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[hauntedadeline]

all the wrong reasons

charles macaulay x f!reader

warnings: angst, abuse, alcoholism, jealousy, possessiveness, implied age regression, violence, implied rape/non-con, emotional manipulation, the continued cycle of violence, mentions of (non-con) impregnation.

Dead Dove: Do Not Eat

Disclaimer: This fic is not meant to romanticize any of Charles’s actions, nor is it in any way defending them. Charles is an abuser, and him also being a victim of abuse/sa does not negate that. This fic was not written as a mutual romantic relationship (though it is up for interpretation), and is for entertainment only. As always, please exercise self-care when deciding what to read.

It’s late when the phone rings.

Once, twice, then it stops. Then again.

You pick up quickly, your voice quiet.

“Cam?”

You hear shaky breathing on the other side, then a broken whisper.

“He’s drunk. It’s bad, this time…”

You’re in the car faster than your mind can catch up, heart racing in your chest as you drive to the twins’ apartment.

You’re there before Henry is, though you’re certain he’s not far behind. You pound on the door with your fists and hear silence settle inside.

“Charles? Charles, it’s me,” you say, your voice light. “Will you open the door for me, love?”

A few moments later, the door opens reluctantly, Charles half-hiding behind it with a sour expression.

“Did she call you? Bet you’ve come to save poor, sweet Milly, haven’t you?” he spits, words slurred.

You furrow your brows, looking as confused as you can manage.

“What? Charlie, I’m here to see you…”

His jaw tightens and he rolls his eyes.

“Bullshit. You think I’m some kind of f-fucking monster. And don’t,” hiccup, “don’t call me that.”

You swallow hard, stepping closer.

“Can I come inside? I’ve missed you.”

He stares at you silently, his eyes hazy and dark. Eventually, he takes a step back and leaves the door open, his expression guilty as you walk in and see the strewn contents of the room, scattered on the floor.

There are broken dishes, a lamp on its side, and a bookshelf faced down.

“Fuck you, alright?” he bites before you can manage to say anything at all. “It’s… not what it looks like. It was an accident.”

You do everything in your power to keep the disgust off your face.

“Can you… tell me what you’re feeling, Charlie?”

“m… fucking mad,” he grumbles, gritting his teeth. “Gonna kill her…”

You stomach the threat, knowing he’s looking for a reaction. He probably means it, but you won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing the worry in your eyes.

“Why are you mad?”

“Sh-she’s… she’s gonna leave me. Whore’s gonna leave me just like everyone else,” he kicks at the bookshelf, his nails digging into his palms.

You do your best not to flinch, wondering in the back of your mind where Camilla is, and how badly she might be injured.

“I haven’t left, have I?”

His eyes meet yours, red and glassy like he might cry, but also… dark. Burning with anger like he might swing at yoi.

“Not fucking yet… but you don’t love me.“

“Charlie—”

“Shut up, bitch,” he snaps, his hair falling in his face from the harsh movement. He sniffles hard. “Should fucking… knock you up or something. Make sure you can never leave me.”

Your stomach drops and you felt like you’re going to be sick. He definitely meant that.

Don’t react.

“Do you really think that would work?”

He goes quiet before shaking his head.

“No… you’d still leave me.” His eyes won’t meet yours. “Probably be mad at me, too.”

“I would be very sad,” you confirm, your voice gentle, almost sweet. “That would hurt me.”

He’s silent, staring down at the floor, again. You’ve got to keep him engaged.

“It’s not kind to force things on people that they don’t want, is it?”

His eyes flash with anger but he doesn’t move. Suddenly, you remember that Charles was out drinking with Francis.

“Come here, baby,” you coo. “You’re alright.”

He steps towards you and you ignore every instinct telling you to get the fuck away from him. His hands are trembling like he’s resisting the urge to punch something. When he reaches you, you lift your hand and delicately cup his face.

“Can you take some deep breaths for me?”

He closes his eyes and starts a slow inhale, and your eyes flicker over to the closed bedroom door. Camilla’s likely licked herself inside, and there’s no telling what state she’s in.

Charles wraps his arms around your waist, burying his face in the crook of your neck as he sobs.

“Shh,” you tut, “I know you didn’t mean it.”

He absolutely did mean it. Every fucking word.

He’s mumbling against your skin, words you can’t make out and don’t particularly care to. He reeks of whiskey, and the spilled wine on the counter.

“I know you’d never hurt me. You’re a good boy, Charlie” you lie gently. “No one’s mad at you.”

He trembles in your arms and sinks to the floor, hugging your leg.

Just then, another knock came at the door. Charles perks up, and when you looked down, you realized his thumb’s in his mouth. He looks startled.

“Open the fucking door,” Henry’s voice comes out harsher than you had ever heard it. You rest your hand on Charles’s head, and his looks up at you.

“Stay here, sweetheart, I’ll get it.”

You peel his arms away from your leg and step towards the door quickly. You open it and Henry shoves past you.

“Where is she?”

Charles whimpers from the floor, and Henry’s eyes snap to him, burning with anger.

“I think she’s in the bedroom,” you say quickly.

Next thing you know, Camilla’s wrapped up in his arms. Her wrists are bruised and her cheeks are tear stained, but she seems alright.

Charles looks angry, getting up and moving towards her, his face twisted like a toddler throwing a fit.

Before you can intervene, Henry’s grabs both his wrists and pins Charles against his body.

“Stop it, Charles,” he says firmly.

“Let go,” he whines. “Stop, ‘s not fair…”

You’re at Cam’s side in an instant, your arm around her waist as you walk her to the door.

“Be careful with him, Henry. He’s not—”

“He’ll be fine,” he interrupts. “He’s a grown man, and he’ll behave as such.”

Camilla glances over your shoulder, looking worried. You feel it, too, the knowing that Henry’s never been the paternal type, and that Charles is more vulnerable than Henry will care to realize.

It hurts your chest to know she still cares for him. It almost distracts from the burning wrath you feel towards yourself for still caring, too.

Not quite, though.

Despite the things he’s done, the blood he’s spilled, the bruises he’s left… you still see the small child he once was. The one he still sometimes becomes on nights like this.

You’ll have to go back to pitying him in the morning, though. For tonight, you’ll let your anger stew along with Henry’s, and leave it to Camilla to spare his soul a prayer.

Your priority is the broken girl in front of you.

And Charles, god save him, is in the hands of Henry Winters and his wrath.

[tinyfandomknight]

nothing better i could be | henry bowers

pairing: henry bowers x reader summary: your childhood best friend, henry, turns into something much darker when you reach high school. you avoided him until you absolutely couldn't -- but he's different than he seems. at least, with you. themes & warnings: henry is still an asshole but everyone has a soft spot (his is you), swearing, violence, soft!henry, he's rough around the edges, angst (sort of) with resoultion, fighting, romantic tension!!!, use of a slur, sexual harassment mild

every time you walked down the halls of derry high school, you prayed you'd melt right through the floor.

it wasn't because you were insecure. in truth, you were very secure in yourself. it wasn't because people were mean to you. in fact, most loved you. it was because of them. the same reason that anybody wanted to dissolve into the cracks within the four walls of the place they were supposed to grow up.

derry high school was a monument to beige linoleum and flourescent humming. the air itself tasted stale, a mixture of industrial cleaner, old textbooks, and the faint, metallic fear that seemed to seep from the lockers. for most, the fear was abstract. a fear of tests, rejection, not being enough. but usually, it zeroed in on the ones wearing scuffed boots, a jean jacket, and traveling in a pack.

your own place in the derry ecosystem was secure. you were well-liked in a quiet, unchallenging way that came from being friendly to everyone, but known well by few. you were the reliable lab partner, the one who remembered birthdays, the student who could bridge the gap between the drama kids and the yearbook staff. social fluency was your armor, a way to move through the world without making a target on your back. it was a skill born of necessity, honed over by years of watching and learning. of course, it helped that you were pretty. you wore light, floral colors. your hair was always done neatly, makeup smooth and blended. your mary-janes were always un-scuffed and buckled. your skirt swished around your long legs as you walked, sending the occasional polite smile towards someone or waving quickly to those who said hello to you.

henry bowers, though, was an absolute minefield.

he wasn't just a school bully. he was a force of nature, a low pressure system that darkened the hallways before he even rounded a corner. his entourage - belch huggins, victor criss, and patrick hockstetter - trailed behind him not just as friends, but as a wave of insecurity and fear send towards everyone in their way. their laughter was loud. a jarring, predatory sound that cut through the student murmur and commanded silence. desks were kicked, freshmen were shouldered into lockers, and any sign of perceived weakness was pounced upon with cruel, creative glee.

but you remembered someone different. a boy with grass stained knees and a gap toothed smile, who shared his cherry slushie behind the elementary school bleachers. a blonde haired boy who'd get a fierce, protective glint in his eye if anyone so much as looked at you sideways. as much as you remembered him, he didn't exist anymore. you knew what happened to him, though. he had been buried layer by layer under the weight of his father's beatings and his own hardening heart. you'd watched the transformation happen across the cafeteria, with a profound and private grief. the boy who'd been your first friend had become the thing high school students feared most.

now, you navigated the school with one goal - not to be seen by him. you developed a sixth sense for his presence. the particular cadence of his boots on the linoleum, the change in the air when he entered a room. you wanted no part of it. you wanted no part of who he'd become. a laugh in the wrong direction, a moment of vulnerability caught at the wrong time, and you could be seen. really seen.

and being seen by henry bowers was a complicated, dangerous thing. a cold, blue stare that seemed to strip a person down to the real parts of themselves. not just the positives, but the fear and inadequacy. the secrets they tried to hide. sometimes it lead to taunts, shoves, punches and kicks, but sometimes it lead to nothing at all. just that chilling, empty gaze that felt worse than physical harm. you didn't know which version he'd pick if he was to notice you again. you spent years perfecting the art of never finding out.

today, though, everything would change.

you'd been having bad luck all day. you slipped in the mud and fell into a puddle on your walk to school, so you had to go home and change, making you late. then, you spilled your water bottle in class and soaked your freshly written essay for english literature. in chemistry class, you received your test back, only to realize you got a 0 because you forgot to put your name on it. you had to go beg your teacher for a new grade. luckily, since you were a diligent student, she was willing to give you half.

now, you were walking away from the brick school, lukewarm tears drying onto your face from your shitty day.

you listened to the wind in the trees, the crunching of the gravel under your thick shoes, sighing and hoping your evening would be better. your skirt, a bit smaller than usual because of your rush to get dressed, still swished around your thighs in the wind. but then, you heard another set of steps. boots. heavy footsteps falling onto the ground with the same reverberation that you heard on the linoleum floors at school. you felt something cold slither down your spine - fear.

tilting your head slightly, you caught the sight of him in your peripheral vision. you had only been walking for two minutes before you noticed patrick hockstetter behind you, his tall, lanky and predatory form slinking casually.

fuck. fuck fuck fuck.

being noticed by henry was pretty bad. but he was mean, not perverted. patrick was a whole different animal. the type to grope girls from behind their desks, force them to give him a kiss and slap them if they didn't. the type to follow you home and stand outside your window for an hour just to creep you out. he fed off from it. the thrill was something he enjoyed.

you swallowed hard, feeling your heart speed up impossibly. you felt the adrenaline release, the clammy hands, the erratic breathing. fear. in full swing. you kept your pace steady, a deer trying not to bolt in a predator's sightline. the crunch of gravel behind you wasn't just there; it was synching up, a sinister metronome to your own hurried steps. you could feel his stare like a physical weight between your shoulder blades, cold and invasive.

a shortcut. you needed a shortcut. the usual route home was a straight shot down neibolt street, but that was too exposed. your mind raced, flipping through a mental map of derry's back alleys and cut-throughs. there was a gap in the old johnson fence, a quick dash through the overgrown lot that spilled out onto your street. it was risky - dark, isolated - but maybe better than being stalked in the open.

you made a sharp, deliberate turn left into the mouth of a narrow alley between the drugstore and the boarded-up cinema. the sunlight vanished, replaced by the damp chill of perpetual shadow. the crunch of gravel ceased for a beat, and then, horrifyingly, it resumed. he’d followed.

your breath hitched, coming in shallow pants that fogged slightly in the cool air. you walked faster, your mary janes slipping on the wet, uneven pavement. the alley seemed to stretch on forever, the light at the other end a taunting, distant pinprick.

"hey." his voice wasn't loud. just a dry, papery sound that slithered down the alley walls. "pretty girl. don't you know its rude to walk away?"

you didn't turn. you couldn't. your muscles were locked. the swishing of your skirt felt absurdly loud.

his footsteps quickened. he was closing the gap between you, ready to pounce. "i'm talking to you. turn around. let me see that pretty face all cried up. heard ya sniffling."

of course that was why. he loved when girls cried. it was something you'd heard all around from the other girls who'd been unfortunate victims of patrick hockstetter. crying didn't ward him off - it enthralled him. he was sick.

terror, sharp and acidic, flooded your mouth. you broke into a run, the strap of your bag slapping against your side. the alley exit wobbled in your vision.

a hand, bony and strong, clamped onto your upper arm, yanking you to a halt. your bag fell to the ground with a thud, dead weight that patrick obviously deemed unnecessary. he spun you around, his grip like iron. up close, he was all pale skin and hungry eyes, a slick, unpleasant smile on his gleaming teeth.

"now, that's better," he cooed, his breath smelling of spearmint gum. his free hand came up, a finger tracing a line down your damp cheek. "what's the matter, honey? bad day? i can make it better."

"let me go," you managed, your voice sharp and authoritative despite your fear. you'd always been good at masking how afraid you were.

"or what?" he laughed, the sound bouncing off the bricks. "you'll tell? i don't care. i been told on lots of times."

you tried to glare, but you couldn't. the fear was eating you alive. he was stronger, faster. you had no way out.

"i won't tell. i won't say a word. but please, can you just let go?" you pleaded. maybe being nice would help. maybe doing the opposite of what all the other girls had done would have reverse effects.

your voice, shifting from a sharp command to a soft plea, seemed to catch him off guard. he was used to screams, cursing, crying. not soft, desperate negotiations.

"please?" he echoed, his voice a dry whisper. his head tilted, like a bird examining a strange insect. "you're asking nice, huh?"

you held your breath, hope against hope. his grip on your arm loosened slightly, an infinitesimal degree. but the confusion curdled into something more sinister - interest. a new kind of thrill. this was different. clearly something he'd never seen. someone being decent to him when he was being disgusting.

"that's real sweet. cute, even," he murmured, leaning in closer. "but see, when you ask nice.. it just makes me wanna see what happens when you don't."

his free hand moved from your cheek, sliding down to grip the back of your thigh under your skirt, pulling you sharply against him. you gasped, the air knocked out of you, the world narrowing to the feel of his bony frame and the cold dread solidifying in your stomach. your carefully constructed composure shattered.

"stop it!" you cried out, high and panicked. it ripped from your chest reflexively.

patrick's laugh was giddy. "there it is, sweetheart. i like that better," he hummed, reaching up to the waistband of your skirt. "but what happens when i--"

the sentence died off in a choked gurgle.

not by your hand. not by a shout.

henry moved like a shadow given violent purpose. he didn't come from where you could've seen him, but must have come from the other side.

he didn't tackle patrick. he simply appeared behind him, one arm snaking around patrick's throat in a vicious chokehold, the other clamping over the top of his head. it was fast, brutal, and utterly silent save for the scrape of boots and patrick's muffled gasp as he was wrenched backwards and off his feet.

you stumbled forward, free, catching yourself against the cold wall. you watched, heart in your throat, as henry dragged patrick, kicking and clawing at the iron bar of his forearm, back into the gloomy shadow. henry's face was pale, emotionless, eyes reflecting ice. he didn't look at you. his focus was on the squirming form in his grasp.

he slammed patrick face-first into the side of a dumpster with a sickening, wet crunch. patrick went limp for a moment, slumping, a low moan escaping his bloodied face. henry held him up, then leaned close. his voice, when it came, was flat and deadly, carrying perfectly in the silent alleyway.

"you don't look at her. you don't think about her. your fucking shoes don't point in her direction. you got that?"

he gave patrick a hard shake. a strangled sound of agreement or pain was patrick's only reply.

"if i see you within a block of her," henry continued, his voice becoming intimate with its menace, "i won't use my hands next time. i'll use a tire iron. and i'll make sure you're awake for it."

he released his hold, and patrick collapsed into a heap of shuddering limbs on the filthy ground, blood streaming freely from his ruined nose with his predatory confidence utterly annihilated.

"get the fuck up and go home, hockstetter. before i change my mind and kill you."

he stepped over patrick's prone form as if he were nothing more than a sack of garbage. he didn't look back. his entire being was a live wire, every muscle taut, the violence still radiating off from him in waves. you could feel his heat from feet away.

he stopped a pace in front of you. his eyes, which had been so cold and empty while dealing with patrick, were now a turbulent, stormy blue. they darted over your face, your disheveled hair, the red mark on your arm and the tear in your tights. the raw, agonizing conflict was back - fury, shame, and a protectiveness you didn't know still existed.

his hand lifted slightly again, hovering. it was large, capable of brutality you'd just witnessed, but now it trembled slightly in the space between you. he looked at it as if it was a foreign object, then clenched it into a fist and shoved it into the pocket of his jeans.

"you're shaking," he said, his voice low and rough.

you were. you couldn't stop. the adrenaline was draining away, leaving you cold and hollow and stunned. you managed a small, jerky nod.

he looked away, his jaw working. the silence stretched, filled only with the faint scrambling of patrick getting up once he slightly recovered. henry's shoulders stiffened, and he took a half-step to the side, deliberately placing his body between you and the sight of patrick struggling to his knees. protection. subtle, but also obvious in a way.

his gaze landed on your bag, still lying where it had fallen. he moved then, bending to pick it up. he did it with that same jarring care, brushing off the gravel and dirt. when he stood, he didn't offer it. he simply held it, his grip tight on the strap.

"c'mon," he muttered, not quite looking at you. he tilted his head toward the far end of the alley, the one that lead away from the main road, away from prying eyes and away from the direction patrick limped off in. "this way."

it wasn't a suggestion. it was a directive born of a lifetime of understanding derry's shadows. he took a step, then paused, glancing back to make sure you were following. you fell into step beside him, not quite at his side, but half a step behind. he adjusted his pace to yours, just as he'd always done when you were kids.

your chest tightened.

the alley opened into a narrow, weed-choked service road behind the old cinema. the silence between you was a thick, tangible thing.

after a few minutes, he spoke, his voice gruff. "he won't come near you again."

"i know," you answered quietly. the certainty in his promise was absolute.

another blocked passed in quiet. the evening was settling in, painting the sky in bruised purples and oranges. the same shades were settling onto the back of your bruised thigh.

"henry," you said, his name feeling strange and familiar on your tongue after so many years of silence.

he flinched, almost imperceptibly. "yeah?"

"thank you."

he swallowed hard, the motion visible in the corded line of his throat. he stared straight ahead, his profile sharp against the dying light. the wind blew the trees and weeds, creating a scratching sound in the empty back road.

"don't," he said, the word bitten off. "don't thank me for that. it scared you."

the raw honesty of his words, the simple, unflinching admission - it scared you - struck you with more force than anything that had happened that day. he wasn't apologizing for the violence, not exactly. but he was acknowledging its effect. it was a level of awareness you hadn't believed him capable of anymore.

"everything about today scared me," you admitted, your voice quiet but steady. "i fell in the mud this morning. i failed a test. patrick. the.. the alley. my leg hurts. you," you listed them like items, giving each its due weight. "but the first five things were just things that happened. the last one.. you came for me."

he stopped walking. he turned fully to face you. the dim light caught the planes of his face, highlighting the tension in his brow, the soft, vulnerable curve of his mouth he always tried to harden with a sneer like a snarling dog.

"i would've done it anyway. for fuckin' greta or.." he said, the words sounding bland. "any chick."

you shook your head slowly, your eyes not leaving his. "no, you wouldn't have."

the denial hung in the air. henry's jaw clenched, a muscle ticking furiously. he wanted to argue, to spit out a lie that would rebuild the wall he'd torn down when he beat hockstetter's face against a dumpster. the truth was a physical weight, too heavy to lift. he couldn't. he wouldn't have done it for anyone else. he wouldn't have promised murder with a tire iron. he wouldn't have felt the world narrow to a single, white-hot point of rage at the sight of someone else's hands on the girl who was the only person that had been remotely good to him in his life, besides his mother, who left.

he looked away, the admission of his own truth being too much to bear while looking at you. the fight drained out of him, leaving behind a raw, exposed weariness that made him seem younger and older all at once.

"no," he echoed, his voice hollow. "i guess i wouldn't have."

the admission cost him. you could see it in the way he swallowed, in the slight tremor of his tight muscles. he'd just handed you a weapon, the knowledge of his own weakness, and waited for you to use it, like everyone else had.

but you didn't. you just stood there, the silence between you shifting once more. you weren't afraid anymore. you weren't sure you ever had been afraid of henry. maybe of who you thought henry was. but never him. there was an acknowledgement of a bridge that had been burned, and the fragile, impossible idea of building a new one from the ashes.

"you stopped answering my calls. in eighth grade." you whispered.

the words landed not as an accusation, but as a quiet, devastating fact. they cut through the fragile truce more cleanly than any shout could have.

henry’s head snapped up, his eyes wide with a shock that quickly morphed into pain. He hadn’t expected that. not here, not now. he’d braced for fear, for disgust, even for gratitude. not for this old, specific wound, gently prodded.

he opened his mouth, but no sound came out. he looked stricken, cornered by a ghost from a time when the world’s cruelty still had the power to surprise him.

"dad stopped letting me use the phone. after i.." left a message on that woman's answering machine posing as her dead kid.

the memory, sharp and ugly, clawed its way out of the dark. it wasn't the full truth, but it was the part that mattered, the part that explained the answering machine. the rest - the late-night calls, the whispered cruelty to a grieving mother, the one twisted skill patrick hockstetter had that henry, in his deepest misery, found fascinating for a week - that was a shame so black he'd bury it with him.

he couldn't look at you. his gaze was fixed on a broken bottle glinting in the weeds. "he took the phone out of the wall. smashed the machine. said it was a.. a faggot's toy." he swallowed. "i never heard any messages."

the confession was a softer, lesser evil. it painted his father as the monster (true) and him as a victim (only partly true). it was the version that might let you keep looking at him without seeing the rot he sometimes feared was in his core.

he risked a glance at your face. you were just listening, absorbing, your expression unreadable. the silence stretched, and henry felt the old, familiar panic rise: the need to fill it, to shock, to push you away before your silence became condemnation.

"so," he said, the word coming out too sharp. "you got your answer. i didn't get your calls 'cause my old man's psycho and i was.." he trailed off, unable to name what he was becoming. "you were better off. trust me."

it was the same thing he'd been doing for years. the protective cruelty. but it sounded feeble now, even to him.

you took a step closer.

"but that's not fair. you didn't give me a choice." you hummed, frowning.

he shook his head, a bitter laugh bubbling from his lips.

"you woulda chosen wrong. you always did."

the words hung in the air, colder than the evening chill. but you heard the tremor beneath them, the echo of the boy who used to whisper secrets under the bleachers, who believed he wasn't worth choosing.

"you don't know that," you said, your voice soft but unwavering. "you never gave me a chance."

he stared at you, the bravado crumbling from his face, leaving only a raw and bewildered ache. "why would you choose this?" the question was sharp. "look at me. look at what i am. i'm everything you hated. you'd be stupid as fuck to choose anything i got."

"i am looking, henry," you took another step, closing the distance until you could see the flecks of lighter blue in his irises, the faint scar through his eyebrow from a fight. "i've always been looking. and i'm not stupid."

"i know you aren't. so go home. be smart." he hissed.

"stop it, henry."

"you stop. you're being a dumbass."

"you're the one being a dumbass!" the words burst from you, not a shout, but a firm, frustrated exhalation. they hung in the air, shocking you both. it was the kind of thing you'd yelled at him when you were kids, scuffling over the last cookie or a cheated board game.

henry blinked, the harsh mark of his anger fracturing into surprise. no one talked to him like that. not anymore. they cowered, lied, pretended he didn't exist. they didn't call him a dumbass straight to his face if they liked their teeth. he was a threat. a monster, the source of anxiety.

"you think pushing me away is smart?" you continued. "you think spending your whole life making sure no one gets close is some kind of genius plan? its not. it's the dumbest thing i've ever seen. and i watched richie tozier try to lick a frozen lamppost."

a sound escaped him - a choked, rusty thing that was almost a laugh. it was cut off instantly, but the damage was done.

he rubbed his hand over his mouth, trying to wipe away the traitorous reaction. when he lowered it, his expression was exhausted, all the fight gone out of him. "what the hell do you want from me, y/n?" the question was a plea, stripped of all pretense. "i don't.. i don't know how to not be an ass. i'm good at it, it's all i got."

"it's not." you said stubbornly.

henry's lips curled into a bitter smile as he shook his head again, irritation flooding back into his body. his frustration was tangible, making him an unseen form of anger, but not violence. a dam that was about to break through. he groaned.

"you sound fuckin' stupid. again."

you quirked your eyebrow, inhaling sharply to retort.

"yeah, well, you--"

you couldn't get another word out. his body was flush against yours in a second, the smell of engine oil from the shop he worked at occasionally, his aftershave, and the same spearmint gum you smelled on patrick (they must've shared earlier at lunch) flooded your senses.

the kiss wasn't gentle. it wasn't questioning. it was a collision. a desperate, furious argument made with lips and teeth and the hard press of his body against yours. it was everything he didn't know how to say and the only way he felt he could shut your mouth.

for a single second, you froze. the shock of it short-circuited every thought.

then, instinct took over. not fear, for once. not the urge to push him away or avoid him. something older, deeper. the crush from sixth grade. the nights you rode your bikes through the empty streets and you admired his blonde hair in the wind. the times you'd iced the bruises he got from his dad as he cried silently. the shared snacks. the innocent hugs. your hands, which had been hanging limply at your sides, came up. one fisted in the worn denim of his jacket, gripping tight as if he might vanish again. the other flattened against the solid, frantic beat of his heart through his thin t-shirt against his warm skin.

you kissed him back.

his hand, which had come up to cradle the back of your head, gentled, his fingers tangling in your hair. the press of his mouth softened, became searching, almost reverent.

it was the most terrifying and honest moment of his life.

he was the one who broke it, pulling back just enough to rest his forehead against yours. his breath was ragged, a shuddering gust, mingling with yours. his eyes were squeezed shut, as if he couldn't bear to see your reaction.

"had to make you stop talking. you ain't a good listener."

you laughed breathlessly.

"i might try to listen even less now."

a shaky exhale warmed your skin as the last of the rigid tension in his shoulders dissolved.

"wouldn't blame you," he murmured, his voice low. his eyes were still closed. he looked younger like this, stripped of all the defenses you hadn't let him use. "i talk a lot of shit."

"you do," you agreed, your thumb tracing the threads of his shirt. "i'm sure i could give you a run for your money, though. i learned some stuff."

a low, genuine chuckle rumbled in his chest, the vibration humming against your palm. it was a sound you hadn't heard in years - unforced, uncynical.

"yeah?" he said, finally opening his pretty blue eyes. they crinkled at the corners with an almost-smile. "what'd you learn? how to call a guy a dumbass in five languages?"

"six," you corrected. "and how to tell when someone's being a fake asshole to keep me away from them."

he hummed.

"smart girl. always were."

the compliment, so simple and sincere, was probably the nicest thing henry had said about someone for years. it warmed you from the inside, melting the last chill from the alley.

"you aren't so bad yourself," you said softly. "when you want to be."

"didn't wanna be. easier to play dumb."

you didn't argue. you didn't try to tell him he was wrong. you just reached up and touched his face again, your fingers tracing the lie of his jaw, feeling the tension there. you knew what he meant. the avoiding you, pretending to be the monster his father expected, because being vulnerable had been too dangerous. abandoning the boy who loved cherry slushies and loved his best friend.

"must have been exhausting," you murmured.

he exhaled, leaning into your touch, the safeness of it flooding him with a feeling that was so rare. his eyes drifted shut again, this time softly. "yeah," he whispered, the word ragged. "it fuckin' was."

for a long moment, you just stood there in the quiet service road, embracing him. two kids who'd gotten lost, finding their way back to the same map.

when he opened his eyes again, they were clear. resolved. "i'm done playin'," he stated, his voice low but firm.

"good," you said. "i really missed you."

he smirked sheepishly, rolling his eyes. it was as if the statement embarrassed him slightly.

"sappy. can't lie, though," he said, his voice raspy. "i missed you too. thought of ya every day."

thought of ya every day. it explained the cold stares in the hallways - not hatred, but a tortured form of protection. he'd been seeing you, missing you, every single time. not plotting to bully you.

a lump rose in your throat. you didn't trust yourself to speak, so you just nodded.

he cleared his throat, the vulnerability making him shuffle his boots awkwardly. "alright, alright, doll. enough of this.. feeling shit." he tried to sound gruff, but it came out fond. "let's get you home. your old man's gonna think i kidnapped you."

he walked you home, his hand a warm, calloused anchor in yours. this time, the silence was companionable. the kind of quiet that exists between people who don't need words to understand each other.

at your doorstep, he didn't let go. he turned to face you, but as he did, his eyes caught your leg. the shimmery purple bruise in the rip of your tights from patrick's hand. he hadn't realized it was there.

his throat burned with disgust and fury.

his entire body went rigid. the softness in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cold, lethal fire. the same one you'd seen in the alley when he made patrick eat dumpster. the grip on your hand tightened for a second, a reflexive spasm of rage, before he forcibly relaxed it.

he didn't speak. just stared at the violent, ugly splash of color against your skin. his jaw worked, teeth grinding so hard you almost heard it.

"henry," you said softly. "it's okay. it doesn't even hurt anymore."

"it's not okay," he laughed, his literal psychopathic tendencies flashing in blue irises. "that's.. he was one of mine. i let that.. that thing walk around with me. and he put his hands on you and left a fucking mark."

you frowned, reaching for him. he didn't pull away, but he stiffened. you put a hand on either side of his face, tracing your thumbs gently along his cheeks.

"you're here with me now. and i'm okay. you told me he'd never touch me again and i believe you." you said, reassuring him. "the bruise will heal. it'll go away and there will never be another one."

your words were a balm, but they couldn't reach the depth of the poison in him. you knew patrick would see henry again before the end of the night. but still, he leaned into your touch, his eyes closing. he was listening, but also calculating.

"yeah," he murmured, the word a low concession. "it'll heal." his eyes opened, and the calculation you saw there was ice-cold, precise. "but he's gonna take a little longer to."

he took your hands from his face, not pushing them away, but holding them tightly, as if he needed the anchor. "you believe me. good. now i gotta make sure he believes me. all the way down to his bones, the dense fuck."

there was no rage in his voice now. no psychopathic flash. this was worse. this was the calm, terrifying certainty of a predator who has identified a threat to its den and is methodically planning its elimination.

"henry," you said, your voice firmer, trying to break through the grim focus. "you can't... whatever you're thinking. you'll get in trouble. real trouble."

a faint, humorless smirk touched his lips. "trouble's my middle name, sweet cheeks. but this ain't about trouble. this is about sending a message so fuckin' clear, even a sick freak like hockstetter can't misunderstand it." he let go of your hands and cupped your face, his touch suddenly, shockingly gentle. "you're my line. he crossed it. there are consequences. that's just how the world works."

he said it like he was explaining gravity. an immutable law. a new law that since you'd come back into his life, he'd implement ruthlessly.

when your father's silhouette filled the window, henry glanced towards it, his blue eyes now relaxed. he didn't step away from you, he simply reached for your hand and squeezed, offering a rough looking smile.

"your dad's watching," he said, his voice low and utterly calm. the fury was gone, replaced by a focused, operational readiness. "gettin' dark. time to go inside."

"henry," you said, still concerned about patrick's fate. "please--"

"i'm not gonna kill him," he interrupted, a strange amusement on his scarred face. the promise was blunt, but it was truthful. "i'm not gonna get put away after i just got my girl back. we're just gonna.. talk. 's all. talk."

the word talk, coming from henry bowers, was even more sinister than a death threat. it was a euphemism that promised a world of pain. but the other part - my girl - echoed in the space between you, a claim so profound and possessive it stole your breath.

the porch light flickered on, a sudden, harsh interrogation.

"y/n?" your dad's voice called, muffled but polite. "you out there?"

henry's eyes didn't leave yours. his amused smile didn't falter. he leaned in, lips brushing your ear warmly. "do your homework. put ice on that leg. i'll see ya tomorrow."

he pulled back, giving your hand one final, grounding squeeze. then, with a startling shift in demeanor, he turned toward your father, who was now a stern silhouette in the golden doorway. henry's posture changed - not slouching, but straightened with respectfull stiffness. he took a step back from you, putting a non-threatening distance between himself and the doorway of your home.

"mr. l/n," he nodded towards your father. "just walkin' her home. town's fulla creeps after dark." his voice was humble, different than you'd heard it at school.

your father's expression was unreadable, a mix of paternal concern and the deep lines of skepticism. he looked from henry to your face, searching for honesty.

"i see," he said, his voice careful and neutral. his eyes dropped to the rip in your tights, the hint of purple beneath the mesh. "everything alright, sweetheart?"

"yes, dad," you said, your voice steadier than you felt. "henry walked me home. i.. i took a shortcut and tripped. he helped me."

the lie was flimsy, but you were going to stick with it until the situation was less tense. your dad's eyes lingered on henry for a moment. henry didn't fidget. he met the look with a calm, open expression that was utterly disarming. a true testament to all of the facets of his deep personality. the performance of a lifetime.

finally, your dad gave a slow nod. "alright. thank you, henry. we appreciate you seeing her home."

the 'we' was pointed, a re-establishment of the family unit, a subtle reclamation. henry just nodded again, that same respectful dip of his chin.

"no problem, sir. g'night."

he gave you one last look, a quick, private flash of those stormy blues that held a universe of promises and apologies. then, he turned and walked down the path. he didn't swagger. he just walked, a tall, solitary figure disappearing into the twilight, leaving behind the scent of engine oil, aftershave, and a silence that felt both relieved and charged.

your dad waited until henry was completely out of sight before placing a heavy arm on your shoulder and leading you to the kitchen. he gestured for you to sit at the table while he grabbed you an ice pack.

when he returned, you knew he'd seen the lack of the truth.

"you want to tell me what really happened?" his voice was soft.

you frowned, biting your lip.

"dad.."

"now, y/n. please and thank you."

the "please and thank you" was your father's secret weapon. it was the phrase he used when the situation had moved past parental concern and into the territory of seriousness. it meant the truth, the whole truth, was non-negotiable.

you took a deep breath, the scent of henry still faint on your clothes. you looked at your dad's worried, loving face and knew you couldn't continue to lie.

"patrick hockstetter.. that weird kid all the girls talk about from school?"

you watched the recognition - the horror. he'd heard the whispers at town council meetings, the worried murmurs from other parents. patrick hockstetter wasn't just a bully; he was a quiet, unsettling rumor given flesh.

"he followed me. trapped me in the alley behind the old cinema."

your dad's hand, which had been resting on the table, clenched into a fist. the knuckles went white. "did he hurt you?"

"he tried. he grabbed me. he.." you gestured at your leg, the memory of patrick's hand on the back of your thigh making your skin crawl. "he was saying disgusting things. and i couldn't get away."

the air in the kitchen grew thick with a parental rage so potent it was almost a smell. your father took two paces toward the back door, as if he might go out and hunt patrick down himself that very second. then he stopped, matering the impulse with a visible, shuddering effort. he turned back to you, his face a mask of anguish.

"and then?" he asked, voice still gentle.

"and then henry came." you saw your dad's jaw tighten at the name. "he came out of nowhere. he.. he pulled patrick off me. messed him up a little.. told him if ever looked at me again, he'd do worse." you didn't soften the words. your father needed to hear the brutal, unfiltered truth. "patrick ran."

your father was silent for a long moment, absorbing.

"he walked you home." he acknowledged.

"yes. he picked my things up. he was.. quiet. not like at school. he was just henry. like he used to be when he came to run around in the sprinklers with me that summer." you looked down at your hands, twisted in your lap. "he said sorry. for everything. for patrick."

your dad sank back into his chair, thinking.

"henry bowers," he said finally, the name heavy in the quiet kitchen. "his father's a mean son of a bitch. the apple doesn't fall far, they say."

you opened your mouth to protest, but he held up a hand.

"but," he continued, his eyes wise and tired, "an apple can roll. sometimes it rolls a long way from the tree when it's given the right push." he sighed, rubbing his forehead. "just.. be careful, okay? that boy's got a world of hurt in him."

you nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. "i know, dad."

he kissed the top of your head. "get some rest."

but you didn't. you sat by your bedroom window, the ice pack melting against your skin, and watched the street. the night was still. when you went to sleep that night, you dreamt of him. just like you had many nights before.

when your alarm went off at 7:00, you got dressed quickly, forgoing the usual, careful outfit for comfortable jeans and a sweater. you threw your hair up into a ponytail, not bothering with curlers. at 7:43, you stepped onto your porch.

you took the long way.

and there he was, leaning against the old stone wall at the park entrance, exactly as promised the night before. tall, blonde, scarred up. a cigarette hung from his lips, smoking into the wind, and his eyes caught yours quickly. they scanned your outfit, noticing the differences.

"no skirt today?" he hummed. his voice was a low rasp, sandpaper-soft in the quiet morning. the cigarette bobbed as he spoke. his gaze wasn't a leer; it was an observation, a cataloguing of a change that mattered to him.

"not today," you said, stopping in front of him. the air between you was different in the daylight. less charged with desperation, more solid with this new, fragile reality. you were henry bowers' best girl.

he took a final drag, then flicked the cigarette into the gutter, crushing it under his boot with a twist of his heel. "cute." he smirked, tugging at your sweater. "shame, though. wanted pat to see the reason he got his second ass beating."

you rolled your eyes. he'd already delivered the first in the alley. the second.. it was the 'conversation' from last night. the one that left his knuckles raw. he hadn't just protected you; he'd sent a follow-up message. you were hoping he wouldn't follow through, but you were foolish for thinking it.

"you paid him a visit," you said, a statement. your mild irritation disappeared when henry's cold fingers reached for yours without you asking for it. a first move. not typical for him.

he shrugged, chuckling a little.

"he sees you, he sees me. he sees my hand comin' for his teeth. was gonna let it go, but the bruise pissed me off."

you scoffed.

"i told you that--"

"i know what you told me, doll. you told me it didn't hurt and it'd heal and all that shit," he interrupted, his voice slightly losing its playfulness. "but i saw it. on your skin. from one of my boys." he tilted his head slightly towards you, as if making sure you wouldn't slip away. "i can't let that go. the talkin', making nice, the long way home.. that's all for you. but that?" he gestured to your leg. "that needs a different language. and hockstetter only speaks one."

you glanced down at his hands. his knuckles were split, dried blood littering them from where he hadn't bothered to clean. you traced your fingers over the split gently, soothing.

"you forgive me?" his voice softened, but the teasing edge returned. "or do i gotta get on my knees?"

the image was so absurd that as hard as you resisted, a giggle escaped you. his eyes crinkled at the corners with genuine amusement.

"there it is," he murmured. "knew you weren't all pissed off."

you shook your head, still smiling, your fingers still tracing the ridges of his damaged hands. "i'm not. just don't want you to go getting yourself hurt for me."

his free hand came up, cupping your chin with surprising confidence. he forced your gaze to his face. "trust me. he looks way worse."

"didn't doubt it." you sighed.

he chuckled again, more air than noise, but real. he liked your lack of doubt. he liked that you didn't flinch from the evidence of what he'd done. his thumb stroked your cheekbone, a rough, tender caress.

"you're somethin' else, you know that?" he said, his voice a low rumble. "most girls'd be screamin' at me to stop, callin' me an animal."

"you are an animal," you said, but there was no bite in it. it was just a fact, one you were learning to accept. an animal, but not a cold-hearted one. one with some redemption still left in him. "the best kind, though."

he smirked again. "oh yeah? what kind?"

"the type with really nice arms in a muscle tank."

a loud, genuine laugh came now, shocking you both. it was a rich, full sound you hadn't heard since childhood, completely unrestrained. he threw his head back for a second, shoulders shaking, before he reined it in, but the wide, delighted grin remained.

"jesus christ," he wheezed. "that's what you got from all this? my arms in a tank top?"

you shrugged, feeling your own face heat with a blush. "i'm a simple girl, bowers, with simple needs. protection, loyalty, nice biceps. you're three for three."

he shook his head, still grinning, a lightness in his expression you'd thought was gone forever. "unbelievable," he let go of your chin to tug playfully at your ponytail. "alright, simple girl. let's get your simple ass to school before i gotta have another 'conversation' with a truant officer."

he kept hold of your hand as you walked, but the mood had shifted. there was a giddy easiness between you. he'd shown you the darkness, and you'd not only accepted it, but made him laugh about it. it felt like a miracle.

as you approached the school, the usual tension began to creep back, but was different. you were different.

"alright, listen," he said, his voice dropping as you hit the edge of the school property. "the shit you're gonna hear today... it's gonna be nasty. about me. about you. about what they think we did or didn't do." he squeezed your hand. "you look 'em dead in the eye and you don't say a goddamn word. let 'em wonder. let 'em be scared of what they don't know."

"you've given this speech before," you observed.

"never to anyone who mattered," he admitted. then, he straightened up, the mask of unapproachable toughness settling over his features like a helmet. "my shop's on the other side. i got shop class last period," he hummed. "i'll be at the fence at the bell. don't make me come find you."

with that, he let go of your hand. but instead of walking away, he did something that sent a fresh wave of whispers through the students loitering in front of the school doors.

he leaned down and kissed you.

it wasn't the same as the alley. it was firm, deliberate, and over in three seconds. a public brand and declaration. when he pulled back, his eyes were blazing with a fierce pride. proud of himself for being authentic. for letting you back in. proud of himself for finally having something good.

"see you at later, gorgeous."

then, he was striding away, not looking back. he left you there with the taste of spearmint and tobacco and the imprint of his lips on yours. you were the center of every astonished stare in the yard.

you took a deep, steadying breath, feeling the weight of his kiss like a suit of armor. you remembered his advice. you didn't smile. you didn't frown. you just lifted your chin and walked through the whispering crowd, your head high, your expression unreadable.

let them wonder. let them be scared.

you caught the gaze of patrick hockstetter, who'd quickly been left behind by henry, belch and vic. he looked worse than before. the sight of him was a cold splash of reality. patrick stood alone, leaning against the brick wall near the bike racks, a pariah twice over. one eye was swollen shut, a grotesque rainbow of purple and yellow. a butterfly bandage held together a split on his eyebrow. he held himself stiffly, as if breathing hurt.

but it was his expression that chilled you. the predatory hunger was gone, replaced by a hollow, sullen terror. and when his good eye met yours, that terror spiked into pure, unadulterated panic. he flinched, looking away immediately, shrinking into himself as if trying to disappear into the bricks.

the message was received. you were no longer prey.

inside, the whispers were a living thing, clinging to the lockers and trailing behind you.

"…saw him kiss her right out there…" "…bowers? seriously? is she insane?" "…heard what he did to patrick…" "…she's dead meat, she just doesn't know it yet…"

you walked to your locker, ignoring it all. when you spun the combination, you found a small, folded piece of notebook paper wedged in the vent. you pulled it out.

in that same blocky, careful script:

don't eat the cafeteria slop. meet me at the east fire exit. 12:15. -h

a smile touched your lips. he'd planned ahead. he was bringing you lunch.

you tucked the note into your pocket, the paper as precious as a love letter. the morning passed in a blur. teachers glanced at you with new curiosity. girls you barely knew shot you looks ranging from pity to outright envy. boys gave you a wide berth, their eyes skittering away nervously.

when the bell for lunch rang, you didn't go to the cafeteria. you walked to the rarely-used east fire exit, your heart doing a funny little flip.

Hh was already there, leaning against the wall, a brown paper bag in one hand. he'd changed out of his shop coveralls into a clean, grey t-shirt that did, in fact, show off his arms quite nicely. he saw you and pushed off the wall, that private, soft smile that was only for you touching his lips.

"took you long enough," he said, handing you the bag.

you peeked inside. two decent-looking ham sandwiches, a bag of chips, two cans of coke, and two perfect, red cherries placed carefully on top.

"you made these?" you asked, touched.

"stole 'em from the teacher's lounge," he corrected, completely unashamed. "better ingredients. c'mon."

he led you out the door and around the corner to a small, hidden alcove formed by the auditorium wall and a stand of overgrown bushes. it was private, shaded, and quiet.

he sat down on the sun-warmed concrete, patting the spot next to him. you sat, your shoulders touching. he opened his coke with a sharp pssht and took a long drink.

for a few minutes, you ate in comfortable silence, the ordinary school sounds fading away. it felt bizarrely normal, like a thousand other lunches you'd shared as kids, just with more scars and a heavier understanding hanging between you.

"see hockstetter?" he asked casually, taking a bite of his sandwich.

"yeah."

he nodded, chewing. "good. he see you?"

"he saw me."

another nod. a satisfied glint in his eye. "good."

you picked up one of the cherries by its stem, twirling it. "you didn't have to do all this, you know."

he looked at you, his expression serious. "yeah, i did. this," he gestured between the two of you with his coke can, "this is the good part. the part i gotta get right. the other stuff…" he shrugged, his meaning clear. the violence, the intimidation, that was the old language, the background noise. this - the quiet sharing of stolen sandwiches - this was the new thing he was trying to build. and he was treating it with a focused, solemn intensity.

you leaned your head against his shoulder. he stiffened for a second, then relaxed, his arm coming up to wrap around you, pulling you closer.

"best lunch i've ever had," you murmured.

he rested his cheek against the top of your head. "don't get used to it. teacher's lounge might beef up security."

you both laughed, a soft, shared sound in your hidden little world. outside, the rumor mill churned, and patrick hockstetter nursed his wounds, and the whole school wondered.

but in your alcove, with the taste of stolen ham and cherries on your tongue and the solid warmth of henry beside you, there was no fear. there was only this: a fragile, fiercely protected peace, built by an animal with nice arms who was, against all odds, learning how to be gentle.

[savvyscribbleswriting]

Pairing: Ray Garraty x fem!Reader

Summary: You love giving PDA to your boyfriend, Ray. One day, you decide to bring him lunch at work. His friends give him a hard time about it, but Ray ignores them in order to give you your own PDA.

Format: Short Story

Word Count: 1.6k

Genre: Alternate Universe; Romance

Additional Tags/Warnings: no use of (Y/N); no Long Walk; no Major; some mention of Clementine; setting is modern-ish; everyone is aged up slightly; everyone works construction (except reader); minimal research went into how construction works (apologies for inaccuracies); everyone is on a company baseball team (thank Ray for that one); strong language; suggestive situations; reader likes PDA; teasing from the boys

Author’s Note: HAPPY VALENTINE’S DAY!!! ♥😍🥰 May you have someone who is not afraid to show that they love you. Enjoy!

P.S. Click here to see what other stories I’ve cooked/plan on cooking this month.

P.P.S. Please be kind, as this is my first time writing for this fandom and its characters. Also know that I DO NOT OWN THE LONG WALK OR ANY OF ITS CHARACTERS.

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“I’m telling you guys – octopus does not taste like chicken!” The others chuckled at Olson’s remark.

Everyone – Pete, Olson, Art, Collie, Stebbins, Barkovitch, Harkness, Curley, and Ray – was busy fixing up the part of city hall that got destroyed by the recent storm. The frame was almost done, and after that would come the electrical business followed by putting up the walls and flooring. It was hard work, but time seemed to fly by for the men as they talked, laughed, and argued with one another. Right now, the subject was food. Olson brought it up when he talked about his anniversary dinner with his wife, Clementine, at some fancy restaurant in the neighboring town.

“I would’ve been fine just making dinner with her at home,” Olson went on, “but she insisted on making the whole night special.”

“Maybe she wanted a break,” Pete suggested. “God knows you can put it away.” He got a middle finger as a response, which made everyone bust out laughing.

“I don’t blame you, Hank,” Art chimed in. “Your wife is a great cook. Mmm, she could make plain bread taste like cake, I swear.” The men nodded in agreement, except Curley. “You ever had Clementine’s strawberry cake bread, Curley?” Art asked the newest and youngest of the group. He stopped measuring long enough to answer, “No, I haven’t.”

“Oh, you’re missing out! Hank, tell Clementine to make some for tomorrow.”

“No.”

“Come on, man! Don’t keep all your wife’s cooking to yourself!” The others pleaded along with Art, the thought of Clementine’s bread making their mouths water. Strawberries sounded particularly good to Ray. His brain began trying to remember if there was still some in his fridge.

“Fuck!” he suddenly exclaimed.

“What?” Pete asked.

“I forgot to pack my lunch,” Ray sighed, pinching his nose in frustration. “I usually make it the night before, but…”

His hesitation made everyone stop. “But?” Pete inquired.

Ray’s mouth was tightly zipped shut. He remembered why he forgot to pack his lunch last night. It had to do with his girlfriend – you – and how you wore that cute pajama set for him and how you offered him a back massage because he had been griping about his day and how that led to you two…

He blushed and quickly turned away. “Nothing,” he finally let out, hoping that if he looked like he was working the others would go back to doing the same. Unfortunately, it didn’t take long for the men to guess what Ray was hiding, and even less time to start shitting on him.

Barkovitch was first. “Oh ho ho! Seems like someone was busy last night!”

“I’ll be damned,” Collie muttered.

“It must’ve been good if it has you forgettin’ stuff, Garraty,” Olson commented.

“Guys, let’s not,” Harkness tried.

“Can’t say I’m surprised,” Stebbins piped up. “She’s all over him all the time.”

“Yeah, you’re right!” Art agreed. “Always hangin’ on him and huggin’ and kissin’ on him. Remember our last game, she was blowing kisses from the stands the entire time?” He started making kissy faces, then the others followed one by one. Barkovitch took it a step further by miming a couple making out. He then turned his attention to Harkness and tried pulling him in to play pretend. The man ran away with the other hot on his tail. Everyone except Ray, Pete, and Curley howled at the scene.

“What’s wrong with Ray’s girlfriend loving him?” Curley innocently asked.

“Absolutely nothing,” Pete stated. “Come on, boys. Let Ray and his girl be young and in love. And let us get back to it.” They all shook their heads but ultimately listened to their “leader.” Ray really tried to concentrate, but the words of his friends were mingling with all his memories of you and him.

They were right; you were always showering Ray with love in big and small ways.

You made sure he got lots of hugs and kisses before he left so he could “make it through work.”

You showed up to all the company baseball games and loudly cheered him on.

Your hand was always in his when you two took a stroll through the neighborhood, or went grocery-shopping, or sat down for a movie.

Whenever you joined him and that boys for a drink at the bar, you would do random things like play with his hair, wrap yourself around his arm, rest your head on his shoulder, or randomly smooch him on the cheek or ear.

Was it all a bit much? Honestly, Ray hadn’t thought hard about it before. He just knew that’s how you were. It wasn’t that big of a deal… right?

Suddenly, a car horn tore through his thoughts. Everyone instinctively walked to the edge of the building to see what was going on. The city hall’s tiny parking lot wasn’t too far from the construction site, and there weren’t that many cars there except essential people working on the functioning side of the building. One car stood out, though – yours.

You quickly got out and make your way towards them. Ray found his feet leading him to you. Once he got close, his mouth took over. “What are you doing here?”

“’Hello’ to you, too!” you replied cheerily. “I was getting ready for work when it dawned on me that you didn’t take a lunch with you. So, I made you something!” You held up one of his old lunch boxes. “Ham and cheese sandwich. An apple. Chips. Water. And for dessert, a couple of those oatmeal chocolate chip cookies you love. Oh, and this!” You quickly leaned in to press a kiss to Ray’s lips. However, he took a small step back, which caught you off guard. You just shook it off, immediately changing course so your sweet lips landed on his cheek.

You looked past his shoulder and saw the others staring at you. You waved at them. “Hi, boys!” They all waved back and shouted various greetings at you. “What’s a nice girl like you doing in a place like this?” Pete asked. You pointed to Ray. “Bringing this one lunch!”

The boys audibly awed at your sweetness. “Isn’t that sweet?” Collie asked.

“So sweet, I’m getting diabetes,” Stebbins joked.

“What about the rest of us?” Olson pointed out.

“Sorry! I don’t love you as much as I love Ray!”

“Oh, we know how much you love Ray!” Barkovitch yelled before miming a couple making out again. The boys were between laughing and shoving him to knock it off. You began to giggle, but one quick look at Ray made you stop. He didn’t seem to be enjoying this.

“You get paid to move wood, not look at me, motherfuckers!” he turned around to shout. The boys jeered at him. “Come on, Ray. That’s no way to talk in front of your lady,” Pete said. “Now, why don’t you kiss and make up?” Everyone rallied behind him by shouting random words of encouragement to you both.

Ray let out a sigh and turned back to you. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay. And you don’t have to kiss me, if you don’t want to.”

Ray’s eyes widened in surprise at your remark. He then took the time to study you for a moment. Disappointment, embarrassment, and shyness radiated off you at your own suggestion. It didn’t suit you, he realized.

The bright smile that came after you hugged and kissed him to death suited you.

Your loud and cheerful voice that made his name sound so great suited you.

The look of pure love in your eyes that was meant only for him even in a sea of single, more eligible fishes suited you.

That’s how you were, and he loved you. And it was time for him to really show you.

Ray set his lunch box on the ground and gently cradled your face in his hands. You held your breath, stunned at the shift and anxious for what was to come. Your boyfriend looked deep into your eyes and brought you in for a deep kiss. Neither of you paid any mind to the whoops and hollers of the group. You were too busy enjoying the moment.

Ray made sure the kiss lasted for a good long while before pulling away so you could catch your breath. Your eyes slowly opened, and you were greeted with a big, proud smile. “That was…” you trailed off, overcome with emotion.

“I know,” Ray said. He got closer to your face. “But I’m not done yet.”

Before you could react, he placed his arms just so and dipped you back for another passionate kiss. The cheers from the others got even louder, and the smiles on you and Ray’s faces got even bigger.

That lasted for another minute before Ray pulled back to look at you. You were in such a daze. “You are so…” you trailed off again. “I know,” Ray repeated.

He slowly pulled you up, keeping his arms around you so you were flush against him. “You’re just so good to me, and I wanted to return the favor. I want you to know how much I love you.”

“I love you too, Ray.”

With that, Ray picked up his lunch box, gave you one last hug and kiss, then skipped his way back to work. You waved after him and then the others, who were still trying to pick their jaws off the floor at the bold and spontaneous display of affection. Ray sat his stuff down and resumed his post. He stopped long enough to ask, “Hey, what’s wrong with me loving my girlfriend?”

“Absolutely nothing,” Pete answered.

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

Author’s Note 2: Electric Boogaloo: Thank you so much for making it to the end! I ask that you NOT post this story as your own, please. Instead, give it a like/review/bookmark/reblog/all of the above wherever you read it.

Archive of Our Own

Masterlist

[crying-for-twenty-five-years]

I LOVE HIM YOUR HONOR

[nyazwrld]

BENEATH THE SILENCE

Chapter 2, word count: 2.6k

Summery: Spending the long summer days at La Push y/n and Jacob talk about senior year coming up while reminiscing on what once was. Jacob breaks the silence with a question that wouldn’t leave things the same between them.

Previous chapter, next chapter and chapter list !!

playlist !!

Where the silence begins …

The summers at Forks always felt longer than they truly were, especially when you were surrounded by the right people. I spent most of my days at La Push or the treehouse my father had built for me and my sister. Or anywhere you’d find Jacob, he’d follow me like my own shadow.

Jacob skips a rock across the water for the third time in a row, grinning like hes won some world record. I’m right beside him, watching the sand fall in between the cracks of my fingers, letting the silence between us breathe.

“You’re absolutely horrible at skipping rocks,” I said without looking at him, just hearing his failed attempts was enough to make me smile and shake my head.

“You still suck at compliments,” he shoots back, throwing sand in my direction.

I roll my eyes, but the smile painted across my face betrays me, like muscle memory. Proof that he still gets to me. It’s always been like this. Jokes that skim the surface of something heavier, something we’ve never dared to name. Not out loud. Not even to ourselves.

“I still can’t believe we’re gonna be seniors,” I say with a sigh, tilting my head back.

He exhales a laugh through his nose. “I know. It’s crazy,” he had stood up and walked towards me throwing himself down on the towel I’ve been sitting on “It feels like just yesterday we were digging holes to trap each other in.” he said as he laid down next to me, resting his head on his folded hands behind him.

“You mean you were digging holes. I was building fairy gardens.” I said with a chuckle as I turned to look at him, he’s absolutely unbelievable.

“Yeah what ever” He gives me a look. “If that’s the case then how come I magically fell into every single one of them”

“Because you never looked where you were going,” I tease, proudly sticking up for six-year-old me like she was still out here living her best life. “Not that it mattered” a cheeky grin grew across my face “you would’ve fallen in either way.” I toss a rock toward the ocean, where it flops into the water with zero grace.

He pauses, gears clearly turning trying to out sass me but nothing comes out. “Yeah… guess I’ll give you that one,” he mutters, like it physically pains him to admit it.

His voice softens, like that memory’s sacred. I glance over. He’s not smiling as wide anymore.

“You know,” he says after a second. “Im glad we grew up together.”

“Yeah, me too.” I rest my head on my arms, hugging my knees to my chest. “We were absolute idiots.” I watching the waves with a reminiscent smile

“We were weird kids, huh?” he says.

“But we were happy,” I reply, a little too quickly.

Another silence, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. If anything it was comforting. Comfortable enough to sit in thought.

“You know.. I still think about the stories,” I admit like it’s childish, barely above a whisper, almost like saying it too loud could wake them.

“Do you ever think about them?” I ask. “The conspiracies and folk tales.”

“All the time,” he admits. “I mean we grew up hearing them…” he pauses with a grin. I can already tell whatever he’s going to say will be sarcastic. “Come on y/n, half of them are about my tribe. It’d be kinda wild if I didn’t believe in my own ancestors. Plus do you really think I’d pass up the chance to be the mysterious guy with a legendary past?” He said in a tone you only hear in ads when they’re trying to buy you the newest flashy thing out there.

“Mcht,” I suck my teeth with a smile as I roll my eyes shaking my head “whatever Jacob” i lean into him shoving his shoulder.

He rubs his shoulder like I truly hurt him. “Ouch y/n that really stung” he sarcastically said while leaning back on his elbows looking me up and down playfully offended before staring up at the cotton-streaked sky.

“Can I ask you something?” he murmured after a moment of silence.

I nod in compliance unsure of whats next. I readjust myself, facing him as I sit criss cross. He doesn’t move. He still lays there leaning on his elbows facing the ocean.

“Do you remember the day you broke your leg.” he asked softly almost as if he was trying to keep this conversation hidden from the world.

“Of course I do” I exhaled through my nose. “How could I forget something like that,” I say with a chuckle “it hurt like hell”

Jacob grinned rolled his eyes “But do you remember what happened?” he asked like I could read his mind.

I glanced at him sideways, trying my best not to glare at him. “You mean the part where you dared me to jump out the tree house and I snapped my leg in half trying to impress you?” I scoffed chuckling shaking my head as I remembered the sheer panic on his face after I fell. “I still remember the look on your face when you saw my leg. I’m surprised you managed to carry me from the tree house all the way to my dad’s” I looked down with a sly smile questioning how he did it.

He winces, laughing under his breath “In my defense I told you to jump off the ladder not the tree house itself” he said shaking his head. A grin tugging the corner of his mouth “I’ll take the compliment though”

“Gravity had other plans” I said under my breath throwing an handful of sand in front of me. “and that wasn’t a compliment either” I said dryly looking at him sideways.

He smiles, but it barley reaches his eyes. A wave of silence washed over us taking the rest of his smile with it. “Y/n, I’m being serious” he said with an unreadable chuckle. I couldn’t tell if he was joking or not.

I felt his eyes on me. I keep mine on the shore.

A hush of wind slipped through the evening air, brushing strands of hair across my face like a gentle warning. I couldn’t bring myself to meet his eyes, so I let mine follow the birds instead, watching them land into the cold dark salty water.

“After you screamed I swear the whole forest went silent” he said using his hands to sit up now.

“I mean” I dragged my words “most of the time after a loud noise everything goes silent.” I said in a matter of fact tone while I drew in the sand next to me. The silence between us was too much to bear. “It’s called physics, not magic” I turned to look at him. He didn’t find that funny.

“And the wind,” he said softer than before completely disregarding what I said. He then rested his elbows on his knees, using his hands to hold his head like it was spinning “I swear if circled around us,” he turns to me with a straight face “like actually circled us”

I shook my head and laughed underneath my breath “You sound like such an idiot” I threw a handful of sand his way “we were kids Jacob” I softly say as I shake my head “kids under a lot of stress”

“I’m being serious, idiot” he said returning my insult as he dusted the sand off of his shirt “it came out of no where and left just as fast” he hesitates “I mean it couldn’t have been a coincidence y/n”

I sigh and shook my head like this conversation is beneath me “you thought you could see in the dark when you were younger,” I turn to him “hell you thought that you could breath underwater,” I softly grin “remember how that ended?” I mumbled under my breath grinning as I turned my gaze back to the sand I was drawing in.

He pushes me over with no hesitation “Whatever y/n” he let out a breathless laugh “I know what you’re doing and it isn’t working”

I pushed myself upright, brushing the cold sand from my arms like it could somehow clear the tension between us. Words tumbled to the edge of my tongue desperate, clumsy and defensive. “You’re only mad because you know I’m ri-“

“We both know it happened and I’m tired of pretending it didn’t” he cut me off.

Silence.

“I’m not saying you did it or anything,” he said softer than before “I’m just saying it’s weird that things like that only happen when I’m around you”

I don’t answer right away. My throat tightens in the way it does when the truth is too heavy to say out loud. I probably get that from my dad.

I sat there frozen, like the truth had finally caught up to me. Maybe it wasn’t just fairy tales or boredom painting the world in magic. Maybe it was always there, and I was the one who chose not to see it. I exhale a pathetic chuckle though my nose.

God I sound ridiculous

The sharp breeze picks up catching strands of my hair blowing them into my face. I just sat there letting them tangle there like my thoughts.

“Why are you bringing this up now” I quietly ask as I watched a cloud cover up the sun.

He shrugs “I don’t know” he looked to his side.

He knows.

“I mean..” after a pause he turned to the sea “we’re much older now and it seems like the older we get the more the weird stuff feels less..” he paused “weird, and more real” He leans back on his elbows eyes looking up to the sky, “I think there’s more to you than you want to believe”

I let out a long, tired dramatic sigh. “Jacob…”

He’s already looking at me like he expects me to say something life-altering, but I don’t have the energy for it anymore. This conversation is beyond stupid.

The silence hangs heavy, like it’s waiting for me to take it seriously.

I smile.

“Oh, yeah right?” I say with a dry laugh, throwing up my hands sarcasm dripping from every word. “Unicorns are real, vampires live in the woods, werewolves live in my backyard, oh and the tooth fairy is real” I nod my head preaching at him in a condescending tone.

“What?” He snaps, not angry but something close to it

I shake my head, smirking “Come on, J. We were just kids with too much imagination and a whole forest to get lost in.” I said as I stood up dusting the sand off my jeans. He has to be kidding me.

“You sound ridiculous, It was just a storm,” I said clearly over the conversation. I stretched my arms like it would rid of his idiotic statement. I leaned into my stance placing my hands in the back pockets of my jeans. “stop pretending it was more than what it truly was.”

I laugh but there’s no emotion tied to it. I can almost see when he goes from whatever that was to genuinely upset. He definitely didn’t find anything I said funny.

“You know,” he said as he stood up too “You can keep pretending it was just a storm” he said still watching me almost like he pitied me. “But I was there, and I know for a fact…” his voice dropped, soft but firm as he tilted his head down just enough to meet my gaze “….that it wasn’t a damn storm”

I stood there stunned, watching him watch me. Why is he so sure? What does he know that I don’t? Why did he take my jokes so personally? How come he didn’t even let a sly chuckle slip? My jokes cant be that bad.

I leaned my head back as my brows furrowed in his face dismissing the thought before it consumed me. I mean we were just joking right…? I grabbed the towel and started dusting the sand off of it as Embry and Quil call for him in the distance.

He looks me up and down one last time before jogging their way. I don’t know why he got so upset. All I know is I hate when we get into arguments that feel so much bigger than either of us are ready to admit. Especially over something like this. I hate to say it but he overreacted a little bit more than I anticipated.

I don’t know what he told them, but it was quick. And just like that, he was running back towards me again just as I loaded the last of our things into the back of his old red Chevrolet.

I raised my hand as I felt a soft drizzle of rain brush against my bare shoulder. Great. It’s raining now. I tried my best to let our argument slide off me like the raindrops did, how gracefully they slid off my shoulder with such ease. But my thoughts were too loud.

Then there’s Jacob catching his breath right beside me, hands on his knees grinning like nothing ever happened. He looks up at me. Eyes softer than the sunset and his smile as bright as the sun. I shake my head and softly smile, he’s so infuriating.

He paused like he’s about to say something else. But he doesn’t.

Instead, he turned and ran to the shore, grabbing a flat rock and tossing it into the water. It skips twice, then sinks.

“Still got it,” he smirks.

And just like that, this moment drifted away

but not completely.

Because the ocean remembers.

And so do we.

[jacefiles]

I love your modern jace. could we get a meet ugly instead of a meet cute? some really funny and awkward way jace and reader meet and he’s super smitten with her immediately?

I lowkey started laughing at my own crackhead interpretation 😭😭

Enjoy~~~

People love to tell you that love finds you in the most cinematic ways. A crowded hallway, a stack of books hitting the floor, a stranger kneeling down to help you gather your papers while your fingers brush against his and the whole world goes quiet for a second. That's the version everyone imagines. That's not what happened to you.

Real life doesn't come with a soundtrack or a lighting crew. It just comes with humiliation, piled one mistake on top of another, until somehow, against every possible odd, it turns into something good.

Before any of that chaos began, you already knew who Jacaerys Velaryon was. Everyone did. You could have been living under a rock and you still would have heard his name at least once a week. He was the top student in your entire batch, the one professors used as the gold standard when they wanted to shame the rest of the class into studying harder. He had a 4.0 that never seemed to slip, an easy confidence that made him look like he belonged wherever he stood, and the sort of effortless style that made you wonder if he'd woken up already fully put together. Someone completely out of reach.

Then he sat down next to you in an 8 a.m. lecture, and your entire semester fell apart.

There were a few things you could always count on in that lecture hall. The air conditioning was always cranked way too high, cold enough that half the room kept hoodies stuffed in their bags just for that one class. The coffee from the cart outside tasted like lukewarm dishwater no matter how much sugar you dumped into it. And Jace was always there early, sitting straight backed with his notebook already open, looking like the concept of being tired simply didn't apply to him.

You, meanwhile, looked like something that had crawled out of bed and directly into a lecture hall without stopping anywhere in between, which was more or less exactly what had happened. Three hours of sleep and a fistful of dry cereal eaten on the walk over will do that to a person. Your hair was shoved into a bun that had already started falling apart, and you were fairly sure you still had a pillow crease on your cheek.

The professor dimmed the lights to click through a slideshow on statistical variance, and that was it for you. The room went dark and warm and quiet, and your body made the decision for you before your brain even had a say in it. Your head tipped back against the chair, your mouth fell open, and somewhere in the fog of half sleep you stopped caring about anything at all, including the fact that you were sitting two feet away from the top student in your year.

Then his voice cut through, suddenly loud as the lights snapped back on without warning. "And that brings us to the core hypothesis. Let's ask our sleeping friend in the third row."

You jolted awake so hard your whole body flinched, your arms flying out on instinct like you were bracing for a fall. In the split second of pure panic that followed, trying to look like a person who had definitely been paying attention and not someone who'd just been drooling in front of two hundred classmates, your knee shot upward and caught the bottom of your metal water bottle sitting on the edge of the desk. It went flying, hit the floor, and rolled a few feet before slamming into someone's backpack with a metallic CLANK! so loud it might as well have been a gunshot in that quiet room.

Every head turned. You felt your face catch fire, heat crawling up your neck and into your ears, as you leaned down to grab the bottle just to have something to do with your hands. That's when you realized the truly horrifying part. There was a thin, shiny line of drool running down your chin, and it had clearly been there for a while.

Beside you, Jace froze for half a second before his instincts kicked in. He reached back for his bag, clearly trying to play the smooth rescuer, digging for a tissue. He moved just a little too fast, probably more aware of the class watching than he wanted to admit. His fingers snagged on the inside lining of his jacket, a brand-new one by the look of it, still stiff at the seams. Before either of you could process what was happening, there was a sharp RIPPING sound.

The front pocket tore wide open. Mints, pens, a stray USB drive, all of it spilled out and scattered across the floor in a chaotic little avalanche, rolling under desks and skittering across the tile in the dead silence of the room.

Jace stared down at the mess, a single mint still rolling past his shoe. His ears went bright red, the kind of red that spreads fast and gives everything away. He didn't say anything for a second, just reached into his bag, pulled out a slightly crumpled napkin from the cafeteria, and slid it over to you without quite meeting your eyes.

"Uh," he muttered, voice cracking before he cleared his throat and tried again. "For the... yeah. And for the record, I meant to redesign this jacket anyway. It's fashion now."

You took the napkin and said nothing, because there was genuinely nothing you could say that would make this better, and wiped your chin as discreetly as a person can wipe their chin in front of an entire lecture hall.

Two weeks passed. You spent every single one of them avoiding Jace with how things ended last time, moving your usual seat three rows back to the safety of the back benches where the top student in the batch had no reason to look.

It was a Friday, ten minutes before the end of class, and everyone in the room was silently begging the professor to let them go early. You could feel it in the air, that restless energy of people already packing their bags. Naturally, that was the exact moment Jace raised his hand and asked a question so specific and so unnecessarily detailed that you felt the collective will of the room shatter around you. A groan rippled through the hall, low and tired, the sound of two hundred exhausted students made in unison when they realize freedom just got pushed back another ten minutes.

Your friend Jessie was sitting right beside you, arms crossed, glaring at the back of Jace's head with the exact same betrayal you were feeling. You were running purely on spite at that point. You pulled out your phone, zoomed in on the back of his perfectly styled head, and snapped an unflattering, slightly blurry photo. Underneath it you typed, if golden boy asks one more question I am going to throw my textbook at his perfect hair, and pulled up the share sheet to AirDrop it to Jessie like you always did when you wanted her to see something without whispering across the row and getting shushed.

Multiple names popped up on the screen, starting with the same letter. Your thumb moved faster than your brain did, tapping the first one without actually reading it, and you went right back to glaring at the back of Jace's head, waiting for Jessie's reaction.

It took a second to register that something was wrong. Jessie's phone never buzzed. Yours did instead, a small delivery confirmation lighting up your screen, and your stomach dropped straight through the floor before you even opened it to check. You looked at the name still sitting there under the AirDrop icon and felt every bit of blood leave your face.

Jace's iPhone.

Three rows down, his phone lit up in his hand. You watched his shoulders go stiff as he looked at the screen, and then, slowly, a grin spread across his face, which told you he already knew exactly how he was going to make your life difficult for the rest of the semester. He started turning around in his seat, clearly getting ready to deliver some devastating comeback, looking far too pleased with himself for someone about to embarrass you in front of the entire class.

What he forgot, in that moment of triumph, was the iced caramel macchiato sitting open on his desk. His elbow caught the edge of the table as he spun toward you. The cup tipped sideways in what felt like slow motion, and a whole wave of sugary, icy coffee dumped straight into his lap.

The sound he made was not dignified. It landed somewhere between a gasp and a yelp, and he shot up out of his seat so fast his chair nearly toppled backward, frantically patting at his lap with a single sheet of loose paper while half the row dissolved into laughter around him.

Through all of it, his eyes found yours, wide with betrayal and something that might have been the start of a laugh he refused to let out. His face went beet red, coffee still dripping off the edge of the desk. He pointed a sticky finger in your direction and mouthed three words.

This is karma.

The moment class ended, you were already moving. You crammed your laptop and binders into your bag and yanked the zipper shut with more force than necessary, because the top priority right now was getting out of that building before the smartest person in your year could catch up to you and demand answers.

You practically ran for the exit, dodging around slower classmates and taking the steep concrete steps of the lecture hall two at a time. Then you heard it. A sharp pop from somewhere behind you, and a second later your overstuffed backpack gave up entirely. The zipper split clean along the seam and the whole bag burst open at once, spilling everything down the stairs behind you.

Your laptop slid out and went sliding down the steps like it had somewhere better to be. A half-eaten granola bar launched out of the side pocket and sailed through the air in a small, tragic arc, hitting Jace, who happened to be walking a few steps ahead of you, directly in the back of the neck.

"Ow, what the-" He spun around fast, one hand flying up to rub his neck, just in time to watch you trip over your own misstep.

You went flying down the last two steps and collided with him at full speed, no time to catch yourself or even brace for impact. There was no graceful way to describe what happened next.

Both of you hit the floor in a tangle of limbs, scattered papers, crushed oats, and rolling highlighters, the granola bar wrapper somehow ending up stuck under someone’s shoe a few feet away. Jace took most of the impact, landing hard on his back with a breathless “oof” underneath you.

For a few seconds, neither of you moved. You were completely wrapped around each other on the floor, your face only inches from his, close enough that you could count his eyelashes if you'd been in any state to think that clearly. Jace, who always had something clever ready to say, seemed to have lost the ability to speak entirely. His hair was a mess, sticking up on one side where it had hit the tile, there was a piece of almond stuck to his collarbone from your granola bar, and his cheeks had gone a soft, embarrassed pink that had nothing to do with the coffee stain still drying on his jeans.

He looked up at you and blinked, twice, before a nervous laugh slipped out of him.

"You know," he said, breathless, his arms already wrapping around your waist to keep you both steady on the slick floor, "most people just ask for my Snapchat or number. I have to say, I respect the commitment to a full-body takedown."

He didn't rush to let you go. His eyes softened, and a small, slightly dorky smile crept onto his face, nothing like the composed, untouchable version of him you'd been watching from three rows back for weeks. "You good? Nothing broken?"

"Just my dignity," you whispered, wishing more than anything that the floor would open up and take you with it.

That night, your phone buzzed with a text from a number you didn't recognize.

“Hey. It's Jace. The guy you bruised, slandered, and spilled coffee on today.”

A second message followed almost immediately, like he'd typed it out in advance and hit send before he could talk himself out of it.

“My ribs are fine but my pride took some real damage. Only fix I can think of is you letting me take you out tomorrow night. No backpacks allowed. I'll buy the coffee this time, since I clearly can't be trusted to hold my own.”

And so, the next evening, his car pulled up outside your apartment right on time. When you opened the door, there he was, looking suspiciously put together in a brand-new jacket with all its pockets fully intact, holding a small, neatly wrapped box like he wasn't sure what to do with his hands otherwise.

"Open it," he said, rubbing the back of his neck, a faint blush already creeping up his cheeks.

You tore off the paper. Inside was a heavy-duty metal water bottle and a roll of industrial-strength duct tape, both wrapped like they were something precious.

"For your backpack," Jace said, leaning over to help with your seatbelt once you'd climbed in. "And in case you feel the urge to tackle me again later. Though, honestly, I wouldn't mind if you did."

© jacefiles - all rights reserved, please refrain from copying, reposting, modifying or translating my work on any platform.

[kattheogcat]

Fly With Me

Pairing — Jacaerys Velaryon x afab!Reader

Summary — After another long meet with his mother and the small council, the young prince was increscingly more frustrated. Good thing that he wasn't completely alone to deal with it...

Genre — fluff

Wordcount — 2.4k

Warnings — mentions of war and fighting, tell me if i missed sumn

Rating — PG-13

A/N — I needed sum fluffy where my boy is ALIVe so sue me if need be... i also think i've written lucerys name wrong one time but i couldn't find it anymore where it was😭

Disclaimer: this fic is written and copyrighted by ©kattheogcat on tumblr. do not rewrite or repost on any other plattforms without my permission.

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED!

You had not been born as a Taragryen. Neither had you been born as a Velaryon. Neither Sea and Salt, nor Fire and Ash was running through your blood. And yet you still were surrounded by both, living and breathing the same values as both houses because you had been raised to do so.

Not of noble birth and yet very much acknowledged as such through the friendship you shared with the oldest children of Daemon Targaryen, Baela and Rhaena.

Your mother, a maid within the service of house Velaryon, your father a man unknown to you and a bond forged with those two girls so tight they had refused to leave you behind in Driftmark once they moved their home to Dragonstone.

You followed the across the Narrow Sea not as a lady with title and nether as a servant bound to the by duty. You followed as a friend, as someone to confide in when war and battle grew to big for them.

Though you held no claim to dragon or throne, not that you craved either, no one on Dragonstone thought it strange to find you at Baela’s side or with Rhaena’s hand hooked through your arm as the three of you wandered the halls.

Over the years you had become a familiar face within the castle as the cold stone itself, earning warm smiles from guards and servants alike and the occasional teasing remark from Prince Daemon, who insisted his daughters had adopted you long ago. As if he himself hasn’t started seeing you as someone to care for just as he did for his daugters.

The prince consort has never said it aloud, his brash character often off-putting and fear inducing, yet somehow there were little things that contradicted this entirely just like when it came to Baela and Rhaena.

He never asked whether you had eaten, yet somehow an extra place was always set whenever he knew you would return late with his daughters.

If training in the yard left bruises blooming across your arms, a jar of salve would mysteriously find its way to your chambers before nightfall without a servant ever admitting who had sent it.

When the sea winds bit too sharply atop Dragonstone's cliffs, Daemon would grumble at the three of you to "either come inside or freeze together," pretending his irritation had nothing to do with concern.

It was never spoken of, but everyone in the castle understood that any slight against you would be treated as a slight against House Targaryen itself. And for a girl born with neither silver hair nor noble name that was more you should ever be allowed to ask for.

Even the youngest princes, sweet and blissfully innocent, had taken to you like a moth to a flame. Joffery, Aegon and Viserys each demanding to be played with and told a story before bed whenever they had the chance to do so.

Lucerys, grown as he was and seeking the acknowledgement of his mother, still came to you as the young boy he still was. Lingering on the side, pretending he wasn’t as interested in the stories his little brothers greatly exaggerated until you quietly shuffled your skirts around to make space or listen to him talk to you about Arrax and how well he grew.

And then there was Jacaerys, Jace, the only one you willingly called by his nickname and the only one you felt truly comfortable enough to lower your walls of polite respect for the noble family. Then one who as heir to the iron throne should be the one you should be the most distant with and yet there was this unspoken understanding that both of you were allowed to simply be with the other.

IT was in those moments where no judgmental eyes of the court and council where you saw the oldest prince clearly. Not as an heir that was being shaped into the future of the 7 kingdoms, but as a boy that laughed at the silliest of jokes.

When duty weighed heavy on his shoulders, he’d come to you. Sometimes in the dark of night when nobody saw him walk to your chambers, sometimes when you were hiding out in the fields far above the sea. Until he was able to breath again.

In return, you never asked about what it was that had him feeling so frayed, simply listening, offering an ear that was not meant to tear down every thought the prince voiced out in front of the council.

And though neither of you were aware, both of you instinctually looked for the other first in a crowded room.

Jacaerys didn’t have time to himself very often. Not with the prying eyes of the court tracking every movement of his and his mother not allowing him to fight on dragon back as she did Baela or Rhaenys.

It frustrated him, making him feel useless and like a boy being scolded more then a prince wanting to fight for his queens claim to the throne.

Frowning, he left his mother and the lords behind once it was clear that he was no longer needed. Baela walked out just a little before he had, most likely already on her way to the dragonpit to mount Moondancer and Rhaena had left for Driftmark the day before. That only left Luke or you, and honestly, he’d rather go make his search for you then suffer of his brothers brooding.

His feet carried him through winding corridors almost without thought, guided by habit until he reached the sun-warmed terrace overlooking the sea from where he found you exactly as he’d hoped. Seated upon the ancient stone wall with your skirts carelessly bundled up so you could properly climb the stone without getting caught in the fabric of them.

As unbecoming as it was for a lady and as much as Jacaerys knew your own mother would scold you, he didn’t mind your little show of skin in the slightest. Gentleman as he was he of course didn’t look, but he really also didn’t care as long as you felt comfortable.

Yu looked up at the sound of his approaching footsteps, and before a single word was spoken, the tightness in his chest eased ever so slightly at the immediate smile spreading over your face.

“Now why do’s our noble prince look like someone has spat into his dinner?” you grinned, causing a quite laugh to leave his lips.

Leaning his forearms on the worn stone beside you the prince let his eyes trail over your face, the carefree teasing causing his heart to flutter as though he was flying with Vermax through the skies. “I’d prefer that to being stuck here and having to watch my cousin fly out.”

You hummed softly, turning your gaze back toward the endless stretch of dark water below. “Then perhaps Her Grace keeps you here because she knows Dragonstone would lose two dragons if you flew off after them the moment her back was turned.”

Jacaerys let out a long sigh, though the corner of his mouth betrayed him as it twitched upward. “You always have a way of making me sound unreasonable.”

“I don’t make you sound anything, Jace,” you replied with a playful nudge of your shoulder against his. “You usually manage that all by yourself.”

“Is that how you want to talk to your future king, my lady?”

You tilt your head at him unbothered, the wind tugging at your dress. “If my future king keeps sulking like a kicked hatchling, then yes, I think ixll risk it.” You say, eyes glinting with mischief.

Jacaerys lets out a short, incredulous breath though it breaks halfway into something softer as he shakes his head at you.

“I am not sulking,” he mutters, but the way he drops down beside you fully, shoulder pressing lightly against yours, tells a very different tale.

After a moment of silence, he adds quieter, almost reluctant, “I just… hate being left behind.”

Feeling bad for the prince you let your hand rest on his, squeezing gently to comfort you refused to look at him, wanting to prevent a scandal caused by an innocent touch.

“You know why she does it, and you know why the small council says it too. Jace, you aren’t just the son of your mother, you are heir to the throne! They are trying to keep you alive and not lose you to a reckless act of pride that might cost us your live,” you explained, understanding where the hesitancy to let him act came from more then he did. “I wouldn’t want to live knowing I have lost you.”

The last part was quieter in volume but loud in meaning and it had him look at you again. He opened his mouth to reply and got cut of by the load shriek coming from above as Vermax had found his rider sitting outside.

A thought struck the prince.

“Fly with me?”

Your head whipped around quickly, face falling a bit as the request registered within you.

“You are jesting, are you not?”

“Do you not trust me?” he shot back in an instant.

Shaking your head with wide eyes you jumped of your seat on the stones, skirt falling properly as layers on fabric returned to cover you once again.

“It is not a matter of trusting you, but Jacaerys, Vermax is going to eat me before I can even get close enough to touch the saddle!”

Jacaerys knew that Vermax would not harm a single strand of hair on your head as the dragon had taken a liking to you with the years that he rarely did with others.

Yes, his dragon was said to be ill-tempered and yes, more than one dragonkeeper had been on the receiving end of said temper over time but, you? You had been a different story. Always had been ever since you had arrived on dragonstone at two and ten and you had followed Baela right into the dragonpit.

You had stayed back, held your distance as you knew dragons were only really inclined to your riders and that just because Moondancer tolerated through association with her rider, the other bests would not be bothered if they set you on fire out of a mood.

Arrax had been small, not yet as much of a danger at that time, Vermax however had already been the size of a small horse and very capable of doing damage far greater then Luke’s dragon. And yet somehow, the green beast had only clicked and shook his scales , even going as far as to ignore the young boy Jace had still been then to investigate the newcomer.

Jacaery would keep the secret of why his dragon was so tolerating of you until the day he either died, or he somehow managed to convince his mother to betroth him to you.

“He would not. I would not let him harm you, I promise that.”

His voice softened as he stepped closer, the bravado slipping just enough to reveal the certainty beneath it.

You searched his face for any hint of doubt and found none, only quiet unwavering trust in the green beast.

With a reluctant breath, you finally nodded, letting him take your hand as he guided you down from the terrace and toward the distant roar of the dragonpit.

As if he had felt it the dragon came flying, settling low even as he saw you. His prying eyes not leaving you as Vermax watched his rider keep you close.

“Jace I’m not sure if—” you began, fear making your eyes shake and nearly cling to the princes arm the closetr you got.

Jacaerys only smiled, laying a reassuring hand over yours where it gripped his sleeve.

“Look at me, not him,” he murmured, waiting patiently until your frightened gaze left Vermax’s golden eyes to meet his own.

“You trust me when I ask you to listen, do you not?” he asked softly and when you gave the smallest nod, his smile widened. “Then trust that Vermax knows the difference between a stranger and someone his rider…” he hesitated for the briefest heartbeat, “…someone his rider cherishes.”

Vermax let out a low rumble that vibrated through the very stones under you before, to your utter surprise, lowering his enormous head until his snout hovered only a few feet away from you.

You stood frozen and not daring to breathe much as the warm dragon breath almost seemed to caress your face, smelling of smoke, ash and something you didn’t want to know while the great beast merely blinked at you with as much curiosity as you did. The fact that his teeth were mere handwidths away from your face di not seem to settle yet.

“See?” Jacaerys whispered beside you, unable to hide the pride softening his face as he watched his dragon all but demand your attention. “If he wished to frighten you away, we would both know it by now.”

Very reassuring, you thought.

With trembling fingers you slowly reached forward, expecting at any moment for the illusion of safety to shatter, yet Vermax only leaned into the hesitant touch against the warm scales his head, releasing a pleased croon that made the dragonkeepers nearby stop and stare in open disbelief.

Jacaerys smiled brightly because neither you nor anyone else could have known that Vermax had just accepted the girl his rider had long ago given his heart to.

“Not so bad, isn’t it?" He asked, the answer already knowing when you turned to look at him with wonder.

The prince let go off you, climbing up into the saddle fastened to Vermax’s back and held out his hand for you to take.

With shaking fingers you climbed up and settled behind him, feeling Jacaerys breath falter when your arms wrapped tightly around his waist.

The moment Vermax’s wings spread, the entire world seemed to drop away beneath you as the great beast launched into the air with a powerful beat that stole the breath from your lungs.

You clung tighter to Jacaerys instinctively, feeling the steady rise and fall of his breathing as he guided Vermax smoothly out of the pit and over the black waters of the Narrow Sea.

Wind tore at you, but instead of fear like before there was only… freedom.

Jacaerys turned just slightly in the saddle, his hand finding yours where held on tight, lacing your fingers together without a word as if it had always been the most natural thing in the world.

He listened to your laugh that you couldn’t hold back, relishibg in the moment of closeness and intimacy he knew he had craved for a while now.

Gods he really was infatuated with you far worse then he should have allowed himself to be.

[raven-dor]

si un jour

in which gwayne reflects on his lost love

PAIRING: gwayne hightower x fem!reader, gwayne hightower x targaryen!reader

WARNINGS: otto hightower, criston cole being a loser, implied rejection of said loser, angst, gwayne is such a lover boy, arguing, slight allusion to nsfw ig, TW: SUICIDE

WORD COUNT: 1.7k

🎶 : hymne à l’amour - édith piaf

AN: ♥️ - this is by far the most heart breaking thing i've ever written. sad sad ending - TW: suicide.

Criston Cole would be the utter demise of the noble Gwayne Hightower.

That knight (if once could even call him that) had a way of turning Gwayne’s goodnatured air into a poisonous one. For the past several weeks, the Dornishman had been on a conquest, one with the sole purpose of spreading his hate and resentment to those under his command. 

And just when Gwayne thought Cole’s hatred was dwindling down, your dragon flew overhead a small dispute.

That seemed to reignite something inside him. Cole spent hours spewing horrible, slanderous things about you and the Princess Rhaenyra. 

Gwayne had had a different reaction to the mere reminder of you. Reduced to his ten and five year old self, he spent his time in a daze, daydreaming and the like.

You’d been a haunting figure in Gwayne’s life for years. 

The men sat around the fire, eating their horribly disgusting rations, exchanging tall tales. Cole had taken over the light-hearted nature, and forced it to become a slanderous and honestly obsessive speech about the princesses. He’d moved on from Rhaenyra, now focusing on you. Sweet, beautiful, and kind you. 

“She was always a rough one.” His lip quirked, like he was trying to hint at something unbecoming of a true honorable knight. Of course, Gwayne reminded himself, Cole was not a true knight. A true knight knew when to hold his tongue. “Harsh, like that of a terrible storm. She tore through the Red Keep, leaving chaos in her wake.” 

No one dared to correct him. Many that sat around the fire had visited court, had seen the notoriously kind and gentle princess move with the poise of a true noblewoman. Some had even grown up with the Princess. They all knew that she was not at all like the Dornishman said, and yet, none of them stood to defend her. 

Cowards, the lot of them. 

Gwayne’s jaw twitched as he waited for the man to redeem himself. He’d snapped at the Hand only a fortnight ago, and thought it would perhaps be wise to choose patience over impulse. 

“Women like that are rare, truly.” Cole, unfortunately, continued. “She was, in no uncertain terms, a cun-” 

In an instance, Gwayne rose to his feet, drew his sword, and held it at the Hand’s neck. “Watch your tongue, Sir Criston.” 

The air stilled, the once jovial men tense with uncertainty. “It would be wise to lower your sword, my lord.” 

“The mere concept of wisdom is something completely foreign to you.” 

“It seems-” Criston swallowed. “That your allegiance has shifted.” 

“How dare you.” Gwayne hissed. “My allegiance is not to be questioned.” 

“It is-” Criston dared to speak again. “When you threaten me after my comment about the princess.” 

“I am a man of honor.” Gwayne stepped back, allowing his sword to fall from the man’s neck. “And as a man of honor, I cannot stand idly by as you insult a lady. If you dare speak another ill word of her, I will strike you where you sit, the Gods as my witness.” 

Criston smirked. “I shall not speak of the Realm’s Horror any longer then.” That comment earns laughs from the men. 

Gwayne fought the urge to slash his throat in one swell blow. Instead, he turned on his heel, stalking towards his tent. He flung his sword on the floor beside his cot before flinging himself onto the cushion in a most undignified manner.

As he fell asleep, his mind drifted to memories of you. Well, to only one. His fondest. 

Some Years Ago…

He hadn't seen you in ages, the longing in his heart nearly ready to burst. He knew that Rhaenyra and Alicent had gone off to the library thanks to his spies within the household, and he knew that that meant you were left to your own devices.  

And so there he waited, watching as you walked through the castle garden, soaked to the bone thanks to the aggressive downpour. You'd abandoned your cloak some time ago, realizing there was no stopping your gown from becoming a wet rag. 

His hand, gentle yet firm, had gripped your wrist, pulling you into the groundskeeper's shed. You knew who it was instantly; his touch was as familiar to you as Rhaenyra's whines (mostly regarding her father's wishes for her to marry). Still, a gasp left your lips. 

Gwayne's terribly charming grin looked down at you, his face illuminated thanks to the adjacent window. “Gwayne Hightower, you cannot pull a lady-” 

“I have missed you.” His head hung low, lips closer than they should be. “You have been busy.”

“Such is the life of the heir of the realm’s lady in waiting.” You reached up, brushing a stray hair behind his ear. “I have missed you as well.”

“Your gown-” He looked down, shaking his head in faux disappointment. “It is ruined.” 

“Is it now?” You frowned. “What a shame.” 

“A shame?” He lowered his lips to the crook of your neck, trailing kisses across your chest. Chills ran down your spine, biting your lips to suppress the urge to moan. “My darling girl, you have never looked as stunning as you have this very moment.” You glared, shoving his shoulder playfully. 

“Do not tease, Gwayne.”

“I never tease-” He stopped, correcting his statement before he became a liar. “I only tease when I mean to immediately remedy the situation.”

“Ah.” Your arms found their way around his neck, fingers delicately playing with his hair. “Might I ask how you will be remedying this situation?”

“Of course, my lady.” He'd been slowly backing you toward the wall, finding satisfaction in your flustered appearance when your back collided against the partition. “I plan to ravish you-”

“Ravish?” You gawked, jaw slack. “Gwayne, what if my uncle- the guard-” 

“If you do not wish for me to continue…” He whispered, hands squeezing your hips. “I will obey your commands.”

“No.” You shook your head, nudging your nose against his. “I never said I did not want to.” 

“Ah.” His hands pulled at the fabric of your skirt, your stomach twisting at the action and what it alluded to. What it implied was something you’d been wanting for quite some time. 

“You know-” You tried your best to seem entirely unbothered. “You have not kissed me yet.” “Haven’t I?” His eyes fluttered to your chest, your heart skipping at his actions. “I believe-”

“I would like a proper kiss.” You grumbled. “I am not a piece of meat, my lord, so you may stop eyeing me like one.”

“I do not eye.” He sounded highly offended. “I am simply taking in the vision that is before me. You are a goddess, the Realm’s Beauty indeed.” 

“Gwayne-” You tugged on his doublet. “Please.” 

“As you wish, my lady.” He leaned closer, his left hand left your hip to cup your cheek. 

You nodded quickly. “It is.” He then pressed you further into the wall, if that was even possible. His lips never left your skin once, worshipping you like a man possessed. Your eyes closed, head tilting up toward the sky. “Gwayne-” 

“I could hear my name leave your lips for a lifetime.” 

“A lifetime?” Your breath caught at the implication. “What do you-” 

“You know.” He murmured against your skin, causing chills to run down your spine. “You must know.” 

“This-” You sounded utterly wrecked. “This is not a joking matter, Gwayne.” 

“I am not joking.” He pulled your skirts up, tugging at your stockings. “You think me an unserious rake, I am convinced.” 

“You must forgive me.” You gasped as his hand pawed at your upper thigh, thoughts failing to form coherently. “But your current actions are proving my point.” 

“Are they?” His hand then slid up further, toying with the base of your chemise. “Would you like me to stop?” 

“No!” You slapped a hand over your mouth, eyes wide with fear. “No.” 

“My lovely girl-” He pulled your hand away, kissing the back gently. The act was so chivalrous that it almost made you forget he was actively taking part in the social ruin of a young noble lady. “I am asking for your hand this afternoon.” 

“You are only saying that.” 

“I am not. I have had this planned since a fortnight ago.” 

Your legs tightened around his waist. “Have you really?” 

He leaned forward, his nose nudging yours. “I love you, Your Highness. Most ardently, and if you will have me, I will make you the happiest woman in the whole of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“I-” You dove down, kissing him soundly. “I will marry you. I will be your wife.” 

Of course, because the gods were cruel, his fondest memory was followed by his worst. He’d left you to go meet with the King and his father, to ask for your hand, hopeful, happy even.

He’d walked in calm, held his head high, but humble. 

He’d even sworn that Viserys was on the verge of saying yes when his own father cut in, destroying his future in one fell swoop. “My King, I apologize. My son, he has insulted you gravely.” 

“Otto-” 

“Your niece is of a higher rank. He is only a second son.” Otto glared at his child. “Leave us.” 

“Father-” Gwayne puffed his chest, trying his hardest not to look utterly crushed. “I love her, truly and honestly. I would- I would provide her a loving marriage, one of happiness and peace.” 

“But not one that she deserves. Not one fitting of a Princess, am I right?” Otto raised a brow. Gwayne was speechless.

“Leave us. I won’t repeat myself.” 

Gwayne hadn’t seen you after that day. His father had forbidden it, going so far as to post guards at his door and at the base of the Princess’s balcony. He’d sent him back to Oldtown, and sent you into a depressive state. 

A mere fortnight later, Gwayne had been walking through the streets of his home when a villager whispered about the Targaryen princess who flung herself off the tallest point of the castle. 

And two days later, his own father’s raven had confirmed it. You had died from heartbreak, all thanks to Otto Hightower and his scheming. 

Gwayne knew that you were gone, and yet, when he saw your dragon, he let himself believe that you were still alive. He dared to have hope. And hope would kill him, just as it did his spirit all those years ago. 

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[catbayunthestoryteller]

Wine and A Pretty Wench

Aerion Targaryen x wife!reader - A Knight of the Seven Kingdoms

Summary: Dunk accidently mistakes Aerion's lady wife in his tent for a common whore because she did not arrive with the rest of the Targaryen party to the Ashford tourney. This is a oneshot, not related to any series.

Warnings: SMUT 18+ p in v, unprotected sex, possessiveness, power imbalance, dubiously consensual situations, Aerion wants to roleplay, pregnancy mention, talks about killing, Aerion has insane ideas, breeding.

The morning of the tourney had dawned bright over Ashford Meadow, the kind of morning that promised glory and broke that promise before the sun reached its zenith. You had watched the Targaryen party arrive from the shade of the pavilion, your hands folded, your spine a straight line of practiced composure. The three-headed dragon of House Targaryen, red on black, snapped in the wind, a sight that still made your stomach tighten.

Dunk, Ser Duncan, now, though it sat awkwardly on his broad shoulders, stood near the lists with his squire, a small, shaven-headed boy with sharp eyes. The hedge knight watched the procession with a wariness that bordered on rude, his great height making him impossible to miss among the crowd of lords and ladies and smallfolk alike. He had heard the whispers, same as everyone else. Prince Aerion Targaryen was coming to Ashford. Prince Aerion Brightflame, they called him. Some called him other things, though not to his face. This one, he had heard, was cut from different cloth entirely.

The prince was fair to look upon, all the Targaryens were, with hair like spun silver and eyes the color of violets, a sharp jaw and a mouth that seemed perpetually on the verge of a sneer or a smile, and it was difficult to tell which was which. He wore black riding leathers chased with silver thread, a cloak of deep crimson slung over one shoulder, and he did not look at the smallfolk who gathered to gawk. He looked through them, as if they were made of glass and of no consequence.

Duncan watched him dismount with an easy grace, handing his reins to a squire without a word of thanks. The prince stretched, rolled his shoulders, and cast a lazy glance across the meadow toward the rows of tents and pavilions that had sprouted like colorful mushrooms overnight.

“I am for my tent,” Aerion announced to no one in particular, though his voice carried well enough. It was a pleasant voice, cultured and smooth, with an undercurrent of something that made the hairs on Duncan’s arm prickle. “Tell them to bring wine. Something red, from the Arbor, if they have it. None of that Dornish swill.” He paused, and a slow, private smile curved his lips. “I, myself, shall be finding a pretty woman to share it with.”

Chuckles followed. A couple of Kingsguards shared a knowing look. Duncan frowned. He had heard, somewhere in the jumble of heraldry and gossip that accompanied any great tourney, that prince Aerion was married. To some lady of a lesser house, a match that had raised eyebrows among the high lords but had been pushed through by the prince’s father, Maekar, for reasons Duncan did not pretend to understand. A wife. And here the prince was, speaking of finding a pretty woman as if he were a knight with nothing but a horse and a sword to his name. Duncan’s sense of honour, simple and stubborn as an ox, bristled at the casual dismissal. A man wed was a man wed. He ought not speak so.

But Duncan was no fool, not entirely. He kept his frown to himself and watched the silver-haired prince stride off toward the largest of the black-and-crimson pavilions, his cloak billowing behind him, and he thought, not for the first time, that the blood of the dragon was a strange and unsettling thing.

You heard the commotion before you saw him. The Targaryen encampment was a hive of activity, servants hurrying with trunks and tapestries, grooms leading horses to the picket lines, guards taking up their posts. You had arrived a day earlier, traveling with your family, separately from your husband despite his insistence. The roads are dusty, he himself had said, after all, with that faint curl of his lip that might have been concern or might have been disdain. You will arrive fresh and rested. I will not have my wife looking like a Dothraki crone at her first great tourney. So you had come ahead with a small retinue, and you had waited.

Now he was here.

You remained in your chair within the pavilion, a book open on your lap that you had not read a single word of in the past hour. Your heart was beating too fast, a traitorous thing that had never learned to be calm around him. It was not fear, not precisely. It was something more complicated, something that knotted in your belly and made your breath come shorter and your skin feel too warm.

You heard his voice outside, giving orders, and then the flap of the pavilion was thrown back and he stepped inside, bringing with him the smell of horse and leather and something else, something that was just him.

“Wine,” he said to the air, not looking at you. He shrugged off his cloak and tossed it over a chest. “I told them to bring wine. If it is not here by the time I have removed my boots, I will have someone flogged.”

You said nothing. You watched him sit on the edge of the camp bed and work at his boots, his long fingers deft on the buckles. His silver hair fell forward. He was beautiful. You had thought so the first time you saw him, standing in your father’s hall with that faint, mocking smile and those impossible violet eyes, and you thought so now, even knowing what lay beneath the beauty. Perhaps because of what lay beneath it. You had never been able to untangle that knot.

A servant appeared, breathless, bearing a silver tray with a flagon of wine and two goblets. Aerion waved a hand dismissively. “Leave it. Go.”

The servant went. Aerion poured himself a goblet of deep red wine, swirled it, inhaled, and took a long drink. Only then did he seem to notice you, though you knew he had been aware of you from the moment he stepped into the tent. He was always aware of you. It was one of the things that made him so unsettling.

His violet eyes traveled over you slowly, from the crown of your head to the tips of your slippers, and you felt the weight of that gaze like a physical touch. You wore a gown of pale blue silk, cut low enough to be pleasing but not so low as to be vulgar, your hair dressed simply but becomingly. You were not a great beauty, you knew. You were pretty enough, with good skin and kind eyes and a mouth that smiled easily, but you were no silver-haired Targaryen princess. You were just you. And he was Aerion Brightflame.

“Well,” he drawled, setting down his goblet. His smile curved slowly, lazily, like a cat stretching in the sun. “How very fortunate. A pretty wench has finally found her way to my tent.”

Your spine stiffened. Your hands tightened on the book in your lap. “Aerion.”

“I wonder,” he continued, as if you had not spoken, “what brings you here. Looking to earn some silver for your services, perhaps?” He leaned back on his hands, his legs spread slightly, his entire posture one of indolent amusement. “I am told I am generous. When the service pleases me.”

Heat flooded your cheeks. It was anger, you told yourself. Only anger. Not the other thing, the thing that made your thighs press together beneath your skirts. “You are my husband.”

“Am I?” He tilted his head, feigning surprise. “I had forgotten. You must remind me. Wives and whores are so easily confused, are they not? Both warm. Both willing.” His smile sharpened. “Both so very eager to please their prince.”

You rose from your chair, the book sliding forgotten to the cushion. “If you wish to play games, Aerion, find someone else. I am not in the mood.”

“Oh, but you are.” His voice dropped, losing some of its mocking edge and gaining something darker, something that vibrated in the air between you. “You are always in the mood for me. I can see it in your eyes. I can smell it on your skin.” He inhaled deeply, theatrically, his nostrils flaring. “Like honey. Like summer. Come here.”

Your feet carried you forward before your mind could catch up. You hated that. You hated how easily he commanded your body, how your legs moved to his voice as if pulled by strings. You stopped a few feet from him, close enough to see the small scar on his jaw from some childhood mishap, the way his pupils had swallowed the violet of his irises.

“I am your wife,” you said again, quieter this time.

“Yes.” He reached out and caught your wrist, his grip warm and firm but not painful. He tugged, gently, and you stumbled forward until you were standing between his spread knees. “You are. And yet here you are, in my tent, dressed unbefitting your station, looking at me with those eyes. What is a prince to think?”

He released your wrist and patted his thigh. The gesture was casual, but his eyes were fixed on your face with an intensity that made your breath catch. “Come. Sit. Show me what a pretty wench does when she wants to earn her silver.”

You hesitated. The game was cruel, you knew. It was like him, to push and push until you did not know whether you wanted to slap him or kiss him, until the lines between anger and desire blurred into something indistinguishable. But beneath the cruelty, beneath the mockery, there was something else. You had learned to see it, over two years of marriage. A flicker in his eyes, a slight softening around his mouth. He wanted this game, yes, but he wanted you. He wanted you to play it with him, to meet him in this strange space he had created, where you were both more and less than husband and wife.

You lowered yourself onto his lap.

His hands came up immediately, settling on your hips, fingers pressing into the silk of your gown. “There,” he murmured, his breath warm against your throat. “That was not so difficult, was it?”

“I am not a whore,” you said, your voice steadier than you felt.

“No,” he agreed, and his lips brushed the curve of your jaw, feather-light. “You are not. A whore would know what to do. A whore would have her hands in my hair by now, or her fingers on my laces. A whore would be rocking against me, seeking her own pleasure as much as mine.” His teeth grazed your earlobe. “You, my sweet wife, are sitting on my lap like a startled doe. It is charming. It is also, I confess, somewhat frustrating.”

You turned your head and met his eyes. They were so close, those violet eyes, and they were laughing at you. But there was warmth there too, a heat that had nothing to do with mockery. “Then teach me.”

Something shifted in his expression. The lazy amusement remained, but beneath it something kindled, something hungry and intent. “Oh,” he breathed. “I intend to.”

His hands slid from your hips to the laces of your gown. He did not fumble, did not hesitate. His fingers worked the knots with practiced ease, loosening the silk until the bodice gaped and cool air kissed your skin. You shivered, and his smile widened.

“First,” he said, his voice a low murmur against your collarbone, “a whore does not sit still and wait to be undressed. She participates. She wants the business concluded quickly, so she may move on to the next customer. She is efficient.” He tugged the gown down over your shoulders, baring your breasts to the warm air of the tent. “She does not blush like a maiden on her wedding night.”

You could feel the heat spreading down your chest. But you lifted your hands and began to work at the laces of his tunic, your fingers less deft than his, trembling slightly. He let you struggle for a moment, watching your face with those intense violet eyes, before he covered your hands with his own and guided them.

“Like this,” he said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges. “Slowly. There is no rush. The customer will pay for your time regardless.”

“You are the customer,” you pointed out, your voice breathless.

“I am.” He shrugged out of his tunic, letting it fall to the floor of the tent. His chest was lean and pale, dusted with fine silver hair, the muscles shifting beneath his skin as he moved. “And I am a generous man. I will pay for every moment.”

His hands found your breasts, cupping them, thumbs brushing over your nipples until they tightened into hard peaks. You gasped, your hips jerking forward instinctively, and he laughed, a low, pleased sound.

“There,” he said. “Now you are beginning to understand. A whore knows her own pleasure. She takes it where she finds it, because the night is long and there are many customers. She does not wait for permission.”

He shifted beneath you, and you felt the hard length of him pressing against your thigh through his breeches. Your breath caught. You rocked against him, experimental, and his eyes fluttered half-closed.

“Yes,” he breathed. “Like that.”

His hands slid down your body, gathering your skirts, pushing them up until they bunched around your waist. The air was cool on your bare thighs, and you shivered again, but it was not from cold. His fingers found the waist of your smallclothes and tugged, and you lifted your hips to help him, your body moving without conscious thought now, driven by a need that had been building since the moment he stepped into the tent.

“Now,” he said, his voice a dark purr, “you will take what you want. I am merely a customer. A paying customer. Do you understand?”

You did not understand, not entirely, but you nodded anyway. His hands settled on your hips again, guiding you, positioning you. You felt the blunt head of him pressing against your entrance, and you were slick and ready, your body traitorously eager. You sank down onto him, taking him inside you in one slow motion, and the sound he made, a low, guttural groan that seemed torn from somewhere deep in his chest, made your inner muscles clench around him.

“Gods,” he muttered. His head fell back, his throat exposed. “You are...you are...”

You did not let him finish. You began to move, rocking on his lap as he had instructed, finding a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine. His hands tightened on your hips, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise, but you did not care. You were watching his face, watching the way his composure cracked and crumbled, watching the mocking prince dissolve into something rawer, something more honest.

“Look at you,” he said, his voice strained. “My pretty little whore. Taking what she wants. Riding me like a...like a...”

His words broke off into a groan as you shifted your angle, finding a spot that made you both gasp. You braced your hands on his shoulders, your fingers digging into the pale skin, and moved faster. The tent was warm, filled with the scent of wine and sex and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. Outside, you could hear the distant sounds of the tourney grounds, horses, voices, the clash of practice swords, but they seemed very far away, from another world entirely.

He was watching you now, his violet eyes wide and dark, his lips parted. The mockery was gone. The game was forgotten. There was only this, the slide of your bodies together, the wet sounds of your joining, the way his hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes.

You leaned forward and kissed him. He kissed you back with equal ferocity, one hand leaving your hip to tangle in your hair, holding you close as his tongue swept into your mouth.

When you broke apart, gasping, he pressed his forehead to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed as if in pain. “I cannot...you are too...I need...”

You did not know what he needed. You were too far gone yourself, the pleasure building and building like a wave preparing to crash. Your rhythm faltered, became erratic, and you buried your face in the curve of his neck, breathing in the scent of him.

His arms came around you, crushing you against his chest. One hand splayed across your bare back, holding you close, while the other gripped your hip, guiding your movements. His mouth found your shoulder, and he kissed the skin there.

You shattered. The pleasure broke over you in waves, making you cry out against his throat, your body clenching around him rhythmically. He followed a moment later, his hips jerking up into you, a low groan tearing from his lips as he spilled inside you.

But Aerion, being Aerion, did not let up.

His grip on your hips tightened before you could catch your breath, holding you firmly in place atop him. You were still trembling, still gasping, your forehead pressed to his shoulder, when his voice came again: that same lazy, mocking drawl, as if nothing at all had happened between you.

"What a pretty girl you are," he murmured against your hair, and you could feel his lips curve into a smile. "So eager. So willing. If you please me well enough, I may take you back to Summerhall as my paramour."

You stiffened in his arms. He was still playing the game. Even now, with his seed still warm inside you, with your bodies still joined, he could not simply be your husband. He had to be this: this infuriating, impossible creature who needed to twist everything into something strange and sharp.

"Aerion..." you started, but he cut you off, his hand sliding up your spine to cup the back of your neck.

"I'll even put a babe in you," he continued. His other hand pressed against your lower belly, where his seed was taking root, if the gods willed it. "I would wager you would give me a beautiful child. Silver hair, violet eyes. A true dragon." His thumb traced a slow circle on your stomach. "A son. You would like that, would you not? To give a prince a son?"

Your breath caught. The words were part of the game, they had to be, but there was something in his voice, some thread of genuine yearning, that made your heart clench. He wanted a son. He had always wanted a son. It was the reason he had married you, or so he claimed. A wife to give him heirs. A warm body to fill with dragon seed. Nothing more.

But his hands on you were gentle now, even as his words remained cruel.

"You are so soft," he breathed, his lips brushing your temple. "So supple. I would wager you make good coin at tourneys. Rotating through tents, spreading your legs for any knight with silver in his purse." His hips shifted beneath you, a small, lazy movement that made you gasp. "But I would keep you for myself. I am a jealous man. I do not share what is mine."

You pulled back enough to look at his face. His violet eyes were half-lidded, his lips curved in that familiar mocking smile, but there was a tension around his jaw, a tightness that betrayed him. He was waiting for something. Waiting to see if you would play along, or if you would break the game and demand he be your husband instead of this strange, cruel stranger he pretended to be.

"A prince's paramour," you said slowly, finding your voice. "That is a generous offer. But I have heard the prince of Summerhall already has a wife."

Something flickered in his eyes. Satisfaction, perhaps. Or something softer.

"His wife," Aerion said, and his voice changed, the mockery falling away like a cloak dropped to the floor, "is a vexing creature who does not know her place."

There it was. The shift. You were his wife again, and he was your husband, and the game was over. Or so you thought.

"She came to Ashford days ago," he continued, and now there was a genuine edge to his voice, a sharpness that had nothing to do with play. "With her own house. Her own retinue. As if she were not a Targaryen. As if she were not mine."

You opened your mouth to protest, but he was not finished.

"I arrived today and found my wife already ensconced in my pavilion, wearing a gown of pale blue silk that any merchant's daughter might own." His fingers plucked at the fabric pooled around your waist, his lip curling. "Plain. Unadorned. No jewels. No finery. As if I had not bought her a dozen gowns finer than this. As if I had not given her rubies and sapphires and pearls enough to drown a lesser woman."

"I thought..."

"You thought wrong." His hand came up to cup your face, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch was gentle, but his eyes were hard. "You are a Targaryen now. My wife. When we travel, you travel with me. Not ahead, not behind, not separately. With me. At my side. Where you belong."

"I did not want to slow you down," you said quietly. "You said the roads were dusty. You said..."

"I said many things." He leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the corner of your mouth, brief and fierce. "I am your husband. It is my right to complain about dusty roads while you ride beside me. It is my right to be irritated by your presence and comforted by it in equal measure. You do not get to escape me so easily."

You stared at him, your heart beating too fast. He was impossible. He was infuriating. He was looking at you with those violet eyes, and beneath the irritation, beneath the princely arrogance, there was something that looked almost like hurt.

"You were lonely," you realized aloud. "You arrived and I was not with you, and you were lonely."

His jaw tightened. "I was bored. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

His hand slid from your face to your throat, not squeezing, just resting there, a reminder of his strength, of the power he held over you. "Do not presume to know my mind, wife."

But you did know. Marriage had taught you to read him, to see past the barbs and the mockery to the man beneath. A man who did not know how to say I missed you without wrapping it in thorns. A man who had been raised to believe that wanting someone was a weakness, and so he pretended he wanted no one at all.

"And this gown," he continued, his thumb stroking the column of your throat. "You will not wear it again. Not in public. I have bought you silks and velvets. I have given you the jewels to wear. You will wear them. All of them. At once, if you must. I will not have the realm whispering that prince Aerion cannot care for his wife."

"No one would think that," you said.

"They would." His voice dropped, and for a moment, the mask slipped entirely. "And what if someone had seen you, dressed like this? What if some knight or lord had mistaken you for a common wench, a camp follower, and dragged you to his tent?" His grip on your throat tightened fractionally. "What would I have done then? Burned the entire tourney to ash? Killed every man who looked at you? You are mine, and you walk about looking like anyone might have you, and I cannot..."

He stopped. His breath was coming faster, his chest rising and falling beneath your hands. His eyes were wide, wild, and you realized with a start that he was genuinely afraid. Not of losing you to another man, Aerion Targaryen feared very little, but of the rage that would consume him if anyone tried. Of what he might do.

"Aerion," you said softly. You lifted your hand and touched his face, your fingers tracing the sharp line of his jaw. "I am sorry. I did not think."

"No," he agreed, but some of the tension bled out of him. "You did not."

He turned his face into your palm and pressed a kiss there, his lips warm and surprisingly soft. Then he kissed your wrist, the inside of your elbow, the curve of your shoulder. His hands slid down your body, over your ribs, your waist, settling once more on your hips.

"I will wear the gowns," you promised, your voice breathless as his mouth found the hollow of your throat. "And the jewels. All of them. I will look like a Targaryen princess."

"You are a Targaryen princess." His teeth grazed your collarbone. "My princess. My wife."

"And I will ride with you," you continued, your fingers tangling in his silver hair. "Always. I will not go ahead again."

"See that you do not." He lifted his head and looked at you, and the mockery was gone from his eyes, replaced by something fiercer and far more dangerous. "I will not be parted from you again. I find I do not care for it."

Before you could answer, his hands tightened on your hips and he guided you into motion again. You gasped, your body still sensitive from your first release, but he did not stop. He moved you slowly, rocking you against him in a rhythm that made pleasure spark up your spine all over again.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice unsteady. "I am...your breeches...I am drenching them..."

"Let them be drenched." His voice was rough, his breath coming in short pants against your throat. "I have other breeches. I have a hundred breeches. I will ruin them all if I must."

You could not argue. You could barely think. He was moving you faster now, his hips rising to meet yours, and the wet sounds of your joining filled the tent. His hands roamed your body: your breasts, your waist, the curve of your backside, touching you everywhere, as if he could not get enough of the feel of you.

"You are prettier than any wench," he panted, the words tumbling from his lips like a confession. "Prettier than any woman I have ever seen. My pretty wife. My sweet wife. You are always so...so warm...so perfect for me..."

His words dissolved into a groan as you clenched around him, your own pleasure building again. You buried your face in his neck and let him move you, let him take what he needed, because you needed it too. You needed this: this fierce, consuming thing between you, this fire that burned away all pretense and left only the raw truth of your wanting.

"I am going to..." he started, but he did not finish. His body arched beneath you, his hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise, and he spilled inside you with a broken cry. The sensation pushed you over the edge after him, your body milking him greedily, drawing out every last drop of his seed.

For a long moment, you simply breathed together, your bodies still joined, your hearts pounding in tandem. You expected him to release you, to let you slide off his lap and find your feet. Instead, his arms tightened around you, holding you in place.

"Aerion," you said, shifting slightly. "I should..."

"No." His voice was firm, though still roughened with pleasure. "Stay."

"But I am..."

"Stay." His hand pressed against your lower back, keeping you flush against his chest. "I like you here. Warm and soft and full of me. You will stay until I say you may move."

You squirmed, and his grip tightened. A small, cruel smile curved his lips, the first hint of the old Aerion, the one who liked to push and test and see how far you would go for him.

"Uncomfortable, my love?" he asked, his voice a lazy drawl once more. "Good. Think of it as penance. For leaving me to ride alone. For wearing that plain little gown. For making me worry."

"I did not know you worried."

"I did not know either." He said it lightly, but there was something raw beneath the words. "It was a most unpleasant discovery. I do not recommend it."

He leaned back on the camp bed, pulling you with him, so that you were sprawled across his chest. His hands roamed your back in slow, idle strokes, tracing the curve of your spine, the dip of your waist. His eyes were half-closed, his expression one of sated contentment, but there was an expectation in the set of his mouth, a silent demand.

You leaned down and pressed your lips to his throat, just below his jaw, where his pulse beat slow and strong. He made a small sound, not quite a sigh, not quite a groan, and tilted his head back, offering you more of his neck. You kissed your way along the elegant line of his throat, feeling the vibration of his hum of approval against your lips.

"That is better," he murmured, his fingers tangling in your hair. "My sweet wife. My dutiful wife."

You dragged your tongue along his skin, tasting salt and the faint sweetness that always clung to him. He shivered, and you felt a surge of power. He might command you, might order you about and mock you and play his cruel games, but here, in this, you had power too. You could make him shiver.

You kissed his jaw, the corner of his mouth, the high curve of his cheekbone. His eyes had fallen fully closed now, his lips parted, his breathing slow and deep. He looked almost peaceful. Almost gentle. You knew better than to believe it entirely, Aerion Targaryen was never entirely peaceful, never entirely gentle, but in these moments, after he had spent himself inside you, when your body was still wrapped around his, he came close.

He smiled, a real smile, not the mocking curve he showed the world, and pulled you down for a kiss. It was slow and deep and thorough, his tongue sliding against yours, his hand cradling the back of your head as if you were something precious.

When he finally released you, his eyes had sharpened again, a new hunger kindling in their violet depths.

"Now," he said, and his voice was a dark promise. "Let us see how sturdy this makeshift bed truly is."

Before you could respond, he rolled, taking you with him, and suddenly you were on your back on the camp bed, staring up at him. His silver hair fell around his face like a curtain, his eyes burning down at you, his body still joined with yours.

"Aerion..."

"Quiet," he said, but there was no cruelty in it. Only want. Only need. "You owe me. For the lonely ride. For the plain gown. For every moment I spent wondering where you were and whether you were safe."

He began to move, slow and deep, and you forgot how to speak.

The bed creaked beneath you, a rhythmic sound that matched the thrust of his hips. He braced himself on his forearms, his face inches from yours, his eyes never leaving your face. He watched every flicker of pleasure that crossed your features, every gasp, every moan, as if he were memorizing them.

You reached up and pulled him down for a kiss, and he groaned into your mouth. His rhythm faltered, became more urgent, and you wrapped your legs around his waist, pulling him deeper.

The bed creaked louder. Neither of you cared.

"Give me a son," he gasped against your lips. "Give me a son, and I will give you anything. Everything. Just...give me..."

The bed gave way with a splintering crack that echoed through the tent like a thunderclap.

One moment you were beneath him, your back pressed into the thin mattress, your legs wrapped around his waist as he drove into you with that single-minded intensity that only Aerion Targaryen possessed. The next, the wooden frame splintered and collapsed, sending you both tumbling to the ground in a tangle of limbs and furs and broken slats.

You gasped, more from surprise than pain, your hands flying to grip his shoulders. Aerion barely paused. He grunted as the bed gave way beneath him, catching himself on his forearms before he could crush you, and then he kept moving.

"Aerion," you managed, your voice breathless and startled. "The bed..."

"I noticed." His voice was strained, his hips never slowing their relentless rhythm. The furs beneath you provided some cushion against the hard ground, but you could feel the broken slats of the bed frame pressing into your back through the layers. He shifted, adjusting his angle, and a broken moan escaped your lips.

"You are..." you started, but the words dissolved into a gasp as he hit that spot deep inside you, the one that made your vision blur.

"I am what?" His voice was a dark purr, his violet eyes gleaming down at you in the dim light of the tent. Sweat gleamed on his brow, and his silver hair hung in disheveled strands around his face. He looked wild. He looked beautiful. He looked like a dragon in human form, all fire and hunger and terrible grace. "I am your husband. I am a prince. And I am not going to let a poorly constructed camp bed prevent me from taking what is mine."

Your laughter surprised you, a breathless, slightly hysterical sound that bubbled up from somewhere deep in your chest. "The bed is in splinters."

"Then I will have lord Ashford pay for a new one." His hips snapped forward, hard and deep, and your laughter turned into a moan. "He should have provided sturdier accommodations for a prince of the realm. It is his own fault if his furniture cannot withstand proper use."

Proper use. As if this was proper. As if anything about Aerion Targaryen could ever be called proper.

Aerion did not slow. If anything, he seemed to find new vigor in the destruction, his pace increasing until you were gasping and clutching at his shoulders, your nails leaving crescents in his pale skin.

"That is it," he breathed, his forehead dropping to yours. His eyes were squeezed shut, his brow furrowed in concentration. "That is...yes...you feel..."

He did not finish the thought. His rhythm stuttered, became erratic, and then he was spilling inside you. You cried out, your back arching off the furs, your body clenching around him as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through you.

You lay there, tangled together on the ruined bed, your chests heaving, your bodies still joined. Aerion's weight pressed you into the furs, and you could feel the hard edges of broken wood beneath you, but you could not bring yourself to care.

Finally, he stirred. He lifted his head and looked down at you, and there was something soft in his violet eyes, something that only ever appeared in these private moments, when the mask slipped and the real Aerion peered through.

He pulled out of you slowly, and you winced at the loss, at the sudden emptiness. But before you could mourn it, he was moving down your body, pressing kisses to your skin as he went. Your throat. Your collarbone. The valley between your breasts. Your ribs. And then, when he reached your belly, he stopped.

His hands framed your hips, his thumbs tracing slow circles on the soft skin there. He pressed his lips to the curve of your stomach, just below your navel, the place where, if the gods were kind, a child might one day grow.

"This," he murmured against your skin, "will surely have a babe put in your body."

Your breath caught. You lifted your head to look at him, at the silver hair spilling across your stomach, at the reverence in his touch. He was not mocking now. There was no cruelty in his voice, no sharp edge of humor. Only want. Only hope.

"A son," he continued, his lips brushing your skin with each word. "A strong son. A dragon. I will fill you every night of this tourney, and every night after, until your belly swells with my child. Until the maesters confirm what I already know, that you were made for this. Made to carry my heirs."

Your hand found his hair, your fingers threading through the silver strands. He kissed your belly once more, lingering and soft, and then he lifted his head. His eyes met yours, and for a moment, you saw everything: the loneliness, the fear, the desperate need to prove himself, to leave a legacy, to be more than just a second son with a dangerous reputation. You saw the man beneath the prince, and your heart ached for him.

Then the moment passed. He sat up, stretching with the lazy grace of a cat, utterly unbothered by his nakedness or the wreckage surrounding him.

"We will sleep in lord Ashford's castle tonight anyway," he said, waving a dismissive hand at the ruined bed. "This was merely for the afternoon. A place to rest between the lists and the feast. It matters not if it is broken."

You looked at the splintered wood, the torn mattress, the furs scattered across the ground. "The servants will talk."

"Let them talk." He rose to his feet in one fluid motion, utterly unconcerned with his nakedness. His body was lean and pale, muscled in the way of a man who trained daily with sword and lance, and there was a fine sheen of sweat still glistening on his skin. He looked like something from a tapestry: a warrior, a prince, a creature of myth made flesh. "Let them whisper about the passion of prince Aerion and his lady wife. Let them wonder what we do behind closed tent flaps. I care not."

He found his breeches, miraculously intact, unlike the bed, and pulled them on. Then he turned back to you, still sprawled on the furs, and something flickered in his eyes.

"You should dress," he said. "I am going to find more wine. The servants here are incompetent, and I will not suffer dry throat because of their laziness."

He crossed to you, leaned down, and pressed a kiss to your lips, brief but thorough. Then his hand found your hip, and he pinched, just hard enough to make you yelp.

"That," he said, straightening with a smirk, "is for breaking the bed."

"I did not break the bed. You broke the bed."

"The bed broke because of your..." He gestured vaguely at your body, still disheveled from his attentions. "Your enthusiasm. Your movements. Your inability to lie still while your husband takes his pleasure."

You stared at him, incredulous. "You were the one..."

But he was already gone, sweeping out of the tent with the arrogance of a man who had never been forced to finish an argument he was losing.

You lay there for a moment longer, staring at the tent ceiling, your body still humming with the aftershocks of pleasure. Then, slowly, you sat up and began to put yourself to rights.

The gown was a lost cause, crumpled and stained and likely unwearable until it could be properly laundered. You found a simple shift in one of the trunks and pulled it on, then a robe of soft grey wool to ward off the afternoon chill. You combed your fingers through your tangled hair, doing your best to tame it without a proper brush, and splashed water on your face from the basin in the corner.

When you emerged from the tent, the afternoon sun was warm on your face. The tourney grounds sprawled before you, a sea of colorful pavilions and snapping banners, of knights and squires and smallfolk milling about. The sounds of the lists drifted on the breeze: the clash of practice swords, the shouts of men, the whinny of horses.

You found a camp chair just outside the tent flap and settled into it, careful not to stray far. Aerion's words echoed in your mind. You will not leave my side. You will stay where I can see you. You had promised, and you meant to keep that promise, even if he was not here to enforce it.

The sun was warm. The chair was comfortable. You let your eyes drift half-closed, your body still pleasantly sore from the afternoon's activities. A small, secret smile curved your lips.

Footsteps approached: heavy, hesitant footsteps, the tread of a man who was very large and trying very hard to be quiet. You opened your eyes and found yourself staring up at a veritable giant of a man.

He was tall, taller than any man you had ever seen, easily seven feet, with broad shoulders and thick arms and hands the size of dinner plates. His face was plain and honest, with a strong jaw and kind eyes and a thatch of unruly brown hair. He wore a simple tunic of green and brown, well-made but not fine, and he carried himself with the careful awkwardness of a man who had never quite grown accustomed to his own size.

He was also staring at you with an expression of profound discomfort.

"Begging your pardon, my lady," he said, and his voice was deep and rumbling, like distant thunder. "I did not mean to disturb you. I was looking for...that is, I was trying to find..."

He trailed off, his brow furrowing. He looked at the tent behind you, the black-and-crimson Targaryen pavilion, and then back at you, and something like confusion flickered across his honest face.

"You are the hedge knight," you said, because you had noticed him earlier. Everyone at Ashford had noticed him, if only for his size. He towered over every other man in the camp, a great shambling giant with a boy squire at his heels and a look of perpetual bewilderment on his plain, earnest face. "The tall one. I saw you near the lists this morning."

"I am," he confirmed, and he seemed surprised that you had noticed him at all. "Ser Duncan, if it pleases my lady. Though most call me Dunk." He hesitated. "I was looking for...there was a knight I knew once, Ser Arlan of Pennytree. I thought someone here might remember him. I have been asking at the tents, but I fear I have lost track of which ones I have visited and which I have not."

"I am sorry," you said gently. "I do not know the name."

His shoulders slumped, just slightly. "No one does. It has been many years. I thought perhaps...but it does not matter." He made to leave, then stopped, his brow furrowing again.

"My lady," he said slowly, "are you…are you well?"

You blinked. "I am perfectly well, Ser Duncan. Why do you ask?"

He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his big hands opening and closing at his sides. "It is only...I saw prince Aerion enter this tent some hours ago. And I heard him say...that is, I could not help but hear..."

"I am well," you said quickly. "Truly. There is no cause for concern."

But Ser Duncan was not a man who let things go easily. His honest face was troubled, his brow deeply furrowed. He took a half-step closer, lowering his voice as if afraid of being overheard.

"Was he...did he hurt you?" The words seemed to cost him something. His jaw was tight, his eyes earnest and worried. "The prince. I know his reputation. I know what they say about him. If he was too rough with you, if he forced you..."

"Ser Duncan." You held up a hand, stopping him. Understanding was dawning, slow and strange and almost amusing. He did not know you. Aerion had most likely said something vulgar, and then he had seen you - a woman in a plain gown, no jewels, no finery, enter that same tent. And he had drawn the obvious, if incorrect, conclusion.

He thought you were a whore. He thought you were a camp follower, a woman paid for her services, and he was concerned, genuinely, deeply concerned, that the prince had been cruel to you. That he had hurt you. That you might need help.

It was so earnest. So kind. So utterly, completely mistaken.

"The prince did not hurt me," you said, and you could not quite keep the amusement from your voice. "I assure you, Ser Duncan, I am quite unharmed."

He did not look convinced. "If you are afraid to speak, my lady, I understand. Princes are...they have power. They can do things. But I would not let him harm you further. I would..."

"Ser Duncan." You leaned forward slightly, your voice gentle. "What do you think I am doing here?"

He hesitated. His face flushed a deep, ruddy red. "I...that is...it is not my place to judge, my lady. A woman must do what she must to survive. I know that. I have known many good women who..." He stopped, clearly floundering. "I only meant that if the prince was cruel, if he did not pay you what you were owed, I would speak to him. I would make it right."

You stared at him for a long moment. Then, despite yourself, you laughed.

It was not a mocking laugh, you did not have it in you to mock this earnest, well-meaning giant of a man. It was a laugh of genuine, surprised delight. He thought you were a whore awaiting payment. He thought Aerion had used you and cast you aside. And he, a poor hedge knight with nothing but his honour and his size to his name, was offering to confront a prince of the realm on your behalf.

"You are a good man, Ser Duncan," you said, wiping your eyes. "Truly."

He looked confused, and faintly wounded. "I do not understand. If you are not...then why are you..."

Before you could answer, a familiar voice cut through the afternoon air like a blade.

"What is this?"

Aerion emerged from between two neighboring pavilions, a flagon of wine in one hand and two goblets in the other. His silver hair was still disheveled, his tunic only half-laced, and his violet eyes swept over the scene before him with a sharpness that belied his casual posture. He took in you, seated in your camp chair in your plain grey robe. He took in the enormous hedge knight looming over you, his big hands raised in an awkward, abortive gesture.

"I leave my wife alone for a handful of minutes," Aerion said, his voice soft and dangerous, "and I return to find some great lumbering stranger hovering over her like a vulture over carrion. Explain yourself."

Ser Duncan went pale. He took a hasty step back, nearly tripping over his own feet, and raised his hands higher in a gesture of surrender. "Your Grace, I meant no harm. I was only...I did not realize...that is, I thought she was..."

Your mind raced. You saw the path this conversation was about to take: the hedge knight's earnest confession, Aerion's cold fury at being thought the kind of man who would pay for a whore when he had a wife, the potential for humiliation and violence that would follow. Ser Duncan did not deserve that. He had been kind. He had been concerned. He had offered to help a woman he believed to be in need.

"He was lost," you said quickly, rising from your chair and stepping between the two men. You placed a hand on Aerion's chest, feeling the tension coiled in his muscles. "He was looking for a tent, someone he knew once, a Ser Arlan of Pennytree, and he lost his way. He stopped to ask me for directions. Nothing more."

Aerion's gaze flickered from the hedge knight to you. His eyes narrowed. "Directions."

"Yes." You kept your voice light, pleasant. "He is new to tourneys of this size, I think. The camp is a maze. Anyone might lose their way."

Ser Duncan, to his credit, was not a complete fool. He latched onto the lie with the desperate gratitude of a drowning man seizing a rope. "Yes," he said quickly. "Yes, that is it exactly. I was lost. I asked the lady for directions. Nothing more, Your Grace, I swear it. I would never...I did not mean..."

"You should be grateful to even gaze upon her," Aerion interrupted, his voice dripping with bored disdain. He did not look at the hedge knight. He looked at you, and some of the tension bled from his shoulders, though his posture remained rigid with proprietary pride. "Let alone speak to her. She is a princess now, by marriage if not by birth. Her face is not for the likes of you."

"I am grateful," Ser Duncan said, and he sounded it. "Truly, my prince. The princess was most kind. Most generous with her time. I thank her. I thank you both."

"Yes, yes." Aerion waved a dismissive hand, already bored with the interaction. "You have gazed. You have spoken. You have been granted more than you deserve. Now fuck off."

Ser Duncan did not need to be told twice. He sketched a hasty bow, awkward and unpracticed, the bow of a man who had never quite learned the proper forms, and retreated with impressive speed for a man of his size. You watched him go, disappearing between the pavilions, and felt a small pang of sympathy. He had meant well. He had been kind. And you had lied to protect him from your husband's wrath.

Aerion's hand closed around your wrist. "Inside."

He did not wait for your response. He tugged you back into the tent, letting the flap fall closed behind you. The ruined bed still lay in splinters on the ground, the furs scattered, the evidence of your afternoon's activities plain for anyone to see. Aerion ignored it. He set the wine and goblets on a chest and turned to face you, his arms crossed over his chest.

"A hedge knight," he said flatly. "A great lumbering hedge knight, looming over my wife, making her laugh."

"He was lost," you said again, keeping your voice soft. "Nothing more."

"He was looking at you." Aerion's jaw tightened. "The way men look at things they want."

"Aerion." You stepped closer to him, reaching up to smooth the collar of his unlaced tunic. Your fingers brushed his throat, and you felt his pulse leap beneath your touch. "He was a poor hedge knight who lost his way. He asked for directions. I gave them. He was grateful. That is all."

"He wanted you," Aerion said again, but some of the sharpness had faded from his voice. "I saw it in his eyes."

"He wanted to know if I was well." You rose on your toes and pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth. "He heard sounds from the tent. He was concerned. That is all."

Aerion's hands found your waist, pulling you closer. "Concerned. About my wife. As if I would ever harm what is mine."

"You play rough games, husband. You cannot blame a stranger for misunderstanding."

"I can blame anyone I like. I am a prince."

You laughed, and the sound seemed to ease something in him. His grip on your waist gentled, his thumbs tracing slow circles through the wool of your robe.

"This gown," he said. "This grey wool thing. You look like a septa. A very pretty septa, but a septa nonetheless. I will not have it."

"It was the first thing I found. My other gown was..."

"I know what your other gown was." His smile curved, sharp and satisfied. "I remember removing it. I remember every moment of removing it." He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your throat. "But you cannot wear this to lord Ashford's castle. You cannot wear this to the feast tonight. You cannot wear this anywhere that anyone might see you and think I do not dress my wife as befits her station."

"Then take me to the castle," you said, your voice soft and coaxing. "Lord Ashford has given us chambers. Let us go there now. You can rest properly before the tourney tomorrow, on a real bed, not this splintered mess." You gestured at the ruined camp bed. "And I will try on every gown I brought. Every jewel. You can choose which one you would like to see me in for the feast."

His eyes darkened. "Choose?"

"Choose." You reached up and traced the line of his jaw with your fingertips. "I am your wife. I should dress to please you. Should I not?"

He stared at you for a long moment. Then, slowly, his lips curved into that familiar, dangerous smile. "You are playing me."

"I am pleasing you. There is a difference."

"Is there?"

You smiled and said nothing.

He kissed you and then released you. "Very well. To the castle. But if I am to rest properly, wife, you will be resting beside me. I did not travel all this way to sleep alone."

"I would expect nothing less."

a/n: You can donate on Ko-fi, your support helps me write more: https://ko-fi.com/catbayunthestoryteller <3

a/n: Aerion is not as nice here as in Growing Strong series because nobody can train him quite like lady Tyrell!reader.

[the-darklings]

𓈒 ˳ ˳ 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑 𝐁𝐎𝐁𝐁𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓.

Bobby's been a shit boyfriend for months. When you disappear through a wall in the basement of Clark's furniture store, you wake up in the Backrooms, where a better version of Bobby is waiting. One who actually shows up, one who loves you, one who never, ever wants to let you go.

bobby franklin x f!reader x entity!bobby

cw: emotional neglect, psychological horror, backroom entities/lore, implied creature violence, emotional manipulation by non-human entity, alcohol abuse (secondary character), grief/loss, verbal arguments (no physical violence), angst.

𓈒 asks/mini concepts 𓈒 𓈒 𓈒 playlist

‽ part one / concept. ‽ part two. ‽ part three. ⸘ interlude: entity 0 ‽ part four. ⸘ interlude: (b) for (b)etter ‽ part five.

extras:

҉　- main story canon compliant piece.

Ꮺ୧ making out w/ better bobby. Ꮺ୧ better you! ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "baby." ҉　 Ꮺ୧ "open your mouth." Ꮺ୧ pillow fort. Ꮺ୧ in the beginning. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ my, what long tongue you have. Ꮺ୧ sunlight. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ slow dancing. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ rib time. Ꮺ୧ conceiving w/ bb. Ꮺ୧ bb watching you w/ bobby. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ intimacy hdcs w/ BB. Ꮺ୧ memories. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ cuteness aggression. Ꮺ୧ twins au. / bb & bobby. Ꮺ୧ mr. kitty. ҉　 Ꮺ୧ entity discourse. Ꮺ୧ tolerance.

⎋ M.E.G. ENTITY 0 — RESEARCH FILE INDEX:

↹ MEG-ENT-0000-ADDM-██ — Restricted Addendum: Reproductive Capability Assessment (Filed Under Protest)

[huening-web]

THE DRAW ✶ RAY GARRATY

𝜗𝜚 ── ray hasn’t told you yet, but his name has been chosen for the long walk, and he has to navigate between telling you and breaking your heart.

pre-movie .ᐟ ray garraty x reader

1.8k , angst , avg tlw warnings , cliche + short , my awful writing

THE OLD DINER wasn't much to brag about, but the memories it held were ones that were thought on often and fondly. Memories of you and Ray going after school, when you ate there in your prom attire, going there after graduation, all that— and the nights that were just spent in the booth when there was nothing else to do.

The two of you sat there now, Ray had suggested it, watching you as you flipped through the menu despite knowing that you got a selection of maybe three options, rarely straying to anything new. But he didn't say anything about, not this time, he could hardly find any words to say, because there was a reason he wanted to see you tonight specifically.

Ray had put his name into the draw for the walk, the death march that stretched as far as young men's feet could take them. You had always adamantly been against, most people were, but that didn't change the fact that it was there and the reward was something that plenty of people needed, himself included, but that wasn't why he had done it.

He wanted to personally see to the Majors failure, to have the entire system backfire and explode back into his face, to be the one to win and do exactly what had been done to his father—

"You're being weird," your voice broke his train of thought.

Hw hummed, bringing his attention back to you, you who sat across from him in the same booth that you had sneakily carved your initials into together at fourteen, you who had no idea what he was going to do.

"I'm not being weird," he responded with a shrug, glancing to the window then back to you.

"You're being quiet." You corrected, "That's weird."

Ray scoffed at that, rolling back his shoulders in a shrug, his fingers tapping on the sticky table that separates the two of you, "Just thinking."

"Mmm, that's dangerous." You teased, setting the menu down but faltering when he didn't seem to lighten up despite his attempt of forcing a small smile. "What is it? Is it the walk?"

He froze for a moment, looking to you— there was no way you knew, right? He hadn't told you, he hadn't told anyone. "What, the walk?" He managed, hoping the tension in his voice would go overlooked, you only shrugged which eased him slightly.

"Yeah, the walk," you repeated, "I heard that guy down the road from us put his name in, but he didn't get picked." You continued, "Good thing too, I mean— can you imagine if someone that close got picked? That'd be horrible, I mean, it's already horrible, but seeing a familiar face being in a televised death march would be awful.

Ray let you ramble, his heart sinking with each word. Sure, he agreed, it would be awful, but now he was going to be that familiar face. He was going to be the one that you would be hearing about on the walk, you would have to hear whether he won or if he died.

"It's stupid. Who would put their name in?" You finished, turning to the waitress to order with a polite smile, he glanced back out the window, staring at the nearly vacant street as he tuned out the conversation, he wasn't sure he felt like eating anymore.

He could hear you talking faintly, but it took him a moment to catch up before he turned to face you again, "Maybe he needed the reward."

"What?"

"The reward, the money, the wish." Ray clarified, "You asked why anyone would put their name in, that's a reason."

You frowned, "Yeah, well, it's still a pretty shitty reason." You told him, "We all need the winnings, but there are other ways to get steady money, ways that don't included dying because you're too exhausted to walk however long—"

"Not quick enough. A lot of people don't have that option."

"Ray, what's going on?" There it was, now your suspicions were on high alert, this wasn't usually a topic that you both argued on, he was never so defensive talking about the victims of the system— he had always wanted better.

"Nothing, I'm just saying that's the reason people put their names in." He tried, but there was no escaping this conversation now. "Or maybe, people have ulterior motives."

The last part caught you, he could see the realization creep on your face, the way your features dropped and panic became apparent in your eyes.

"Did you put your name in?" You whispered and all he could do was stare back silently. "Ray, did you put your name in? Were you picked?"

Silence for another long moment before a deep sigh left him, a stiff nod, "Yeah," he murmured, "I did."

The confirmation was enough, it was as if the entire world stopped. He could see the way you shut down, he watched as you stood from the booth and hurried out, too much in a panic to think to do much else. He knew you were angry, that you were upset more than anything, and so he let you go, covering the bill before making his own way home.

. . . Days passed without the two of you seeing one another, an occurrence that was extremely rare. Ray couldn't find it in himself to go to you, knowing that he would see nothing but sadness in your eyes— a sadness that he had put there.

However, the days leading up to the walk were becoming less and less, so you were the one who sought him out first, arriving at his door one night, his mother letting you in and to his room where you stood in front of him with arms wrapped around yourself.

"You could've told me that you were planning on putting your name in." Your voice came, quiet.

Ray shook his head from where he sat on his bed, looking up at you. "No, I couldn't have."

You shuffled on your feet, eyes cloudy as you blinked tears away. "You promised that you would never sign up," you murmured, "What would your father say?"

His eyes darted up at that, "He's not here to tell me, is he?" He shot back sharply, swallowing back the lump in his own throat. "You don't understand, I'm doing this for him. For everyone."

"How is this helping anyone, Ray?"

"I'm going to kill him. The Major, I'm going to win and I'm going to kill him."

You scoffed, "And what happens after that? What do you think happens to you? You— Do you think that they won't just put someone else in his position? That the walk won't go on?"

"That isn't the point."

"That's exactly the point."

There was a tense silence, crushing over the room like all four walls were about to start falling in until there was nothing left, part of Ray wish that was possible.

He rose to his feet, "You know what he did!"

"And you think I'm okay with just losing you too?" You retorted, arms dropping. "You stop walking, you die. You win and kill the Major, you die, or they take you and lock you away somewhere I will never see you again. How is that fair? How is that good for anybody?"

Another quiet stare down, "I'm not dropping out." Ray broke it this time, but his voice was quiet as if he was scared that noise would be what destroys everything, but his words held more impact than anything. "That's not a choice."

"It is a choice, it just isn't one that you'll make."

There was too many emotions for either to really make sense of— frustration, anger, sadness, fear.

He couldn't even tell you that you were being unfair, because he was the reason and he was hardly being fair either. Again, there was silence, but this time it wasn't broken by speaking, rather you had hurried forward to plant a kiss on his lips, catching him by surprise.

When the surprise had faded and he kissed back, you were already pulling away again, peering up at him with wide eyes, his own flickering between to see if he could gauge just what your reaction was, what you had meant by kissing him so suddenly.

"I didn't want you to leave without me doing that at least once." You whispered, the worry in your tone was hardly disguised and now you were taking a turn to take in his features.

He wanted to tell you to do it again, that maybe if you did then he would think about it— that the taste of your lips that he had gotten so briefly would be enough to get him to forget his plans and unenroll from the walk just so he could spend his days kissing you, tasting you.

Except he didn't say that, he didn't say anything. He knew he should have, especially when he could see the way regret filled your eyes, thinking he hadn't wanted it, but in reality he was hoping that you would do it again without him having to ask.

"Ray, say something." You pleaded, and he couldn't find the words even though he felt them sitting right on his tongue.

"I'm gonna win," he whispered, more determined this time, "and- and if they take me away, I will make sure that the money goes to you and my mom." He could see you ease slightly now that he had spoken, but he knew you had wanted more. He could see the words that you were about to repeat, urging him to drop from the walk and so he spoke first, "I'm not changing my mind. I'm not giving up, I can't."

"Okay." You had whispered, and Ray would have been surprised, would have wanted you to keep arguing with him, if it wasn't for the way defeat settled in your words. "Okay, I'll come see you," You promised, and Ray fought the urge to tell you not to, to not even think about standing aside and seeing him in that situation. "When you walk through town."

Ray nodded instead of arguing, half because he knew it was pointless, but the other half of him was selfish and wanted to know that if he were to make it that far, even if he died soon after, that at least he would be able to see you. He'd walk forever for you and the march hadn't even started.

Not much was said after that, you had given up arguing and he had nothing to say that would make you feel better, leading to the two of you simply laying in his bed together, just feeling and taking in the presence of one another while you still could. Tracing faint patterns on skin, gazing over features to commit them to memory while reminiscing on every other time when it didn't feel so temporary to do so.

The only thing that was really left to say was repeated every so often in the night, breaking the sounds of breathing and efforts of trying to not cry—

"I love you, Ray."

"I love you too."

[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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❘ prev. chapter ❘༻✦༺❘ next chapter ❘

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⌟

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❘ 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.