multifandom fic recs

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."

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.

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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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

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)

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."

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.

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.

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.

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:

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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then, the sound starts.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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