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[crying-for-twenty-five-years]

walk with me awhile (part 1)

the long walk x fem reader (gary barkovitch x reader, richard harkness x reader, billy stebbins x reader, collie parker x reader)

(y/n = your name, l/n = last name, b/n = your boy name)

DESCRIPTION: y/n’s fiancé died in the long walk 3 years ago. ever since the night he was shot coming in 2nd place, she’s been planning meticulously, training vigorously, and studying every broadcast. this year, she finally got her acceptance letter.

of course, girls aren’t allowed to walk, but that’s not stopping her. she was accepted as b/n vaughn. she’s chopped off her hair and practiced deepening her voice, and she’s ready to do whatever it takes to fulfill her wish. she’s prepared herself for every challenge… but she never prepared herself to fall in love.

—————

(story starts under the cut)

AUTHORS NOTE: heyyy !! i’m a long time reader on tumblr, but i’ve had this idea recently that i wanted to read myself, but with barely anything out (yet, at least) for this fandom i thought why not write it myself! i’ve read a lot of stories pre walk, post walk, or au’s, but i’ve been wanting to read a story with connections being made during the walk. but obviously the walk is only for men, and as a girl i wanted to feel included 😫 so i thought i’d take it mulan style and have ourselves disguise as a man to make it in ;)

now i’m not gonna lie. at this time i have no idea who i want it to be that we end up with LOL like which of these guys i want to be the main love interest, but it’s definitely between harkness, stebbins, parker, and barkovitch. i love ray to the moon and back but i’m letting petey have his cookie for this one 💪 that’s why i put all their names in parenthesis because i wanted to still upload this first part even if i hadn’t decided that part of the ending yet!! i hope you guys don’t mind :,)

this could have some inaccuracies to the book/movie, i’ve never read the book and only saw the film once, so i’m going based off memory and also other fics that seem pretty timeline accurate to me. i’m also not sure if they check your bags/do a pat down of everyone before they get to the waiting area, but i’m going to pretend they don’t for the sake of the story lol! suspend your disbelief please 💟

(not that this is what i’m doing but like for example what if someone snuck in a gun to kill soldiers or other walkers? in reality i feel like they most definitely would be checking bags and everyone’s person, but for this story to work i’m going to have to say they don’t)

anywaysss,, this is my first fanfic ever published on tumblr, and any fanfics i’ve written before this were published on wattpad i believe AT LEAST 6 years so my god do i hope this is at the very least somewhat decent.

and with that, i hope you guys enjoy🥲💟

————————————————————

3 YEARS AGO

you’re on your knees directly in front of the television, your hands holding each side of it. your nose is practically touching the screen at this point, and your eyes are glued to what’s happening in front of you. deep down you know that you should look away; you know that if he’s not the one that makes it out, you’ll never be able to unsee it. but you just can’t seem to bring yourself to do it.

you turned on your television not even a full hour ago. you hadn’t watched a single second of the walk until you had heard word from people around town that your fiancé was one of three boys left standing. this whole time you chose to stay ignorant, but now knowing that he was only two men away from walking out alive, you had to look.

“final warning, number 2!” you hear from your television. that’s not your boy. your boy is number 5. you could almost feel bad for feeling joyful at the sound of a gunshot ringing out 15 seconds later, killing a man that’s not yours. truthfully, though, number 2 didn’t even look like a man. he looked like a boy, not much older than you or your fiancé.

the two of you were only 18. your fiancé proposed when you were both 17 and in senior year of high school, knowing it would always be you he’d love. you knew it all the same. he joined the walk the second he turned 18, though, because, in his words, he had to be able to give you the life that you deserved… even though you would constantly tell him that you would be fine living in a box in a puddle on the streets of the worst neighborhood in town, as long as you were by his side. he didn’t agree with this sentiment, though, claiming that you deserved more than what he could give you. and you were okay with him disagreeing with you, thinking that there was just no way that in his first eligible year to volunteer for the long walk, he would surely not get picked.

you were wrong.

the sound of rain pouring down on your television tore you from your thoughts. it was almost funny. the sky had opened up almost on cue, like the clouds were crying for number 2; like the heavens were mourning the loss of yet another young soul. you cried for the kid. he was too young; they all were.

now that there are only two men left standing, the cameras zoomed in on the both of them. this is the first time that you’ve gotten to take a good look at your fiancé, and the sight wasn’t pretty.

he’s bloody, sweaty, and even though he’s still walking, he barely looks alive. you wish you were there, to scream in his face, to shake him, tell him to keep walking - if not for himself, then for you, for your future together. but you’re so far away, and all you could do is cry and pray to a god that you no longer believe in.

and then, after nearly 5 more dreadfully slow hours of staring at your television and shamefully wishing death on the man beside your fiancé, your worst nightmare is unraveling into a reality right front of your eyes.

you know what’s about to happen before it even begins, and yet you still can’t will yourself to look away. your fiancé, a man you’ve known since you were in diapers, the only person you’ve truly ever loved, has hit the pavement. he’s convulsing and puking, gagging and crying, and you want to scream, look away, wake up from this horrible fucking nightmare, but you can’t move. you can’t even breathe. you see the man beside him, who should be happy that he’s about to win. but instead of this, he’s running back to where your fiancé is, screaming at him to get up and keep walking. in any other circumstance you’d feel grateful at that fact, but you can’t think about anything other than how your poor, poor boy is down and you know that he’s not getting back up. you’re losing the only person that still meant something to you, right before your very eyes. but if you really thought about it, you lost him the day that fucking letter came in the mail.

you’re already crying, knowing that he’s not going to keep walking, even if he wanted to. his body, after walking, and then eventually dragging, itself across 583 treacherous miles, has finally failed him.

he’s on his final warning, and the major is walking up to him. the other man is on his second warning, still trying to drag your fiancé up. you don’t even know why they’re giving this man any warnings, because you know that your fiancé is going to be dead in approximately 30 seconds. you didn’t need anyone to tell you how this was going to end.

the moment comes way faster than you wanted it to. the major cocks his gun. “any last words, number 5?”

you don’t know how he does it, but he finds the strength to look into the camera instead of at the major. through your tears and sobs, you know he’s talking to you when he says,

“forgive me.”

the final shot of this years long walk rings out. the crowds CHEER as the last bullet makes its way into the love of your life’s skull. the vomit in your throat has made its way out. there was no stopping it, so you hadn’t even tired.

it’s brutal. there is just so much blood. you knew it the whole time that you should’ve forced yourself to look away, so you don’t know why you didn’t. you already knew from the start that this was something you would never be able to unsee, and you were right.

you did not give a flying fuck about what this guy is about to wish for. actually, even if you did, you cannot hear. you also can’t see. you think you’re dying, and truthfully, that sounded really fucking nice right about now. but unfortunately, you were okay. you had just fainted. to your absolute dismay, you came to not much longer after you hit the floor.

you realized that night that you you lost a lot of things. your fiancé, your voice, probably your sanity, definitely your innocence, but most importantly, you lost your will to live. or more like your will to care if you lived or died. you didn’t take your own life, no. you knew exactly what you were going to do. that same night, you chopped your hair off and started working.

you were going to join the long walk and kill the major for taking away the only person you had left. whatever it took.

————————————————————

PRESENT DAY

it’s been 3 long years of training yourself to be someone you’re not. 3 long years of studying every angle of the long walk. 3 long years lying to everyone around you. 3 long years of opening rejection letters. but this year, 5 days after your 21st birthday, you got a different kind of letter in the mail. this year, you’ve been accepted into the long walk. but not as y/n l/n. as b/n vaughn. you only had one chance, and you were going to make it count - or you would die trying.

you pulled up to the waiting area alone. it’s not like you had anyone to drop you off, anyways. ever since your fiancé was murdered by the major, you had no one.

walking up to the soldiers with a backpack slung around one shoulder, you started to get nervous. yes, you had cut off most of your hair, and wore a hat just in case. you had a binder on to hide your breasts, and over that you had a tank top, and over that a bullet-proof vest, and over that, two chunky sweaters, just to be safe. you had a plan, and all of these layers were apart of it. you had illegally purchased the bullet-proof vest you were wearing, so if you were able to fulfill your wish and were given a gun from one of the soldiers, you would not die when you inevitably were shot at. because you would be shooting the major with the gun you were given, and you knew that wouldn’t be forgiven so easily. and the tank top, that was for after you pretended to be dead when the soldiers shot you, so that you could strip of your walking outfit after laying on the ground for as long as it took for the crowds to disperse, and go back to being a girl, hoping that no one would recognize you as one of the walkers if you were wearing a different outfit and had breasts. and on top of all of that, you had been working long and hard at perfecting a deep voice. for the last 3 years, it’s the only voice you’d been using. you knew it would be a death sentence to slip up.

“name and ID.”

you looked up from the gravel to be met by a cold stare. you had barely realized you had made it up to the guards, being lost in your own thoughts. you silently gulped as you took out your wallet, handing the guard your altered ID. “b/n vaughn.”

he stared at you for a bit, eyes narrowing, looking between you and your ID. you tried not to show how on edge you were.

after what felt like forever, he lifted the bar, signaling for you to go in and join the others. “you can go sit with the other boys. we’re waiting for the rest to arrive before we start. we’ll notify you when it’s time to start walking. good luck.”

you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding as you walked in, looking around. there were about 40 boys here already, most of them talking and getting to know each other. while the girl in you wanted to mingle and make friends, knowing that would surely enrich your experience and make this whole nightmare a little less lonely, you knew you shouldn’t be getting too close to anybody. only one of you would get out of here alive, and if it came down to you and someone else, you didn’t want it to be a hard decision. it has to be you, and forming bonds would only make that harder.

you got looks from many of the guys as you walked passed them. you decided to sit down next to a boy who sat alone and looked pretty miserable, thinking he probably wouldn’t talk to you, which was what you were aiming for. as you sat down next to him, he scowled at you, probably wondering why you were invading his space. good, you thought. it’s not like you wanted him to like you, anyways.

“i’m not here to make friends,” the man grumbled to you, not even caring to look up at you. he was too interested in fiddling with his cap. you raised your eyebrows. “oh yeah? and who said i’m tryin’ to make friends with you?” you shot back, trying to get comfortable. you knew this was going to be the last time you’d be sitting for a long, long time… if ever.

“normally you wouldn’t sit next to someone if you weren’t tryin’ to get to know ‘em. ‘specially when there’s room for you to sit anywhere else. you deliberately chose to sit here, next to me.”

you rolled your eyes, already getting agitated by the raging testosterone radiating off of this guy. “well, maybe i jus’ sat next to you ‘cause you looked fuckin’ miserable and i didn’t wanna talk to anyone like the rest of these morons are, but whatever dude, fuck me, i guess.”

the boy next to you, with, you’ve come to realize, the number 38 around his neck, finally looked up at you. this made you able to see him, like, really see him. okay, yeah, you weren’t here to make friends, and even less were you here to scout out any prospective relationships. but you weren’t stupid and you certainly weren’t blind. this guy was hot.

“heard. i won’t talk to you anymore. now fuck off, would you.”

“sir, yes sir,” you mock saluted as you rolled your eyes again, going to turn the opposite way. you heard him grunt. and when you turned all the way, that’s when you saw a group of the boys staring at the two of you. great.

“hey. what’s your name?” number 23 asks you. you point to yourself, silently asking if he’s talking to you. god, you hope not. but as you’ve come to learn, god is not real, and this man is indeed talking to you.

“name’s vaughn.” you leave it at that.

“number 13. pretty unlucky. i’m sure you’ll die first,” says the (already fuckin’ annoying) kid with the number 46 around his neck. he’s pointing at your own dog tags.

“lucky for me, i don’t believe in bullshit like that. and i’ll have you know i’m winnin’ this whole fuckin’ thing. so screw you, asshat,” you all but growl at him, giving him two middle fingers. he gives you a punch-ably sarcastic face, raising both of his middle fingers right back at you, as number 23 speaks again, ignoring number 46’s words. “my name’s peter mcvries. my friends call me mcvries. nice to meet ya, vaughn.” his smile is warm and friendly, filling you with comfort and hope, but you choose to ignore that.

“hello, peter. and like i told this asshole to my right,” you say, pointing at number 38, who proceeds to flip you off at the gesture, “i ain’t here to make friends. so all of y’all could fuck right off, thanks.”

number 46 whistled. “someone’s on their period!” your gaze immediately became laser focused on him. “the fuck did you just say, 46?” you picked up a rock, ready to throw it as his fucking head. you could not get caught this early on.

the boy grinned, knowing that he just got on your nerves. “the name’s olson. and i’m just fuckin’ with ya, i didn’t mean nothin’ by it. calm the fuck down.” you breathed out a sigh of relief. you should’ve known he was as messing with you, but you were on edge, still scared that someone might see past your walls. as you dropped your rock rather begrudgingly, number 6 looked at you, and was stupid enough to put his two cents in.

“well, my name’s arthur. arthur baker, but y’all could call me art. and i am here to make friends. i just thought, you know, if i’m gonna die, i wanna leave this earth with friends by my side,” he smiled. your face softened. you wished you could tell this sweet kid that you felt the same way. and that’s when you realize that he’s holding a bible… doesn’t he know that there’s no god? if there was, there wouldn’t be any long walks. the major would cease to exist. thousands of boys across the country would still be alive today. but they’re not alive. all of those boys are dead, and soon, 49 of you here today will be added to that ever-rising number…

number. speaking of numbers, that’s all you guys were, now. not a name, not a part of a family, not someone that somebody loved and soon will be losing. no longer are these men considered a mothers son. heck, you would go so far as to say that they weren’t even men anymore. they’ve been stripped of everything that makes them human, and so have you. none of you would die as the person you came in as; you’d die a number. a fuckin’ number. and the thought of it made you sick.

before you could say something rude in response to this ‘arthur’ kid that you definitely didn’t mean, a guy with long blond hair with a bandana on, sitting not too far away from olson, snorted. you all looked over at him to listen to what he had to say. “sounds stupid to me. if we’re all dyin’, which we are, why make it harder on ourselves? i don’t wanna get to know a single one of you fuckin’ pussyfoots. fuck that, am i right?” he looked around almost desperately for someone, anyone to agree with him.

you would’ve nodded in agreement ‘til he said the last part. you all sat in silence, and you personally were unsure of how to break it to him that he just said something incredibly stupid. that is, until olson said what you were definitely all thinking… just in a ruder way. “i don’t think you used that word right, barkovitch. fuckin’ dumbass,” he laughed.

“FUCK OFF!” the guy you learned was barkovitch yelled, pulling his hat further onto his head to most likely hide his eyes in embarrassment. his face flushed red, and you could tell that he was getting mad. you didn’t want to make any friends, but you also didn’t want violence between any of you. the rest of the guys laughed at him, but you didn’t. you didn’t laugh because you also didn’t wanna make enemies, and plus, you kinda felt bad for the kid. so against your better judgment, you scooted closer to him. “hey,” you whispered to him, touching his arm gently to get his attention. you felt bad that he flinched. “it’s alright. i ain’t much good at words either. don’t mind that stupid dickface, yeah?”

he looked over at you, tears welling in his eyes as he gave you a watery smile. “thanks, man,” his voice cracked. you smiled back at him, unsure of why exactly you were smiling, but still doing anyways. you kind of felt for him.

“what’s your number?” he asked after he wiped his bleary eyes, quickly changing the subject. “lucky number 13,” you smirked, waving your dog tag in his face. he literally giggled, and you couldn’t help but fucking blush. by god, you hope he didn’t notice. “what about you?” you asked, ignoring your thoughts.

“number 5!”

you immediately froze. there could just be no way this boy was number 5. why would the world hand you such a cruel fate? that was your boys number, and now you’re fucking getting along with another guy who has the same number around his neck? your smile dropped, and he noticed. “did i do something wrong?”

you slowly looked over at him, already feeling how close to tears you were. “are you… are you fuckin’ crying?”

“shut the fuck up, would you?! i ain’t cryin’, asshole!” you go to stumble up and get the hell away from him, but he stops you by grabbing onto your elbow as you’re turning to leave. “yes, you are! what happened?”

you were a bit stunned that he asked. you thought he had been making fun of you, but now you’re starting to think that being vulgar is just being normal to him. you rub at your eyes so no tears fall out. you decided to sit down next to him again, visually relieving barkovitch.

“you didn’t do nothin’ wrong, barkovitch. i knew someone who walked… he was also number 5, that’s all. nothin’ you did or anything.”

he looked surprised. “did he…?”

you picked at your nails. “no, he died. came in 2nd.”

“oh shit, man, that’s awful, i’m so fuckin’ sorry. well, ya know! if it makes you feel any better, this number 5 probably ain’t even gettin’ to the end, so you don’t gotta worry ‘bout that,” he rambled. you looked at him like he had three heads. “that s’pposed to make me feel better?” you asked. he shrugged. he didn’t seem very good at making human connections. “i’ve never really had friends before,” he told you. “nobody liked me in school, i was kind of a loner. well, actually, i was worse than a loner, i was bullied.” you frowned. “i’m sorry about that.”

“hey, yeah, it’s whatever, it’s alright. they’re all fuckers anyways. you’re cool though. thanks for being nice to me.”

“yeah, well, kindness is free. you’re cool too.”

now he’s grinning. ah, shit, you think. “thanks!! my meemaw says i’m cool, too! i miss ‘er a lot. i’m doin’ this for her. i think you two’d get along.”

“the fuck is a meemaw?” you hear olson make fun close by. barkovitch’s face immediately falls, and now you officially want to punch olson in his stupid fucking face. you look at him with anger in your eyes. “shut the fuck up, you fuck face!” you shout at him. you don’t even listen to what he has to say in response to you cursing him out, you just look back over at barkovitch, who is now playing with his fingers anxiously. it makes you sad how depressed he suddenly looks. “hey!” you shook at him gently, getting him to look up at you again. “don’t you remember what i said? don’t listen to that fuckin’ asshole, ‘kay? he doesn’t know what the fuck he’s talkin’ about. he’s fuckin’ stupid if he don’t know what the fuck a meemaw is. and i ain’t even from the south!”

that seemed to make him feel a bit better, and he smiled up at you sheepishly. “oh. okay. thanks.”

“no fuckin’ problem,” you smile back warmly as you playfully push his shoulder with your own. what the fuck were you doing? breaking all your own rules for this dumbass kid who was pretty much positively going to die anyways. you didn’t want to admit it, but you’re already feeling something for this guy. what those feelings were exactly, you didn’t know, and you didn’t particularly care to find out. all you knew is that this situation you’ve gotten yourself in was gonna break your fucking heart eventually.

what he said next confirmed that you’ve gotten yourself into some deep shit.

“i think we’re gonna be really good friends.”

you blinked up at him. you most certainly did not want him to think you were going to be friends, even if deep down you knew that you definitely wanted to be. but also, this kid seemed really fucking sad. you didn’t want him to kill himself before the walk’s even started, so you just politely nodded and smiled.

it wasn’t because of anything he did, but you didn’t think that he’d see it that way if you told him. it’s just because you wanted to win, and to win, you couldn’t care about any of the other walkers. that, though, is proving to be way fucking harder than you imagined it would be.

suddenly, from seemingly nowhere, a very nerdy looking boy with huge spectacles (who, in your professional opinion, was very cute) jogs up to the two of you. “hi!” okay, now you’re already rolling your eyes. no need to be so fuckin’ excited, you thought. in his hand was a little notebook, and behind his ear was a pencil. he really is a nerd. “uh, yeah? can i help you?” he smiled down at you. you could almost feel your heart stop inside of your chest. the smile this kid just gave you was nothing short of breathtaking. oh good lord, you thought to yourself. where were they finding these men?!

“uh, yeah, hi, my name’s richard harkness, i’m writing a book about the long walk! no one’s ever done it before; it’s gonna be a hit. no one’s ever heard about the inside perspective of it all, so i’m gonna be the first one! what’s your names and numbers? you’re all gonna be in it, too!”

you’re genuinely gagged. there is just no way. for someone who looks so smart, this kid is a certified idiot. “is that the only reason why you’re here? to write a damn book?” his face fell at your rudely-put question. “uh, i mean… that’s the main reason, yeah, but i guess it’s not the only one. wanna do it for my ma, too.”

“that’s nice about yer ma an’ all, but couldn’t you have just, like, i don’t know, walked beside the boys as a spectator and interviewed them while they walked? so you don’t fuckin’ die? you coulda jus’ got rich for yer ma that way. ‘cause what happens to yer book when you get your ticket, huh?”

“i’m not gonna get my ticket, i’m gonna win this whole thing. i’m ready for it,” he says confidently, puffing out his chest the best he can.

“that’s what everyone here’s been sayin’, richie,” you tell him. he blushes at the nickname, and so do you. you don’t know why you said it, but you can’t take it back now. before you could say anything else, number 38, whose name you still do not know, interjects. “there’s only one fuckin’ winner, harkness. and what makes you so sure that it’s gonna be you?” the three of you look over at the boy, who’s wrapping up a jelly sandwich. barkovitch laughs. you think he does it to try to fit in with this jerks sour attitude. you look at the two of them and scowl. “oh yeah? who the fuck are you anyways, huh? gonna share that with the class anytime soon or are ya just gonna keep bein’ a fuckin’ cunt without a name?”

now he’s glaring daggers at you. you know you’ve done it this time. “fuck off.”

before you could tackle the son of a bitch, richard decides to speak up for him instead. “his name is stebbins. a real jerk. great for the villain of the story!”

you look at him like he’s crazy, which you’re starting to think he is. “no, richard, the villain of the story is the major. all of us, even stebbins, we’re the fucking victims.”

“don’t talk about the major like that,” stebbins butts in. “you shouldn’t bad mouth him, ‘specially ‘round here. they’ll probably kill you for it. they don’t like when you talk shit about him or the long walk.” you turn to look at the asshole. “alright, stebbins. what’s up your ass this mornin’? the majors dick, i presume?” barkovitch howls with laughter, and richard puts a hand to his mouth, afraid to laugh in the face of stebbins. speaking of stebbins, his jaw clenches so hard it looks like it hurts, but you really don’t care. you’ve had enough of this asshole’s bullshit.

“you listen here, now,” he’s jabbing a finger in your face. barkovitch slaps it down, trying to stand up for you. this makes stebbins angrier. “FUCK. OFF.”

most eyes are on the four of you now. these idiots are causing a scene. “stebbins, stop it, okay, they didn’t mean it!” harkness cuts in, putting a hand on the blond boys shoulder. stebbins pushes the kid so hard he falls on his ass, notebook flying out of his hand as he lets out a loud grunt. you fly to his side to see if he’s okay.

okay, you’ve just about had it now. as you’re checking on richard carefully, you turn your head to look over at stebbins angrily. “yo, quit bein’ so fuckin’ rude! there was no reason to do that, richie didn’t do nothin’ wrong, he was just tryna help!” you shout over your shoulder at him. now it’s your turn for stebbins to look at you. you think he looks borderline revolted as he lets out the loudest sarcastic laugh you’ve ever heard. “richie?! the fuck are we in, friendship club? what happened to mr. ‘i’m not here to make friends’? actually, you know what, don’t tell me, i don’t give a shit why you changed your fuckin’ tune. just so all you fuckers know, none of you are gonna win this thing by bein’ all buddy buddy with each other. this is every man for himself, and with the way all’a you fairies are actin’ so far, yeah, vaughn, i know i’m gonna win. i’ve been training for this since i was a boy, anyways. none of you are gonna beat me. simple as that.”

with a look of pure disgust on your face, you look back at richard to see if he’s just as horrified over this asshole’s attitude, and now physical assault, as you are, but he has picked up his fallen notebook and is literally writing all of this down. scribbling away carelessly in his notebook as if nothing rude to him has been said, as if he wasn’t just violently shoved to the ground by a beautiful prick, and like nothing horrible is about to happen to everyone here. you think maybe it’s better this way, to be as blissfully ignorant as he seems to be right now. you sigh as you pat his shoulder twice before picking yourself up and walking away from the situation before you do anything to stebbins that you will regret. you hear barkovitch get up and shuffle after you.

“hey, man, you alright?”

as you sit down on a patch of grass, somewhat near peter and a man you’ve heard some of the guys around you call ray garraty, you look up at him. “yeah, i’m fine. just didn’t wanna get shot for killing someone before the walk’s even started,” you smirked. barkovitch laughed and sat down next to you. the two of you sat in a surprisingly comforting silence before it was you that spoke up again. “i’m already tired,” you admit to him for some reason. opening yourself up to any of these boys was not something that you had planned on doing, but now that you’re here, the reality of the situation has gotten a little too real for you. now you’ve seen most of your competition, you’re a little worried for yourself. these boys look strong, and not just in muscles, but in mental strength. could you keep up? it’s obviously way too late for you to back out now, though, because you’re all about a half an hour away from starting the end of 49 of your 50 lives.

instead of it being barkovitch who responded to your thoughts, peter decided to speak up nearby. “i think we got 30 minutes to go. if you wanna take a nap, i’ll watch your back, wake you when it’s about time.” your jaw kind of falls slack at that. you didn’t really expect that in a situation like this, where you’re about to walk side by side with this man, in a competition where only one of you will walk out alive. shouldn’t he want you to be tired? you blink at him and ask him just that. “well, that’s nice an’ all peter, but i feel like you should want me to be tired… seems kinda odd you’re offerin’ to have my back at a time like this.”

he looks at you like you just questioned his whole character. maybe you did. he just shrugged like the answer was obvious. “we’re all gettin’ our tickets. if not on this walk, then someday. none of us know when our last moments will be, so why not make every moment a good one in case it’s our last? hell, man, i’d rather get my ticket knowin’ i was surrounded by brothers instead of strangers. wouldn’t you?”

you wanted to shake your head no. really, you did. but this man has just touched your heart in a way no other has in a very, very long time. after a long pause of silence, you barely manage to nod your head in agreement. he smiles at you, not bothering to mention the tears he can see pooling in your eyes. a wave of comfort washes over you. his smile makes you feel safe and secure, like getting a warm hug from an old friend.

you could barely fathom it. for the first time in over 3 years, you felt seen. not only that, but in a matter of knowing some of these guys for less than an hour, you could almost say that you also felt loved. the mere thought of it brought you close to tears. you couldn’t recall the last time you were appreciated, let alone loved. of course it made you happy to think about, but it also hurt horribly. it made your heart squeeze and ache; a stinging pain you desperately wanted to go away. but, you also couldn’t bring yourself to hate these feelings, either. as badly as you wanted to ignore all of these boys, you just couldn’t seem to do it. when you first arrived here, you had tried hard to suppress your need for human connections. but that’s hard when everyone (well, mostly everyone) around you seems to care. so much for not making friends, you thought to yourself as mcvries silently handed you his handkerchief. you wiped your eyes with it and handed it back to him with a grateful, watery smile.

maybe makin’ a few friends out here wouldn’t be so bad after all.

[planethibiscus]

I love the long walk so so much, Barkovitch has my heart and if you’d write literally anything relating to him you can have my soul. 🙏

Happy Halloween, give me your soul. Also, the Long Walk doesn't nearly have enough content on here. I wish I had more long walk asks. <\3

YANDERE GARY

TWS: self harm, mention of masturbation, obsessive and abusive behaviours.

Yandere Gary's song is IFHY by TYLER, THE CREATOR.

HOPELESS

A romantic that has never had the time or opportunity to flourish, Gary is obsessive to the most alarming degree. He can't go a minute without his thoughts circling back to you. A daydreamer that itches to act on impulse but would rather itch his skin raw than embarrass himself in front of you.

His head is a minefield. It's never been a fun place to get stuck in, but now there's you. You manifest as pockets of warmth and excitement, something so much safer to think about compared to all of the other horrible, boring things that cause him strife. The back and forth between bliss and that drives him crazy, and you indirectly become his safe space.

When he gets angry, the bad thoughts infect the good ones and spoil them forever. They're poisoned with insecurities and past failures he's frightened of repeating. He overthinks every minuscule interaction you've never even had. You won't know Gary wants you until he's long gone in self loathing reconstruction.

He'll grow to both idolise and resent you. He's too deep in his head to get out of the pattern and act on anything he wants until it's festered and become wholly impure. Here he is, out past curfew, fantasing about holding your hand as he trails behind you on the dark sidewalk, glaring at you for being such a stupid bitch and not knowing he needs you.

He gets aggressive and assertive with himself in some effort to force action. Too insecure to actually go through with it, he often tweaks out in front of his mirror after preening, smacking himself in the face and punching his wall, which makes his dad shout. He'll suck a bloody knuckle and sniffle at his reflection, scowling at everything he wants to make look better.

You are perfect and that is horrible. He wants you, but he isn't sure if he wants to want you. You cause him so much trouble and you don't even seem to care or know. At the same time he's not certain he deserves you, but when he gets desperate enough he'll delude himself that you deserve one another.

HUNGER

He follows you around. It's not to creep you out. He cares deeply about what you think of him, deeply enough that he won't even dare to properly introduce himself. What if you see something you don't like? It'll ruin everything before it's even begun. He can't stomach that. He can't bear to spoil anything, but it's too hard to stay away, so you've got a paparazzi.

It makes him inexplicably angry that you don't love him back. He knows it's not your fault, he hasn't given you much to work with. Not being able to blame you almost makes it worse, now he can only blame himself. He rarely dares to dream of your acceptance. Most of his fantasies are soured by the idea that you're judging him. He feels as though you might be able to read his mind from across the road, as he snaps picture after picture.

Nights are spent following behind you just out of view, muttering bitterly to his camera screen as he narrates fiction, weaving a story with an identity crisis, it can't decide if it wants to be a romance or a horror. When he gets home he'll chatter animatedly to the photos he's taken, and cry in his bed post false lovers quarrel.

He's never wanted anyone or anything more than this. You make him feel pathetic and boyish, weak. He doesn't think that's okay. He might ask his father for advice and be told to man up. "Ask you out, buy you some flowers." When he saves enough to get you a bouquet, he's so fidgety that the stems are picked clean of leaves and petals before they even make it to your doorstep.

Pain sometimes helps. He might bite his lips raw or pick his fingernails until they're bloody to avoid calling out to you on the street or rushing over and just jumping on you. A part of him wants you to know the pain that he's putting himself through, to love him for it, so he dedicates every wince and flinch to you. A silent call of yearning swallowed by the space between you. It's how he keeps himself in check. Sometimes, he wants to hurt you too.

It's a cycle. He tells himself that he'll really talk to you this time, tell a joke that'll make you fall in love with him. Then you can date and he can do all of the things he's wanted to do for ages, like introduce you to his cat and... then the guilt and doubt comes back, as it always does, and whatever feigned confidence he'd been ready to dazzle you with crumbles like the worn plaster on his bedroom wall. Another punch, another smack, then he's reaching for his camera and putting on his coat.

HABITS

Barkovitch can bark and bitch up a storm when he feels vindicated enough, and everything about you sets him off like a live wire. Arguments that he needs to have with himself are going to become your problem, if you ever get that far.

His anxiety borne of you tweaks him out, so he has to find outlets. He might snap at you, throw an arm he didn't mean to. Assuming you're patient and kind with his glaring issues, then he doesn't want to hurt you on purpose. He might fantasise about giving you a good smack when he's really low, but he cares far too much about your opinion of him to ever act out on that. You'll just get the silent, smouldering, hunched over glare instead.

You make him fidget. Skin picking, hair pulling, nail biting. He's developed a whole list of problems that he'll insist are made up. Trichotillomania, Dermatillomania, Onychotillomania... Signs are everywhere. Kisses that are too harsh and taste like blood. Hair in letters he didn't mean to leave there. Discarded uneven nail trimmings that you pick up with your socks. He itches and scratches at his skin until it's bleeding and pink. Sometimes he'll tug himself to the thought of you upwards of fourteen times a day until he's so sore that he can't anymore. He suffers severe OCD.

Speaking of which, he needs to take pictures of you. Each one is a memento of that exact wonderful or horrible moment, all are kept. If he doesn't get at least a picture a day he's convinced you'll die, or stop existing, like you'll poof into smoke and it'll turn out he completely imagined you the whole time. He's gone broke buying so much film and the shop processing fees are way too far up his ass, so a tiny red room in his closet has been set up to develop at home. The walls are sticky with photos, and the washing line he pegs them up to dry on has run out of space. He has a handful of favourites, but they're always changing.

He'll show the best pictures to other boys, gleaming with pride and bragging to see their faces fall. But he's possessive, and when he sees intruige instead of misery, he'll get angry at them for looking. He can't make his mind up. He wants to show you off to prove he's got you, but at the same time he wants to lock you up and keep you all to himself.

Barkovitch yearns to be gentle. He doesn't know that he needs it, but he does. Inherently, in his heart, he is a softer thing. Conditioning tells him that gentleness is weakness, and that's a feminine trait. Neglect tells him that he doesn't deserve a soft touch. Bullying tells him that it's a trap. His head tells him that it's all going to end horribly. But pet his hair, brush his shoulders and hold him without judgement - then you might unlock something that comes with free tears and a lifetime subscription to godlike worship.

I could write about this loser for hours, but I spat this out in a hurry when I finally got to it. Hope it's alright.

[littlehippyhehe]

Barkovitch x Reader

I am not a writer, lower your expectations even more. Again I am sorry for any grammer/formatting issues fun fact I was raised in a kinda cult, so I did have to teach myself how to read and write.

SFW, 1449 words

TW: Self harm mentioned!!,

nothing graphic, scratching an arm with nails and barkovitch hitting himself

Kids. Dead kids. You can’t get them out of your head. Your feet hurt, and it’s only day two. You stare down at your shoes as they seem to move on their own. Home. You wish you were home.

Everyone you look at, hoping to make a connection, just looks tired—or their mind was completely gone. So you find yourself walking alone again. Sometimes you join in on a conversation. Everyone’s kind enough, but you still don’t have a group of your own.

The sky’s turned gray. It’s tempting to just lie down on the pavement and sleep. Sleep forever. Weariness has seeped into your bones. Dead kids. Dead kids on the road. You have to stay awake, but thinking is unbearable.

You look around and decide to speed up—better not to be next to anyone. Freaking someone out is the last thing you need. Some of these boys are so... soft. If Ray saw what you were doing, he might cry for fucks sake. You’ve already bitten your nails jagged and sharp out of habit anyway.

I just don’t want to think anymore.

You start scratching up your arms. You’ll have to cover them tonight when it gets cold anyway. The worst part is how instantly it helps. Your brain focuses on the pain without you having to try. It lets you get lost again in your own little world.

“Jesus Christ, Y/N,” Tressler says suddenly. “Why are your arms bleeding?”

You force yourself back to the present. Everything’s slightly blurry and the hunger in your stomach has gotten worse. You glance at him quickly, then just shrug.

Shit. I didn’t mean to do it that much.

Your name makes Barkovitch turn around, looking around hopefully to see if you’re nearby.

Tressler keeps walking beside you.

Damn it, now they’re not gonna leave you alone. At least he isn’t talking.

“You know, one time my brother fell at a park—” Great. There goes that. You know he’s just trying to distract you, he's being kind. Or maybe Tressler’s using you to distract himself.

But you’ve done worse to yourself before, and you’re probably going to die within the next forty-eight hours anyway.

“Y/N, you want some of my beans?” Barkovitch calls out suddenly.

“Yeah,” you say, giving Tressler a confused look before walking up beside him. Barkovitch being nice is weird enough for you to exit that conversation without saying goodbye. Tressler’s probably already dropped back to gossip about it. Well, that’s what you’d do.

“Thanks,” you say. You assume Barkovitch is just saving you from that conversation, but then he actually holds up his spoon to you.

You smile for what feels like the first time in forever. And it’s an ego boost to know you were right about him. Ever since the drop-off, when you told him not to listen to Hank, you could tell he was kind—well, kind in his own way.

He takes another spoonful himself.

An indirect kiss, your stupid, messed-up brain thinks. But it must mean something. Sharing your own food with someone is rare—it’s some Ray-and-Pete type shit.

He feeds you another spoonful before saying, “Hey, you probably should stop doing that.”

You look up, instantly irritated. You thought you left that conversation fifty feet back.

“You’re one to talk. I saw your little hitting episode earlier. Fuck you.”

“Oh wait, I—I’m not judging or anything. I- I deserved that you ain’t done nothing wrong.”

“You don’t know that,” you shoot back. “Maybe I do deserve it.”

You don’t really think you “deserve” it. You don’t think about it at all. It’s just something—like eating or breathing—something that helps you stay alive.

“You?” He shakes his head. “I don’t believe you’ve ever done anything wrong in your whole life, you’re like an angel.”

Barkovitch takes another bite. He still seems nervous—not of you, not of dying, just... nervous.

It feels like he’s scared I’ll get upset and leave.

Well, you did just snap at him. Oops.

What kind of person is he, you wonder. You thought you had his asshole personality figured out, but then he tells you he thinks you’re good. He’s known you all of two days. Maybe you’re hallucinating and are back by Mcvries. Or your dead and this is some weird after-life test from god.

He’s staring at you, tapping his spoon nervously.

“I’m just saying,” he starts, “you don’t have to do it that way. I’ll help you out if you want. Or, you know—someone else.” He gestures to everyone behind you with the spoon.

You know he means well. You really do. But you squeezed your eyes shut and put your hands over them.

It hurts. It hurts that the cutest boy here is asking you to stop using your best coping mechanism. And you know you’ll probably stop, just because he asked.

For a second, you consider dropping back to walk with Stebbins. Stebbins wouldn’t give a fuck what you did.

You take your hands off your face. “Okay.”

“Alright,” Barkovitch says, relieved. “We can walk together if—if you want to.”

“Will you keep sharing your food?”

You meant for it to be a joke, but Barkovitch moved quickly holding the spoon up to your mouth again.

“Thanks, Barkovitch.” You hope he knows you mean more than just for the food.

You start matching his steps, trying to think of something to say.

“You look just like the angel my meemaw puts at the top of her Christmas tree,” he blurts out, then looks away.

Thank God he does, so he can’t see your flushed face or stupid smile.

“Oh! Thanks.”

Still avoiding your eyes, he keeps walking, so you grab the hand holding the spoon and dipped it in the can before bringing it to your mouth. His eyes crinkle as he smiles—accidentally speeding up without realizing it.

“Are you lying to me?” you joke.

But he was dead serious as he answered, “No! You really do. Same hair, same smile.”

He pauses, then adds, “Honestly, meemaw’s got so many Christmas decorations, I could probably find seven that remind me of you.”

You feel more awake now. Maybe it’s the food, maybe the conversation, maybe just him. You ask about his family’s Christmas, wanting more conversation for the first time all day.

He takes a drink from his canteen, then pours some water on a handkerchief and grabs your arm. You didn’t think he could be this gentle as he wipes away the dried blood, starting to talk about his family.

He’s done this before, you think. Shit. You shouldn’t have been such an asshole to him earlier.

After about an hour, you get this random burst of confidence. You interrupt his story about his cat knocking over the tree.

“Your meemaw ever put up mistletoe?”

He stuttered for a moment before spitting out, “Yeah, when she has her big Christmas party. Hangs it over the kitchen doorway. Me and my cousins gotta watch people kiss every time we try to sneak extra food all night.”

“You ever done it?” You pray he doesn’t start talking about some surprise partner.

“Me? No, nah, I—” He stops himself.

“If I was there, would you kiss me?” You tell yourself it’s a joke, but you knew Barkovitch would take it seriously like you wanted him to.

He hesitates, then says, “Yes.”

He’s staring again, trying to figure out what kind of joke you were making. He looks cute.

“Would you kiss me now?”

“Yeah”

“Okay.”

You made yourself move and you grabbed the back of his head with one hand to pull him towards you making your lips touch. You expect something quick and sweet—no idea why.

But Gary’s hands find you, and somehow both your feet keep moving forward as his tongue slips into your mouth. God, you want him.

You heard warnings called out to you both and you start to feel a bit dizzy from the lack of oxygen. You pull back, but he follows, still kissing you, not letting go.

You hit his arm just as you hear your second warning, and that snaps him out of it. He backs off instantly, giving you space.

“Sorry,” he says—but he doesn’t look sorry. His fingers touch his lips.

“No, it’s... it’s fine,” you manage between gasps.

“Sorry,” he repeats, softer now.

Then, “We can kiss again, right?” His voice is new, a tone you hadn’t heard before—needy.

“We gotta walk off our warnings first,” your brain finally doing something smart for once.

Barkovitch pouts, looking away. You grab his hand, matching your steps again.

“Two hours is really fucking long.”

[winxanity-ii]

⌜I Love, Robot | Chapter 02 Chapter 02 | history. . . loading⌟

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Over the next few years, things began to change. You noticed the distance between you and Rain growing, the once-strong bond you shared slowly fraying like the worn-out edges of an old blanket.

It wasn't something you could put your finger on at first, just a creeping sense of separation that settled in your chest whenever you caught sight of her from across the room.

You'd see her more often now with the colony kids, laughing and chatting, a bright spark among the worn and weary.

At first, you were happy to see her connecting with others, but then you realized she was spending more time with them than she was with you.

It hurt, but you understood. She needed friends her own age, a distraction from the hardships that seemed to hover over all of your lives like a dark cloud.

You were about 19, maybe 20, when everything took a darker turn. You'd been freelancing for a while—small jobs that kept you under the radar, nothing too flashy.

That was until a desperate small business, teetering on the edge of collapse, sought your skills.

You were hesitant, but the pay was decent, and the work seemed straightforward enough: hacking into some old systems, unlocking what was needed to keep them afloat.

And it was a success. Or at least, you thought it was.

But success came with consequences. You didn't realize you’d been tracked, not until someone with far more power than you could fathom found you.

They came to you with an ultimatum, their voice smooth but with an undercurrent of steel that sent a chill down your spine: work for them, take on any job they needed, or they’d turn you over to Weyland-Yutani.

You knew what that meant. You'd seen enough to understand the company didn’t tolerate dissent, especially from a former prodigy with a name they hadn't forgotten.

That's when your life took a dangerous path. You agreed to their terms, the fear of what could happen if you didn't outweighing any hesitation.

The jobs started simple but quickly escalated. Hacking turned into more complex coding, cracking into secure systems, sometimes even building or reprogramming androids and bots—a skill you honed under Marcus's watchful eye.

The pay was good, better than anything you could have made in the colony, and for a while, it seemed worth it.

But it wasn't just the money that kept you going. The promise of protection from other dangerous groups, black-market dealers who might see your skills as a threat, was a lifeline you couldn’t ignore.

To protect Rain and her family, your small, adopted family, you began staying out later, sometimes disappearing for days at a time. At first, Marcus and his wife were upset, worried about your well-being and what could be keeping you away.

Rain, especially, couldn't understand why you'd suddenly become so distant, why you weren't around as much. Her confusion and hurt were plain to see, and it tore at you in ways you couldn't explain.

Marcus eventually eased up on the questioning after he found you one night in the throes of a particularly bad meltdown. You'd come home after a job went sideways—something you hadn't anticipated, a system you couldn't crack in time, and the fallout had been brutal.

You couldn't tell Marcus what had happened, not exactly, but he didn’t push. He simply sat with you in the dim light of the kitchen, his presence a steady, calming force as you tried to pull yourself back together.

"If you ever need to talk," he'd said softly, his voice thick with the kind of understanding only someone who’d lived through hardship could have, "I'm here. You know that, right?"

You nodded, though you knew you'd never burden him with the weight of what you were involved in. This was a part of your life you'd chosen to keep to yourself, a dark secret that had become a necessary evil. And even though you trusted Marcus, you couldn't bring yourself to let him in on this one truth.

But life has a cruel way of taking away the things you hold dear, doesn't it?

Just a few weeks after your 21st birthday, Marcus and his wife fell ill. The colony's cold, damp air had always been harsh, but the pneumonia they caught from the mines was unlike anything they'd faced before.

You watched helplessly as the sickness took hold, their bodies weakened by years of toil in the toxic conditions of Jackson Star. It was like watching your own parents waste away all over again—a slow, painful decline that left you feeling powerless and lost.

Rain was a mess, her normally bright, fiery spirit dulled by the looming reality of losing her parents. She tried to stay strong, but you could see the cracks forming in her armor.

You did everything you could to help, taking over the household duties, scrounging for medicine, anything to ease their suffering, but deep down, you knew there was nothing that could be done.

The disease had sunk its claws in too deep.

One night, as you sat by Marcus's bedside, his breathing ragged and shallow, he reached out, his hand weak but insistent. You took it, holding on tightly, just like you had with your own father all those years ago. The weight of his grip was lighter than you remembered, his strength all but gone.

"Y/N…" he rasped, his voice barely audible over the sound of his labored breaths. "Take care of her… take care of Rain…"

Tears welled in your eyes as you nodded, unable to speak. "I will..." you whispered, your voice breaking. "...I promise."

He smiled faintly, a shadow of his old, warm smile. "Good… that's… good…"

You stayed with him until the end, just as you had with your parents. And when the time came, when the house fell silent except for the soft sobs of Rain and the hollow echo of your own grief, you knew that once again, you were left holding onto the pieces of a shattered life.

And this time, you would do whatever it took to keep Rain safe.

No matter what.

☆

☆

Three years had passed since your adoptive parents' death, and in that time, life had only grown more complicated. You returned from your latest job—a grueling five-day ordeal that left you exhausted and hollow inside.

This time, you'd been tasked with hacking into Weyland-Yutani's high-security network, retrieving files that exposed a chilling directive: in moments of crisis, their synthetics were programmed to prioritize the company's assets over human lives, all under the guise of logical probability.

The job paid well, enough to secure you and Rain's needs for the next six months, but the price was high.

The screams and pleas of employees who’d been betrayed by the very machines meant to protect them echoed in your mind, refusing to let go. You tried to shake the images away as you made your way through the dim, narrow corridors of the small home you shared with Rain.

Entering the room, you found her curled up on your bed, her small frame wrapped around your pillow, her face buried into the soft fabric as she slept. You approached quietly, the soft sound of your footsteps barely audible over the hum of the heating unit.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, you reached out and gently brushed your fingers through her hair. Rain instinctively leaned into your touch, a small sigh escaping her lips as she snuggled deeper into your pillow.

A soft smile tugged at your lips, though your heart felt heavy. Watching her sleep so peacefully, so unaware of the horrors you'd just witnessed, was both a comfort and a curse.

You knelt beside her, continuing to stroke her hair, trying to silence the panicked screams still echoing in your mind. Just as you began to lose yourself in the motion, Rain stirred.

Groggily, she opened her eyes, blinking away the remnants of sleep. She gave you a tired smile. "Hey," she mumbled, her voice thick with sleep.

"Hey," you replied softly, your smile widening despite the weight on your chest.

Rain's brow furrowed slightly as she looked up at you, sensing that something was off. "What's wrong?" she asked, her voice a little clearer, more alert.

You shook your head, stilling your hand. "Nothing," you murmured, trying to keep your voice steady. "Just go back to sleep, Rain. It's late."

She hesitated but nodded, a yawn escaping her lips as she turned over, curling up again. "Okay... But could you look over Andy?” she asked sleepily, her voice trailing off. "His eyes... something's wrong with them. He's already in the workshop, in sleep mode, waiting."

"Sure, I'll take care of him," you promised, leaning down to press a gentle kiss to her forehead. She mumbled a thank you, already drifting back to sleep as you stood up and quietly made your way out of the room.

You moved through the darkened house, your steps light and measured to avoid waking Rain. Despite the pitch-black surroundings, you knew every inch of this place—every loose floorboard, every creaky door hinge.

It wasn't hard to navigate to the small workshop in the back, a space that had become both a sanctuary and a battlefield for your mind.

Without turning on the main lights, you reached for the small lamp on your workbench, flicking it on and casting a soft, warm glow over the room.

In the corner, covered by a sheet, was Andy. You pulled a rolling stool behind you as you approached, removing the sheet with a practiced motion to reveal the android beneath.

Andy's face was serene, almost peaceful in the dim light. The shadows cast by the lamp danced across his features, highlighting the sharp lines of his cheekbones and the soft curve of his lips.

Despite knowing he was a machine, you couldn't help but admire the craftsmanship—the subtle blend of human and synthetic, the way his face seemed almost too real.

You reached out, gently cupping the side of his face, your fingers tracing the contours of his jaw. His synthetic skin was cool to the touch, but familiar. Your hand moved to the side of his neck, pressing the small port to awaken him.

The change was immediate. Andy's body tensed, his right hand shooting up to grab your wrist with surprising speed and strength. His eyes flickered to life, emitting a soft glow in the darkness. "Shh, it's okay," you whispered softly, not pulling away. "Sorry to startle you."

At the sound of your voice, Andy's grip loosened, his eyes quickly focusing on you. "Y/N," he said, his voice calm and even. "You're back."

You offered him a small smile before turning to grab your diagnostics tablet. "I've only been gone for five days," you said, connecting the tablet to the port in his neck and starting the diagnostic test.

Andy blinked as if you'd made the dumbest statement ever. "Five days is more than enough time for someone to be missed."

You giggled softly at his matter-of-fact tone. "Thanks, Dee." You glanced at the screen, focusing on the data streaming in. "Rain mentioned you've been having issues with your eyes. Can you tell me more about that?"

Andy's eyes flickered for a moment before he answered. "I... I can still see, but my vision sometimes become foggy. It affecting my ability to accurately assess situations and objects."

You nodded thoughtfully, continuing to run the diagnostics as you chatted with him, your fingers moving deftly across the tablet. "I see... We'll get it sorted. So, how have things been while I was gone?"

Andy remained still, his gaze fixed on you. "Rain and I have missed you."

A warm smile tugged at your lips. "I've missed you both too." You paused, reflecting on how much had changed since the day you found Andy in that scrapyard.

Your perception of synthetics had shifted over the years.

You'd never treated them as mere machines, but having one as a constant companion had blurred the lines between man and machine.

Despite knowing he wasn't human, Andy's human-like qualities were something you cherished. They made him unique, almost... alive in a way that was hard to define.

The soft beep from the tablet pulled you back to the present. You looked down, seeing the source of the issue on the screen. "Ahh," you sighed, turning the tablet to show Andy.

The screen was filled with lines of code, complex and unintelligible to most. To anyone else, or even to an android whose primary function wasn’t related to programming, this would have been complete nonsense. But since bringing Andy back online, you'd made it your mission to always explain everything you did to him, guiding him through each process.

Part of you believed he deserved to know, a small gesture of respect for the android who had become so much more than just a machine.

But there was another reason, a darker thought that lingered in the back of your mind: the possibility that one day, you might not be around to help him.

You wanted Andy to understand his own systems and the intricacies of his coding—not just to function but to ensure he could take care of himself if the worst were ever to happen.

Andy studied the code intently, his synthetic mind processing the information with an almost human-like concentration. "There is an error in the environmental calibration subroutine," he noted, identifying part of the issue correctly.

You chuckled, impressed. "Close, Dee. But, you got most of it right." You pointed to a specific line of code. "This here—it needs an update. The last patch didn't account for the increased levels of smog and soot in the colony's air. It's affecting your visual processors."

Routine set in as you continued to work. "What is your directive, Andy?" you asked out of habit, fingers moving swiftly to implement the necessary changes.

Andy responded almost instantly. "To do what's best for Rain."

A second passed, and then he spoke again, his voice softer. "Do you ever think about changing the directive?"

You paused, fingers hovering over the screen as you looked up at him, puzzled. "What are you talking about, Dee?"

Andy hesitated for a moment, his eyes studying you with a strange intensity. "The day Marcus uploaded my directive, I remember asking him if the girl standing above me when I first came back online was Rain. He to me it was you, Y/N."

You laughed lightly, trying to lighten the mood. "Did you ask him if I was a great hacker too?"

Andy's expression remained serious, his voice steady. "No. I asked him, 'But what about what's best for Y/N?'"

Your fingers stilled on the tablet, and for a moment, you didn't know what to say. You looked up at Andy, his face soft with an expression you couldn't quite place.

A small, self-deprecating laugh escaped your lips. "What's best for me? Ha, I've never been too good at figuring that out. If I had a directive for myself, it'd probably be something like 'make everything harder than it needs to be.'"

Andy let out a low hum, his gaze unwavering. "Even if it's not my directive, just know, I'll still want what's best for you."

You blinked back the tears welling in your eyes, quickly turning your focus back to the tablet. "Thanks, Andy," you whispered, your voice barely audible. You continued your work in silence, the weight of his words settling over you like a heavy blanket.

Andy's head tilted slightly, his eyes zeroing in on your face as if committing this moment to memory. "Of course, Y/N... anytime."

The remainder of the time was spent in a comfortable silence as you finished updating his code. You leaned back with a sigh, setting your tablet down beside you. "How are you feeling now, Andy?"

The android paused for a moment, then said, "Well, it's better than before. But if my vision gets any worse, I guess you could say... my future won't be looking 'too bright'."

You just blinked at him, taken aback by the unexpected joke, before laughter bubbled out of your lips. "Was that a 'dad joke'? Where did you learn that from?"

Andy's eyes seemed to brighten, and he sat up a little straighter. "I learned it while walking Rain to work the other day," he explained. "I like them."

You chuckled, warmth spreading through your chest at the thought of Andy picking up on humor. "Well, I'll be sure to learn some more and tell you. We can make it a little hobby between the two of us."

Andy nodded earnestly, his expression softening. "I'd like that. Sharing experiences can strengthens bonds."

You couldn't help but smile at his earnestness. "You're right about that, Dee. We can even start a collection of the worst jokes we can find."

For a moment, the room felt lighter, the shadows less heavy. Andy's presence, his attempts at humor, made the grim reality outside these walls feel a little less suffocating.

It was moments like this that reminded you why you fought so hard to keep your small world safe, even when everything else seemed so uncertain.

A/N: Ahhhh! sorry for things moving thigns so fast with all the time skips, but if you're confused, by the end of this chapter You're like 24-ish and Rain is 21, i'm following fandom ages instead of rain's confirmed 25 age. also, sorry for the long 2 intro chapters, i know most would like to just jump right into the story, but my mind wont let the good stuff happen until it at least lay down the lil backstory 😭💀💀 man, i really need to learn to get over that, but anywhoooo, hope you guys like this enough, thoguh it isn't obvious, i want this to be a sort of a slow-burn, well, on the reader's end at least, lolol, Andy's gonna go full speed tbh, but then again, that's why he's a yandere here.... hope i dont bore you guys too much, but dont fret, next chapter will start immediately with the plot! also, someone asked me to make a tag list so i'll just put that down below:

Tag List: @dreamsarenicer

[winxanity-ii]

⌜I Love, Robot | Chapter 01 Chapter 01 | origins⌟

╰ ⌞🇨‌🇭‌🇦‌🇵‌🇹‌🇪‌🇷‌ 🇮‌🇳‌🇩‌🇪‌🇽‌⌝

❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

You were once a child who knew nothing of struggle or scarcity. Life on the upper decks of the Weyland-Yutani starship felt like a dream. The air was clean, filtered to perfection, and your every need was met without a second thought.

Your parents were brilliant, their minds always buzzing with the latest programming codes and technologies. They were among the best, head honchos of the engineering department, and their talents kept them in high demand.

You, their prodigy, were a happy child, blissfully unaware of the harsh realities below.

But ignorance, as you would learn, could only shield you for so long.

As you grew, you became aware of your intelligence, a budding brilliance that mirrored your parents'. They often boasted about how you could write basic code before you could write your own name. Yet, with brilliance came curiosity, and with curiosity came questions—questions about the world outside your pristine bubble.

You remember a time when your family didn't have to worry about the smog suffocating their very lives. You could run through the gardens, feeling the warmth of artificial sunlight on your skin, never once thinking about what lay beyond the walls. But everything changed when your parents began to speak out.

They'd seen the reports, heard the stories from the miners, and it disturbed them. They became voices of dissent, advocating for those on the lower decks, the ones who toiled away in the filth and grime of the mines, who could barely breathe through the toxic fumes.

Their activism was a risk—a risk that cost them dearly. Accused of inciting unrest and defying company orders, your family was demoted, stripped of all privileges, and sent to the Weyland-Yutani mining colony, Jackson Star.

It was a far cry from the life you knew. Gone were the days of endless blue skies and breathable air. Now, you were surrounded by a world of gray, with the stench of sulfur and smoke clinging to your clothes and filling your lungs.

The fall from grace was swift and brutal. The once-respected engineers became just another pair of hands in the mines, their skills deemed useless in this new, harsh reality.

You watched as the light slowly faded from their eyes, their spirits crushed under the weight of their circumstances. Your father, once so proud and strong, became a shadow of his former self, and your mother, who always had a kind word, grew silent and withdrawn.

And then came the sickness.

The smog that choked the colony was more than just an irritant—it was poison. Day by day, it sapped the life from your parents, their health deteriorating before your eyes. You did everything you could to help, scavenging for medicine, trading anything you had of value, but it was never enough.

You remember those final days vividly. Your mother's labored breathing, the way your father’s hands shook as he tried to comfort her. They were wasting away, and there was nothing you could do but watch. One evening, as the dim light of the colony's artificial sun began to fade, your father called you over. His voice was weak, barely more than a whisper.

"Y/N..." he croaked, his hand trembling as it reached up to cup your face. You leaned in closer, tears blurring your vision as you tried to hold onto every word, every moment.

"Hold on to what's important to you," he rasped, his eyes searching yours, filled with a depth of sorrow and love you'd never seen before. "Never let go... no matter what."

You nodded, a sob caught in your throat, and clutched his hand tightly, feeling the frailty of his grip. "I promise, Dad..." you whispered, your voice breaking. "I won't let go."

He gave you a small, pained smile, his thumb brushing a tear from your cheek. "Good... that's good..." His voice trailed off, and you watched as his eyes slowly closed, his hand slipping from your face, leaving a chill that seemed to seep into your very bones.

You sat there, holding onto him, as the weight of his words settled into your heart. The air was heavy with silence, broken only by the faint, distant sounds of the mining equipment outside.

You felt a hollowness festering inside your 12 year old body, a void that seemed to swallow everything. Your world had crumbled, and all you had left were his final words echoing in your mind.

In that moment, something inside you hardened. The innocence of your childhood was gone, replaced by a steely resolve. You would survive, no matter what. You would hold on to what was important. You would never let go.

☆

☆

After your parents died, you found yourself alone and lost, wandering the vast expanse of the mining colony. Without any clear direction or place to call home, you eventually took to the scrapyards, using what little you had—a keen mind and nimble fingers.

Every day, for the next 3 years, you sifted through the piles of discarded machinery and broken parts, looking for anything of value. You used your skills, the ones your parents had taught you, to piece together whatever you could: small trinkets, makeshift tools, anything that might fetch a few credits in trade.

You built yourself a makeshift hovel in the middle of the junkyard, hidden from sight by towering heaps of scrap. It wasn't much, but it was yours—a sanctuary in the middle of chaos. The days were long and hard, but the work kept your mind busy, away from thoughts of loss and the life you once had.

One day, while rummaging through a particularly dense pile of debris, you stumbled upon something unusual. It was an android, half-buried under a mass of metal beams and broken equipment. Its face was scratched and dirt-streaked, revealing a complex mesh of synthetic skin and exposed circuits beneath.

The android had a human-like appearance, with dark skin that was scuffed and cracked from years of neglect. Its eyes, though lifeless, seemed almost too real, capturing an uncanny valley between human and machine.

The android's limbs were twisted at odd angles, with wires protruding like exposed veins, and its clothing—a faded, grey jumpsuit—was torn and stained with oil and grime. Despite its rough exterior and the damage it had suffered, there was something about it that drew you in. Perhaps it was the way its expression, frozen in a state of calm observation, hinted at a life once filled with purpose.

You spent hours digging it out, piece by piece, until you could drag it back to your hovel. Even in its broken state, you could see the remnants of advanced engineering—smooth, precise joints that suggested strength and agility, and a flexible, durable frame designed to withstand the harshest environments.

You marveled at the craftsmanship, recognizing some of the programming patterns from your parents' work, and wondered what stories this android could tell if it could still speak.

For days, you tinkered with the android, trying to bring it back to life. You knew a bit about androids from watching your parents work, but this was beyond anything you had attempted before. Still, you were determined. You worked late into the night, using any spare parts you could find, trying to restore its power core, to no avail.

As time passed, you continued to scavenge for more parts, your father's words echoing in your mind: "Never let go... no matter what." Bit by bit, the android slowly began to look more presentable, but even then, it wasn't enough.

Until one day, it was.

You were digging through a pile of freshly brought scraps when you spotted it: a small, seemingly insignificant power regulator bulb. It was the kind of part that, while easy to overlook, was a crucial part to getting an android's systems up and running.

The bulb had been haphazardly tossed a few feet ahead of you by a group of scavengers, its glass exterior glinting faintly under the dim overhead lights.

Your heart raced, your mind running thousands of miles a minute. Zoning in on the piece, you slowly stood up, casually making your way toward it. You knew better than to rush; showing any sign of interest could draw unwanted attention. In this place, the second someone realized you wanted something, they would place a price and drive it up, child or not.

Desperate times called for desperate measures.

You were just a few feet away when it happened. A man, covered head to toe in soot and wearing a worn miner's jumpsuit, trudged over with a small wicker basket. His shoulders sagged as if he carried the weight of the world, his face etched with deep lines of exhaustion. He reached down and picked up the bulb, turning it over in his hands.

You held your breath, praying he would dismiss it as junk and toss it aside. But instead, he placed it carefully into his basket with a few other scraps.

For a moment, your world seemed to collapse. That part was your key to finally completing the android, the culmination of all your hard work. Your father’s words surged back to you, steadying your resolve: "Never let go."

Determined not to lose this opportunity, you put your plan into motion; the distant hum of machinery a constant reminder of what was at stake.

You'd become an expert at blending into the background, a necessary survival skill your parents had once joked about, saying you could disappear in plain sight.

As you trailed the man, you kept to the shadows, watching his every move while he searched for more useful scraps. He finally set the basket down to dig through a pile of metal parts.

Seeing your chance, you moved in. Almost soundlessly, you walked over on the tips of your toes. The man glanced your way but then returned to his task, not seeing you as a threat. You slouched slightly to appear even less noticeable and then made your move.

Heart rattling in your chest, you crept closer. Instinct took over, and before you knew it, you’d swiped the bulb from the basket and slipped it into your pocket with practiced ease.

You turned to leave, adrenaline pumping through your veins, but the man was quicker than you anticipated. His hand clamped down on your shoulder—firm, but not unkind.

"Hey," he said, his voice calm but commanding. "Now what are you planning to do with that?"

You froze, certain you were about to be dragged off and punished. But there was something in his eyes, a curiosity that made you pause. "I... I need it to fix something," you mumbled, not meeting his gaze.

"Fix what?" he pressed, crouching down to your level. You could see now that his face wasn't unkind—worn, but not harsh. "Show me."

Swallowing hard, you decided to take a chance. Maybe it was the way he spoke, or maybe it was the loneliness that gnawed at you every day, but you found yourself leading him back to your hovel.

It was a small space carved out among the towering heaps of discarded metal and machinery. The majority of the space is filled with scraps and trinkets you've collected, tools scattered around like fallen leaves.

On the left, a table was piled high with what appeared to be completed gadgets and tech—your attempts at salvaging something useful from the wreckage. The man paused at the entrance, taking a moment to absorb the chaotic arrangement of your makeshift workshop.

His eyes roamed over the space, and before he could ask where you managed to gather all this, something else caught his attention. Among the chaos, there was one object that stood out—a small, pristine picture tablet sitting on a shelf. It showcased a beautiful family of three: a gorgeous woman, a handsome man, and a young child who bore a striking resemblance to you.

He would have brushed it off as just another trinket, but he recognized the faces in the photograph. It was hard not to on Jackson Star. The infamous Tallings family—once high-ranking members of Weyland-Yutani, who fell from grace after daring to speak out about the harsh realities of life in the colonies.

Suddenly, everything about your hovel started to make sense to him. Rumors had circulated for years about what happened to the Tallings' child, the prodigy. Many believed the child had died from sickness, just another casualty of the harsh conditions on Jackson Star or some other far-off base.

Seeing you here, in the flesh, was a surreal revelation. The man was snapped out of his thoughts as you moved further into the surprisingly deep hovel, heading towards a large tarp in the back corner.

With a determined look, you pulled it back to reveal the broken android underneath, its once smooth features now marred by scratches and dents.

The man let out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned," he murmured. "You found yourself an android. And you've been working on it all by yourself?"

You nodded, suddenly feeling very small under his gaze. "I don't really know what I'm doing outside the coding," you admitted quietly. "I just… I thought maybe I could fix him."

The man looked at you for a long moment, then at the android. "I think I might be able to help with that," he said finally. "Name's Marcus. And this here is a rare find, kid. N-D-255's were one of Weyland-Yutani's first artificial people. You've got a good eye."

Hope flickered in your chest. "So, you'll help me?"

He smiled. "On one condition. You let me take you back with me when we're done. Can't have a kid like you out here alone."

You hesitated, glancing around your makeshift home. It wasn't much, but it was all you had known for a while now. Still, the thought of a real home, of not being alone... "Okay," you whispered. "Deal."

☆

☆

Over the next few weeks, you and Marcus worked together to bring the android back online. It wasn't easy, and there were many late nights where you doubted it would ever work, but Marcus was patient and kind, always encouraging you to keep trying.

You grew to trust him, even look up to him.

As you carefully lifted the flash drive-shaped device, which Marcus called the "Reboot Key," he stood beside you, his hand resting gently on your shoulder. "Alright, kid," he began, his voice calm and steady, "this is the moment of truth. Remember, it's okay if things don't go as planned the first time. Sometimes, you have to go back to the drawing board. What's important is that you keep trying, alright?"

You nodded, a mix of excitement and nerves bubbling inside you. You were standing above the android's head, both of your faces level with one another.

The android had a gentle, almost puppy-like expression on its face, its synthetic features designed to seem approachable and non-threatening. Its lips, though motionless now, had a subtle pout, giving it an almost childlike innocence.

You couldn't help but feel a pang of empathy for this machine that seemed so lifelike, yet so fragile in its current state.

"Okay, here we go," Marcus said softly, guiding your hand toward the side of the android's neck. "You need to insert the Reboot Key right here, in this small port. Make sure it's aligned properly, then give it a twist."

With a deep breath, you carefully inserted the device into the port. Your hands were steady, but you could feel your heart racing in your chest.

As you twisted the device, a small spasm shot through the android's body, its limbs twitching for a moment. You gasped and pulled back slightly, but Marcus squeezed your shoulder reassuringly.

"Just a momentary glitch," he said. "Let's see if it worked."

A second later, the android's eyes flickered to life. They were dark and deep, with a subtle glow that made them seem almost alive.

For a moment, those eyes zeroed in on you, and you felt a strange connection, as if the machine could see right through you. Slowly, you backed away, moving to stand next to Marcus as the android sat up.

It felt like an eternity as the android continued to stare at you, its gaze unblinking and intense.

Then, it blinked, its expression softening as it turned its head to look at Marcus before shifting its attention back to you. "N-D-255, Weyland-Yutani synthetic human with mining and guard functions."

You felt a surge of joy like you hadn't felt in so long. Your body trembled with excitement as you stepped forward, a smile spreading across your face. "What is your name?" you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

The synthetic's lips seemed to fall into an even deeper pout, and its head tilted slightly to the side, almost cutely. "I...I don't know."

You fidgeted awkwardly before turning to Marcus. "What should we do?"

Marcus looked as if he were holding back a grin, finding the entire situation funny. "I dunno kid, how about you name him? I mean, you did find him after all."

"N...Name him?" You began to suddenly feel self-conscious as you turned back around only to have the android staring intently at you. You glanced back over at Marcus, who gave you an encouraging nod, a warm smile on his face. "Uh… how about… Andy?" you suggested hesitantly.

The moment the name left your lips, you wanted to punch yourself. Andy? Really? What did it even stand for—android? How original… But as you looked back at the synthetic, you saw its lips curl into a slight smile, its head nodding in acceptance.

"Designation accepted: Andy," the android replied, its small. "Thank you for giving me a name."

With a happy squeal, you turn and throw your arms around Marcus in a rare moment of unguarded happiness. "We did it!" you exclaimed. "We really did it!"

Marcus chuckled, ruffling your hair. "Yeah, we did. And you know what? I think it's time I took you home."

True to his word, Marcus introduced you to his wife and daughter, Rain. She was about your age, a few years younger—three, to be exact. When you first met her, you were about fifteen, and she was twelve.

From the moment you arrived at her home, Rain was like a shadow, sticking to you like glue. She had a fiery spirit and a boundless curiosity that quickly became apparent.

Despite the age difference, she admired your resourcefulness and determination, and the two of you formed a bond that was hard to break.

Over the next few months, Rain was your constant companion. She'd be there every time you and Marcus worked on Andy, eagerly watching as you updated and built upon the android. Her eyes would light up with every new piece of tech you explained, her enthusiasm infectious.

Whenever you went diving for scraps in the junkyard, Rain would tag along, insisting on helping you find whatever parts you needed, her small hands surprisingly adept at sorting through the debris.

She was determined to learn from you, often mimicking your actions and hanging on your every word. There was something about her unwavering trust in you that felt both reassuring and heavy—a reminder of the role you’d inadvertently taken on, not just as a friend, but as a protector and mentor.

You found yourself growing fond of her fierce spirit and relentless curiosity, her presence becoming a bright spot in the otherwise grim surroundings of the colony.

As the weeks turned into months, the two of you became a team, navigating the scrapyards and working on Andy together. With every shared adventure, every quiet conversation under the stars, your bond deepened, forging a bond that would stand the test of time and adversity.

It was then you realized: you'd do anything to protect her.

☆

☆

One late night, Marcus came home from the mines, exhausted from a long day's work. The house was dark and quiet, with only the soft sounds of his wife sleeping in the next room. He expected to find both you and Rain asleep as well, but instead, he saw a dim light flickering from the corner of the workshop.

As he stepped closer, he spotted you hunched over one of Andy's arm panels, a single candle casting long shadows around you. Rain was fast asleep in a chair next to you, which you had padded with some old blankets to make a makeshift bed. She looked peaceful, her small body curled up and her face relaxed in sleep.

The android, still in a state of disrepair, stared intently at you as you worked, its dark eyes reflecting the soft glow of the candle. You were rambling softly to Andy, explaining what you were doing and why each piece was important, almost as if teaching him as you went along.

Your concentration was so deep that you didn't notice Marcus until the sound of his heavy boots on the floor pulled you back to reality.

Looking up, your face broke into a warm grin. "Hi, Marc. Can I get you something?" you asked, quickly putting Andy into sleep mode to not startle him.

Marcus just smiled and shook his head, walking over to where you sat. He leaned down and placed a gentle kiss on Rain's forehead before settling into a chair next to you.

He didn't need to ask why you were still up; he already knew the answer. This wasn't the first time he had found you working late into the night, lost in your thoughts and projects.

The two of you sat in peaceful silence as you continued upgrading Andy's arm, the only sound being the soft clicks of your tools and Rain's gentle breathing.

After a while, you broke the silence, your voice barely above a whisper. "Thank you for everything, Marcus," you said, still focused on your work to avoid looking at him directly. "Really, I mean it."

Marcus chuckled softly. "You thank me nearly every month, Y/N. There's nothing to thank me for."

You sighed, a small smile tugging at your lips. "I know," you replied. Your gaze shifted to Rain, who was still sound asleep beside you. "But truly, if you hadn't found me and taken me in, I don't know what I would've done…"

Marcus nudged you gently, his voice soft but firm. "You'd have done what you've always done—survive," he said, gesturing to the various trinkets and gadgets you'd built and sold over the months to help support the family. "You've got that spirit in you, Y/N."

You waved his words away, a bittersweet smile on your face. "I know that, but eventually, I think I would have lost the fight, ya' know?" Your eyes lingered on Rain as you spoke. "Life isn't really worth living if you don't have something—or someone—to live for."

The room fell silent again, but this time it was different. Marcus looked at you with a newfound respect, seeing not just the lanky teen he'd taken in months ago, but a young person who had grown and matured in ways he hadn't quite realized.

You were more than just a survivor; you were becoming someone with purpose.

"I'd like to code Andy with a specific directive," you said suddenly, breaking the quiet. "To always ensure Rain is safe…"

Marcus started to object, suggesting that both of you should be Andy's priority, but you cut him off gently but firmly. "If there's ever a situation where one of us needs saving, I want it to be her. No point in having a synthetic get confused by probabilities or choices. I know what I'd do—I'd always choose her. No matter the chances of success."

Marcus sighed, understanding your resolve. He knew that even if he wanted things otherwise, you would probably find a way to change it behind his back. With a resigned nod, he agreed. "Alright, we'll do it tomorrow," he said softly, standing up. He leaned down and kissed your forehead, a gesture of quiet affection, before carefully lifting the still-sleeping Rain into his arms with a small grunt.

As he turned to leave the room with Rain in his arms, you watched them go, a sense of determination settling over you. You knew then, more than ever, that you would protect her at all costs.

A/N: hi guys, this was a sort of deep dive into the backstory of Y/N and the growing bond with Rain, so others chapters won't be as long. see you guys next update; don;t mind the typos, etc..... AHHH I couldnt help myself, i fear I've fallen in love with a synthetic being 😩🫶🏾 Andy, my love~

[nainenalina]

Pylades and Orestes / Gary Barkovitch x Reader

Notes: I read stuff was inspired. Gave it my all. All gender neutral. Enjoy the doom and gloom.

The road had turned silver under the moonlight, endless and cruel in its simplicity. It felt like it had been the same strip of cracked asphalt forever — no towns, no signs, just the quiet slap of worn shoes and the distant rhythm of breathing that could stop at any moment.

Gary was walking beside you again. He never said why. He never asked. Somewhere between mile sixty and seventy, he just stopped snapping at everyone else and started matching your pace. Maybe because you didn’t talk much. Maybe because you didn’t flinch when he did.

He looked worse now. His face, once sharp and defiant, was dull with exhaustion. His mouth twitched sometimes — half a grin, half a grimace. You knew that look. He was fighting something in his head.

“Barkovitch,” you murmured, keeping your voice low. “You’re limping.”

He laughed once, short and breathless. “You keep saying that like I don’t know.”

“You’re gonna trip if you don’t slow down.”

“Trip and get my head blown off,” he snapped — but there was no venom behind it. Just a tired echo of the boy who used to pick fights with anyone who looked at him wrong.

You didn’t answer. You just walked closer, brushing your sleeve against his. The touch startled him. He blinked, then looked away, pretending it didn’t happen.

A few miles later, he stumbled.

You caught him by the arm before he hit the ground. His breath hitched — not from pain, but from surprise. You held him there, steady, until his shaking eased.

“I’ll take care of you,” you said quietly.

He froze. For a moment, it was like the words didn’t make sense to him — like they came from another world, one that didn’t exist anymore.

“It’s rotten work,” he muttered, his voice low and ragged. “All of it. Every damn step.”

“Not to me,” you said. “Not if it’s you.”

He turned toward you then, eyes glinting in the dark — wild and wet and scared. “You don’t mean that,” he said. “You can’t. You’ve seen what I—”

“I’ve seen you,” you interrupted.

That shut him up. He looked down, jaw trembling. His breath shuddered. “You shouldn’t waste that kind of softness on me.”

“Too late.”

Something in him cracked then. He looked at you like you were the last thing keeping him tethered to the earth. For a long moment, neither of you spoke. The other Walkers were only shadows ahead, ghosts of boys marching toward nothing.

Gary leaned into you slightly, just enough for his shoulder to brush yours. It was clumsy, hesitant — like he’d forgotten what gentleness was supposed to feel like.

“Don’t do that,” he whispered. “Don’t make me wish this could last.”

“It won’t,” you said, honest and soft. “But it’s still ours.”

His breath caught. Then, slowly, he reached for your hand. His fingers were trembling, calloused and cold, but he held on like it mattered — like it was the first thing he’d chosen that wasn’t born out of rage.

“Promise me something,” he said.

“What?”

“When I go… don’t stop walking.”

You wanted to tell him you wouldn’t. You wanted to promise that you’d survive, that you’d make it farther. But your throat closed around the words. Because you both knew the truth — nobody really walked away from this.

So instead, you just squeezed his hand. Once. Firm and steady.

He smiled then — a real one, faint and crooked and broken all at once.

“Guess I was wrong,” he said quietly. “Guess not everything in the world hates me.”

The guns didn’t fire that hour. The sky began to lighten, barely. And for the first time in days, Gary Barkovitch didn’t look angry. He looked human.

He looked at you like you were someone worth dying beside.

[gaybatmanenthusiast]

Hey hey, can you maybe make one of your sid fanfics gn? (Gender neutral?) thanks xoxo

NOTES IN CLASS (oneshot)

(SID JENKINS X GN! READER)

⋆★ word count : 625

⋆★ warnings : n/a

⋆★ summary : Sid and G/N start exchanging notes during lectures, initially out of boredom. The notes soon turn into inside jokes and small confessions, building up to Sid finally leaving a note that admits his crush on them.

⋆★ extra : I loveee sid, he’s so silly!! anyways hope you enjoy the request sorry it took so long and I hope you like the fic since i didn’t get a prompt ..!! also sorry its short i ran out of creative juices icl!!!! (ALSO THERE IS A LACK OF SID JENKINS GIFS !!!!!!!!)

Sid sat slumped at his desk, barely able to keep his eyes open as the professor droned on about obscure historical dates he’d likely forget by the end of the week. It was the dullest class on his schedule, and judging by the half-asleep expressions around him, everyone else thought so too.

A light flicker caught his attention as a piece of folded paper landed softly on his desk. Frowning, he picked it up, glancing around to see who’d thrown it. His eyes landed on G/N, seated a few rows over, a smirk pulling at their lips as they nodded for him to open it.

Unfolding it, Sid found a simple doodle: a sleepy stick figure with its head against a desk and tiny Z’s floating above. Underneath, G/N had scribbled, “Me, by the end of this lecture.”

Sid chuckled softly, a grin tugging at his lips. Quickly, he scribbled a response underneath. “That makes two of us.” Then, after a second thought, he added, “Actually, you look more like this.” He sketched an exaggerated frown with wild hair and crossed eyes, then tossed the paper back.

This was how it began. Each lecture, G/N would start things off with a new doodle, passing it over when the professor wasn’t looking. Soon, their messages became a regular part of the class, a shared rebellion against the tedium. The doodles turned into inside jokes, funny observations, and eventually, little confessions—things Sid had never thought he’d share with anyone.

One day, G/N’s note asked, “Ever think about leaving this town?”

Sid’s response was hesitant but honest: “Every day. Just don’t know where I’d go.”

Each exchange made Sid’s feelings grow a bit more. It was subtle at first, a quiet excitement each time a new note landed on his desk. He’d find himself arriving early, hoping to catch a seat close to G/N’s, feeling a strange disappointment if they didn’t walk in right away. Their messages became something more than just a way to pass the time; they were the best part of his day.

As the weeks wore on, Sid started feeling the shift between them. Maybe it was the way G/N’s eyes lit up when he passed back a particularly witty note or the way they’d laugh, quickly covering their mouth to stifle the sound.

One afternoon, Sid found himself staring down at the latest note, his heart thudding as he read G/N’s latest words: “You’re funnier than I thought, Jenkins.”

It was a simple sentence, but it made his chest tighten in the best way. Maybe he was reading too much into it, but he couldn’t deny it anymore—he liked G/N, and he needed to know if they felt the same.

On impulse, he wrote at the bottom of his response, pausing to tap his pen nervously against the paper. Finally, he scrawled out the words: “I like you, you know. Properly like you.”

He folded the note tightly, clutching it in his slightly sweaty palm as he waited for the right moment. When the professor turned to the board, he quickly slid the paper onto G/N’s desk and looked away, his heart hammering. He didn’t dare look as they unfolded it, his stomach twisting with nerves.

After a long, torturous silence, another folded note appeared on his desk. With shaking hands, he opened it.

“I like you too.”

The simplicity of the words made Sid’s heart skip. He glanced over, finally catching G/N’s gaze. They held eye contact for a second before both of them broke into shy, matching grins.

It was all the confirmation he needed. The world around them faded, the lecture, the professor, the scratching of pencils all dimmed in his mind. In their quiet little corner of the classroom.

[pure-sstarlight]

"Bad engineering!"

Ryland grace x reader! (FLUFF)

summary: during your period, eridians, Rocky, and his mate, Adrian, fuss over you! eridians purr. and rocky getting mad ragebaited at the idea of human 'engineering' (part of da 'saturday cuddles' universe!)

yaps!: thank you so much @saturnhas274moons for recommending this idea to me!! mhwamhwa, hope u like this..hehe..ook enough of angst (for now), for my next fic, what would u guys want?? more fluff or ANGST..lmk! listened to "Saturn" by Sleeping At Last, and "And The Winner is" while making this!

You are curled into a tight ball on the "bed"—that massive, reinforced platform layered with every soft textile and scrap of insulating foam salvaged from the Hail Mary. Every few minutes, a sharp, white-hot wave of pain rolls through your abdomen, a familiar monthly visitor that feels particularly cruel when you’re light-years away from a pharmacy.

Under your shirt, the jagged line of your "Rocky Scar"—the mark left behind when your Eridian friend saved your life—pulses in sympathy-like with the cramps. It’s a reminder of survival, but right now, you just feel like a mess of malfunctioning nerves and a waste of carbon.

A heavy, metallic thump-clack echoes across the floor. You don't have to look up to know it’s Rocky. His five-legged structure is as familiar to you as your own mind. Beside him, the lighter, more melodic tapping of Adrian’s claws follows.

"Question?" Rocky’s synthesizer voice rings out from the nightstand, clear and inquisitive. "Why is Human Y/N still in the insulation pile? The 'sun' has cycled twice. Teaching time is soon. Grace confused. I also confused."

You groan into your pillow, a sound that translates to the Eridians as a low-frequency distress signal. Adrian moves closer, her form rotating with concern. She reaches out a warm, stone-like limb, hovering it just inches from your back.

“Temperature is high,” Adrian’s whistles and clicks are translated by the small device clipped to her harness. “You are leaking heat. Is there a hull breach in your biology? Is human dying!? Please do not die! It would be very inconvenient and sad.”

"I'm not dying, Adrian," you wheeze out, squeezing your eyes shut as another cramp ripples through you. "It’s just... a human thing. My body is resetting. It hurts. A lot."

Ryland wanders in then, looking disheveled, holding a mug of chamomile tea the Eridians replicated. He sees the three of you huddled together and immediately softens. He knows the look in your eyes; he’s seen you power through lab accidents and alien microbes, but he knows this particular brand of misery is one that requires total surrender.

"They're worried about you," Ryland says softly, sitting on the edge of the platform and placing a hand on your shoulder. "Rocky thinks you’re melting because your core temp jumped a degree. I tried to explain human reproductive cycles to him, but he just got offended that your body 'destroys its own systems' once a month. He thinks it’s bad engineering."

“It IS bad engineering!” Rocky interjects, his claws clicking rapidly against the floor. “Why break the internal walls? Just keep the walls! If I built a ship that melted its floor every thirty days, Grace yell at me!”

"He's not wrong," you mutter, pressing your face into Ryland's thigh. "Ryland, tell them I'm okay. I just need to be a potato for about four days."

Adrian tilts her head, her eye focusing on where you are clutching your stomach. “You are in pain. Pain is for when predators bite. There are no predators in the dome. Except maybe the vacuum, but the dome is strong. If you are in pain, we must fix.”

"You can't fix it, Adrian," Ryland says, stroking your hair. "It just has to happen. Heat helps, though."

The word heat seems to trigger something in the Eridian pair. On a planet where the surface temperature could melt lead, "heat" is their specialty. They are technically biological furnaces, their carapaces radiating a steady, dry warmth that far exceeds any electric heating pad.

Rocky steps up onto the platform. The bed groans under his weight, but it’s sturdy. “I am heat, statement.” he declares with a flourish of his limbs. “I very good at being hot. I am the best heater on Erid. Adrian is also a good heater. We will insulate the problem.”

Before you can protest, Rocky moves with surprising gentleness. He doesn't crowd you; instead, he maneuvers his heavy, five-sided body so that he is braced against your back, his warm carapace pressing firmly against your spine. The heat is immediate and intense, sinking through your shirt and into your aching muscles. It’s a dry, deep warmth that seems to vibrate.

Adrian doesn't want to be left out. She climbs onto the other side, tucking her limbs in and resting her front-side near your abdomen, being careful not to put her full weight on you. She feels like a living stone warmed by a desert sun.

Ryland watches them with a look of pure, unadulterated affection, full of care. "I think you've been secured by the Eridian Heating Company," he jokes. He crawls into the middle of the pile, slotting himself behind Rocky so he can still reach over and hold your hand.

"This is... actually amazing," you whisper. The crushing weight of the Eridians combined with their radiating heat acts like a full-body pressure therapy. The sharp stabs in your stomach begin to dull into a heavy, manageable ache.

Then, the sound starts.

It begins as a low-frequency hum, so deep you feel it in your teeth before you hear it. It’s a rhythmic, pulsing vibration coming from both Rocky and Adrian. It isn't the musical whistling of their speech; it’s more primal, a steady thrum-thrum-thrum that echoes the beat of your own heart.

"Are they... purring?" you ask, your eyes fluttering shut as the tension finally drains from your shoulders.

"Yeah," Ryland whispers, his voice thick with sleepiness. "Rocky told me about this once. When they have 'pebbles'—their young—they communal-sleep. They produce a resonance in their carapaces. It’s meant to stabilize the heart rates of the young and keep them calm while they grow. It’s a biological lullaby."

“You are small,” Rocky’s translator chirps, though his voice is lower now, hushed. “You are un-harmonic. You are pebble today. We vibrate buzz pain away. Sleep now, statement. Grace, sleep. You are noisy when worry.”

Ryland chuckles, his fingers interlacing with yours. "Copy that, Rock'. Sleeping now."

The dome is silent save for that incredible, ancient purring. It’s a sound that has existed on Erid for millions of years, a song of protection and kinship. Nestled between the two aliens and the man who traveled across the stars with you, the pain in your body feels insignificant.

You feel the scar on your side—the one that matches the one on Ryland's arm. It feels warm, almost glowing against the heat of Rocky's shell. You aren't just a human in a dome anymore; you are part of their kin, a family that doesn't care about biology or species, only about the fact that one of their own is hurting.

The lavender and apricot light of the artificial sunset fades into a deep, restful indigo. As the Eridian purring synchronizes, your breathing slows. Ryland’s head drops onto your shoulder, his breath hitching in a soft, rhythmic snore. Adrian shifts her weight, her claws making a tiny, comforting tink against the bed frame.

The last thing you feel before falling into a deep, dreamless sleep is the overwhelming sensation of being loved—not just by a man, but by a planet. You are tucked into the safest place in the universe: a cuddle pile at the edge of the galaxy, guarded by two biological furnaces who think you’re a very poorly engineered, but very dear, friend.

Outside, the Eridian winds howl and bash against the glass, but inside, there is only the warmth, the purring, and the steady, unbreakable bond of home.

yippee, WHAT DO WE THINK GAIS.....once again, many thanks to @/saturnhas274moons and friends for proof-reading/inspiration! much love, Aντίο, atsisveikink, paalam, and adiós! thanks 4 reading!1! 💚🤞 next fic might be ry n u meeting rocky and adrians pebbles EHEHEHEHE....👀

[doctor-ryland-grace]

Meet the Pebbles. ( Ryland Grace x Reader. )

hol' up im cookin'

Title: Meet the Pebbles. Pairing: Ryland Grace x Reader. Rating: K. ( Fluff. ) Words: 639 Summary: Rocky and Adrian come visit you and Ryland along with 5 new additions.

The biodome was stuck in that space between late afternoon and early evening, humid air curling softly against your skin as the crashing of the waves tickled your eardrums, humming almost in time with the support system that kept the environment outside from overbearing what was inside. It was peaceful.

Almost. 

If it wasn’t for the absolute chaos happening in front of you. 

Five tiny xenonite suits were clinking and scraping across the sand as five Pebbles, the very affectionate name that you and Ryland had decided on for the Eridian young, stumbled around on uneven little claws, each no bigger than a softball. The suits themselves were slightly oversized, purposeful as they were still useful now and would continue to be with the growth they were going to experience. That didn't take away from the frankly adorable wobble it gave them, dramatic and unsure every few steps. 

“Children are smart.” Rocky announced proudly, his carapace lifting in a way that indicated such elation.

“One hundred percent inherited that from Adrian.” Ryland quipped teasingly, earning himself a rather offended sounding hum from Rocky.

But, before the new parent could say something snappy in return, because he had already thought of at least five things to reply with, one of the Pebbles, a smoother brown, green and swirly deepish purple one, bumped into Ryland’s shin, the contact of their rockish body hitting the xenonite suit with a small clink. The tall blonde crouched, his knees cracking a bit with the movement as his hands hovered nervously, like a father reluctant to let his child go when learning to ride a bike for the first time. “Ohhh, buddy, careful---”

They tilted backwards so far back that you were certain they were going to fall over onto the top of the carapace, but luck was on their side! The slightly oversized suit compensated at the last moment and kept them upright.

A moment later, the toppling Pebble was joined by one of their siblings, the xenonite suits kissing each other as their little claws began a battle. Ryland melted. You had the pleasure of watching your lover’s entire face soften as the tiny hatchlings chirped excitedly, the sounds not as fluid or recognizable as adult Eridians, but you were able to catch a few flying words in the unfinished language patterns. One thing in particular, really. 

“Grace.” “Grace.” “Grace.” Three of them said almost in unison and for a second, you thought Ryland was going to burst out into tears as he looked over at you with glossy eyes. “Did you hear that? They’re saying my name!!”

“They must really like you.”

You smiled softly, your hands helping Adrian out with another Pebble who thought it was a good idea to attempt to get sucked into the riptide of a wave, their smaller body, not as dense as an adult, almost floated away. You carried them back to the scene of chaos, Adrian letting out a few tones of what you had to assume was parental scolding at the young daredevil Pebble. Gently, they were placed back on the beach, lingering a few seconds by Adrian, tangling between their legs, serving as an apology of sorts, before trailing to meet their four other siblings around Ryland’s feet. 

“Children enjoy Grace.” Rocky announced certainly. “Grace shaped like climbing structure. Good for Children's coordination.” In other words - Ryland was a jungle gym and he was allowing the little Pebbles free reign to his limbs and body out of the joy of bringing Rocky’s and Adrian’s children the utmost amusement.

“You know what?” Ryland said, grinning like a mad man as he sat down and immediately was overcome by five small Eridian carapaces, two trailing along his ankles, one resting on his knee and the other two fighting for dominance in his lap with rather cutely aggressive claw slaps. “I’ll take it.”

Taglist: @strigiform-titan @whats-my-hyperfixation @negativefoursanity @everythingismadeofchaos @t0nystank @greenlalianime @my-cat-can-slay-dragons @gardenavenue @whore-msc @goslingcore @rivercattail @ambertiger5 @starsbelongtotheworld @emmyishere77 @wayward-avenging @rocktthehouse @unabashednightmarepizza @lowbudgetdoll @lastminutescience @anixszci @lov3lanuage @hailholyground

@allthelittlethingsssss @sl13-ce @nicassie @emblunt46 @cemeterystardust @ckq-fics @writingforrhys @brunomarzbootylicker @icomewithpeace @theemeraldcorporalnik @kusogeki@starsbelongtotheworld @s4turn3st @astroangel-3000 @electro-elemena@poopoopeepeesupreme @bigsloppycrush @exactlyelectronicstudent @sayadinaa @lorraine-ackerman @sixtiessongs @introvertathome @petersluvbug@moon-trash1507 @romantics-and-eternity @faelvz @reredaydreams @ummilovesidneycrosby87 @samanddeaninatrenchcoat @cestlavie03 @matt-murdockk @shittyprofilebutfuckit

[doctor-ryland-grace]

Ryland and you are just staring at one another after analyzing the Taumoeba sample from Adrian. There’s nothing but the hum of the ship around you as the predators on the screen attack the Astrophage. A heavy moment without Rocky, that’s where both your thoughts go first before it breaks. Ryland is almost scooping you into a tight hug, his long arms tucking around you, your arms snaking around his neck. 

There’s the dull sensation of pain from injuries sustained from the Adrian event but you both push it aside for something deeper, something that hurts more but savors every feeling as a means to an end. Your heartbeats, the only two this far from home, heavy against one another. You just saved Earth and Erid. 

You did what Rocky wanted, what his last message pleaded. But there was no way to celebrate with him so you and Ryland find each other holding on that much tighter, your ribs almost bursting with heated pain, knuckles turning white from over-exertion holding on around his neck. Ryland can feel the splitting nature of a headache behind his eyes from the minor concussion he figured he had from the force of impact to the console but none of that matters anymore. Ryland begins crying into your neck, squeezing you that much tighter as you roll onto your tippy toes to accommodate his tall frame. But for now, as the two of you break down, joyous for the moment but solemn in worry of Rocky’s sacrifice and his healing body, it feels like the weight of the World has been lifted and you’re allowed to be Human about it. About everything. Things that weren’t on the table before but suddenly are because you have a future. 

“W-we did it.” Ryland sobs against you, the action causing an entire shiver to rattle down his body and you take as much of it as you can, tucking your fingers into his blonde hair and squeezing your eyes shut as tears are pouring down your cheeks. “I-I w-wish Rocky were…” Ryland chokes up, squeezing you again as you nod your head against him in agreement. 

“Shhh…” You murmur, brushing your hand through the hair at the nape of the scientist’s neck. “He’ll be awake soon…” Ryland shuddered a bit at that. He needed to hear that after telling himself over and over again the same thing. Something about your voice vocalizing it, reassuring him… Made it feel better and less like a fresh wound waiting to be re-opened. “I-I don’t know how he did it… When hi-his crew were sick… Watching them day in and day out…” “Ryland---” “I can’t sleep. What if he…---” 

He pulled away from you just enough for you to see the streaks of tears falling down his face and getting caught in his beard. And without hesitation, you reached a hand forward and trailed your fingertips against the coarse hair on his face. You knew how that felt, sleep wasn’t coming easy to you either in the last few days since the incident. What little sleep you got was commendeared by the fear of the unknown that clung so desperately to the air. 

Ryland fluttered his eyelids shut and leaned into your touch, his mouth visibly shaking from lack of control of built up emotions that were laid aside in favor of scientific discovery and necessity to save two planets. “You need to sleep, Ryland.” Your voice was soft, barely audible for a moment as the Molecular Biologist loosened his grip on you just slightly. “Rocky wouldn’t want you like this.” 

I don’t want you like this, it was on the tip of your tongue but you shushed yourself from saying it and let your fingers expand against his face, tracing the side before cupping around his ear. He swallows softly, the muscles in his neck contracting with tension. He knows you’re right. Ryland knows, but it still scares him. 

“C-... can you watch me sleep?” His voice was vulnerable and fragile, right on the cusp of emotional tautness from strain, Ryland tilting his head to the side just a small amount and letting his cool mouth slide across the skin of your hot palm. “Please…?”

You nod wordlessly at the man, so small despite his larger body, so… Afraid, like even his shadow would scare him, so utterly exhausted from trying to save the world and Erid as if your own body wasn’t on the verge of breaking down itself. “I’ve got you…” You whispered to him, Ryland’s jaw flexing in the ambient light of the lab as your fingers tucked into the hair around his ear.

You knew your time would come. Ryland would watch you sleep, let you bask in the dreams and notions of going home, but he needed it first. The way he looked at you with half-lidded eyes, his blue eyes almost bloodshot, the way his heavy form began leaning into yours. He needed it first. “Sleep as long as you need, I’ve got you…”

[maplesuckerr-deactivated2026052]

A DREAMY MAN…

content : targ!reader sighs to her youngest brother Aegon about how she desperately wants his knight

pairing : targ!reader x duncan

word count : 1049

“Oh Aegon,” you sighed dreamily, falling onto your bed with one arm tucked beneath your head. You rolled onto your side to face your little brother, who was reading peacefully in your bed, because your room was the only place your older brothers dared not enter. “Yes, sister?” He asked calmly, looking down at you. He had devoted himself to studying since he’d been confined to Ashford Castle. And listening to you- Aegon always listened to you. “Aegon he’s really just dreamy…”

“Who?” He returned, gaze flicking between his book and your enchanted face; he was used to you debating which lord to marry or not to marry. “Lord…?”

“No lord Aegon!” You huffed, rolling onto your back and staring at the cream coloured wall. “A lord could not amount to him… they’re all so pompous, showy… he’s honest…brave…”

“Who?” Aegon demanded with a bit more sass, snapping his book shut. Not a lord? Well that was a first. He’d better be someone good, because when you were this set on something, like you had been those Dornish dolls, you were bound to get it- but if Maekar didn’t like it… “Is it a knight then?”

“Why it’s your Ser Duncan!” You squealed, turning to see him properly, with now your front pressed into the bedsheets and your chin propped on your folded arms. Aegon’s eyes were unbelievably wide. “I see why you like him, though I suppose we don’t like him for the same reasons.” You blushed softly, and Aegon didn’t know whether he should be repulsed or excited.

“Will you tell father?”

“Tell father what?” You frowned. “That I am utterly taken by your knight?” Aegon nodded, his shaven head bobbing up and down. “No!… he would not accept it.”

“Don’t be discouraged, sister,” Aegon urged; if you could get closer to Duncan then maybe he would be allowed to squire for him. “Father says your stubborn, and he always lets you get your way.”

“Aegon’s not wrong, but father is still unlikely to approve,” Aemon passed his wisdom as he too drifted into the room, seeking refuge from his older brothers with his oldest sister. He did not lounge on the bed like his younger brother, but instead sank into the closest chair, tugging it near the bed. “But, and no offense, what could you see in that brute?”

“He’s not a brute!” You and Aegon snapped at the same time, and poor Aemon recoiled in his chair, sinking lower down. His refuge was not a safe space after all. “Sorry..”

“No matter,” you apologised, ruffling his silver hair. Now you sat up, back against the headboard so you could see both of your younger brothers properly. “I met him at the tourney.”

“I didn’t see you.” Aegon’s brows drew together, and his face scrunched in concentration. “Surely I would have?”

“Oh no, Duncan had said his squire was tending to his horses,” you explained, a fond smile on your face as your mind drifted to your interactions with him. “Isn’t he sweet?”

“He threatened to clot me around the ear more than once,” Aegon muttered. “And he often bossed me about.”

“You deserve a clotting sometimes.” Then, with a more reasonable voice, “and he was your knight, he ought to give you a firm hand.”

“And you would also like to be given a firm hand by him?” Daeron drawled drunkenly, a wicked grin on his face as he wandered in. At this rate, your bedroom had become the safe house to hide from Aerion’s troubles. Usually Daeron did steer clear too, but tonight he must have been truly terrible. “Daeron!” You scowled, hauling a pillow at his head.

“What does he mean?” Aegon cocked his head.

“Nothing, be innocent of the knowledge- your brother is foul,” you murmured, covering Aegon’s small ears with your delicate hands.

“I understand what they don’t, dear sister.” Daeron sprawled across the foot of your bed. “It is not merely the sweet words that attracts you to his hedgeknight,” he snickers. “I think his size has some influence over you- perhaps in a certain department?”

Aemon glanced down at his hands.

Aegon frowned further.

You grit your teeth against your brother.

“Do not be a fool!”

“By all means, tell our father. He’ll have your love exiled to the free cities indefinitely.”

You gasped, then whined a pitiful cry of despair- “oh he would, wouldn’t he? Father can be so harsh sometimes.”

“You’re his first daughter, he is protective. And he needs you to marry well.” Daeron waves his hand offhandedly, before swiping his brown hair out of his eyes. “Also do not tell Aerion of this, he’ll have the knight hacked down.”

“Why?” Aegon fretted, lifting himself free of your arms. “Would he truly do that? He can’t hurt Ser Duncan!” Daeron sighed and coaxed him back down. “He wouldn’t want a hedge knight staining the blood of House Targaryen.”

“Daeron do not tell him these things,” you scolded lightly, letting Aegon settle into you.

“I know of Aerion’s monstrosity- we all do,” Aegon argued, looking at Aemon who nodded in agreement. Aemon was perhaps happy that he’d be shipped off soon enough, and never have to suffer through this again. “Still,” you persisted. “The less you know about him, the better.”

“He’s horrible to me! He killed my cat! He swore-”

“Shh…” you silenced him from a tirade not unfamiliar to you. “I know, I know.”

“Perhaps when she runs off with her hedgeknight she’ll steal you a cat,” Daeron winked.

“Would you?” Aegon blinked up at you.

“Run away or get you a cat?”

“I think you’d do both,” Daeron snorted, before you thwacked him surely around the head again with another pillow.

“I wouldn’t want to disappoint father…” you said solemnly, tracing your fingertips over the soft fuzz of Aegon’s growing hair.

“It’s alright,” Daeron groaned, stretching. “He has two other daughters. Maybe he can forgive your foolishness.”

“I am not foolish… Duncan is surely a better match than some of these dramatic lords,” you grumbled. “He is an honourable man…”

“Agreed,” Aegon piped up once more, loading his book into his arms again. “We should make a plan.”

“A plan?”

“Mh-hm, yep, and when you run away, I’ll gladly come with!”

[lesbiholmes]

It Ain't Me, Babe

Ryland Grace x Reader

______________________________

Ryland Grace’s face is the last one you ever expected to see here on the Vat. Well, maybe not the last face, but not the first, or second, or even the hundredth person. Yet, here he is, standing in front of you, explaining how he discovered astrophage breeding. 

What?

The last time you remember seeing him was when he was moving out of your shared apartment because he was too head sure to admit he was wrong, and ran all the way to the bay area to escape his exile. 

Leaving you alone. Alone with your stupid research and a 7 year long relationship down the drain. 

Whatever.

So while he talks, explaining his stupid discovery in his own stupid way, you aren’t really listening. Just staring at him blankly, Stratt next to him.

Did she bring him onto this? How did she find out about him? Was it through you? You had helped him publish his life ruining paper, did she see your name attached? You had been smart enough to call it quits when you did, resulting in the end of your relationship in Denmark. 

Your career survived because you knew when to call it quits. 

Ryland didn’t.

Stratt had found you due to your specialization in extraterrestrial lifeforms. Had dragged you on as an expertise, and recruited you as an astronaut for Project Hail Mary. It’s not like you had anything to lose, you stopped the whole “relationships” thing when Ryland ran. 

Fate is cruel, you think. Whatever God that’s there is cruel, only a cruel one would bring your ex-fiance to your glorified funeral. 

You had already imagined the last time you would hear from Ryland, he’d see you on the news and realize you were going up into space to save everyone. He'd say something stupid, and thank you for what you were doing, maybe apologize for what happened. You’d send a thumbs up back and that’d be that.

Instead, while looking out at the sea, you feel someone stand next to you, staring at you with sad eyes. You don’t have to turn your head, you don’t even need to think twice.

“Seeing a ghost?”

You can almost imagine his frown worsening, and if you didn’t spend months crying into pillows about him, you’d feel bad.

“I didn’t think you’d be here. Stratt… recruited me, due to our-... my paper. Which, I’m sure you know, is still useless, but I uh… was able to learn some stuff anyways. Stratt has kinda made me an expert in Astrophage. So… I guess we’ll be working together.”

Great. You’ll be working together.

You keep your eyes on the water, it’s calmer than you feel. There’s jealousy in your chest.

Ryland shifts beside you, hands fidgeting, tapping against his thighs, like his body can’t keep up with his brain. Some habits don’t change, apparently.

“Look...”

You beat him to it. “If this is an apology, you’re several years too late.”

He exhales, a soft, wrecked sound. “Yeah. I know.”

Silence again. It’s the kind that used to be comfortable, that used to mean everything was understood without saying it. Now it just feels wrong.

“You left,” you say finally, still not looking at him. “Not just the apartment… or me. You left everything. Your research, your colleagues, your life.”

“I didn’t leave my research,” he says quietly. “That was the problem.”

That gets you to look at him. He looks… older. Not in a dramatic way. Just worn down around the edges. Like someone sanded him a little too hard. There are lines you don’t remember, a tightness in his jaw that never used to be there on his soft features. If you were a stupider person you’d try to smooth it out.

“You blew everything up.”

“Yeah.” A humorless huff. “That too.”

You shake your head, turning back to the ocean. “You didn’t even fight for us. You just decided you were right, and that was it. You were done- with me and your job. No discussion. No compromise. Just… gone. You just left.”

“I thought if I stayed, I’d drag you down with me.”

That wasn’t the answer you expected.

“I was already going down,” he continues, words coming faster now, like he’s been holding them in for years. “The paper, the backlash- I knew it was going to get worse. And you… your career was just starting to take off. You were getting cited, invited places, people actually respected you. I couldn’t-” He breaks off, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I couldn’t be the reason you lost that. The reason you lost what you always told me you wanted so badly.”

“So your solution was to make that decision for me?”

“I thought I was protecting you.”

“Well, congratulations,” you snap. “You did a great job. Really. Nothing says ‘protection’ like running away without a real conversation and letting me find out you moved across the country through facebook like a coward.”

He flinches. Good.

“You don’t get to rewrite it now, you don’t get to turn it into some noble sacrifice.”

“I’m not trying to,” he says. “I screwed up. I know that. I’ve known that for a long time.”

“Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

That lands harder than anything else. You can see it in the way he freezes.

“I wrote… letters,” he admits after a moment. “A lot of them. I just… never sent them.”

You stare at him. “That’s not better, Ryland.”

“I know.”

God, you hate how easily he says that now. Like he’s had years to practice admitting fault, just never to your face. Another wave crashes against the vat below. The wind picks up, tugging at your clothes, your hair, filling the space where words should be.

“You don’t get to fix this,” you say eventually. “Not now. Not here.”

“I’m not trying to fix it,” he replies. “I just-” He hesitates. “You deserve an explanation. I didn’t expect to see you again. Not like this.”

“Yeah,” you mutter. “Funny how that worked out.”

A humorless almost-smile flickers across his face. “Yeah. End-of-the-world reunion tour.”

You huff despite yourself. It’s brief and involuntary. You hate that it feels right.

For a second, something like the old Ryland is there… lighter, softer, the one who used to make you laugh in the middle of arguments just to break the tension. It’s gone just as quickly.

“I didn’t know you were on the project either. Not until I got here.”

You believe him. You’re not sure why. Maybe because lying was never his problem.

Being *right* was.

Another long pause settles in.

“You’re really doing it?” he asks softly. “Going up there?”

You shrug, like it doesn’t matter. Like you didn’t already say yes to a one-way trip into the dark. “Someone has to.”

He nods, eyes dropping to the ground. “Yeah. That tracks.”

You study him for a moment.

“You?” you ask. “Are you volunteering too, or are you sticking to ruining things on Earth?”

He lets out a quiet breath. “They haven’t asked me to go.”

“Would you?”

He looks at you then. Really looks.

And for a second, it feels like being seen again in a way you haven’t let yourself be seen since he left.

“…I don’t know,” he admits.

Honest. At least that hasn’t changed.

“Figures,” you say, turning back to the ocean. “You always ran when it mattered.”

That one hits.

You know it does.

But instead of snapping back, he just nods slowly, like he’s accepting the blow.

“Yeah,” he says. “I did.”

The wind carries the words away before you can decide what to do with them.

You cross your arms, staring out at the endless stretch of gray-blue water, and wish, just for a second, that this was any other reunion. But it isn’t.

It’s this one, and he’s here, and before you know it, you won’t be.

Years pass faster than they have any right to. It’s not because time is kinder here, quite the opposite actually. It’s harsher, measured in simulations failed, candidates lost, bodies that couldn’t adapt, minds that couldn’t hold. But routine has a way of dulling sharp edges, and proximity has a way of wearing people down into something… softer. Or at least something quieter.

You and Ryland have not fixed things.

You have schedules that never quite overlap unless Stratt forces it, meetings where you both speak, but never to each other, papers passed back and forth with clinical notes, stripped of any kind of personality.

Then one day, somethings different.

He makes a mistake in a calculation, something simple, something old Ryland would’ve caught instantly. You point it out without thinking, scribbling over his work with a muttered, “You dropped a factor here.”

When he stiffens you expect defensiveness, maybe an argument. 

Instead, he just says, “Oh. Yeah. You’re right. Thanks.”

And it feels like how you both used to work together, what brought you together and then tore you apart. It feels right, which is all too wrong.

And it happens again, and again. Conversations become less like landmines and more like… negotiations. You’ll still snap sometimes. He still shuts down sometimes, but neither of you runs anymore. You’re figuring out how to know the new versions of each other, and something about it makes your heart ache. 

It’s months before launch now, and you find yourselves alone in the lab at 2 a.m., surrounded by equipment and the dim glow of samples pulsing like captured starlight. You both are exhausted, which is probably why you fall into conversation.

“You’re holding it wrong,” he says, nodding at your setup.

You don’t even look up. “I’m not.”

“You are. The thermal gradient-”

“I accounted for it.”

“For the old model,” he replies, stepping closer. “We updated the parameters after-”

You shove the tablet at him. “Then show me where I’m wrong.”

If this were a year ago, you’d argue, he’d give up on the conversation and you two would call it a day. But he just… takes the tablet, leaning in beside you, though not quite crowding you. Your shoulders brush, which should make you feel nothing.

Apparently nothing is right today.

He scrolls, frowning in concentration. “Here. This assumption… see? It doesn’t hold if the replication rate spikes under radiation stress.”

You follow where he’s pointing, and… he’s right.

“That’s new.”

“Yeah.”

“...Good catch. Thank you.”

He glances at you, checking for sarcasm that isn’t there.

“…You’re welcome,” he says.

You fix the model together, movements syncing in that old, familiar rhythm you swore you’d buried. Passing tools without asking. Finishing each other’s thoughts before they’re fully formed.

You both recognize the familiar dance but don’t say anything to break it.

By the time launch is close enough to feel real, the distance between you has changed. It’s a gap now, one you both stand at the edge of, neither quite willing to cross.

You eat in the same room now, almost together. Conversations happen, not about either of you. Never about either of you. Instead, about work, about the mission, about stupid things like whether Stratt has ever slept in her life.

(“She doesn’t blink enough.”

“She blinks.”

“Name one time.”

“…That’s not the point.”)

You almost let yourself think things are like they were. 

The night before final simulations lock, you’re staring out at the water.

“Hey.”

You don’t turn right away. “Hi.”

He comes to stand beside you, closer than he would’ve before. Not touching. Just… within reach. For a while, neither of you speaks, and it’s almost that same comfortable silence it used to be.

“That’s it, huh?” he says eventually. “We’re actually doing this.”

“Looks like it.”

“You’re… ready?”

You shrug. “As I’ll ever be for a suicide mission.”

He exhales softly. “Yeah, that’s… that’s fair.”

Silence settles again. You’re both anxious, you messing with your necklace under your shirt and him twiddling his thumbs.

“There’s something I’ve been meaning to say,” he adds.

“If this is another apology-”

“It’s not.”

You glance at him. He’s not looking at you. Just out at the water, hands shoved into his pockets like he’s trying to hold himself together.

“I meant what I said back then,” he continues. “About not trying to fix it.”

“Good,” you say. “Because you can’t.”

“I know.” A beat. “But… I also meant that you deserved an explanation. And I gave you one, but-” He hesitates. “It wasn’t the whole truth.”

You sigh, turning fully toward him now. “Ryland-”

“I was scared,” he says, cutting you off, “I told myself it was about your career, about protecting you, and part of that was true, but mostly… I was scared of being wrong.”

You blink.

“That paper, the backlash- everyone looking at me like I’d lost it. I could handle that. What I couldn’t handle was you looking at me the same way.”

“I never-”

“I know,” he says quickly. “You didn’t. But I thought you would eventually. And I didn’t want to watch that happen. So I left first.”

The words hang there.

“…Running away is a terrible strategy,” you finally come up with.

He lets out a quiet, breathy almost-laugh. “Yeah. I’ve had some time to reflect on that.”

“You think?” You stare out at the ocean, before sighing, “So what, now you’re not scared anymore?”

He considers that.

“No,” he says. “I still am. I’d still run. But I feel… I feel like I’m moving in the right direction.”

There’s something in the way he says it that lands differently than anything before. You nod slowly, like you’re filing it away.

“Good,” you say. “That’s… good.”

“Hey,” he says quietly.

“Yeah?”

“If things were different…”

You shake your head, a small, firm motion. “They’re not.”

“I know.”

Silence.

The kind that says more than words could.

After a while, you let out a breath. “You know, for what it’s worth… you’re not the same person you were. So… if things were different. Yeah.”

__________

It’s been a month on the Hail Mary, and you and Ryland have gotten to know each other pretty well. He’s a bit dorky, kind, and witty. You have to imagine you were friends back on earth from the way you two get along.

It feels like you two were two parts of a puzzle, no wonder you were chosen for this mission together. A team like this? It happens once in a lifetime. 

You’ve managed to be set up pretty well as you approach Tau Ceti, Ryland’s sleeping now, you technically should be too, but you wanted to finally look through your personal things. Ryland had already seen his, including the lone photo of himself. You assume your belongings might be similar, and they are for the most part. The only difference is you have two other photos, one a photo of you grinning next to a woman you remember as Eva Stratt, holding her in a bear hug, and the other…

The other photo.

You and Ryland, with your left hand held up to the camera where a ring is being shown off on your left hand. You two look much younger, and he’s holding you close and staring at you with something in his eyes. 

Like you created the earth itself.

Your hand reaches for the necklace you have on, the ring hanging off it.

Weird. 

Guess you were close friends?

_______________________________

A/N: Part 2 if I feel like it maybe either way reqs open so if anyone has ideas lmk!!!!

[cherryheairt]

sad sad sad

[scootercomputertxt]

Chat, Am I Cooked? - D. D.

“Women can exist near me without being biologically related to me.”

“No they can’t,”

“You are not helping me.”

Dominic DiGigesu x reader, established relationship, fluff, chat thinks he can't pull, kisses

nonsense disclaimer: this is RPF, don't like? don't read! wc: 889

masterlist

Dominic is practically folded into his desk chair at this point, one socked foot tucked underneath him while he shows off his reels collection between reading chat messages. The stream has completely lost direction somewhere around fifteen minutes ago, but nobody seems interested in fixing that. 

“Are the industry plant rumors true?” Dom says, already giggling before he can even finish the sentence. “What do you think Cam?”

Cameron’s stretched across the couch behind him, scrolling on his phone like he has anything better to do. “Yes. I personally paid everyone 12 bitcoin to make edits of me talking about feet.” 

I overhear this from the front door and immediately lean into the room before I’ve even taken my shoes off. “Only twelve? That’s honestly kind of offensive.”

Dominic’s head snaps toward me so fast he nearly falls sideways out of his chair. “There she is,” he says immediately, grinning.

Cameron gestures vaguely toward me without looking up from his phone. “See? She gets it.”

I kick the door shut behind me and walk further into the apartment setting my bag down on the counter. The second I notice the webcam pointed directly at Dominic, I pause. “Oh, you’re still streaming.”

“Against my will,” Cameron says flatly.

Dominic swivels slightly in his chair to follow me with the camera. “Chat,” he announces proudly, “look who finally came home.” He reaches for me automatically the second I get close enough, fingers hooking around my sleeve before tugging me closer until my knees bump against the side of his chair. 

I lean down beside him to squint at the monitor. “Hi, chat.” I give a small wave to the camera and the messages immediately start flooding in. 

WAIT WHOS IS THAT OMG UR SISTER IS SO HOT DOES THIS MEAN UNC HAS GAME DOM HAS A GIRL OVER????

“Oh shit, someone said omg your sister is so hot.” I read aloud, my hand flying to my mouth, trying to contain my laughter.

Dominic’s entire body jolts the second the words leave my mouth.

“What?” he says immediately, twisting toward the monitor so hard his chair squeaks against the floor.

I’m already laughing, one hand still pressed over my mouth while I point uselessly at the chat flying by too fast to read properly. “Right there,” I manage. “They think I’m your sister.”

Cameron finally looks up from his phone, sees the messages, and immediately drops his head back against the couch cushion. “Oh no.”

Dominic leans closer to the screen in complete disbelief. “Sister is insane, by the way.”

Chat somehow starts moving even faster.

THERES NO WAY THATS HIS GIRLFRIEND THAT IS A SIBLING BE SO SERIOUS

I bend forward laughing, bracing one hand on the edge of Dominic’s desk to keep myself upright. “Why are those the only two options?”

“Thank you,” Dominic says, pointing at me emphatically before looking back at chat. “Exactly. Women can exist near me without being biologically related to me.”

“No they can’t,” Cameron says from the couch.

Dominic turns around so fast he nearly clips his knee against the desk. “You are not helping me.”

Cameron shrugs without looking up again. “I’m being realistic.”

Another few messages flash across the screen.

dominic CANNOT pull like that be so fr is she being paid as part of the psyop

I fully lose it at that, laughing hard enough that I end up leaning against the back of his chair for support. Dominic gasps dramatically, grabbing at his chest like he’s been physically wounded. “Okay, wow.”

“That’s so mean,” I say through laughter.

“It IS mean,” Dominic agrees immediately, grabbing my wrist and tugging me closer again. “Look at me. I’m charming.”

SHE LOOKS TOO NORMAL FOR HIM ASK HER IF SHES SAFE blink twice if he kidnapped you

Dominic squints at the monitor. “Kidnapped? I don’t even know how to drive.”

“That actually does make you less threatening,” I admit.

Cameron snorts loudly from the couch while Dominic stares up at me in betrayal. “You guys are unbelievable,” he says, though he’s already smiling again. He hooks an arm loosely around my waist, absentmindedly pulling me against the side of his chair while he keeps scrolling through messages. Then another one pops up.

brother or boyfriend call it rn

“Oh my god,” Dominic mutters. I can already feel myself starting to laugh again.

He looks at the monitor for another second before suddenly grabbing my face with both hands and turning me toward him.

“Guys,” he says frantically, “she is NOT my sister, look.”

“Dominic…”

Then he kisses me. It’s supposed to be quick, I think, but I start laughing halfway through it, which makes him laugh too, and suddenly he’s smiling against my mouth while one hand slips around my waist to pull me closer.

Behind us, Cameron makes the most exhausted noise I’ve ever heard in my life and drops face-first into the couch cushion. The second Dominic pulls away, he turns back toward the monitor, looking unbearably smug, thumb still brushing against my cheek. “See?” he says breathlessly. “Girlfriend.” The chat absolutely explodes.

THAT PROVED NOTHING HE LOOKED TOO EXCITED I STILL DONT BELIEVE HE PULLED HER

Dominic stares at the screen in silence for a long moment. Then he points accusingly at the monitor. “HOW DID THAT NOT PROVE ANYTHING?!”

A/N: yes i know i posted yesterday what about it

[persephonesdreams21]

Sweet Tooth

A/N: Well let me say first and foremost. My bad guys. Lol I didn't mean to keep this rotting in my drafts for almost a year, but life got crazy. I hope you guys enjoy this

Warnings: Explicit. Oral(fem receiving) Body worship. Finger sucking. Squirting. Multiple orgasms. Willy being down bad.

Summary: You’re sweeter than any chocolate he could cook up, and Willy is all too eager to show you just how much he craves you. Your smiles, your attention…your taste.

The last few weeks of your life have been vibrant.

Filled with technicolor so unlike the dreary years you’ve spent in this town. Between the weather and the chipped cobblestone, England was so gray this time of year. Frigid and frozen over with winter winds and a constant flurry of snow.

It was on a particularly cold night that you’d found him.

Saved him, he’d argue whenever he told the story. Saved him from Bleacher and his mangy mutt.

“Don't you ever get tired of harassing people?” you'd sighed as you'd stumbled upon the scene. A familiar one- another poor soul about to get roped into Bleacher and Scrubbit’s barely concealed hoodwink. Everyone who’d grown up in this city knew better.

“Why don't you mind your business, Y/N. And leave us be. Both me and mister-” Bleacher looks to the man. The one with the sharp cheekbones and the ostentatious velvet trench coat.

“Wonka. Willy Wonka” And he’d said it with such innocence gleaming in those bright eyes that in that moment, you knew you couldn't let him fall victim to the cruel scam.

That’s how you’d ended up with an unexpected housemate.

The home you’d grown up in is nothing special and far from fancy, but you do happen to have a spare room. One with an old fold-out bed that’s more comfortable than it looks. It may have been stupid, but you couldn't help but trust him. Want to help him, feel this pull to him…

That was weeks ago. Almost a month now.

Willy living with you, under your roof, feels oddly natural. Like it had been years that the two of you had been co-existing, he fits into your space like he was destined to come to you. Like he belongs there; the two of you working together like a well oiled machine.

You cook dinner, he washes the dishes and wipes down the counters. The house has never been neater. Even though you try to deny them, every day when he returns from the Gallery Gourmet, he leaves silver shillings in the key bowl on the kitchen table.

“It’s not much…but I want to make sure I’m paying my way. I’m real appreciative of all you’ve done for me” he tells you so earnestly it makes you blush. You sneakily slip his sovereigns in the pockets of his trousers when you do his laundry.

He doesn't know it but he’s helped you too. And not just by scrubbing dishes.

You truly hadnt realized how lonely you were until he came along, and you were terrified of losing your found companion. You’d hold on to him for as long as he’d allow.

Your new favorite time of the day is the evenings; quiet ones. With a fire burning in the hearth and the radio playing softly. You and Willy curl up on the couch, warm in your respective quilts. And read. Well, you read to him. At his persistent insistence.

“Aren't you tired of me blabbing yet?” you tease as you pick up the dog eared copy of The Hobbit that the two of you had been working your way through.

Willy gives you a grin, all boyish and crooked “Never that. I adore the way you tell stories”

That makes your stomach swoop dangerously and you shake your head “You’re a flatter, Mr. Wonka”

“No, no. Your voice is more melodic than the bells of Notre Dame” and when he says things like that to you, how are you not supposed to swoon? From any other man it would make you scoff, but from Willy his compliments always feel different.

Like maybe he’s telling the truth…

You ignore it and change the subject to something that feels safer “One day i'm gonna put you in front of a map and make you show me all the places you’ve been”

“Honestly, It would probably be easier to mark off the few places I haven't been-”

“Oh ho ho ho. How modest of you, great explorer” You tease around a laugh and his ears redden a bit at your ribbing.

“It's not like that and you know it” Willy defends “It was a lot less glamorous than it sounds. I spent seven years under the deck scrubbing pots and then collecting ingredients for my chocolate whenever we made port”

“And wooing girls on every continent?” I ask and that blush on his ears spreads to the high apples of his cheeks.

He’s a pretty one and you know even though he pretends to be demure, might come off as innocent, he’s anything but.

You’d gotten a small taste of it, and hadn't thought of anything else since. But neither of you had quite mustered the bravery to talk about that yet.

The two of you settle in on the old worn couch with mugs of steaming hot chocolate, courtesy of Willy. He’d spoiled you rotten, made you develop a terrible sweet tooth. Any cavities you develop, you’re completely blaming on him.

“Willy” you whine.

“Just try it, please. I made this recipe especially for you”

You take a sip.

The first rush of flavor over your taste buds has your eyes fluttering.

“Mmm, oh my god” you can't help but moan. It’s the most complex thing you’ve ever tasted. Truly. He’s outdone himself- cinnamon and warmth.The kind that feels like a a lovers embrace. Sweet milk chocolate. Is that a hit of rose? “This is insane, what’s in this?”

At your praise Willy smiles like the cat that caught the canary “Cinnamon bark from Sri Lanka, Wild roses from China. Coconut milk”

You look over at him, appraising. Trying to figure out why his voice has taken on that husk. Why his eyes are boring into so intensely.

“What a peculiar combination of flavors” you whisper and Willy bites his lip.

“Its become my favorite combination lately” he admits “but I can't seem to get it quite right. You see, I was allowed to taste it only once, and its tormented me since”

Your breath hitches. Flashes of tangling tongues tongues and his lips pressed against yours. It had only been one kiss but it had wreaked havoc on you since.

You eyeball the mug in your hands. Maybe you weren't the only one suffering with the after effects after all.

“Is this chocolate supposed to taste like?...”

“You. Yes. Your kiss. Your tongue and your lips” Willy nods. “I don't know if anything can come close to the real thing, but I tried”

Your heart thunders behind your ribcage. The longing in his voice matches the one within your gut, the need that had been brewing.

“I’ve spent hours. Thinking of you, trying to imitate your taste so that I could have it one more time. Spicy, but not quite. More warm. Sweet…the floral note from your lipstick. I’ve been nearly everywhere and i’ve never sampled anything quite like it”

With his confession, the thin thread of control snaps.

You’d been trying, so hard. Trying not to scare him away. Trying to keep the intensity of your feelings at bay so that he’d stay, even after he secured his shop. That he wouldnt leave you when he found success-

You place the mug down on the old wood of the side table-

“Please” Willy’s pathetic as he grabs at your arm “Don't go, I understand if this was too much but I- I didn't know how else to show you”

You lean into his touch, not away and that seems to calm him if only just.

Of course this sweet silly man couldn't just tell you that he cared for you. That was not his style. He was bad with words, so much better with his hands. To him, he’d shown you the most sincere form of devotion, crafted your portrait with his most loved medium.

“I feel the same” you say, voice quivering just the tiniest bit. His eyes melt and he comes in close, forehead knocking against yours.

When you kiss him its hot from the start. It’s wet and electric, charged with emotion. With desperation. Willy’s sinewy hands are all over you, cupping your chin, squeezing your waist, so much more bold this time. The waiting had lowered any inhibitions he might have had.

It’s frantic, him unbuttoning your blouse and you tugging at his trousers.

You need more. Need to feel his dark silky hair between your fingers, his pale skin under your palms.

Nothing feels like enough. Not when he mouths at your garment covered breasts or when you wiggle out of your skirt.

You reach into his boxers, wanting to palm at the blood hot hardness you’ll find there-

He groans and pulls his mouth away from your neck, where he’d been suckling marks into the delicate skin. “Wait, don’t”

“Why?” you’re confused, you can feel him. Firm and needy under the cloth.

“Because I want to take care of you first. With my mouth. If you’ll let me”

And oh. Oh.

All you can do is nod. Lay back and let him take what he needs, you feel more vulnerable than ever before. When he blankets you with his body, you realize that you also feel safer. Adored by this man, by this odd beautiful man.

Willy is a tactile person. He wants to touch and taste. And so that is what he does.

There’s so much to feel. Your heavy breasts, peaked with hard little nipples that he swirls his tongue round. Your belly and wide hips, so soft, so much give, he watches his fingers dig in and indent. Your thighs, so plush.

He buries his head between them. And inhales, deeply.

“Willy!” you exclaim, scandalized, trying to close your legs, but he shoulders his way deeper.

“You smell so good” Willy reassures you, his nose pressed against the wet patch on your knickers. Groaning like it’s the best scent in the world.

He takes his time, savors the moment as he peels the damp fabric away. His eyes locked on how the strings of slick stretch and shine in the low fire light. You’re so wet, the puffy lips of your cunt sopping already. And when he takes his first tentative lap, he knows that he could do this for hours and there's no way he’d ever be able to replicate it.

Nectar from the gods. Earthy and sour sweet.

You whimper as he feasts, as he gorges greedily. The sight of his dark head bobbing between your thighs makes you shudder. It’s almost unreal. That he’s doing this, that he wants you. His arms are wrapped around the back of your thighs, holding them up, holding you open.

You come for the first time with your fingers buried in his hair, pressing his face deep into you. Riding his nose and tongue.

For the second time you’re arching away from the sharp pleasure.

“Willy” you choke on your whines as his fingers reach deep into you, hitting that sensitive place inside over and over. You’re shaking with overstimulation, but hes groaning like he’s the one being brought to orgasm over and over.

He pulls his wet mouth away every so often. To tell you how beautiful you are. How good you taste.

“I can’t” you whisper, warningly.

“Please” Willy insists, his breath against your clit “One more, one more for me”

You can't deny him anything, can you?

You arch right up from the couch cushions, squealing as you hit that peak again. But this time is different, this time something inside you bursts, pushing wetness out in a flood.

Willy lets out a gutted sound from where he’s smothered by your thighs, that have tightened vice like around his head during your orgasm.

Coming down from it is almost painful and you’ve never sobbed from pleasure but well. There’s a first time for everything. While you shake and shiver Willy’s gentle, petting your thighs and tummy in soothing circles. Pulling away from your over sensitive flesh.

He stares up at you, his gaze heavy and his tongue poking out every few seconds. Swiping at his wet lips. Like he can't stop tasting you. It’s debauched. Beautiful.

“You are the best thing i’ve ever tasted” Willy pants out the vow, raw with honesty. Drunk on the flavor of you.

Wryly, you wonder if he’ll try to manufacture it into a truffle. A fancy bon bon.

You smile as he climbs back fully on top of you, your arms wrapping around him and holding him close. You kiss the shell of his ear before whispering-

“My turn to taste you”

🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬🍬

I never thought I’d be writing Willy Wonka smut but well. Here I am lol

[sansaorgana]

— AN UNEXPECTED BRIDE

PAIRING — Prince Daeron Targaryen x fem!Reader

SUMMARY — Maekar throws a feast for Daeron to find himself a wife. His son avoids most women there until he finds one hidden in the gardens. They seem to have something in common – neither of them wants to get married.

REQUEST — (1)

AUTHOR’S NOTE — The request was for Reader to be kinda like Eloise Bridgerton, so I tried my best. The story is set in the normal setting, yet I kept imagining our beloved characters in regency clothes. 🤣 I won't be posting for a few days and I probably won't be very active because my friend comes to visit me! ❤️‍🔥

WARNINGS — Reader's mum is a widow

WORD COUNT — 3,280

ENGLISH IS MY SECOND LANGUAGE.

AN UNEXPECTED BRIDE

Your sister Lysa was elated when your mother read out loud the letter from Summerhall. Prince Maekar was throwing a feast and inviting all the suitable young ladies to join, hoping his eldest son would finally settle down and find himself a wife.

You rolled your eyes when Lysa jumped and clapped her hands.

“Do you know what it means that I was invited? It means the Prince finds me worthy enough,” she pointed out as your mother nodded happily.

“Is not Prince Maekar’s eldest son a hopeless drunk who spends more time at taverns and brothels than at his own castle?” You asked.

Your mother and sister froze at those words, finally paying attention to you and giving you a scolding look. You grinned at them and shrugged.

“Those are only rumours,” Lysa gasped.

“Besides, a husband like that might be a blessing if he is also kind. His wife can do basically anything when he is nowhere to be found,” your mother added. 

“If you say so,” you yawned.

“(Y/N)! I would not be so arrogant if I were you because if I do marry the Prince… You will be next,” Lysa chuckled.

“I am not getting married, I said that already,” you insisted. “I am going to be a spinster. You and your drunk husband will pay for my food and dresses.”

“Not if you are mean to me,” Lysa teased.

“Enough of that,” your mother stood up. “(Y/N), you’re going with us for the feast to keep your sister company. Perhaps there will be other kind young men who might change your mind about marriage.”

You groaned and huffed, which made Lysa giggle. You knew there was no point of arguing with your mother about it because she was a stubborn woman.

Daeron hated the idea of the feast and he hated the idea of getting a wife. How could his father be so cruel to ignore the fact he would make a woman married to him miserable?

Maekar’s stern eyes were following Daeron everywhere during the feast. His son had a goblet of wine in his hand but he was barely sipping from it, knowing that appearing drunk would bring his father’s anger on him. So would avoiding all those pretty ladies that were dolled up just for him, approaching him with wide smiles.

“They are like cows led for slaughter,” he mumbled out to his father when Maekar walked up to him.

“Then do not be a slaughterhouse,” his father commented.

Daeron sighed. He didn’t expect his father to understand. He wasn’t plagued with dragon dreams and he saw his son’s alcohol problem as nothing but a spoiled kid’s whim.

“Lady Florent is approaching us. Fucking smile,” Maekar hissed out and Daeron forced the corners of his lips to curve upwards.

Poor Lady Florent. She was wearing a beautiful blue dress and her eyes were sparkling at the sight of the Prince.

“M-my Prince,” she bowed her head. “I am grateful for the invitation,” she blushed.

“You are welcome, my Lady,” Daeron only said and sipped on the wine as Maekar gave him a deadly look. “How… How do you find the feast?”

“Oh, it is splendid,” the young woman nodded. “I hoped for more dancing, though,” she suggested nervously.

Daeron chuckled but he did not offer her a dance, so Lady Florent looked down and eventually walked away. He felt bad for treating her this way but he knew that it was all for her own good in the long run.

“Behave,” Maekar mumbled out through gritted teeth.

“I need fresh air,” Daeron excused himself and put the goblet of wine down before rushing to the doors leading to the gardens.

He took a deep sigh and took a turn to the less busy area behind the bushes. The sounds of the feast were muffled now and he no longer had to fake a smile as he walked ahead. 

Then he froze because someone was sitting on a bench he was going to sit on. A young woman in a pretty dress who must have been one of the guests. She was reading a book, so immersed in it that she paid no attention to him.

Daeron clasped his hands behind his back and cleared his throat.

“Ekhem.”

You looked up, unimpressed. When you realised it was Prince Daeron himself, you only smirked.

“Oh, hello,” you bowed your head a little. “Are you bored of the festivities already, my Prince?”

Daeron was a little surprised. You didn’t even stand up, you weren’t trying to make puppy eyes at him. 

“I needed fresh air. What are you doing here, my Lady?” He inquired.

“I am not an enjoyer of such events, I was dragged along with my mother and sister. I found my way to the library and your brother, Prince Aemon, who was hiding there, allowed me to take this book to read,” you explained.

Daeron chuckled. Half of the family was hiding from that feast. His father must have been fuming.

“May I join you?” Daeron asked and you nodded, moving slightly to leave more space on the bench.

The Prince took a seat next to you and glanced at the book you were holding. It was a history of the Free Cities.

“Are you interested in politics?” He asked, a bit confused. He had never met a Lady your age who was into such things. Older women – sure. But not the young ones. Or perhaps he hadn’t been paying enough attention.

“I am, of course,” you shrugged. “Are you?” You raised your eyebrow at him.

“Not really,” Daeron admitted.

“They say you are more interested in wine,” you said, quite bravely. Daeron was taken aback but he only laughed.

“I have my reasons,” he assured you. “You have a rather big mouth, my Lady.”

“Well, I do because I do not have to care about marriage,” you explained.

“Are you married already perhaps?”

“No. I just decided I am going to remain a spinster,” you said and Daeron laughed again.

“You are the most peculiar,” he admitted. “I can imagine the feast full of women who are willing to sell their souls just to marry me must be a dread for you.”

“Oh, I pity them,” you huffed.

“So do I,” Daeron nodded and you furrowed your brows as you looked at him more intensely.

“You do?” You inquired.

“I am not a husband material,” he confessed. Something was telling him that you would understand. “I am not a monster, though. I do not wish to cause any woman distress or be the reason for her misery. It is my father who insists I should take a wife.”

“Why would you be the reason for a woman’s misery, my Prince?” You asked. You were curious because you wanted to know what to warn your sister about.

“As you noticed yourself, I am a drunkard. But I do not drink for pleasure. I drink to stay sane for I am plagued with dragon dreams. Do you know what they are?” He asked but you shook your head. “At night, I dream of dreadful prophecies and they always come true in one way or another.”

“Is alcohol truly the only thing to keep you sane, my Prince?” You asked.

“Perhaps not but I’ve never tried anything else,” he admitted.

“You are too self aware to cause your future wife distress,” you wanted to cheer him up and he tilted his head at your words, curiously. “The worst kind of husband is a man who hurts you but he doesn’t realise that or he does but he does not care. A man like you would be cautious. I do not think your future wife is entirely doomed.”

“Thank you. That actually means a lot to me…” Daeron nodded, blushing slightly. He stood up awkwardly. “I think… I think I should be going back to the feast… My father will be angry that I disappeared.”

“Of course,” you picked up your book already and paid him no more attention.

Daeron nodded his head and walked away, turning his head around a few times to take a few more glimpses of you.

“What do you mean you don’t know her name?!” Daeron raised his voice at his shocked brother Aemon who was cornered by his eldest brother in the library.

“What did I need her name for?” Aemon shrugged.

Daeron sighed. He was feeling hopeless as he ran a hand through his hair.

“I am sorry, I shouldn’t have raised my voice,” he told his brother.

He couldn’t stop thinking of you. At the end of the feast he had come back to the gardens but you hadn’t been there any longer. And when he had gone back to the castle, people had already been leaving and you had been nowhere to be seen.

He had inquired everyone about you before remembering his brother had talked to you. But Aemon didn’t know your name either.

Maekar was not pleased with his son’s behaviour but a sparkle of hope appeared in his heart that perhaps there was still a chance for Daeron to find himself a wife. It would be much easier if he knew who you were, though. Maekar did not trust his son’s instincts and choices. He had a feeling you were a candidate he would not approve of.

Therefore, without telling Daeron about it, Maekar sent out letters to all the guests, inquiring about how everyone was having fun, hoping someone would mention more than one daughter attending. He wanted to find out about you first, so in case you were not someone he wanted as his daughter-in-law, he could tell Daeron to snap out of it and move on.

Out of all the letters that came back, only one stood out. Most people were writing long and boring compliments about the feast, the castle and Prince Daeron. Only one woman wrote that her eldest daughter had found the festivities to be outstanding but her younger one had not been an enjoyer of such events, yet she still had found a reason to be pleased because of a book she had been given to read from Prince Aemon.

It had to be you, Maekar realised as he grabbed the envelope and read your family’s name. He hummed to himself. Not bad, he thought.

But he still didn’t know what you were like.

Your mother was shocked to see Prince Maekar paying her a visit. He said he was nearby on his way to King’s Landing and his horse needed to be fed but she still found it extremely lucky that the Prince chose her place to rest at instead of anyone else’s.

“Welcome to our humble castle, my Prince,” she greeted him. 

“It is anything but humble,” Maekar looked around as he sat down on the chair and spread his legs open. “You are widowed, am I right?”

“Oh! Yes, yes… I live here alone with my two daughters,” your mother nodded. 

“And the heir…?”

“The King allowed me to live here with my daughters until I die. There is no male heir of my late husband’s family left. After my passing or if I move out, the castle will be given to someone else,” she explained. “Our King is as good as they say indeed.”

“Indeed,” Maekar rolled his eyes. “I have to admit something, my Lady.”

“What is it, my Prince?”

“I am not here by coincidence,” he explained and your mother’s heart picked up its pace. She smiled widely as she hoped he would reveal that his son Daeron wanted to marry your sister Lysa. “Prince Aemon wanted me to visit you on my way to King’s Landing so your daughter could have the book she had found so fascinating,” he explained and reached out towards his servant.

The man opened the bag he was holding and put the book about the Free Cities on the table. Your mother’s jaw dropped.

“Oh! I see… That is… That is very kind of your son,” she whispered.

“Is your daughter here?” Maekar inquired.

“Yes, she is!” Your mother nodded and looked at the maid standing nearby. “Go get (Y/N),” she ordered and the girl walked away in a hurry.

After a while you entered the room and froze at the sight of Prince Maekar. You bowed your head a little as your heart skipped a beat.

Why was he here, you wondered? Was he here to announce your sister was to be wed? You should be happy for her. Yet, when you imagined your sister marrying the Prince who had bothered you in the gardens, you felt an odd sting of jealousy.

“(Y/N), come here, my darling, look. Prince Maekar brought you a gift from Prince Aemon,” your mother beckoned you over and you ran up to the table with widened eyes.

“Oh! That is amazing!” You smiled at Prince Maekar and he nodded.

“My son wanted you to have it,” he said.

“Thank you so much,” you felt the heat in your cheeks and you grabbed the thick book to press it to your chest.

“If (Y/N) was a man, I would send her away to make her a maester,” your mother joked. “She has no interest in marriage and she spends most of her days with the books.”

“Lady Mother!” You scolded her for the joke at your expense.

Maekar furrowed his brows. You were a strange one. You intrigued him.

“Why no interest in marriage?” He asked.

“Oh, I…” You looked at him nervously. “I do not like the idea of belonging to someone,” you answered but the Prince scoffed at that.

“And as a spinster you will not? Living at the mercy of your family? As a Lady Wife you can run the family yourself,” he pointed out.

“That is if I marry a man who respects me and such are a rarity,” you insisted. Your mother widened her eyes.

“(Y/N), that is enough,” she chuckled anxiously.

“No, no, the young Lady has a point,” Maekar agreed. “It is a shame, though, that she insists on being a spinster,” he sighed as he stood up. Your mother stood up, too, as if she was trying to make him stay, convinced that he was leaving already because of your behaviour. “Because my son cannot stop talking about her,” Maekar finished and laid his cold eyes on you.

You swallowed thickly and blinked a few times.

“Excuse me?” Your mother asked. “You… You mean Lysa?”

“No,” Maekar shook his head and looked at her now. “In fact, I cannot recall a single moment of Daeron spending time with Lysa at the feast,” he pointed out. “He cannot stop talking about a young girl from the gardens, however. It is you, is it not, Lady (Y/N)?”

You nodded, hesitantly. Your mother glanced at you, surprised.

“The Prince fell in love with my (Y/N)?!” Your mother asked, her eyes sparkling. You rolled your eyes.

“Love is a strong word, my Lady, but he surely is infatuated,” Maekar laughed.

“Why would he be, my Prince? I told him very plainly about not wanting to get married,” you wondered out loud.

“Well, that makes two of you, does it not?” He chuckled.

Daeron couldn’t understand why his father seemed so happy after coming back from King’s Landing. Only in the evening did he find out the truth.

“I found you a wife and you will marry her no matter what. End of discussion,” Maekar announced and squinted his eyes at his son.

“Father, no!” Daeron protested. “How can you be so cruel to this young woman, whoever she is? And you know perfectly well that I am trying to find the girl from the garden and–”

“I said: end of discussion,” Maekar repeated. “Now, leave.”

“Father!” Daeron whined.

“She will arrive in a fortnight and you will marry her. If I were you, I would start trying to improve myself.”

Daeron left his father’s chambers angrily. Instead of doing what his father suggested, he went to the tavern to get drunk.

On the day his future bride was supposed to arrive at Summerhall, Daeron looked like a mess. He was not drunk yet but last night’s festivities with his friends were still visible on his face. His hair was messy and put behind in a careless manner, there were dark circles under his eyes and a slight stubble on his face. 

The worst thing was that he had no idea what to expect. His father kept the identity of his betrothed a secret for some reason. Daeron couldn’t truly prepare a strategy so he just decided to greet his future Lady Wife like this – without lying about himself, without pretending to be someone he was not. No, he wanted to give her the full picture of what a disaster he was. And, perhaps, a chance to run away from him.

When the carriage arrived, he looked down and drew circles in the mud with his shoe.

His father approached the carriage and helped a middle-aged woman to leave it. Daeron glanced at her for a moment but then he looked down again.

“Welcome to Summerhall, my Lady,” Maekar kissed the back of her hand. “Was the journey troublesome for you and your daughters?”

“No, not at all, my Prince,” she shook her head and looked inside the carriage. “Lysa, (Y/N), come out!” She ordered.

Daeron looked up once again, curious about the women. The first one who left the carriage was one of the young Ladies from the feast, one of those with puppy eyes and wide smiles at the sight of him.

Daeron sighed. She was pretty and probably very kind, too. But he truly did not want to marry her.

Then, his heart froze and he got dizzy at the sight of another woman leaving the carriage. Or rather jumping out of it excitedly in a quite unladylike manner.

It was you.

You had a big smile on your face and your eyes searched for him in the courtyard. When you spotted him, you chuckled and ran up to him.

“My Prince!” You greeted him. “I’ve heard you were yearning for me,” you teased him.

Daeron let out a laugh of joy and relief. He glanced at his father and Maekar nodded at him with a kind smile. His son couldn’t believe in how kind and generous his father could sometimes be.

“Indeed, I was,” Daeron admitted. “Are you my bride-to-be?”

“Indeed, I am,” you smiled.

“I thought you planned to remain a spinster?” Daeron raised an eyebrow at you. He suddenly felt bad about looking like a mess. He had to stink like alcohol and he wished he had shaved before.

“Well…” You looked around. “I did like your castle, so…” You chuckled and so did he.

He led you inside the castle as he kept looking at you nervously.

“What is it?” You asked. “Please, do not tell me now that you have changed your mind,” you sighed.

“No, no… It is that… I regret looking like a disaster. If I had known it was you, I would have made myself look more presentable,” he admitted with a blush.

“You are a disaster, though, so I do appreciate the honesty,” you shrugged. “Besides, you will not be a disaster for long because I will not allow it any longer,” you raised an eyebrow at him.

Daeron smiled sheepishly. He had a feeling you would be as stern with him as his father. But perhaps it would be for the better.

MASTERLIST

[spider-stark]

WINTER ROSE

pairing | theon greyjoy x stark!reader

summary | you and theon aren't good at sharing how you feel, but one thing's for certain: you do not want to marry roose bolton

warnings | MDNI 18+, written with season one theon in mind, some vulgar language, doesn't adhere to canon, probably ooc don't come for me i'm trying my best (first time writing for theon), not beta read so if there's an error kick me

word count | 2.5k

Laughter floated like music from Winterfell's great hall, humming all throughout the vastness of the garden.

You wished it actually was music.

There was a misconception that northerners didn't like music. This was the reason singers seldom traveled to the snowy lands beyond the Neck, and why harpists never dared for fear of losing a prized finger to frostbite for no more than a few coppers. Madness, you often scoffed at the matter.

Everyone liked music.

It was central to all of Old Nan's greatest stories. A song, a dance, a knight and a lady pressed chest-to-chest, lips mere inches from true love's kiss. "That's how all wars ought to end," she'd say over the click-clack of her needles, ignoring how the boys groaned while the girls listened eagerly at her feet, "with a love that can staunch the bleeding of a realm."

You believed in the power of song and dance, and even extraordinary kisses. But true love was where your belief suspended.

You weren't like Sansa and little pea-brained Jeyne, still young enough to think all men as kind and chivalrous as those in Old Nan's stories. You knew men could be unpleasant even when powerful, cruel even when courtly.

Still, you weren't yet too old for pretending. And tonight, you thought, seemed as good a night for it as any.

The winter roses had finally bloomed.

Here in the furthermost corner of the garden, your secret spot since childhood, the world appeared a wild thicket of pale blue petals and emerald leaves, competing only with the stars above for the title of Most Beautiful.

Sitting on a bench of carved stone, cold enough to kiss the backs of your thighs even through the thick layers of your finest dress and cloak, you gazed sightlessly at the petals. There was a dream in your head. A silly, girlish dream.

Some lord would happen upon you, a fair maiden alone in the night, snow melting in your hair. He would be stricken by you. Would walk amongst the flowers, considering each winter rose until he found the prettiest of them. He would pluck it, come forth and place it in your hair, introducing himself on a breath of sweet nothings.

In your dreams, the lord was young and handsome, with hair always slightly mussed. His eyes were the murky blue green of the Sunset Sea. He was bold and kind and eager, with a heart made for laughing. Familiar and brave and just a little bit bawdy. Capable of lighting a fire inside you that no one else could, of knowing what you needed even when you failed to know yourself.

He would be all this and more, you dreamt.

And he would not be Roose Bolton, you prayed.

"By your mother's gods!"

The curse jolted you from thought, head snapping to the concealed pathway leading to your secret spot. You instantly relaxed at the sight of your father's ward, maneuvering through the tangled shrubbery with practiced ease, careful to avoid thorns.

"What are you doing out here?" He sounded amused as always. "Trying to see how fast you can freeze a tit off?"

You smiled. "You know Robb would have a fit if he heard you talking about my—" the word wouldn't come out. It was as if Septa Mordane herself had pinched your tongue between her fingers, lecturing you on indecency.

Unintentionally, you wondered about Roose Bolton's methods on dealing with indecency from his lady wife... and prayed it held no correlation to their sigil.

Theon laughed and finished your sentence for you. "Tits."

You nodded—and if your cheeks grew warm, it was only from the cold nipping at your skin.

"You're right," Theon sighed dramatically. He was through the bushes now, shaking stray leaves off his cloak; but you knew from the grin he failed to hide that you were in for one of his shows. "It's insulting actually, that Robb believes I'd actually dishonor—no, not even that: ravage," he corrected, "his baby sister. Honestly! Look at me: do I look like some doltish brute to you?"

You tapped a finger to your chin. "Well, not you, necessarily. But the kraken on your chest does imply some level of brutishness."

"Slander," Theon called out.

"Truth," you rebutted with a giggle. "Though if I had to select a word for you Greyjoys, I'd pick 'willful' over 'brute."

"Is that your way of calling me brave?"

"It's my way of calling you bull-headed."

He laid a hand over his chest. "You wound me, Stark."

"Less than my brother would if he heard your folly," you pointed out.

Theon waved you off. "What Robb doesn't know won't hurt him." Then, his eyes narrowed with playful intent: "Unless you plan on telling him, that is."

"And betray your trust?"

"Bold to assume I trust you in the first place."

You feigned a gasp. "Maybe I will tell him," you threatened, knowing you never would.

He paused, as if considering holding back whatever he meant to say next.

Ultimately, his ever-present need to jest won out.

"Wench."

You tossed your head back, laughing. "Oh! So a girl's a wench now if she likes watching her brother chase foolish boys around the yard with a wooden sword?"

It would be far from the first time Robb had tried to lop Theon's head off for saying something lewd about you. But the fights never ended in blood, nor any injury beyond what Maester Luwin could heal a bruise-salve.

The boys were too close to hurt each other, and you were too good at calming them down.

"First," Theon lifted a finger, shifting his weight to one side in what you, Sansa, and Jeyne privately called his sassy pose, "I am far from foolish, so go on and jot that down, will you? Second," another finger, "when you put it like that, the whole thing sounds awfully Targaryen."

Your nose wrinkled at the implication. The Targaryens were a queer House with queer kinks, infamous for their incestual practices. Some considered it their right, holdover from the days of Old Valyria.

You, however, considered it vile.

"You're disgusting, Greyjoy."

"Says the one who wants to fuck her brother." He grinned.

Leaning down to scoop a fistful of snow, you chucked it at your father's ward with all your might.

He dodged—barely, nearly falling in the process.

Playfully exhausted, you asked, "Are you going to sit?" gesturing beside yourself to an empty spot on the bench. "Or are you too craven to cross?"

Between you lay the same cobblestone path that weaved all throughout the gardens. The path was wide, covering all ground except the plots of frost-crusted soil, giving life to greenery and blossoms. Gardeners tended to the paths, salting and weeding, ensuring they were safe to walk on. But here, in your own private corner of wilderness, the stone had become tangled with ivy, coated in ice several inches thick.

Despite years spent in the North, Theon was still only as good at crossing ice as Grey Wind would be at competing in a joust.

Actually, you thought with amusement, Robb's direwolf stood a better chance at winning a joust than Theon did at not breaking his own ass.

Never one to be another's fool, Theon confidently took his first step onto the path...

...then slipped, catching himself only by throwing his arms out to each side, finding balance only by a stroke of luck.

"I'm growing tired of Stark arrogance," he called out over your laughter. Except he didn't sound tired. He sounded like he always did: a breath away from a smile that could cleave your heart in two.

Unsure of what to say, you turned his earlier question back around on him.

"What are you doing out here? If you think it's too cold for a Stark, then surely it's lethal for an Island boy like yourself."

Theon paused his careful steps to glare at you. "I've lived over my life in the North, and the Iron Islands aren't much warmer." Determined, he said, "If a Stark can survive the cold, so can I."

You believed him.

But you didn't miss how he hadn't answered your question—no more than you answered his, you supposed, when he had asked the very same thing.

You and Theon were good at that. Half-truths and half-answers, dancing around questions like lovers in a private ballroom.

Miraculously, Theon reached the end of the path with all his bones still intact. He dropped beside you with a huff. His breath became a cloud of fog, and you watched as it drifted into nothing.

"Your presence is missed." He nodded towards the great hall, still buzzing from the grand feast within. "Not by me, of course. But your lord husband–" he cut himself off with an exaggerated cry as your elbow jabbed into his ribs.

"He is not my husband."

Yes, the Lord of the Dreadfort had made a bid for your hand.

Yes, your lord father was weighing the benefits such an alliance.

And yes, you knew it was your duty as a noblewoman to wed whichever lord most benefited your House.

But, for now at least, you had spoken true. Roose Bolton was not your husband. And if the gods were good, perhaps he never would be.

Rubbing his side, milking his "injury" for all it was worth, Theon argued, "May as well be."

"We're not even betrothed," you shot back, grumbling.

"Don't tell Lord Bolton that." He snorted. It was hard to tell if he was vexed or amused. "I've seen the way he looks at you. The old man's likely already spent in his breeches just thinking about your bedding ceremony."

Blugh...

As you fought to keep down the lemon cakes you'd had the feast, Theon brushed two knuckles down the soft velvet cloak covering your arm. His touch was light—but you felt it in your bones.

"Do you think Lord Bolton will buy you such finery?" he teased softly. Then, even softer, with a humor that frayed and cracked: "Or perhaps he'll have you dressed in the skins of his enemies."

The lemon cakes almost won.

"Is that true?" you asked warily. "The Boltons, they... they still flay men?"

In the recent past, your father had reaffirmed the centuries-old Stark decree outlawing flaying in the North. He took House Boltons silence on the matter for complaisance, but there were still whispers they continued the cruel practice from deep in the bowels of their castle.

It was all Theon could do to keep his grin from fully breaking. "Let me know if you find out," he ended up saying.

At some point, his knuckles had brushed all the way down near your hand. No longer was he feeling the velvet. Instead, he fiddled with the fur-trim near your wrist.

You weren't sure he realized he was still touching you—and you didn't dare mention it, didn't gaze too long at his fingers, for fear that if he realized, he might stop.

You sniffed. "Have I ever told you you're a nuisance, Greyjoy?"

His laugh turned to fog. "Often." He looked right at you; his eyes lit with something more beautiful than pale blue petals and twinkling stars. "Though I never tire of hearing it, Stark."

Ten years.

That was how long it had been since your father first brought Theon to Winterfell as hostage and ward. You had been prepared to hate him, at first. Between Robb and Jon, you felt you had enough pestilent older brothers around.

But Theon had never wanted to be your brother, no more than you could ever hate him.

Chewing your cheek, you gazed through the dark towards the sound of songless revelry. "I don't want to be made a Bolton," you told him.

Quiet, quiet, quiet—

—then: "Do women often get what they want in this world?" Theon asked.

They should, you wanted to say.

But like true love, a woman's ability to choose was just another thing that existed only in stories. Your fate rested in the hands of men; some honorable and some cruel, and others willful yet craven.

"What do you want?" Theon's question was unexpected—by the both of you, if his tone was any indication. "Out of anyone," he continued, "anything... what would you choose for yourself?"

The answer rested on the tip of your tongue, where it had lived for the past ten years. Simple, easy, one word and three letters, starting with Y and ending with U.

But that would be the full truth.

And all you knew how to give was half.

"Someone to get me out of this marriage mess," you said simply. You kept staring ahead at the winter roses, puffs of pale breath from your mouth and his, dissipating as one. "I'm not so witless as to think I can avoid marriage as a whole. I know my duty, and I swear to fulfill it—with misery in my heart, if need be. But is it so wrong to want a say?"

Theon said nothing. No japes, no jests. Just listening.

You sniffed and wiped your nose with the back of a hand—the one not graced with his fingers near your wrist, still fiddling with your cloak's fur-trim.

"I want someone brave and kind," you admitted quietly, "and just foolish enough to keep me laughing. Someone willing to go to my father and ask for my hand, but only after they're certain I want them to have it. Someone who will sing and dance with me, kiss me and place roses in my hair."

You closed your eyes. Envisioned that girlish dream and tried slotting cruel Roose Bolton into the role of the gallant, playful lord of your storybook fantasies. But you couldn't. You tried and tried, but Roose Bolton fit like a wrong piece in a puzzle, grossly out of place. The lord's face remained the same.

The lord's face remained Theon's.

Eventually, Theon took a deep breath. Removed his hand from our cloak, along with any chance of touching your wrist.

Your heart broke.

This was it, you thought. This was the truth of things.

Life wasn't like Old Nan's stories. There would be no song, no dance. Love wasn't strong enough to end wars. It wasn't even strong enough to spur bravery—truth—between two people who had known each other for nearly a lifetime.

You planned to get up. To leave, go back to the feast. Roose Bolton would be looking for you, you knew, and it was high time you stopped pretending, dreaming, thinking.

But then you heard the sound of rustling leaves.

Your eyes snapped open. You found Theon leaning halfway off the side of the bench, an arm outstretched toward one of the rose bushes. He appeared clumsy and awkward and determined as he tried snapping the stem of a particularly full bloom.

When he finally succeeded, he turned back to you with a boyish grin that made your heart soar.

Carefully, he tucked the winter rose behind your ear.

"You know there's about a hundred of these," he said of the flowers, voice softer than you'd ever heard it. He reached for your hand. Brushed a thumb over your knuckles. "I fear your standards are too low, Stark."

// masterlist // send me your thoughts // comments & reblogs appreciated! //

a/n | school’s kicking my ass five ways to tuesday, and i’ve got about 14 “finished” one shots sitting in my drafts rn that i am way too busy to edit. so i decided to just go ahead and post some of them, because we aim for readable around here, not perfection✊

besides, this one was a must because there aren’t nearly enough theon fics in the tags. so, here’s this! my contribution lmao. thanks for reading and hopefully you enjoyed!

(side note: wouldn't it be so unfortunate if reader still ended up marrying Roose Bolton? and Ramsay still takes Theon? and then they're just both in the Dreadfort, miserable and haunted and tortured by the incredibly hot awful Boltons? just a thought)