the world.

he blinks at you, purr stuttering for half a second, then continuing like he never meant to stop. you laugh softly and reach for the tag, careful not to tug, reading it by the streetlight’s glow.

ONYX.

you hum. “onyx,” you repeat, trying it out. “yeah. that fits.”

he leans harder into your hand, like he agrees. you think about the way people talked. aggressive. feral. dangerous. you look at the way he lets you cradle his head now, the way his claws stay tucked in, the way his whole body relaxes like he’s been waiting for someone to get it right.

“they really don’t know you at all,” you say quietly, more to yourself than him.

onyx flicks his tail.

you shift closer, careful, and when he doesn’t pull away you scoop him up just enough to rest his front paws against your chest. he stiffens for half a second, then melts again when you keep petting him.

“so scary,” you murmur, affectionate and teasing. “so mean. clearly a menace to society.”

he purrs louder, offended on principle.

you laugh, soft and breathy, and before you can second-guess it you lean in and press a kiss right between his ears. your lipstick leaves a bright little mark against black fur, messy and unmistakable.

you already brace for it—the scramble, the hiss, the way trust evaporates the second it’s asked to stretch too far. you accept the risk as soon as you take it, hands staying open, still, ready to let him bolt if that’s what he needs.

you stroke his back, slow and soothing, and think about how easy it is for people to mistake silence for hostility. how often stillness gets read as threat. how often something hurt gets called dangerous just because it doesn’t beg to be loved.

“you’re not bad luck,” you tell him softly. “you’re just… misunderstood.”

onyx presses his forehead into your chin like he’s sealing the agreement.

then he pulls back, not startled, not afraid—just done, the way cats decide a moment has reached its natural end. he hops down from your arms with a little huff of independence, tail flicking once like punctuation.

“hey,” you laugh softly. “okay, okay.”

he pauses a few feet away and looks back at you, green eyes catching the light. calm. like he’s committing you to memory instead of running from it.

he blinks slow.

then he turns and trots off down the alley, quiet and sure, lipstick mark still stamped right on his forehead like a secret only the night knows about. you watch until he disappears between the houses, the sound of his steps fading into the hum of halloween.

you sit there a moment longer, letting the quiet settle back in. thinking about reputations. about how easily people confuse silence for danger, fear for cruelty, scars for intent. about how some things don’t need to be fixed—just seen.

you stand eventually, brushing off your jeans, the feeling in your chest lighter than it was when you left.

and somewhere, not far from here, someone else with the same reputation has no idea that tonight—of all nights—the story is already starting to change.

jason comes home late, jacket half-zipped, helmet tucked under his arm, the night still clinging to him in the form of cold air and old exhaust. the neighborhood’s mostly asleep now, halloween burned out to candy wrappers and sagging decorations, porch lights flicked off one by one like the block’s finally exhaled.

he sets his keys down. toes off his boots. routine. quiet. the kind of careful movement you learn when you don’t want to wake anything that might already be on edge.

“onyx?” he calls, low.

there’s a pause.

then soft footsteps.

the cat appears in the doorway like nothing in the world could possibly be wrong. tail high. eyes bright. whole. he pads over like he owns the place, hops up onto the counter with practiced ease, and sits.

that’s when jason sees it.

he stops short.

right between onyx’s ears, stamped clear as day against black fur, is a smudged lipstick kiss. unmistakable.

jason just stares.

“…what,” he says finally, flat and confused, like the word might rearrange itself into an explanation if he waits long enough.

onyx blinks at him. slow.

jason steps closer, squinting like maybe the light’s playing tricks on him. he reaches out, hesitates, then gently cups the cat’s head, thumbs careful, like he’s afraid to break something.

he makes sure his hands stay visible, movements slow and cautious, like he’s learned that some things only relax when they can see you coming.

his chest does something weird.

“someone touched you,” he mutters. not angry. not upset. just… stunned.

onyx purrs, leaning into the touch like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

jason exhales through his nose and rubs a hand over his face. “…yeah,” he says quietly. “guess they didn’t think you were so scary after all.”

he scratches under onyx’s chin and the cat melts, trust absolute, like tonight taught him something important about hands and voices and the difference between cruelty and care.

jason leans back against the counter, watching him, the quiet settling in around them. he doesn’t know who you are. doesn’t know where you found his cat or what made you stop or why you left your mark like a promise instead of a claim.

but he knows this much: someone saw gentleness where everyone else kept insisting on danger.

and for reasons he can’t quite explain, that thought stays with him long after the night finally goes still.