#a guttural scream somewhere

[cressidagrey]

The mysterious Mrs. Piastri

We are interrupting our regularly scheduled programming for a Valentine's Day Treat. Remember that video where Oscar was asked "Get married or get a tattoo?" Well, it showed up on my FYP and I was like..:WAIT

Summary: 

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even. Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

(divider thanks to @saradika-graphics )

Oscar Piastri had always been a calm, collected kind of guy. Unshakeable, even.

Lando Norris, on the other hand? Not so much.

And today? Today was the day Lando fully lost it.

It had started innocently enough, just another fan stage, just another round of questions.

“Oscar, would you rather get married or get a tattoo?”

Easy. Straightforward. Oscar barely had to think before responding, “Well, I already did one of those things.”

That was, apparently, the wrong thing to say.

Because one second later, Lando spat out his drink.

“YOU GOT A TATTOO?!”

Oscar turned, confused. “What? No.”

Lando, looking equal parts betrayed and horrified, pointed an accusing finger. “Mate, I’ve seen you in swim trunks. There’s no way you have a tattoo. Where is it?”

Oscar frowned. “I don’t have a tattoo.”

Lando’s face twisted in confusion. “But you just said—” He stopped. His eyes widened. Oscar could see the moment his brain caught up.

“WAIT. WAIT.” Lando practically jumped out of his seat. “YOU’RE MARRIED?!” Lando looked genuinely stunned, his mouth hanging open in shock. 

Oscar nodded, calm as ever. “Yeah.”

Lando’s reaction was not calm. Lando let out a strangled, guttural noise, kind of sounding like an indignant cat.

“WHAT?!”

The interviewer, who had been mostly observing up until now, leaned forward, eyes shining with the excitement of a woman who had just stumbled upon the biggest scoop of the season. “Okay, hold on. You mean married married? Like, legally?”

Oscar frowned. “Is there another kind?”

Lando’s hands were now on his head, his entire world seemingly crumbling around him. “SINCE WHEN?!”

Oscar shrugged. “A while now.”

The crowd lost it. The interviewer looked like Christmas had come early. The McLaren PR team, wherever they were, was probably having a collective heart attack.

Lando’s jaw dropped. “I DIDN’T EVEN KNOW YOU HAD A GIRLFRIEND.”

Oscar frowned. “You know that," he told Lando pointedly.

“I DO NOT KNOW THAT,” Lando shouted. “WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED A GIRLFRIEND—LET ALONE A WIFE?!”

Oh well. Oscar just shrugged. “Well. I do. She’s amazing. 10/10. Would always marry her again.”

Lando let out a hysterical laugh. “Wait, wait, wait. No, no. You’re telling me you have a freaking WIFE?!”

The interviewer seized the moment. “Okay, no, we need details. How long have you been together?”

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Since we were 15."

Lando made a strangled noise. “15?! YOU’VE BEEN WITH HER SINCE YOU WERE 15?!”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

The interviewer looked delighted. “How did you meet?”

Oscar tilted his head. “School?”

Lando groaned and turned to the audience. “Look at this guy. Look at him. Of course he’s been secretly married this whole time. Of course.”

The interviewer pressed on. “When did you get married?”

Oscar shrugged. “When I was 18.”

The entire crowd erupted. Fans were screaming, phones were recording, and McLaren PR was definitely hyperventilating somewhere.

Lando, meanwhile, looked like his whole world had just collapsed in real-time.

“You—you got MARRIED at EIGHTEEN?!” he wheezed. “WHY?!”

Oscar looked at him like he was stupid.  “Because I wanted to? Because I love her?”

The interviewer cooed over the answer. Lando physically recoiled. “What, like straight out of high school?!”

Oscar frowned. “Not straight out of high school. We waited a bit.”

“HOW LONG IS A BIT?!” Lando demanded.

Oscar thought about it. “Like… three weeks after graduation?”

Lando let out a strangled noise. “THAT’S NOT A BIT, OSCAR. THAT’S BASICALLY IMMEDIATELY.”

Lando dramatically fell back in his chair. The interviewer, meanwhile, was nearly vibrating with excitement. “Okay, okay, follow-up question—how did you propose?”

Oscar thought about it. “I asked her to marry me.”

The interviewer stared. “…That’s it?”

Oscar nodded. “Yeah.”

Lando threw his hands in the air. “UNBELIEVABLE.”

The interviewer, trying desperately to salvage something remotely romantic, asked, “Where did you propose?”

Oscar, as if this were a perfectly reasonable answer, said, “Uh. At home?”

The interviewer looked at him. "...At home?"

"On the bed," Oscar added.

Lando looked like he was going to have an aneurysm.

The crowd groaned. The interviewer looked physically pained. Lando just laughed in disbelief. “I knew you’d be the most unromantic bastard alive.”

Oscar rolled his eyes. “She said yes.”

Lando wiped imaginary tears from his eyes. “That poor woman.”

The interviewer shook her head in awe. “Oscar, mate, I have to ask—how did you manage to keep this a secret for so long?”

Oscar blinked. “No one asked?”

Lando just screamed.

The interviewer, who had completely abandoned all pretense of professionalism, leaned forward. “Okay, wait, wait, who is she?”

Oscar blinked. “My wife?”

Lando threw up his hands. “YES, OBVIOUSLY, but who is she? What’s her name? Where’s she from? What does she do?”

Oscar's forehead creased. "Is that... relevant?"

The interviewer just about had a stroke. Lando looked like he was going to spontaneously combust.

The fans were losing their freaking minds.

Lando nearly fell out of his chair. “YOU’VE BEEN MARRIED FOR YEARS AND I’VE NEVER MET HER.”

“I mean, I thought it was obvious?”

“OBVIOUS TO WHO?!” Lando yelled. “BECAUSE IT WASN’T OBVIOUS TO ME.”

Oscar just shrugged. 

Lando groaned. “Mate, I DIDN’T KNOW SHE EXISTED!”

Lando looked like he was seconds from grabbing Oscar and shaking him until some kind of information fell out. "Okay, I can't believe I have to ask this, but why the hell didn't you tell me?”

"I thought you knew," Oscar answered simply.

Lando just gaped. "How on earth would I have known?"

Oscar shrugged. The interviewer, meanwhile, was leaning closer, clearly invested in the whole thing now.

Lando, apparently having had enough, decided on a different tactic. Lando pointed at him, eyes narrowing. “You’re not getting away with this. You are going to introduce me to your wife.”

Oscar sighed, clearly knowing a losing battle when he saw one. “Fine,” he said after a moment.

Lando sat back, satisfied. “Good.” Then he paused. “Wait—does anyone else know? Like, do the team know?”

Oscar shrugged. “I think Zak does.”

Lando made a strangled noise. “Why does Zak get to know?!”

Oscar pointed out, “Because he’s my boss?”

The interviewer, clearly having thrown all professionalism out the window, was just enjoying the chaos. Lando looked like he wanted to scream. “But I’m your friend!”

Somewhere in the background, McLaren PR was probably losing their minds, trying to figure out how to handle the fact that Oscar Piastri, their quiet, low-maintenance driver, had accidentally revealed he’d been married since he was 18.

Not Oscar’s problem, though...After he escaped Lando Norris' clutches.

He had a wife to call after all.

Oscar Piastri was a man of routine.

He liked predictability. Consistency. A life largely free of unnecessary chaos.

Which was exactly why, after the complete meltdown that was today’s fan stage, he had retreated to his driver’s room, shut the door, and pulled out his phone. If there was one thing in his life that wasn’t chaotic, it was his wife.

The call rang twice before she picked up.

“Hey, love,” she greeted, her face appearing on screen. She was sitting in their apartment, hair tied up, wearing one of his hoodies. 

Oscar felt himself relax immediately. “Hey.”

She smiled at him. “So, how was your day?”

Oscar sighed. “Lando found out we’re married.”

Her eyes widened slightly. “Oh.” A pause. “He… didn’t know?”

Oscar shook his head. "I thought he did."

She let out a small laugh at that. "How the hell did you think he knew?"

Oscar shrugged. "I dunno. We've been married for, what, five years now? How could he not know?"

Her smile widened. "Oh, I don't know. Maybe because you're about as romantic as a cactus?"

Oscar let out a huff. "I can be romantic."

Before she could respond, there was a loud banging on the door, followed by—

“LET ME IN, PIASTRI!”

Oscar sighed through his nose. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly seconds away from laughing. “Is that…?”

“YOU HAVE EXACTLY THREE SECONDS BEFORE I BREAK THIS DOOR DOWN AND—”

Oscar hung his head. “Yes.”

She was laughing now, and he couldn’t even bring himself to be mad because it was an adorable sound.

The banging continued. “I CAN HEAR YOU IN THERE. STOP IGNORING ME, OSCAR.”

His wife bit her lip, clearly trying not to laugh. “You should probably let him in before he tries to break the door down.”

Oscar debated not letting him in, but realistically, Lando would either A) find a way in, or B) make this everyone else’s problem.

So, with a long-suffering sigh, he got up and opened the door.

Lando barreled in immediately, eyes wild.

“WHERE IS SHE?!?” he demanded. “I NEED TO SEE HER WITH MY OWN EYES.”

Oscar sighed, holding up the phone. “She’s on FaceTime, you absolute lunatic.”

Lando’s head whipped around, and he nearly tripped over his own feet trying to get to the couch. He pushed past Oscar with a huff, then stared, wide-eyed, at the phone.

Lando was silent. For once.

His wife was, bless her soul, doing her best to fight her laughter at the look on Lando’s face. “Hi,” she said. “You must be Lando.”

Lando just continued to gape.

Then, slowly, he pointed an accusatory finger at the screen. “You’re real.”

She laughed. “I hope so.”

Lando turned to Oscar, looking personally betrayed. “SHE’S REAL.”

Oscar sighed. “I know.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “And you married him? At eighteen?!?”

She smiled. “Yep.”

Lando reeled. “WHY?!”

She tilted her head. “Because I love him?”

Lando looked like his entire world had been completely shaken. “You love him,” he repeated, staring incredulously down at her.

Oscar rolled his eyes. “Oi, mate, why’s that so hard to believe?”

Lando just groaned in exasperation. “You do not understand how hard it is, being friends with a guy for literal years, and never knowing he had a girlfriend—let alone a WIFE.”

“Mate, I’m pretty sure that says more about you than me,” Oscar told him bluntly.

Lando shot him a glare. “Oh, and you’re what? Mister Emotional Intelligence? You’ve been hiding this for years!”

Oscar shrugged. “Never came up in conversation.”

Lando looked horrified. “Don’t put this on me!”

Oscar shrugged. “You never asked.”

Lando flopped onto the couch, rubbing his face. “Unbelievable.”

His wife stifled a laugh, the corners of her mouth tugging upward as she watched Lando in his current state.

Lando, meanwhile, had moved to the “trying to wrap his head around this situation” portion of his breakdown.

“Okay, no. We’re fixing this. Immediately.”

Oscar sighed. “Lando—”

Lando pointed at the phone. “I need to meet her.”

Oscar sighed. “Fine. Silverstone.”

Lando gasped. “Really?!?”

Oscar deadpanned. “No, I just said it for fun.”

Lando turned back to the phone. “Mrs. Piastri, I will see you at Silverstone.”

She laughed. “Looking forward to it.”

Lando nodded firmly, then turned back to Oscar. “I will be grilling you for details later.”

Oscar sighed. “Of course you will.”

Lando stood dramatically. “Good. Carry on.” And then he walked out like he had just personally fixed the situation.

Oscar turned back to his wife, who was fully laughing.

“I love Lando,” she said. “This is the best thing that’s ever happened.”

Oscar sighed. “I regret everything.”

She smirked. “Love you.”

Oscar huffed. “Yeah, yeah. Love you too.”

And somewhere, in the distance, Lando was plotting.

****

@/oscarpiastri ✅

Posted: 1 day ago

Caption:

So, the internet (and, more importantly, Lando) just found out I’m married.

To be honest, I didn’t think it was a secret. I’ve been married for years. I assumed people knew. Turns out, I was very, very wrong.

Yes, I’m married. Have been for five years this summer.

So, meet my wife—my best friend, my favorite person in the world, and the only one who has somehow put up with me for this long.

We met when we were 15. Two kids at boarding school, thrown together by pure chance. The only open seat in class was next to me, so she took it. I stole a pen from her once—completely by accident—but she still let me borrow her pens after that. Eventually, she started carrying a second one just for me. I told myself that meant something.

She always knew when I was having a bad day, even when I hadn’t said a word. She made school bearable, made exams feel less stressful, made me laugh even when all I wanted to do was complain. Somewhere between stolen lunch breaks and long walks back to the dorms, between late-night study sessions and whispered conversations about the future, I fell in love with her. Quietly, all at once and over time. I knew by the time we were 15—maybe even before then.

She was my best friend first. The person I trusted most. The one who understood the parts of my life that didn’t always make sense to everyone else. By the time I worked up the nerve to tell her how I felt, she just smiled and said, ‘I was wondering when you’d figure that out.’ Like she had known all along.

When I left school to chase this ridiculous dream, she didn’t ask me to stay. She just told me she’d be there, no matter how far I went. And she was. Through every win, every loss, every moment of self-doubt.

So when we turned 18, we didn’t wait. Three weeks after graduation, we walked into a registry office in London, signed a piece of paper, and walked out married. No grand ceremony, no expensive dress. Just us, two rings we picked out in under twenty minutes, and a promise we already knew we’d keep.

We told our families afterward. Some took it better than others.

I know getting married at 18 sounds a little mad. People told us we were too young, that we should wait, that we were being reckless. But why? I had no doubt in my mind then, and I have none now.

She’s still the first person I call after every race, no matter the result. She’s the one who tells me to go to bed when I’m up too late on the sim, who reminds me to eat when I forget, who talks me down when I start overthinking. She’s been with me through everything. Through junior categories to F1, through every high and every low, through the moments I wanted to quit and the ones where I felt like I was on top of the world.

She’s my best friend, my greatest love, the only person who can call me out on my nonsense and get away with it.

So, no, I don’t have a tattoo. But I do have a wife. The person who still looks at me like I’m just that 15-year-old kid stealing a pen and falling in love before he even realizes it’s happening.

I have no idea how I convinced her to marry me, but I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat.

10/10, would always marry her again. ❤️

Comments:

@/landonorris: FIVE YEARS??? YOU HAVE BEEN MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS???

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I assumed you knew. ↪️ @/landonorris: WHEN HAVE YOU EVER MENTIONED HAVING A WIFE???

↪️ @/mrspiastri: He does this thing where he forgets people don’t just know things.

@/danielricciardo: High school sweethearts. Eloped at 18. Best plot twist of the season.

@/mclaren: We have so many questions.↪️ @mrspiastri: Submit them in an organized document, I’ll answer the best ones.

@/f1updates: Today in ‘Oscar Piastri casually drops life-changing information’—he has a whole wife. Lando learned this at the same time as the rest of us.

@/lanoscult: Not Lando finding out with the fans and having a full existential crisis on stage 💀💀💀

@/thef1editz: POV: You just found out your best friend has been MARRIED FOR YEARS and never told you (attached video of Lando’s reaction with dramatic music)

@/wagsf1: WE NEED A FULL BOARDING SCHOOL LOVE STORY IMMEDIATELY.

@/f1tea: No thoughts, just Lando yelling ‘WHO GETS MARRIED AT 18’ like he was personally betrayed.

@/padlockthegrid: We’ve been watching this man for YEARS and never once suspected a wife??

@/georgerussell63: I feel like this is something you announce at a dinner, not in front of an audience.

↪️ @/oscarpiastri: I thought I had mentioned it. ↪️ @/landonorris: YOU DID NOT.

@/charles_leclerc: This is the greatest plot twist in F1 history.

@/fernandoalo_oficial: I respect this level of secrecy.

@/chaoticneutralf1: Oscar Piastri is terrifying. He just DOES things and assumes people KNOW.

@/mclaren: Oscar, any other life-altering facts you’ve forgotten to mention? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not that I can think of. ↪️ @/landonorris: I REFUSE TO BELIEVE THAT.

@/mrspiastri: 10/10, would marry him again. (Even if he forgets to tell people.) ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Love you too. ❤️

@/danielricciardo: Oscar, mate, do you have any other shocking secrets? ↪️ @/oscarpiastri: Not really. ↪️ @/landonorris: I AM NOT CONVINCED.

@/chaoticgrid: I will think about this every day for the rest of my life.

@/mrspiastri

Posted: 2h ago

Caption:

"So. Yesterday happened.

Since Oscar apparently forgot that telling people you’re married is something you actually have to do, I’ve spent the last 24 hours watching the internet lose its collective mind. You guys have questions. Lots of them. So, let’s go:

1. Wait… Oscar is MARRIED?!

Yes. Since we were 18. I know, I know. We should have made a big announcement. Or at the very least told his teammate. Oops.

2. When did you get married?!Right after we graduated. We were 18, ran off to London, signed a piece of paper, and then told our families. In hindsight, we probably should have done that last part beforehand, but hey, we were young and in love (and slightly impulsive).

3. Why so young?Because we were sure. It wasn’t impulsive—it was inevitable. People told us we were crazy, that we should wait, that we’d change. But we didn’t. We grew up together, and we only ever grew toward each other. If I had to choose again, I’d do it exactly the same way.

3. How did you two meet?We were 15, stuck at boarding school, and Oscar stole my pen. He swears it was an accident. I maintain that it was the moment he decided to make me fall in love with him.

5. Did you really not tell Lando?I thought he knew! Everyone close to us does! I assumed Oscar had mentioned it at some point, but, well… you all saw what happened. Apparently, Oscar’s ‘private life’ policy extended to his teammate of three years. Which is why we all got to witness his public breakdown in real-time.

5. Does this mean you’re an F1 WAG?Technically? Yes. Do I have the outfit coordination and expensive handbag collection to back it up? No. I do steal Oscar’s team hoodies, so that counts, right?

6. What’s your favorite thing about Oscar?The way he loves—quietly, steadily, with his whole heart. He still waits up for me if I’m out late, still kisses my forehead when he thinks I’m asleep, still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves like he did back when he was karting. I’ve loved him for so long that I can’t imagine my life any other way.

7. And since Oscar said ‘10/10 would always marry her again,’ what’s your answer? 10/10. No regrets, no hesitation, no doubt. I’d marry him a thousand times over.

Comments: 

@/landonorris: I’M STILL NOT OVER THIS. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I’m never going to live this down, am I? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. But I love you anyway.

@/danielricciardo: This is the kind of romance novel material I expect from an F1 WAG.

@/mclaren: We demand a Netflix special on this.

@/wagsf1: This is the cutest thing we’ve ever seen. Please post more.

@/f1updates: The way she said ‘10/10’ like it was the easiest question ever 😭💖

@/wagsf1: He still tucks handwritten notes into his race gloves??? I’M GONNA CRY.

@/f1updates: This woman just broke the internet by being casually, devastatingly in love.

@/f1fangirl92: The way this man has been secretly in love since he was FIFTEEN is actually lethal.”

@/fanaccountoscarpiastri: So what I’m getting is that Oscar is out here winning races and marriage. I respect it.

@/paddockinsider: Be so honest. What did people say when they found out you guys eloped? @/mrspiastri: Oh, everyone thought we were insane. Random people who barely knew us were convinced we’d crash and burn. Now we get a lot of, ‘Wow, you guys really made it work.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Wasn’t hard.

@/f1obsessed: Did you guys ever break up? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. Not once. Not even a ‘we were on a break’ situation. We’ve been together since we were 15, which is wild when I think about it.

@/fanofeverything: Why did Oscar keep it a secret??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: It wasn’t a secret so much as… he never felt the need to bring it up? It’s not like he was hiding me in a basement somewhere lol. He just doesn’t talk about personal stuff unless someone asks directly. Which, apparently, no one did.

@/gridgossip: So who knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark. Andrea. Probably Zak? Our families, obviously. And, um. That might be it?

@/paddockinsider: Did Oscar just assume that everyone knew you guys were married? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. 100%. This man did not think to mention it because he thought it was ‘obvious. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: “OBVIOUS TO WHO??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: To him. He just figured if someone asked if he was married, he’d say yes. But since no one did, he saw no need to bring it up. ↪️@/landonorris: HOW IS THAT YOUR LOGIC. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No one asked. ↪️@/landonorris: I’M GOING TO LOSE MY MIND.

@/f1insider: We need more details about Mark Webber finding out. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I swear I saw his soul leave his body. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, EXPLAIN YOURSELF. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Didn’t seem necessary to tell him at the time ↪️@/landonorris: “HOW IS MARRIAGE NOT NECESSARY INFORMATION???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark Webber sat Oscar down like a disappointed dad and was like, ‘Mate. How do you just… forget to mention you’re married? ↪️@/mclarenupdates: “And what did Oscar say??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: “He just shrugged and went, ‘Not really relevant to racing. ↪️@/landonorris: “I NEED TO LIE DOWN.”

@/paddockdrama: People always joke that Oscar is a robot. Does that ever bother him? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. I once asked him and he just shrugged and went ‘Doesn’t bother me. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone as long as you know how much I love you.’ ↪️@/landonorris: NO BECAUSE WHERE WAS THIS ENERGY WHEN I TOLD HIM I GOT P2 AND HE JUST WENT ‘NICE’??? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It was nice.

@/paddockgossip: “Did ANY other drivers know???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar’s Prema teammates figured it out. The rest of the grid? Oblivious. ↪️@/landonorris: How did Oscar never accidentally spill?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He doesn’t overshare. Meanwhile, I am still in awe that he just assumed people knew.

@/foreverf1: Wait, I need to know—who said ‘I love you’ first? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar did. Completely out of nowhere, too. We were 16, lying on the floor doing homework, and he just looked over and went, ‘Oh. I love you.’ Like he just realized it in real time.

@/f1teaqueen: Okay but like… NO COLD FEET?? Not even a little?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. We were 100% sure.

@/wildforwags: Who actually officiated your wedding?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Some very lovely lady at a London registry office. She called us ‘sweethearts’ and I think she knew we were completely insane, but she was very supportive about it.

@/racewifematerial: What did you wear?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A white sundress I bought the week before. Oscar wore a suit that was slightly too big because he borrowed it last-minute. We looked like two teenagers who ran away from home, which, to be fair… we kinda did.

@/formula1fangirl: Who took the wedding photos? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We handed a disposable camera to two very confused tourists outside the registry office. They did a great job.

@/landoandchaos: Oscar, babe, how did you manage to keep this from your friend for FIVE YEARS? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Listen, Oscar is elite at two things: racing and not offering information unless directly asked.

@/mclarenfanatic: Did he really think Lando knew? ↪️@/mrspiastri: 100%. I asked him and he was like, ‘Well, I didn’t HIDE it?’ And I was like, ‘Oscar. That is not the same thing as telling people.’

@/fastandflawless: Be honest, did you ever have a moment of ‘Oh my god, I married an 18-year-old racing driver, what have I done’?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really? I mean, other people definitely thought we were nuts, but we knew exactly what we were doing. The real crisis moment was a few months later when I realized I’d have to file taxes as a married person.

@/waggossip: “Did Oscar have a big, romantic proposal, or was it just like, ‘Wanna get married?’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar woke up one morning, looked at me, and said, ‘We should get married. Logically, it makes sense.’ ↪️@/f1softies: YOU’RE JOKING. ↪️@/mrspiastri: I was like, ‘Okay?’ And he said, ‘Great, I’ll book an appointment.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: So let me get this straight. No knee. No ring. Just ‘We should get married.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: Correct. ↪️@/f1wifeguys: And you weren’t even a little mad?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nah, I thought it was funny. If he’d done some big, dramatic proposal, I’d have thought he was concussed. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Please tell me he at least got a ring after that. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He did! We picked one out together. It has both our birthstones.

@/paddocktea: Okay, but does he ever get super romantic out of nowhere?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. Once, when I was really stressed out, he just looked at me and said, ‘You don’t have to do everything alone. I’m always going to be here.’ ↪️@/f1wifeguys: STOP THAT’S SO SWEET.

@/paddockinsider: What’s the most uncharacteristically romantic thing he’s ever said? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were lying in bed once, just scrolling on our phones, and out of nowhere he goes, ‘You know, no matter how my life turned out, I think I would’ve found you in every version of it.’ And then he just went back to reading about Formula 2 tire degradation like he hadn’t just ruined me.

@/backmarkerbrigade: “So, like, what did you do after you got married? Fancy dinner? Celebratory champagne?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: ...Sandwichs at Pret-a-manger

@/gridlove: What’s the most Oscar Piastri way he’s ever told you he loves you? ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time he texted me ‘You’re my favorite human’ completely out of the blue. No context. No follow-up. Just that. It was adorable.

@/pitlaneprincess: Who cried more at the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Me. Oscar was annoyingly composed. He did squeeze my hand really tight when we said our vows, though.

@/drsforlove: “This man has been giving post-race interviews like ‘Yeah, good race, car felt good’ and then just casually drops a wife like it’s a tire strategy.

@/wildforwags: What’s something you wish you had done for the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly, nothing. It was chaotic, but it was ours.

@/pitstopqueen: What was your first impression of Oscar? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? I thought he was too quiet. Then he made some dry, sarcastic comment under his breath in class, and I immediately knew we’d get along.

@/tracksidegossip: How long did you actually plan the wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: A week. And ‘plan’ is a generous term. We just Googled how to get married in London, booked the appointment, and that was that.

@/f1chaos: Oscar, be so honest, did you really think people would just ‘figure it out’ without you ever saying anything?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/paddockprincess: Wait, so how did Oscar’s family react to you guys getting married so young? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Honestly? They were really supportive. His mum just went, ‘That makes sense,’ and his dad laughed. Oscar’s family has always been the ‘if you’re happy, we’re happy’ type. ↪️@/oscarpiastriupdates: “So no dramatic reactions from the Piastris??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: “The most dramatic reaction was his mum sighing and saying, ‘You two are hopeless.’ But she meant it fondly.”

@/chaosinthepaddock: What about your family? 👀 ↪️@/mrspiastri: Ah. Well. See, they did not get over it in five minutes. ↪️@/f1tea: Omg. HOW mad were they??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Very. Like, ‘multiple angry phone calls’ mad. Like, ‘we refuse to speak to you for years’ mad.” ↪️@/landonorris: Did they actually say you were ruining your life? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, yes. There was a lot of dramatic ‘you’re throwing your future away’ speeches. Which was funny, because my future was literally the same, just with more love and an Australian husband. ↪️@/piastrination: Did Oscar ever try to talk to them about it? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, he tried. But Oscar is Oscar, so he just very calmly said, ‘I love her, we’re married, and that’s not changing.’ Which, surprisingly, did not make them less angry. ↪️@/f1gossip: Have they come around since then? ↪️@/mrspiastri: No.

@/landonorris: Lando’s reaction when he found out vs. your family’s reaction when they found out—who had the bigger meltdown?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, my family by far. Lando was just confused—my relatives were furious.

@/gridgirlgossip: Oscar Piastri, the man who quietly eloped at 18, dealt with family drama, and then just went racing like nothing happened.

@/drsdiva: “This is the wildest reveal in F1 history. Netflix, do your job.”

@/f1softies: “The fact that Oscar has been in wife guy mode for YEARS and we had no idea.”

@/lando4lyf: Lando: ‘YOU GOT A TATTOO?!’ Oscar: ‘No, I’m married.’ Lando: internal system crash

@/piastriupdates: “Lando Norris finding out live on stage that his teammate has been MARRIED FOR FIVE YEARS is the funniest thing to ever happen in F1.

@/f1memesdaily: “Oscar Piastri eloped at 18, never told anyone, and assumed people would figure it out while Lando was out here thinking he was a single man. I respect the commitment to quiet chaos.”

@/danielricciardo: Mate. You were MARRIED this whole time?? I thought you were just too focused on racing to date anyone, and instead you were out here with a whole WIFE???

@/charles_leclerc: You were married at 18? And Oscar thought that was a normal thing to do?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. Yes, he did.

@/alex_albon: Tbh, I respect it. Absolute power move. Eloping at 18, casually keeping it a secret, and then just dropping it on Lando like that?? Unreal. ↪️@/mrspiastri: See? Alex gets it.

@/robertschwartzman: Oh, now everyone suddenly cares. Meanwhile, WE KNEW THE WHOLE TIME. ↪️@/mrspiastri: To be fair, you two were basically forced to know. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Yeah, because he wouldn’t shut up about you. ‘Oh, I can’t come to dinner, I have to call my wife.’ ‘Oh, I’m flying to London to see my wife.’ Mate, we were 19, and you were out here married like a 40-year-old. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He still does that, btw. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: Not surprised. The man has been whipped since day one.

@/jehannadaruvala: “The funniest part was watching Oscar just assume we all knew. Like we’d be talking about normal 19-year-old things, and he’d casually drop, ‘Yeah, my wife said the same thing.’ ↪️@/mrspiastri: And did any of you ever ask for clarification? ↪️@/jehannadaruvala: Oh, we asked. His response? ‘What about it?’ LIKE SIR. ↪️@/robertschwartzman: “One time, I straight-up said, ‘Mate, do you realize you’re married?’ and he just blinked at me and said, ‘Yeah.’ As if that was a totally normal thing for a teenage racing driver. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Sounds about right. ↪️@/ollicaldwell: “Honestly, we stopped questioning it after a while. He was just so chill about it. ↪️@/arthur_leclerc: Yeah, it was like, ‘Oh, Oscar’s in a committed marriage while we’re all just trying to survive? Cool, cool.’

@/f1softies: Okay but does he ever have romantic moments?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oh, absolutely. They just happen out of nowhere and leave me emotionally ruined. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Example, please. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I was having a bad day, and he just looked at me and said, ‘You know, the best part of my life is that I get to love you.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME SIR??? ↪️@/landonorris: “WHAT THE HELL.”

@/f1updates: So you eloped… but do you think you’ll ever have a big wedding? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. Oscar and I don’t love being the center of attention, so a big wedding never appealed to us. ↪️@/landonorris: THEN CAN I HAVE A BIG PARTY ON YOUR BEHALF??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We literally just had a wedding reveal by accident and you want to throw an even bigger event??? ↪️@/landonorris: YES.

@/f1insider: So how did Mark find out?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: We didn’t tell him. He found out when Oscar referred to me as his wife in conversation. ↪️@/mrspiastri: We were in a meeting. Mark stopped mid-sentence and went, ‘Your WHAT?’ ↪️@/landonorris: HIS WORLDVIEW SHATTERED. @/mrspiastri: Oscar, completely unbothered, said, ‘Oh. Yeah. We got married a while ago.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: I CAN HEAR MARK WEBBER’S EXASPERATION. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mark didn’t speak for a full minute. Then he sighed, rubbed his temples, and went, ‘Mate. You can’t just drop that into conversation like it’s nothing.’ ↪️@/oscarpiastri: I didn’t see the problem. ↪️@/landonorris: YOU WOULDN’T. ↪️@/f1updates: Does Mark ever bring it up now? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Every single time we see him. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: It’s been years. He should let it go. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Finally he just said, ‘Yeah, I should have figured.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: EXCUSE ME???” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Apparently, Oscar was too relaxed for someone hiding a major life decision. Mark said he’d seen too many drivers try to balance racing and relationships, and he knew Oscar had already locked it down. ‘Kid’s too stable for anything else.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: That’s actually terrifying. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Immediately after he went ‘Alright. Suppose we better make sure this doesn’t derail your career then.’ ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Classic Webber. ↪️@/mclarenupdates: Did he at least congratulate you? ↪️@mrspiastri: Yes. Eventually. But only after making sure we’d thought it through. ↪️@/f1softies: Did he give you a lecture?” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Not really. More like a ‘If you’re doing this, do it properly’ talk.

@/drsfordays: The fact that her family was furious while Mark Webber just sighed is sending me.

@/oscarpiastri_fanclub: So Mark Webber has known this whole time??” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. And I think he’s still mildly offended that Oscar didn’t ask for any advice beforehand.

@/f1updates: Why doesn’t Oscar wear a wedding ring? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He does! He just doesn’t wear it when driving. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Okay but I have never seen this man wear a ring in my life. ↪️@/mrspiastri: He wears it in the off-season. Also, fun fact: he has a silicone one for training that he keeps losing.

@/f1updates: Oscar is so calm and logical on track. Is he the same at home? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Mostly, yeah. But sometimes, out of nowhere, he’ll just say the most devastatingly romantic thing. ↪️@/f1softies: EXAMPLES PLEASE. ↪️@/mrspiastri: One time, I joked, ‘You’re stuck with me forever,’ and he just looked at me, completely serious, and said, ‘That was the goal.’

@/f1updates: Do you ever wish you dated other people before settling down? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Nope. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: Not even a little? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Why would I? I already found my person.

@/f1updates: Serious question—why don’t you ever go to races?? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Anxiety. And I like my privacy. Nobody needs to see my terrified facial expressions. ↪️@/f1memes: You really married a professional racing driver and said no thanks to the circus.” ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yep. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: And Oscar’s fine with that??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He knew what he was signing up for.

@/landonorris: So I still haven’t met you because??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Because you are chaos incarnate and I am scared. ↪️@/landonorris: I AM DELIGHTFUL. ↪️@/mrspiastri: Oscar tells me otherwise. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, SAY IT AIN’T SO. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: No comment.

@/mclarenmemes: So you just send him off to work and watch from home like it’s the Super Bowl? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Yes. ↪️@/f1memes: AND HE’S FINE WITH THAT??? ↪️@/mrspiastri: He comes home, I feed him, we watch race replays together, and he tells me all the paddock gossip. We have an excellent system. ↪️@/f1updates: Oscar, confirm or deny? ↪️@/oscarpiastri: Confirmed.

@/f1updates: So, will we ever see you at a race? ↪️@/mrspiastri: Maybe. One day. ↪️@/mclarenmemes: OSCAR, MAKE HER COME TO ONE. ↪️@/oscarpiastri: She does whatever she wants. I learned that a long time ago.

[covenofagatha]

But you're my stepmom! (Part 10)

Word count: 2600+

Warnings: oral, bathroom sex, strap-on, smut, mommy kink, little bit of angst at first

Author's note: so sorry this took so long to post lol things have been crazy

Taglist (hope I didn't miss anyone, and if I did, I'm so sorry!): @stayevildarling@i-just-cannot@hazey-g@buttercandy16@320viada@evilangels-stuff@rmaximoff@morganismspam23@aboutcustardcreams@sasheemo@rigglemethat@walkethisway@mommywandas@r-3-becca@harknessshi@ihaveawifebutwerenotmarriedyet@polaris-likethestar@ahintofchaos @dorabledewdroop @toomanylesbiancouples @accidentally-made-a-sideblog @chiar4anna @lonelyhalfwitch

When you had found out your dad was cheating on your mom two years ago, you could feel the numbness seeping into every crack and crevice in your body. You remember looking at his phone while you two were watching a tv show and seeing the dirty texts he sent to a woman he used to work with. He was never very subtle about texting her, and you just had a feeling. Deep down, you knew what you were going to find. 

That didn’t mean it still didn't hurt. 

The betrayal, the anger, the sadness. They all rushed over you but you’re still not really sure if you actually felt any of it. You were in a daze for the rest of the day, the need to scream building in your throat gradually. 

You finally couldn’t take it anymore and you went for a run the next day, which is something you never would usually do. The thumping of your feet against the pavement sounded like why? why? why? Why would he do this? Why would he choose her over his family? You ran until it felt like your legs were on fire and your lungs were about to burst until you finally doubled over, bit down on your hand, and let the guttural scream claw its way out of you. Your teeth had broken your skin and you could still see the small white scar if you flexed your hand just right. 

After that, you locked the pain somewhere deep down inside you. You hadn’t even gotten to really confront him about it.

But when Agatha says that your dad is having an affair, you feel your stomach drop and somewhere, the buried feelings start begging to get free, rattling on the bars of their enclosure. 

“What?” You ask quietly, a lump growing in your throat as you crane your head up to look at her. Your hand on her stomach stalls. She has a distant look in her eyes. 

“Monday night after you left, your dad couldn’t find his phone so we were looking for it. I found it on the kitchen table while he was looking in his office and he had just gotten a text. I glanced at it and it was from a woman.” Agatha doesn’t continue, but you can only imagine what the text said. 

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, the lump getting bigger. You remember making that mean comment to her the first night you got dinner about him cheating again. 

She laughs ironically. “I guess I can’t be mad. I mean, look at us.”  

You glance up at her to meet her sardonic eyes. “Yeah, but look at who you cheated on versus who he did. I’m sure this other woman isn’t even half as hot as you are.” 

She softly smiles and then leans down to peck your lips with hers. “That’s sweet of you to say, honey.” 

“So what are you going to do?” 

She sighs deeply and starts gently tugging on the ends of your hair. “I don’t know. Confront him? Get a divorce? I’ve spent the last two days just trying to figure something out.” 

Her cold silence makes sense now. So does the way she fucked you earlier. 

You turn your head and press a kiss to her bare shoulder. “I’m sorry,” you repeat, because what else is there to say? “Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Her fingers tighten in your hair and they pull to tilt your head so you’re looking right at her. “I can think of something,” she says, a teasing lilt in her voice. 

“Oh, yeah?” Your eyebrow raises and she smirks with a daring nod. “Anything for my step-mother.” 

You kiss down her stomach, making sure to sink your teeth into her delectable abs and suck hard. She moans and arches her back off the bed. Soon enough, her midsection is littered with red marks and fuck, it’s hot. 

If your dad is too much of a fucking idiot to appreciate this woman, you’ll just have to take matters into your own hands. 

You settle between her thighs on the bed and slowly drag your tongue up the inside of her right thigh. A noise slips out from her lips and you do the same thing on the other side to hear it again. 

“Stop teasing, baby,” she warns in a low voice. She’s glistening. 

You chuckle and then lick up through her folds. She groans and raises her hips so you can get in closer. Your tongue swirls around her clit. 

“Fuck,” she swears under her breath. You begin to lap at her, heat growing between your own legs at the way her breath stutters and her thighs begin to shake. 

“Did he ever make you feel like this?” You ask, words garbled since your mouth is full of her cunt. But she rolls her hips on her face seemingly involuntarily, so you know she understood. 

“Never,” she says breathlessly and you pick up the pace, swirling and sucking, wanting her to feel good. 

She cums quickly and then she pulls you up into a deep kiss, tongue moving over yours to taste herself. 

“What does this mean for us?” You wonder aloud after she cleans your face and you both are cuddling again. If Agatha and your father get divorced, will this affair end? Will it become more?

“What do you want it to mean?” 

“I don’t know,” you say, because you don’t. “I like this, though.” 

She kisses your forehead and you can feel her smiling against you. “I do, too.” 

***

Dinner tonight with Agatha and I? is what your dad texts you the next day while you’re at school. You frown and quickly shoot Agatha a text about it. The two of you hadn’t spoken any more about what she was going to do about your father’s infidelity so you just want to be aware if you’re walking into a trap. You’re not sure you can take another dinner where your dad sits you down and tells you that he’s getting a divorce. 

Agatha responds that she hasn’t talked to him yet. You did know that he was away on business – although, that could just be code for having an affair – so he hasn’t been home. And you don’t think Agatha would be one to confront him over the phone. 

You text your dad back that you’ll be there. You’re curious to see what it’s about. 

The rest of the day passes quickly while you worry about what dinner could bring. You take a quick shower when you get home from school and put on a casual black dress. You don’t really care about looking nice for whatever restaurant you go to, you just want to look good for Agatha. Your mouth almost waters at the thought of whatever she will wear. She always manages to look ethereal. 

Your phone buzzes with a message from Agatha. Your father is meeting us at the restaurant. I’m outside. 

You can sense the tension radiating off the older woman the moment you step outside. She tersely watches you walk over to her car and slide into the passenger seat. Agatha’s wearing pants with a silky button down shirt and she looks hot. 

“Hey, baby,” she says, leaning over to press a kiss to your cheek. 

“You okay?” 

She grimaces and puts her sunglasses on. “I’ve barely talked to him since he left on his trip. He just asked if the three of us could get dinner.” 

Your brow furrows. “Are you going to say anything tonight?” 

Agatha purses her lips and reaches over to pat your leg. “I wouldn’t do that with you there. I’m not putting you in the middle of this.” 

Your heart warms because your mother did not hesitate to put you in the middle of her problems with your dad. She had broken almost every boundary and turned you into her therapist, and it now fills you with immense gratitude that Agatha won’t do that. 

Even though you are very much in the middle of it, with you and her having sex and all. 

“Thank you.” 

You both launch into small talk until you pull into the restaurant parking lot, where you see your dad waiting out front. Your stomach begins to sink just at the sight of him. 

You can’t believe he did it again. 

“Sweetheart, are you alright?” Agatha asks, voice tight with worry. She must see how you’re looking at him through the window. You’ve never opened up about your parents with her, but you can tell that she at least partly knows how you must be feeling. 

You clench your jaw and steel your nerves. “I’m good.” 

You try to not get angry when your dad’s face lights up at the sight of the two of you. 

“My favorite girls!” He booms and pulls you both into a hug. You can feel how tense Agatha is and you’re sure you feel the same. “How are we?”

“Good,” you mutter and Agatha says something along the lines of that as well. 

He made a reservation so you’re immediately led to a booth tucked in the back of the restaurant. You sit opposite your dad and Agatha doesn’t hesitate before sliding in next to you. 

“How was your trip?” Agatha asks, tone laced with something sharp like she’s trying to catch him in an act. 

Before he can answer, the waitress comes over. She looks a few years older than you, with brown hair and pretty blue eyes. Almost like a younger version of Agatha, you think. She takes your drink orders, her gaze lingering a bit too long on you as you ask for a sprite. 

You can see Agatha scowling at her out of the corner of your eye. 

Your dad starts talking about his work when she leaves but you suddenly lose all focus when Agatha slowly moves her hand to your thigh and grips it possessively. 

She clearly does not like the waitress, who comes back a few minutes later with your drinks. Fully aware of this, you reach out to take your sprite from the waitress and your fingers brush right in front of Agatha’s face.

Her nails dig into your leg and you subtly smirk at her. Her eyes have completely darkened. 

After everyone orders food, you excuse yourself to go to the bathroom. You’ve started throbbing from the tight hold Agatha has on you – both literally and figuratively – and you’re not sure you’ll last another minute without some relief. 

Just as you push open the door, someone grabs your wrist and shoves you inside. You gasp and whirl around, fear clenching your heart, only to find that it’s Agatha. 

She closes the door behind her and locks it. You’re so thankful it’s a single-person bathroom. 

Agatha advances and you step back until you hit the sink. 

“I know what you’re doing,” she hisses, trapping you against it by putting her hands on either side of you. 

“What do you mean, mommy?” You ask innocently, enjoying the way her dark eyes flash. Her hand comes up to wrap around your throat and a thrill runs through you. You’re sure you’re absolutely dripping now. 

“You were making eyes at that dirty waitress,” she accuses. “Looks like you need a reminder of who you belong to.” 

Before you can ask what she means, she flips you over so the sink is cutting into your hip bones and you can see the reflection of you both in the mirror. You look like a mess. And she looks like she is enjoying every bit of it. 

And then she grinds her front against you and you feel something hard in her pants. You watch your mouth fall open in the mirror. 

“You-” You don’t even have the words and the ache inside you is only getting worse. A smug smile spreads across her face as she reaches down to unzip her pants. Her other hand moves your underwear to the side, not even bothering to take it off.

She drags her strap-on up and down your slit, laughing cruelly at the way your hips move to try to get her inside. 

“Please,” you whine, feeling empty. 

She leans down so she can whisper in your ear, “Who do you belong to?” 

“You, mommy,” you say desperately and you let out a loud moan when she finally pushes into you.

“Be quiet,” she jeers and spanks you hard. You bite down on your lip to keep from moaning, but also to keep from telling her that spanking makes noise, too.

She sets a rough pace from the beginning, grabbing onto your hips with bruising force. You let out little gasps as she thrusts into you, over and over, already bringing you close to the edge. She reaches around you with one hand and starts rubbing your clit and your head falls forward in pleasure. 

Agatha pauses for a second so she can yank you back up by your hair. “Look at yourself,” she says, forcing you to watch yourself in the mirror. She resumes her fast pace. “Look at how well you’re taking my cock for me. Look at how much of a slut you are for me.” When she calls you a slut, you physically can’t stop the sound that comes out of your mouth. 

“Mommy, please,” you pant, your entire body feeling like a livewire. “Wanna cum.”

“Do you think a brat like you deserves to cum after making mommy jealous like that?” 

“M’sorry, mommy, I’ll be good,” you practically cry. You meet every thrust, eyes rolling back in your head from how perfect she feels. Your body is on edge from all the effort it’s taking to not cum. “Need to, so close.”

“Who do you belong to?” 

“You, only you,” you sob. 

“Good girl,” she says, pressing a kiss to the side of your neck. “Cum for me, sweetheart.” 

Two more thrusts and a rub of your clit and you cum all over her cock. It’s explosive and you bite on your lip so hard that you taste blood. She begins to slow down as you come back down to earth and you rest your head against the mirror to recover. 

Someone knocks on the door and you freeze since your step-mother is buried to the hilt inside of you at this current moment. 

But she just sweetly calls, “Occupied!” and you can’t help but laugh breathlessly. She pulls out of you and you wince. 

“Wow,” you say as she helps you clean up. “You know I wasn’t flirting with the waitress, right?” 

She smirks and pulls you in for a deep kiss. “I know, baby. I just couldn’t spend another minute listening to your dad talk.”

“Join the club.” 

You feel like everyone is watching the two of you as you make your way back to the table, but in reality, they’re not. Your dad is on his phone texting someone – you think you see a woman’s name at the top – but he quickly swipes out of it when he notices that you both have come back. You glance at Agatha just in time to see her eye twitching. 

“There you ladies are! I thought you had gotten lost. Everything okay?” He asks. You think you’re just imagining the condescending tone, but Agatha stiffens next to you so maybe not. 

“Actually yeah,” she says. “I’m filing for divorce.” You gape at her as she spins on her heel and walks away. 

You turn your head back to your dad, who looks back at you, dumbfounded. 

“Sweet pea-” he starts but you hold up your hand to cut him off. 

“No. Fuck you. You don’t deserve anyone.” 

And then you leave to follow Agatha, feeling suddenly like the weight inside you has finally lifted. 

[tetzoro]

⟡ — MDNI. zoro roronoa x reader ; pussydrunk!zoro, zoro calls reader baby. from the drafts + dividers by cafekitsune. — WC : 496

“go slow.” you whisper, as you watch his leaky tip nudge its way between your glistening folds, fiendishly pulsing against your entrance and barely pushing in. zoro was big — thick, you knew you’d feel the stretch regardless of how many times he’s had you like this.

“i will.” his voice rasps against your ear, lips sloppily gliding along the slope of your neck before he pulls himself back up. zoro’s body was almost trembling as it fills itself with an impatient need. but he’d try to be good for you and curb his urges. surely he had more self control than that. “you ready?”

you nod, nails digging into the meat of his shoulders as he presses in, slowly, steadily slipping into you. zoro lets out a low guttural groan, shivers of ecstasy shooting down his spine as he tumbles forward, his face buried in the crook of your neck.

zoro’s mind falls blank, drowning in pleasure as your heavenly cunt greedily sucks him in. the faint promise he made earlier becomes a distant memory, floating away with the rest of his common sense as he shoves himself deeper into you.

“aah!” you yelp, legs tightly wrapping around his waist, almost beckoning him to push in deeper despite your next words. “i said go slow.”

he pauses for a moment, almost bottomed out — he swears he can taste it, the way you clench around him, unintentionally begging him not to stop. everything in him screams to keep going, to unleash all the passion he has for you, all the love he carries in his heart — the one you claimed for your own.

“c’mon, you can take it for me baby, right?” his voice is low, seeping into your skin and settling somewhere deep between your bones. “just like always, yeah?”

and you do, just like always.

because when zoro fucks, his animal instincts take over, brain reverting into some sort of primal being. not to say he doesn’t take care of you, he does, but he can’t stop rutting into you, addicted to the sinful way you feel when you’re wrapped around him — cock pulsing in time with his racing heartbeat.

it’s exhilarating, overwhelming. he just keeps going and can’t stop, desperately holding onto one of life’s most simplest forms of pleasure. his balls tighten, abdomen coils and yet he can’t stop pounding into your tight cunt.

it’s impossible to when you’re safely tucked under his broad body and gazing up at him with such affection that never fails to make his hips stutter. his dick stirs all over again when he sees your lashes brim with unshed tears — little droplets of devotion as you take everything he has to give you.

with an almost involuntary snap of his hips, the cycle begins anew, and the two of you are swept away in the throes of ardor. losing yourselves in a frenzy of desire, where time ceases to exist and all that matters is each other.

[00valentina-writes00]

♡♥︎ shelter me ♥︎♡

Warnings: slow romance, the last of us “zombies”, eventual smut, slow burn, tension, explicit language, violence, blood, scissoring, soft dom!Abby, gentle giant!Abby, feelings

Word count: 22k

I tried to use my purple line brakes but I ran out of damn space :(

You never asked for this.

Life wasn’t supposed to be like this—not a constant scramble for survival, not the never-ending hum of danger in the back of your mind. But here you are, on the run from the infected, your heart pounding in your ears as you struggle to keep moving. Blood streaks across your face from the gash along your temple, and the pain in your side is enough to make you stagger with every step.

The world feels different now. Silent. Everything’s muted in shades of grey and brown, a world stripped of color and warmth, replaced with decay and death. The buildings that once thrived with life are little more than hollowed-out shells, homes to scavengers, to predators—sometimes both. But what cuts the deepest is the loneliness, the silence that creeps in when the world around you is suffocating.

You were used to being alone.

Always had been, really. You’d never been good with people, even before everything fell apart. You didn’t trust easily, not even with those who had tried to help you. People had let you down more times than you could count. It was safer this way, on your own. Trust wasn’t a luxury you could afford. Not anymore.

But you hadn’t anticipated the danger of this particular day.

You were just trying to make it to the old safe house you’d heard about—somewhere beyond the ruined city, away from the cluster of buildings and the infected that roamed like they owned the place. You’d been tracking through the wreckage for days, picking your way over debris and shattered glass, heart racing with every noise in the distance. But it hadn’t been enough. The infected had caught your scent.

And now you’re here, back against a crumbling wall, hands shaking as you reload your last clip into your gun, but the magazine’s barely full. Panic stirs in your chest, a cold sweat prickling your skin as you hear their low, guttural moans—so close, so close, and you can’t afford to miss a single shot. The blood from your side seeps through the makeshift bandage, the warm slick of it making your stomach churn.

You can’t do this alone anymore.

Your breaths come in shallow gasps as you glance around the corner of the building, desperate, trying to spot any kind of escape. Your pulse is a drumbeat in your ears, and your vision is beginning to blur. Your body wants to give up—wants to just collapse and let the darkness take you. But no. Not now. Not when you’ve made it this far. You can’t let them take you. Not like this.

And then, without warning, there’s a burst of gunfire.

The infected closest to you drop to the ground, lifeless, their rotting bodies collapsing in a heap. The shots ring out again, precise, echoing through the narrow alleyway. You blink, confused, trying to process what’s happening, but before you can even gather your bearings, a figure steps into your line of sight.

Tall. Muscular. Strong, yet graceful in the way she moves. Her blonde hair is tied up in a messy ponytail, strands falling loosely around her sharp features. Her eyes—cold, blue eyes that look like they’ve seen too much—lock with yours. She doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t need to. She’s here to save you.

“Get up,” she commands, her voice rough, but not unkind. She’s in control. She knows what she’s doing, and there’s something in the way she holds herself that makes you think she’s been through this kind of thing a thousand times. But it’s not just that. It’s her eyes. The way they flick over you with a practiced gaze, assessing, calculating.

You hesitate for a moment, still in shock, before you force yourself to move. Your body protests, every part of you screaming with exhaustion, but you push through. You manage to get on your feet, unsteady, but upright. Abby reaches for you, her grip firm as she pulls you toward her, her strength practically lifting you off the ground. The contact sends a spark through your body, and for a split second, you feel something like warmth. Something like hope.

“You’re bleeding pretty badly,” she says, as she pulls you behind cover, crouching beside you. Her voice is soft but urgent. “I’ve got you. Just stay with me.”

Your pulse hammers in your ears as you stare at her. There’s no time to process the overwhelming mix of emotions swirling inside you—the shock, the fear, the lingering terror of almost dying alone. All of it has you dizzy, your body desperate for rest, but your mind sharp enough to recognize the truth.

This woman. She just saved you.

“Thanks,” you manage, your voice raspy from the dust in the air and the panic still clinging to your chest. But even as the words leave your mouth, doubt sets in. Trust doesn’t come easily. Not anymore.

“You’re welcome,” she mutters, though her attention remains focused on the infected still gathering in the distance, drawn by the noise of the shots she fired.

You catch your breath, trying to keep your composure. You can’t afford to appear weak—not now, not in front of her.

You swallow hard, wiping your forehead with the back of your hand. The motion smears the blood from your temple across your skin, but it’s not like anyone’s around to judge you.

“Who are you?” You ask, eyeing her carefully. You’re still trying to figure her out, still trying to figure out if she’s friend or foe. You know nothing about her. She could be a bandit, someone who’s just using the infected as a cover to rob you. Hell, you’ve seen enough to make you question everything.

She shoots you a quick glance, her lips pulling into something that might almost be a smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Abby,” she answers shortly, without hesitation. “I’m not looking for trouble. Just trying to get through this shitshow like everyone else.” Her eyes flick over your bloodstained form before locking with yours again. “You’ve got a long way to go, if you plan on surviving.”

You stiffen at the implication. “I can handle myself,” you retort, though it comes out more defensive than you’d intended. The truth is, you don’t know if you can. You’re too tired, too far gone.

Abby doesn’t respond to the challenge in your voice. She’s already back on her feet, scanning the horizon.

“Can you walk?” She asks, her voice low and deliberate. “I’ll help you get to a safer spot, but we have to move. It’s not going to get any better.”

The last thing you want is to rely on her, but you’re running on fumes. Your vision wavers again, and this time, you’re not sure you can make it alone. You take a breath, willing your body to respond.

“I can,” you say, though it’s more to convince yourself than her.

With a grunt, Abby crouches down, offering you her back, the muscles in her shoulders rippling beneath her shirt. You hesitate, before carefully accepting her offer, gripping her shoulders as she rises.

She doesn’t look back at you, but there’s a gentleness in the way she holds you, like she’s offering something you can’t quite name. You cling to her warmth, your heart still pounding in your chest. It’s too soon to know if you can trust her, but for now, she’s the only thing standing between you and the hell outside these walls. And, as much as you hate to admit it, you need her. You need someone.

Her movements are sure and fast, weaving through the shattered streets with ease. She’s efficient, her every action calculated, but there’s something else there—a quiet steadiness that calms the chaos in your mind.

For the first time in a long while, you let yourself breathe.

Maybe, just maybe, there’s a sliver of hope left in this broken world.

But it’s still early. You don’t trust her yet.

And she doesn’t trust you, either. Not completely.

The road ahead is long.

The journey to Abby’s safe spot is a blur, a mix of exhaustion and relief. Your body aches with every movement as she helps you along, her firm grip never once wavering. Your mind is cloudy, not just from the pain and blood loss but from the swirling mess of emotions—confusion, wariness, a tiny thread of gratitude that you don’t want to acknowledge just yet. She saved you, but you don’t know her. Not yet.

You’ve been alone for so long, relying only on your instincts and the sparse, fleeting alliances you’ve made along the way. The idea of trusting someone again feels… wrong. But Abby, with her sharp eyes and that subtle strength she carries in her every movement, isn’t like the others. Or at least, that’s what you want to believe. You have to believe.

When she finally pushes open the weathered door to the cabin, you inhale sharply, taken aback by how simple and quiet it feels. The walls are bare, save for a few nails and hooks, the wood cracked and stained by years of neglect. The floor creaks under your feet as you step in, and the faint smell of mildew and dust fills your nose. It’s a world apart from the chaos of the outside, a small patch of refuge in a crumbling world.

“Sit,” Abby orders, her voice like gravel, cutting through your thoughts. She doesn’t look back at you as she moves toward a stack of old blankets by the hearth.

You obey, sinking down onto the floor near the fireplace. Your legs feel like lead, and the blood loss makes your vision swim. You’re so tired, your body so heavy, but you fight it. Not yet. Not until you know you’re safe.

“Let me take a look at you,” Abby’s voice is low, but there’s an authority in it. She means business.

You raise an eyebrow, confusion flickering across your face. She pauses for just a moment, staring at you. Her gaze is calculating, like she’s trying to assess how far you’ll push back.

Then, without warning, she pulls the knife from her belt and sets it down gently on the floor, within easy reach. It’s clear she’s not looking for a fight—at least, not now. Abby doesn’t threaten you with words; she doesn’t need to. There’s a quiet power in her that speaks volumes.

“Do you trust me?” she asks, her tone softening just enough to make you reconsider your stance.

Your mouth goes dry. The question lingers in the space between you, heavy with unspoken meanings. You don’t trust anyone. Not anymore. Not after everything you’ve seen, everything you’ve lost. But the alternative is to keep pushing yourself beyond your limits, and you can’t do that, not when you’re already on the verge of collapse. Abby might be your best shot at survival—at least for now.

Swallowing your pride, you nod stiffly. “Yeah. I trust you. For now.”

That’s as much as you can give.

Abby’s gaze flickers to your blood-streaked clothes, the torn fabric that clings to your body in the humid air. She steps closer to you, her presence almost overwhelming. Her strong hands reach for the hem of your shirt without hesitation, her movements purposeful but not rough.

A soft gasp escapes you as her fingers brush your skin, the heat of her touch both comforting and intimidating at the same time. She’s being careful, trying not to hurt you further, but the closeness is a stark reminder of how little you’ve allowed yourself to trust others.

“Let’s see what we’re working with,” she mutters, her voice low and steady. Without asking, she pulls your shirt up, exposing your torso to the cool, stale air of the cabin. The room seems to shrink around you, and you can’t stop your heartbeat from pounding in your ears as her eyes flick over your body, lingering on the raw skin, the bruises, the cuts. Her gaze softens slightly as she scans for signs of infection, any telltale marks that might mean you’re carrying the sickness.

But then, Abby pauses, her hand hovering just above your waistband.

“You need to take everything off,” she says, voice even but firm. “I can’t see if you’ve been bitten with your clothes on.”

A flush of heat rises to your cheeks. You stiffen, suddenly aware of how vulnerable you are, how exposed. The idea of stripping down in front of her, a woman you barely know, feels like a violation, even if she’s only trying to make sure you’re not infected. You avert your gaze, unwilling to meet her eyes as embarrassment floods through you, mixing with the fear that has been gnawing at you ever since you first encountered her.

“I—” you start, but Abby doesn’t wait for you to finish your sentence.

“Now,” she orders, her tone not unkind, but insistent. “I need to make sure you’re not gonna turn in the middle of the night. Do you want me to leave you out here to die, or do you want to live?”

You want to protest. You want to argue that it’s unnecessary, that you’re fine, but the cold weight of her words stops you. You know the reality of the world you live in, and Abby is right. You don’t have the luxury of being coy. So, with a deep, shaky breath, you reluctantly pull your shirt off, tossing it aside. The air hits your skin like a shock, but it’s nothing compared to the warmth of Abby’s eyes that follow the motion. Her expression softens, but you can still feel her focus on every inch of your skin.

Next, you unclasp your belt, letting it drop to the floor before tugging your jeans down. Every movement feels like an eternity, your body screaming at you to just hurry up and get it over with. But as you step out of your jeans, leaving you in nothing but your bra and panties, your face burns with the raw sting of embarrassment. You try to cross your arms over your chest, an instinctual move, but Abby’s sharp eyes don’t miss it.

“Don’t do that,” she says, her voice still soft but commanding. “You don’t have anything to be ashamed of. I’ve seen it all, trust me.”

The weight of her words hangs in the air between you, but her matter-of-fact tone makes it harder to hold on to the overwhelming self-consciousness that rises in you. Still, you don’t lower your arms. You can’t. Not just yet.

Abby steps forward, her hands moving over your skin, checking for any bites, any signs of infection. The touch is clinical, efficient. She runs her fingers over the bruise on your side, the one that’s already turning a sickly yellow-green. Your skin prickles beneath her touch, and you catch yourself holding your breath every time her hands move too close to a sensitive spot. You don’t know why you’re so aware of her presence—it’s as if every nerve in your body has been tuned to her, to the way she hovers just inches from you, her breath warm against your skin.

She stops when she reaches your thighs, her fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your panties before she meets your gaze. “You’re good,” she mutters, voice low. “No bites. No signs of infection.”

You exhale in relief, but it’s fleeting. Now that the worst of it is over, all that’s left is the heavy feeling of vulnerability. You feel exposed in ways you can’t put into words, but you don’t have the luxury of feeling sorry for yourself. Not now. Not when there’s still danger outside these walls.

Abby steps back, turning toward the corner of the cabin where a small cot lies, piled with blankets and a few pillows. “I’m setting up a spot for you,” she says, not giving you much of a glance. “You’ll sleep here. I’ll keep watch.”

She grabs a thick wool blanket from the pile, spreading it out on the floor beside the fireplace. It’s a far cry from the comfort you once had before everything fell apart, but it’s better than sleeping in the dirt. You can feel the weight of exhaustion in your limbs, every fiber of your being begging for rest, but something stops you from lying down immediately. You stay standing, watching her, unsure of the next move.

A soft bark breaks through the silence, and Abby glances over her shoulder with a smile you don’t quite understand. A large, Chesapeake Bay Retriever trots up to her, tail wagging enthusiastically. The dog’s coat is thick and matted with dirt, but there’s a kind of warmth to her, a friendliness in the way she sits beside Abby.

“This is Alice,” Abby says, crouching down to pet the dog’s head. “She’s been with me through all of this.”

Alice gives a low whine, her dark eyes meeting yours. There’s a moment of connection—pure, unspoken. For a brief second, you feel a flicker of hope, of something softer in this place that’s otherwise stripped of humanity.

And for the first time, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, you’ll be okay.

But Abby’s still watching you, waiting for you to lie down. You know that the night is far from over, but at least, for now, you’re not alone.

The morning light filters through the cracks in the cabin's weathered walls, casting a soft glow over the dim interior. It's not much, but it's enough to stir you from the uneasy sleep you didn't quite want. You wake slowly, the drowsiness of exhaustion still clinging to your limbs, and a distant ache that you can't quite place. The warmth of the blankets and the faint sound of soft breathing around you lulls you into a state of half-awareness. For a moment, you almost think you're back in a world where things make sense, where you're safe.

But then you feel the wet warmth on your cheek.

Your eyes snap open, and you're met with a large, brown face, a pair of curious eyes staring at you from just inches away. A wet tongue flicks over your cheek again, and you recoil, instinctively pushing the dog away with a grunt of surprise.

"Alice!" Abby's voice cuts through the moment, dry but not unkind. "Leave her alone."

The dog—Alice, you recall—huffs in protest, but she backs off, her tail wagging with that exuberant energy dogs always seem to have, no matter the world around them. You take a deep breath, wiping the lingering dog saliva from your face with the back of your hand, your heart still racing from the sudden wake-up call.

Alice settles at Abby's feet, her eyes never straying too far from you as you sit up. Your muscles ache from sleeping on the hard floor, but the warmth of the blankets lingers, and for a brief moment, you forget where you are. That is, until Abby's movements pull your attention back to the reality of your situation.

She's in the corner, sitting with her back straight, eyes focused on something in her hands. You can hear the faint rasp of metal against metal—the sound of a blade being sharpened. The sight of Abby, so methodical in her movements, is oddly comforting and unsettling at the same time. There's something about her presence that speaks of years of survival, of brutal efficiency. She doesn't have to look at you to know you're awake; she doesn't have to say anything at all to make you feel the weight of her assessment.

When she finishes, she tucks the knife back into her belt and stands, walking toward you with a quiet intensity. She doesn't smile, doesn't offer any pleasantries. She's the kind of person who communicates without words, and you've learned to read her body language—tense, controlled, alert. There's no room for softness in this world, at least not in the way you once knew it.

"I hope you're hungry," Abby says, her voice rough but steady as she pulls out a small, crumpled protein bar from her pack. She holds it out to you, but it's not exactly a gracious offering. There's a bit of a challenge in her eyes as if she's waiting for you to refuse it, to show some sort of weakness.

You take the protein bar from her hand, your fingers brushing hers for just a second. The brief touch sends a strange warmth through you, but you quickly shake it off. You're too tired to care about that right now.

"Thanks," you mutter, though you don't have much of an appetite. The thought of eating anything that's been in someone's pack for who knows how long doesn't exactly make your stomach sing with joy. But it's food, and that's enough.

You tear open the wrapper, the stale scent wafting up, and take a bite. It's dry, tasteless, and almost immediately sticks to the roof of your mouth, but you force yourself to chew. It's better than nothing.

Abby watches you, her eyes narrowing slightly as she observes your reaction, but she doesn't comment. Instead, she picks up her pack, slinging it over her shoulder with a practiced motion.

"We're heading out today," she says, her tone businesslike. "I need to gather supplies. If you want to stick around, you'll have to keep up. Got it?"

You nod, though a part of you wonders why she hasn't just left you behind. Why go through the effort of bringing you along if she doesn't fully trust you? You still don't know the answer, and it's gnawing at the back of your mind. But you can't afford to question it too much. At least you're not alone.

"Yeah," you reply, swallowing the last bite of the bar. "Got it."

You push yourself up from the floor, feeling the weight of the world settle back on your shoulders as you gather your things. Abby watches you closely, her gaze never wavering. She's sizing you up again, testing you. You don't need to hear the words to understand it.

You can't help but feel a little irked by how carefully she watches you, like she's waiting for you to mess up, waiting for you to show her that she can't trust you. But you push the feeling down. You've been in her position before—paranoid, cautious. You don't blame her for not trusting you, not yet.

The two of you head out into the overgrown woods, the sounds of the cabin fading behind you. Alice trots ahead, her tail wagging as she sniffs the ground, clearly enjoying the day's new adventure. Abby keeps her eyes on the path, her steps purposeful, while you follow a few paces behind, your gaze constantly flicking between the trees and the horizon.

You know you're supposed to keep quiet. You know the rules by now—trust is earned, not given freely. And Abby hasn't given you any reason to think she'll be any different. There's no real camaraderie between you two yet—just the unspoken understanding that you need each other for survival.

The walk feels long, but you're grateful for the movement, for the distraction. Your body aches from the tension of everything, the constant awareness that at any moment, something could go wrong. But with Abby leading the way, you feel a tiny thread of security, even if it's fleeting.

You finally arrive at the house Abby had been heading toward—an old, dilapidated structure that looks like it's been abandoned for years. The roof is sagging, the wood rotting in places, and the windows are shattered. It's the kind of place you would have avoided on any normal day, but now, it's a potential treasure trove of supplies. The smell of mold and rot wafts through the air as Abby approaches the door cautiously, her eyes scanning for any signs of movement before she pushes it open.

The hinges creak loudly, but the house remains still, its emptiness palpable. The air inside smells of dust, mildew, and decay. You step in after Abby, your feet crunching against broken glass and debris as you make your way into the living room.

"Look for anything useful," Abby says, her voice low. "Medkit, food, weapons. Whatever you can find."

You nod, moving cautiously through the room. The furniture is mostly ruined, covered in dirt and cobwebs. There's nothing particularly valuable in sight, but you dig through the drawers, opening cabinets with a careful, practiced hand. You don't know what you're expecting to find, but you keep searching, scanning the corners for anything that might help.

Abby moves off to the side, checking the walls and windows as she goes, keeping her eyes sharp. Alice, meanwhile, has found something to investigate—a pile of old boxes near the back of the room. You watch her curiously as she noses through the mess, tail wagging.

It's when you step toward the back of the house that you hear the faint sound of Alice's barking, followed by her scratching at something. You walk over, curiosity getting the better of you, and peer over the dog's head to see what she's found.

At first, it doesn't look like much—a weathered box, tucked away behind some old crates. You kneel down to examine it, brushing off the dust and debris. As you lift the lid, your eyes widen in surprise.

Inside, neatly packed, are a few items that immediately make your stomach churn. A box of old vibrators, dildos, and other... "toys." You're not sure why they're here or who might have left them behind, but the thought of it feels like an intrusion—an uncomfortable reminder of how life used to be before everything went to shit.

You blink, unsure of how to react to the discovery, and you hear Abby approaching. Her gaze flickers over the box, and you notice her lips twitch—just for a second—before she masks it with a blank expression.

"What is it?" she asks, not looking at you but at the contents of the box.

You clear your throat, holding up the box awkwardly. "Uh... looks like... well, looks like some old toys," you say, your voice trailing off.

Abby's eyebrow arches, her gaze finally meeting yours. "Well, this is a surprise."

You can't help but chuckle, the absurdity of the situation hitting you all at once. The world's ended, and yet people still had time to stash away things like this? It's strange, unsettling, and for a moment, it almost feels like something normal.

Abby just shakes her head, her lips curling up slightly at the corners, though she quickly suppresses it. "Grab the medkit and leave that junk behind."

With a sigh, you shove the box aside and begin digging through the rest of the items. As you find the medical kit, Abby moves to check the rest of the house.

The cabin is quieter than usual when you return, the air thick with the scent of damp wood and the faint crackling from the fireplace. The shadows from the evening stretch across the small room, and for a moment, you can almost forget the weight of the outside world. But the reality creeps back in quickly—the gnawing tension in your muscles, the unease of not fully trusting the person you're sharing this space with, the constant fear that at any moment, everything could come crashing down.

Abby is already moving with purpose, the worn edges of her jacket shifting with each step as she moves toward the corner of the room. Her broad shoulders flex as she begins gathering tools—old nails, a hammer, some loose boards she'd scavenged from the house you two had visited earlier. The familiar rhythm of her movements is steady, like she's done this a thousand times before. You're not sure if it comforts you or reminds you how small and vulnerable you still feel in this strange partnership.

She doesn't speak at first, focused on the task at hand, but you know what she's thinking. The storm outside is only a threat in the literal sense; the real danger comes from the unpredictability of the infected, and from the loneliness that thrives when you're forced to survive in isolation. This cabin, no matter how quaint it might seem on the outside, is still a fragile little bubble in a world that wants to destroy everything it touches.

"Help me with this," Abby says, breaking the silence. Her voice, though low, carries a certain weight to it—an edge of expectation. "We'll reinforce the barricades before dark."

You don't hesitate, moving toward her and picking up a few nails, taking the hammer from her hand. There's something oddly comforting about working together like this, your motions mirroring each other as you secure the makeshift boards over the windows. It's a quiet, intimate kind of task, one that doesn't require a lot of words, just a mutual understanding of the urgency of it all.

The rhythmic sound of nails hammering into wood fills the cabin, and after a few minutes, you find yourself glancing over at Abby, noticing how the muscles in her arms flex with each strike, how her jaw clenches when she concentrates. There's a power in her—raw and undeniable—but there's also something else, something softer beneath it all that she hides away, buried beneath the hardened exterior.

You can't help but wonder about her past. About who she was before this world came to be.

"So, uh..." You speak without thinking, the words tumbling out as you hammer another nail into place. "Before all this happened... Did you ever have any kind of routine, y'know, like something you did every day?"

Abby doesn't immediately respond, her focus on the work at hand, but you see her pause for just a moment, the hammer still in her hand. It's enough to make you wonder if you've touched a nerve.

"Like a routine?" she echoes, her voice rougher than usual. "I guess I used to... but that was a long time ago. Before things went to shit."

There's a slight bitterness in her tone, but it's not directed at you. It's just the weight of everything she's been through—the losses, the pain, the constant struggle to survive. You can feel the years of hardship in the way she speaks, and for a moment, you wonder if that's the real Abby—the person burie  beneath the tough exterior.

You don't push her further, but something compels you to share. Maybe it's the quietness between you two, the shared understanding that sometimes, it's easier to talk about the past when you're not alone.

"I used to walk to school every day," you begin, your voice quieter now as you focus on your work. "There was this old woman named Rose who lived on the way. She wasn't anyone important, really. Just some crazy lady who swore like a sailor and always had a cigarette dangling from her lips." You smile softly at the memory, a warmth you haven't allowed yourself to feel in a long time. "But she was sweet, y'know? Every time I'd walk by, she'd always shout out at me, 'Hey, girl! You better not be late for school!' And I'd laugh, even though I didn't have time to stop and talk."

You pause, lost in the nostalgia of it. The way Rose's voice would ring out in the mornings, how she'd shake her fist at the clouds when it rained, swearing up a storm while laughing at the same time. She was eccentric, yes, but she was also one of the few people who made the world feel just a little less bleak.

"I used to wonder why she was always there, sitting on her porch, with that crooked smile on her face like she knew something the rest of us didn't," you continue, your fingers tightening around the hammer as you push the memory further into the present. "She was the kind of person who didn't care about what anyone thought, y'know? She was just... living her life, no matter how crazy the world was."

You laugh softly, the sound a little too sad to be entirely genuine. "I guess I miss that. Miss the simplicity of it all. The way people used to live like they had all the time in the world."

Abby's hammering slows as she listens, her eyes flicking over to you for just a moment, studying the way you speak, the far-off look in your eyes. There's a long silence that stretches between you, one that feels different from the silence that usually hangs in the air. It's as if the both of you are processing the weight of the past in that brief moment, without needing to say a word.

When Abby speaks again, her voice is softer, less guarded. "Yeah, I get it," she says, her tone quieter than before. "I used to have... a rhythm, too. Waking up, training, working out... just doing whatever it took to survive, I guess. But there was always something comforting in the routine, you know? The predictability of it, like you had control over your day, even if the world was falling apart around you."

She pauses, her gaze flicking away as she adds, "But all that's gone now. We don't have routines anymore. Just... survival. And that's enough."

You hear the unspoken weight in her words, and though you don't fully understand what she's been through, you can feel the emptiness in the space between you two. It's like a slow burn, a simmering fire that neither of you can extinguish because it's all that's left.

The hammering resumes, a steady, rhythmic sound in the quiet of the cabin. You work in silence for a while, the task feeling oddly comforting, almost like it's grounding you in something you can control, something that doesn't feel so fragile. The sunlight outside has dimmed, casting long shadows that seem to crawl across the floor, and the wind howls through the cracks in the walls.

But the cabin feels safer now. More secure. And in the quiet, you can almost hear Rose's voice again, her words ringing out across the years. Maybe things were never simple, but there was a time when people found joy in the small things—the little routines, the unexpected moments of kindness.

The sound of Abby's voice breaks the stillness once more. "I think that's enough for now," she says, stepping back from the window, wiping the sweat from her brow. "We'll check everything again tomorrow. Just gotta stay on top of it."

You nod, taking a step back as well, wiping your own hand across your forehead. The cabin feels sturdier now, less vulnerable, and though the weight of the world still presses in from all sides, there's a flicker of something else—something small but growing. A feeling of connection. Of shared understanding.

"I guess it's not so bad," you say, looking around at the reinforced barricades. "Being here. With you."

Abby looks at you for a long moment, her expression unreadable, before she finally nods. "Yeah," she agrees softly. "It's not so bad."

The cabin feels quieter than usual when Abby steps out, her boots crunching against the gravel outside as she heads off into the woods on a short supply run. It's something you've become used to—the way she leaves without a word, only a nod to let you know you're in charge for a while. She doesn't give you much else. No instructions, no reminders. Just the bare minimum of information, as if trusting you doesn't come naturally. You're starting to get used to the silence, the stillness that settles over you when you're left alone.

You can't help but watch her leave, her broad back disappearing into the trees, the familiar sound of Alice's paws clicking softly behind her. It's strange—being left behind in a world where survival is everything. The weight of being alone, even for just a few hours, doesn't sit well with you. But there's something oddly liberating about it too.

You stand in the doorway for a moment, the cabin cold and empty, and then shake yourself out of it. You have work to do, whether you like it or not. The inside of the cabin feels too small for comfort, too suffocating, the four walls pressing in as though they're closing in on you. Abby's presence always felt like a shield, but now? Now it's just you, surrounded by her things.

A small voice in your head whispers that you should respect her privacy—that you shouldn't go rummaging through her stuff. But another part of you is too curious. Too desperate to understand her, to find out who she really is beneath the layers of toughness.

Before you can second-guess yourself, you start moving toward the corner where her things are strewn across the floor. You hesitate for a moment, glancing at the door as if expecting Abby to walk back in. But the sound of the wind outside is steady, and you can hear Alice barking in the distance. You figure you have a few minutes.

You start with her pack—simple, worn, and sturdy. The kind of pack someone like Abby would carry. You unzip it cautiously, pulling out the first few things that catch your eye. It's mostly survival gear: matches, a small first aid kit, an extra jacket. Things that make sense in a world like this. You set them aside carefully, making sure everything looks untouched, in case she checks later.

As you dig deeper, your fingers brush against something heavier, something paper-thin but dense. You pull it out slowly, unfolding the corners of a small, weathered journal. The leather binding is cracked, the pages yellowing with age. There's something oddly intimate about it, the weight of it between your fingers. You open it to the first page, the scribbled handwriting messy but familiar, like someone trying to make sense of their thoughts on paper.

The first entry is dated not too long before the outbreak. You can almost hear Abby's voice in the words, the frustration and bitterness that laces her every sentence.

"I don't know why I bother anymore. Owen's been distant for months. I don't even know if he's trying anymore. Maybe it's me. Maybe I'm just not good enough. Every day it feels like he's slipping further away, and I can't bring myself to fix it. Not that I think he wants me to."

You pause, staring at the words. Owen. The name hits you like a ton of bricks, and you're almost afraid to keep reading, but the pull of curiosity is too strong. You flip the page, your fingers trembling slightly as you find the next entry.

"I confronted him today. God, it went as badly as I expected. I asked him why things felt off. He didn't even look at me when he spoke—just stared at the ground like he didn't care. He told me he was too busy with his work to deal with me, like I was some kind of problem. Maybe he's right. Maybe I'm just the distraction. The one thing that was always in the way of him becoming something bigger, something better. I should've seen it coming."

The words burn through you, the pain in Abby's writing raw and honest. You can feel her heartbreak, the weight of a relationship crumbling, of being in love with someone who didn't feel the same way anymore. You're not sure why, but you can't help but feel a pang of sympathy for her.

The journal entries are full of small, painful glimpses of Abby's relationship with Owen. Each page reveals more of the hurt she's carried, the uncertainty she's lived with for so long. You almost feel like an intruder, reading this personal history, but the more you read, the more you realize that it's not just her relationship with Owen that's been broken. It's her, too. She's been broken in ways that run deeper than the surface toughness she shows the world.

You flip through a few more pages, scanning for anything that might give you more insight into the woman she is now. There's a pattern in the entries, a kind of struggle to find a balance between who she was and who she's become. The last few pages are sparse, written after the collapse—quick, almost clipped sentences that make it clear that Abby has changed in ways even she doesn't understand yet.

"Owen's gone. He's not coming back. I couldn't save him, even though I tried. I tried everything. But I couldn't keep him safe. The world's too broken. And now I have to survive. Alone. I don't know if I can."

You close the journal, a lump forming in your throat. You weren't expecting this. You weren't prepared for the vulnerability she's left behind in those pages. Abby, the woman who's been so cold and distant, who hides everything behind her eyes, had once been the one reaching for something—someone—to hold on to. Now, it's clear that what's left of her is just fragments of that lost hope.

With a quiet sigh, you carefully tuck the journal back into her bag, trying to be as gentle as possible. But as you do, something else catches your eye—a photo, half-hidden beneath the pages. You pull it out, feeling a pang of guilt as you look at it, unsure of whether or not you should even be holding it. It's a family photo, worn around the edges, the corners creased with age.

Abby's parents, you realize with a start. It's clear from the way they smile, from the way they stand next to her, that she was loved—once. Her mother's arms are wrapped around her, a protective, maternal gesture, and her father is grinning like he's proud of the family he's built. Abby's younger in this photo, her face softer, her eyes not yet hardened by the world.

You can almost feel the warmth that radiates from the photo, the love that was there before everything changed. You trace the edges of the photo with your thumb, unsure of what to make of it. Was it a different world for her then? Was she someone else entirely, before she became the person standing in front of you now?

You quickly tuck the photo back into the bag, feeling the weight of it against your chest. The last thing you want is for Abby to come back and find you holding on to something so personal. You don't want to make her angry. You don't want to see that cold, distant look in her eyes again.

You rush to clean up the rest of her things, shoving everything back into the bag as best you can. You don't take the time to really put it away properly; you just want to make sure it looks like nothing has been touched. You glance nervously at the door every few seconds, listening for any signs of Abby's return.

Finally, you hear it—the sound of boots on gravel. Abby's back.

You barely have time to breathe before the door creaks open, and there she is, her boots heavy on the floorboards as she steps inside. She looks around, and for a moment, you think you're going to be caught. But her gaze doesn't linger on you, doesn't give anything away.

"Got the water," Abby says, her voice steady, casual. "Everything okay here?"

You nod quickly, wiping your hands on your pants as you try to act normal. "Yeah, everything's fine. I just kept the fire going."

She gives you a quick, unsmiling nod and sets the water down by the stove. She doesn't ask any further questions, doesn't seem to notice the way your hands shake just slightly. You've done it. You've managed to keep everything hidden.

But the memory of the journal, of the photo, stays with you. The pieces of Abby you've glimpsed in her absence—the parts of her that were never meant to be seen—are now imprinted in your mind. And no matter how hard you try to act like you didn't see anything, you can't forget what you've learned.

It's funny. The more you know about her, the more you realize that maybe the toughest parts of her—those walls she's built—are just the things she's using to protect herself from everything she's lost.

And as the silence stretches between you two, you wonder how much longer it will take before she lets you in completely.

Hours later the fire crackles softly in the corner of the cabin, the warm glow casting long shadows that dance against the rough walls. The sound of the wind outside is steady now, a low whistle through the cracks of the old wood, but within the cabin, there's a strange sense of stillness. The only movement comes from Abby's slow, steady breathing as she sleeps, her body curled up on the bed she's claimed as her own.

You should be asleep too. But your mind is too full, too restless, racing with thoughts of the day and the things you've seen—things you shouldn't have seen.

Abby's presence is like a weight in the room, the intensity of her personality even in sleep undeniable. It's strange, seeing her like this—vulnerable, unaware of the scrutiny. Her usually taut, hardened features softened, her face relaxed in slumber. The way her breath rises and falls evenly, the rise of her chest visible beneath the layers of her worn clothing, the small, unconscious shift of her body as she adjusts to the position she's chosen to sleep in.

It's almost peaceful, this side of Abby that you never get to witness while she's awake. She's always alert, always on guard, the muscle in her jaw always clenched, her eyes never fully relaxed. But here, in the soft glow of the fire, she looks almost... human. Almost like she's just a person, like anyone else, and not the battle-hardened woman who's been through things you can barely imagine.

And yet, the vulnerability makes you uneasy. It's unsettling, seeing her like this—like she's just a woman, and not some untouchable force of nature. You swallow thickly, your eyes fixed on her sleeping form.

You shouldn't be watching her. You know that.

But you can't stop. Your curiosity is too strong, the need to understand her too overwhelming. You want to know more about the woman behind the walls she's built. The woman who hides so much of herself behind that unyielding exterior. The woman who's seen things that have broken her, who's been through hell and survived.

Your eyes trace the contours of her face, the sharp angle of her nose, the way her brows furrow even in her sleep, like she's constantly battling with some unseen force. You notice the way her shoulders are pulled tightly even while lying down, her muscles still coiled, as though she's waiting for the world to crash in on her at any moment. There's a rawness to it, a vulnerability in her that makes your stomach twist, even though you've never seen her so still before.

Suddenly, Abby shifts in her sleep, letting out a quiet exhale, and you freeze. Your heartbeat picks up, and you're acutely aware of every sound in the room—the crackling of the fire, the steady rhythm of your breath, the soft rustle of the blankets as she moves. Your eyes flicker down to her hand, resting on her side, fingers loosely curled around the edge of the blanket. For a moment, it feels like you're intruding—like you've crossed a line you weren't meant to cross.

You want to look away. You should look away.

But you don't.

You don't know how long you've been staring at her, but the minutes slip by like hours, and the silence between you both feels heavier, the air thick with something unspoken. The fire crackles again, and Abby shifts again, her lips parting slightly as she mutters something under her breath. You can't make out the words, but it sounds almost like she's still caught in the remnants of a nightmare.

It's then that you realize something: Abby is pretending to sleep.

Your stomach churns with unease. It's a gut feeling you can't ignore. The way her breaths are just a little too even, her body held just a little too still. It's almost like she's waiting for you to do something—waiting for you to slip up, to make the mistake of revealing your presence. And the realization hits you like a slap across the face.

Abby's not asleep. She's pretending.

Her voice cuts through the stillness, low but sharp, and your heart nearly leaps out of your chest.

"You know, you're a real creep, right?"

The words land like a heavy weight in the air, and you freeze, your blood running cold. The fire seems to die down a little, the crackles of embers the only sound in the room now. You can't speak. You don't know what to say.

Abby's eyes are open now, her gaze trained on you with a sharpness that sends a shiver down your spine. She's watching you, studying you, as though she's been aware of your every movement, your every breath, all along. And you feel a surge of embarrassment hit you in the gut. The thought of being caught like this, of having her know you've been staring at her—of violating the fragile, unspoken boundary between you both—it's enough to make your stomach flip.

"You've been staring at me for God knows how long," Abby adds, her voice steady but laced with a hint of amusement. She doesn't look angry, not exactly, but there's a quiet intensity in her eyes that sends a wave of shame washing over you. "What, you couldn't find something better to do with your time?"

You open your mouth to speak, but the words feel stuck in your throat. There's an awkward pause, the tension palpable between you both as you try to form a coherent thought.

"I..." You swallow hard, your voice barely a whisper. "I didn't mean to. I just... I couldn't sleep."

The lie feels weak as it falls from your lips, but you're not sure how to explain yourself without sounding like a complete creep. It's not like you planned to do this. You didn't mean to invade her space, to watch her like some kind of voyeur. But the moment you'd seen her sleeping, all your curiosity about her—about the woman behind the hardened exterior—had taken over. You'd wanted to see her like this, wanted to glimpse the Abby that no one else gets to see.

Her gaze softens slightly, though it still carries that quiet edge. She doesn't look angry, but the sharpness in her eyes doesn't completely fade. "Look, I get it. I'm not exactly an open book. I get that you want to know more about me, but this?" She shakes her head slightly, her voice turning softer now, more measured. "That's crossing a line."

You nod quickly, your face burning with the weight of your own guilt. "I know. I'm sorry. I didn't— I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable."

There's a long silence between you both, a gap that feels wider than it really is. Abby shifts slightly, sitting up straighter in the bed, her eyes not leaving yours as she rubs a hand over her face.

"You don't have to apologize," she says, her voice quieter now, a little more resigned. "But seriously, don't do it again. I don't know what you're looking for by watching me, but that shit won't get you anywhere."

You feel the weight of her words, the sternness in her voice, and it hits you just how much you've crossed a line. It wasn't just about curiosity—it was about respect. The things you've seen, the things you've learned, those are hers to share with you if she ever wants to. You don't get to just take them.

"I won't," you reply, your voice small, embarrassed. "I swear."

Abby studies you for a moment longer, her eyes still sharp, but there's something else there now—a flicker of something almost understanding. She exhales a breath, then glances away, her gaze flickering toward the window.

"Good," she says, a slight shift in her tone, like the conversation is over. "I'll be keeping an eye on you."

You nod, grateful for her words even though you're still reeling from the situation. You can feel the heaviness of the moment in the room, but Abby doesn't seem inclined to make it worse. She looks back at you, a small smirk tugging at the corner of her lips.

"Now, get some sleep. You'll need it. We're leaving early tomorrow."

You nod again, finally feeling the tension in your chest ease slightly. You shift back toward your spot on the floor, not daring to look at Abby again, but feeling the weight of her gaze linger on you.

The air is cool and crisp as the sun starts to peek over the horizon, painting the sky in soft shades of pink and orange. You've been awake for an hour, your mind still heavy from last night's conversation with Abby, but the moment you stand and stretch, the cool morning air clears the fog in your head. The cabin behind you feels distant now, tucked away in its secluded corner of the forest.

Abby is already preparing the supplies for the long trek ahead. Her movements are efficient, fluid—a woman who has been doing this for years, who has learned what to carry and what to leave behind. Her broad shoulders shift beneath the layers of her worn-out jacket, the muscles in her back defined and powerful, a testament to all the battles she's fought. Her dog, Alice, sits beside her, a quiet, alert presence as always, her ears perked up at every sound.

You're not as used to this. Walking for miles on end, hauling everything you need on your back, moving through rough terrain—it's new to you, and your body is already protesting, even before the journey begins. You feel the weight of the pack on your shoulders, heavier than you expect, but you try to push that discomfort aside. You need to keep up.

"Ready to go?" Abby asks, glancing over at you with a raised eyebrow as she adjusts the strap of her own pack. There's a glint of something—maybe concern, or maybe just her usual hard-edged practicality—but whatever it is, it's quickly masked by her neutral expression.

You nod, wiping the sleep from your eyes. "Yeah. Let's get going."

Abby's eyes flicker over you briefly before she gives a sharp nod. "Stick close. Forty miles isn't a short trip, and I don't plan on carrying you back if you get too tired." Her voice is firm, but there's a quiet understanding in it as well. She doesn't want to drag you along, but she also doesn't want to leave you behind. You appreciate that, even if it comes off a little more blunt than you'd like.

The two of you start walking, the soft crunch of your boots in the dirt mixing with the occasional rustle of leaves from Alice trotting behind. Abby's strides are long and purposeful, her legs pushing forward at a pace that leaves you struggling to keep up. Your legs are shorter than hers—hell, everything about you feels smaller compared to her broad, towering presence—but you push yourself to match her pace, your lungs working harder with each step.

The forest around you is dense, the trees towering above you in silent watch, their limbs swaying gently with the wind. You've walked through woods before, but there's something different about this place—something about the quiet, the isolation that gnaws at you as you push forward. It's peaceful in its own way, but it also feels empty, hollow. There's a tension in the air, a sense that danger could be lurking just beyond the thick underbrush.

You can hear Abby's steady breathing ahead of you, her movements sure and calculated. Alice is a few paces behind, trotting quietly, her ears flicking at every sound, every rustle. The rhythmic sound of their footsteps creates a kind of lull, and for a moment, you forget about the miles ahead of you. The silence between you and Abby isn't uncomfortable, but it's not easy either. There's still so much you don't know about her, and the distance between you both feels more pronounced as the minutes tick by.

The walk feels long but steady. You focus on your breathing, keeping in time with the sound of Abby's boots crunching against the dirt, trying to ignore the aching burn in your calves. Every time your legs start to protest, you grit your teeth and push forward. You don't want to fall behind. You can't afford to.

And yet, despite your best efforts, your steps are slower than hers. You feel the distance between you widening with each passing hour, her long legs eating up the miles in a way that seems effortless, while you're struggling to keep up.

Your breathing becomes heavier, your legs stiffening as the day stretches on, but you force yourself to ignore it. Every time you think about slowing down, about asking for a break, you hear Abby's voice in your mind: I'm not carrying you back. It's enough to push you forward, even if every part of you is begging to rest.

The wind picks up, rustling through the trees, and you pull your jacket tighter around your frame, the chill creeping in despite the sunlight trying to push through the canopy. You can't help but steal glances at Abby as she walks ahead of you. There's something about her—something imposing, something hard to pin down. Her posture is perfect, always upright and sure. The way her broad back flexes as she moves through the terrain is almost hypnotic. You've never seen anyone walk so effortlessly through the woods, and it makes you feel small, inadequate.

It's not like you want to compare yourself to her. It's not like you expect to be able to match her every step. But there's a part of you that feels... lacking. Abby has been through more, has survived longer. She knows how to handle herself, how to move through the world without hesitation. And you, well... you're still learning.

A few more miles pass, the trees growing thinner, the path ahead more uneven. Your legs ache more with each step, and your breath comes in sharp, uneven gasps. You try to push it away, to focus on something else, but it's hard. Your muscles are sore, and the fatigue is starting to set in. You tell yourself it's normal, that this is what walking forty miles feels like. But it doesn't help much.

"Hey," you hear Abby call from ahead, her voice more distant than you'd like. You pick up your pace, trying to match her stride. "You need a break?"

You  shake your head, teeth gritted as you force yourself to catch up. "No," you lie. "I'm fine."

She doesn't respond immediately, but you can tell she's paying attention. Her eyes flicker over her shoulder briefly, catching sight of you struggling to keep up. "You sure? You look like you're about to pass out."

That's an exaggeration, but you can feel the heat rising in your cheeks. "I'm fine," you repeat more firmly this time.

Abby doesn't argue, but you can tell she's unconvinced. She slows her pace a little, her steps more measured, waiting for you to catch up.

"Don't push yourself too hard. We still have a long way to go," she says, and you catch the hint of something in her voice—concern, maybe. It's brief, fleeting, but it's there.

You manage to catch up to her, walking beside her now, your legs protesting the entire way. The silence between you feels less heavy now, and for a moment, you almost forget about the exhaustion that's creeping up on you.

As you walk side by side, you glance up at Abby, studying her as she moves with purpose, the set of her jaw, the sharpness in her eyes that never quite fades, even in moments like these. You wonder what she's thinking, what's going through her head as she walks next to you, as you both make your way toward the hospital that's still miles away. Does she ever feel the weight of the journey, or does she just keep moving, like the rest of the world is nothing but a blur?

Alice is a little ahead now, her nose sniffing the air, tail wagging. She looks back at you both, then lingers, waiting for you to catch up before moving forward again. There's something comforting about her, something steady in the way she moves through the world. It makes you feel less alone, less out of place.

As the miles stretch on, you try not to think about the distance ahead. Forty miles. It feels endless, like you're walking into a void. But there's a part of you that knows you can do this, that knows you can keep going, even if your legs scream at you to stop. You're doing this for you, for survival. And there's something about the way Abby walks—so sure, so certain—that makes you want to keep up. Makes you want to prove to her, to yourself, that you're strong enough for this.

And so, you keep walking. One foot in front of the other. Step after step.

The morning has long since given way to the relentless midday heat. You've been walking in silence for hours, your body adjusting to the steady, rhythmic strain. Your legs are still sore, your feet beginning to ache with every step, but the pull to keep going is stronger than the urge to rest. You keep your eyes on the ground ahead of you, trying not to focus on the burning in your thighs or the way your breath comes in shallow bursts.

Abby's pace hasn't faltered, her steps steady and unyielding. Alice, ever alert, has stayed a few paces ahead, her ears twitching at every sound. You follow her lead, trying to keep up, but it's hard. Abby moves through the terrain like she owns it—surefooted, confident, never wasting a step. Meanwhile, you're still figuring it out. You're trying not to think about it, though. You're here. You're alive. And that's what matters.

That is, until the air changes. You're not sure how to describe it. There's a sudden shift in the atmosphere, a tension that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The silence of the forest seems to thicken, and for a moment, you feel like something is watching you, waiting.

Abby stops in her tracks, her body going rigid. Her sharp eyes flicker to the side, scanning the trees and the underbrush with a precision that makes you tense. You stop too, heart hammering in your chest. It's Alice, who's now alert, her body stiff as she stares into the thick woods just ahead.

You squint, trying to see what Abby has already picked up on, but all you can make out is the hazy blur of the forest, the leaves swaying in the breeze. Then, just as you think it's nothing, there's a sound—a low, guttural growl that comes from somewhere deep in the woods, a sound that sends a chill through your spine.

Abby's expression hardens, and she takes a step toward you, positioning herself slightly in front of you. Her voice is quiet, but firm. "Bloaters."

The word hits you like a punch to the gut. You've heard of them, of course. The infected that are swollen with the spores, bloated and disfigured, with thick skin that barely holds them together. They're dangerous in the worst way—slow-moving, but with explosive, toxic gas that can take out anyone foolish enough to get too close. And they don't work alone.

You swallow, your throat dry as you try to steady your breathing. Abby's already pulling her rifle from its sling, her fingers expertly checking the clip before sliding it back into place with a click that echoes in the tense air.

"What do we do?" you whisper, your voice a little shaky, betraying the anxiety gnawing at your insides. You can't help it. You're not used to this. You're not as experienced as Abby.

"Stay low. Stay quiet," she says, her voice steady despite the tension, her eyes never leaving the woods ahead. "Let's move to the side. We don't want to draw attention."

She's already moving before you can respond, slipping behind the cover of a large, fallen tree that's partially hidden by underbrush. You follow her, your breath caught in your throat, trying to keep your footsteps as silent as possible. Every sound feels amplified in the stillness—the crunch of leaves beneath your boots, the rustle of your jacket as you shift. You try not to think about it, about the infected waiting just ahead.

As you crouch behind the tree, you finally catch sight of them. They're staggering through the trees—three of them, their bloated forms moving slowly but with an unsettling purpose. Their bodies are grotesque, their skin sagging and swollen with infection. Some of them are covered in patches of mold, while others have gaping, fleshy wounds where their skin has torn open. The scent of rot is thick in the air, overwhelming, but it's the sounds that make your stomach churn—the deep, sickly growls that rattle from their throats, the guttural gurgling as they move.

You freeze, your breath coming in short bursts. You can't look away. You don't want to. But the more you watch, the more it sinks in just how close they are, how dangerous they are. One of them, its face half-masked with putrid, decaying flesh, takes a slow, dragging step forward, its eyes wide and unseeing. Another lumbers behind it, dragging its foot with a sickening scrape. The third stumbles forward with a low, hissing noise, its bloated stomach dragging against the dirt.

Abby shifts next to you, her body tense, muscles coiled like a spring. She lowers her rifle, not aiming at the bloaters, but keeping it ready. Her expression is grim. She's assessing the situation, weighing her options. You can see it in her eyes—she's done this before. She knows how to handle them. You, on the other hand... you feel like you're holding your breath, waiting for the first wrong move.

Then, just as you think the situation is under control, there's a sudden noise from behind you—another growl, but this one's closer. A fourth bloater, you realize. And this one's much too close. Too close for comfort.

You feel Abby stiffen beside you, her hand grabbing your arm, pulling you closer to her. Her grip is firm, her body radiating tension. You can hear the pounding of your heart in your ears as you turn, your eyes widening at the sight of another bloater stepping out of the underbrush. It's huge, its body grotesque and bloated, the skin sagging and torn in places. Its eyes lock onto you, and for a moment, you're frozen, unable to tear your gaze away from the disgusting thing as it hisses, its rancid breath filling the air.

"Shit," Abby mutters under her breath. "There's too many of them."

You can feel the panic rising in your chest, the sense of helplessness that tightens around your throat. You're not ready for this. You can barely walk forty miles, let alone take on a group of bloaters.

But Abby doesn't hesitate. She pushes you down behind the tree with surprising force, her hand on the back of your head as she shields you with her body. "Stay low, stay quiet. Wait for my signal," she orders, her voice a low growl.

You nod, trying to steady your breathing, trying not to make a sound as the bloaters draw nearer, their movements slow but inevitable. You can feel the sweat gathering on the back of your neck, your hands trembling from the strain of holding still.

For a long moment, everything is deathly silent, the tension in the air almost suffocating. Then, with a sudden, explosive movement, Abby rolls to the side, rifle raised and aimed at the nearest bloater. The shot rings out, echoing through the woods, and you flinch at the sharp, deafening sound.

The bloater stumbles, its body jerking back with the impact. Abby doesn't hesitate—she takes another shot, aiming for the head this time. The bloater's body drops, collapsing onto the ground with a sickening thud. You're barely able to process the horror of it before Abby's voice cuts through the air, sharp and commanding.

"Move!"

She's already on the move, sliding across the forest floor, her rifle up and ready. You scramble to follow her, your heart pounding in your chest, your legs shaking with the adrenaline surging through your veins. You don't even know if you're running or crawling, but you move, driven by the need to stay alive.

The rest of the bloaters are still coming—closer, faster. Abby fires again, the shot narrowly missing the second bloater's head, but it stumbles back, momentarily disoriented. She doesn't wait for it to recover, quickly reloading her rifle and taking another shot. The bloater crumples to the ground.

You're not sure what happens next. Everything becomes a blur of movement, of sound, of adrenaline. Abby is a blur beside you, moving like she was born for this—cool, collected, deadly. You, on the other hand, are just trying to survive.

Finally, after what feels like an eternity, the last bloater falls. The forest falls silent again, the only sound the harshness of your breath, the pounding of your heart in your ears.

You collapse to your knees, the world spinning around you. Your hands are shaking, and you realize just how close you were to death.

Abby kneels beside you, her eyes scanning the area, still alert. "You good?" she asks, her voice rough but steady.

You nod, swallowing the lump in your throat. "Yeah. I think so."

"Good," she replies, her tone softening just slightly. "Let's keep moving."

The hospital loomed before you, its cracked windows and broken doors a testament to how much time had passed since anyone had last walked through it. The building stood like a monument to the "before" times, a place where lives were saved, and now a crumbling reminder of everything that had been lost.

Abby motioned for you to follow her toward the side of the building, where a small gap in the rubble provided an entrance. Alice squeezed through first, her tail wagging despite the oppressive atmosphere, as if she was used to this by now. You followed, trying to keep your movements quiet, but the sharp, muffled sounds of your footsteps echoed through the empty halls.

The hospital was eerily silent. The air was stale, filled with the faint scent of decay and rot, and you couldn't help but shudder as you moved deeper inside. The walls were peeling, the floors cracked and uneven. It felt like the building itself was holding its breath, waiting for the world to end completely.

Abby led the way, her movements efficient and quiet, as if she'd done this a hundred times before. You watched her from behind, your mind wandering despite the circumstances. She was so used to this—used to surviving, used to being the one in control. You admired her for it, but it also made you feel small, like you didn't quite belong.

Eventually, Abby led you to an old patient room, the door creaking loudly as it swung open. The room was a mess—papers scattered across the floor, remnants of broken equipment piled in corners, but it was safe. For the night, it would have to do.

"We'll sleep here," Abby said, her voice low as she scanned the room for any potential dangers. "It's not perfect, but it's as good as it gets."

You nodded, too tired to argue. The adrenaline from the walk had long since worn off, and now all you wanted to do was collapse onto something soft. You watched Abby and Alice settle into the room, Abby immediately beginning to check the windows and barricade the door with what little furniture she could move.

You sat on the edge of one of the beds, the springs creaking under your weight. It had been so long since you'd been in a bed, even one this shabby. You ran your fingers over the rough fabric of the sheets, the texture almost foreign to you now.

Abby finished her work quickly, her eyes constantly scanning for danger, but when she finally turned to face you, her shoulders relaxed. She moved toward the bed, sitting down beside you, her body tense but clearly wanting to rest.

"Alice will keep watch," she said, her voice hoarse. "We can sleep for a few hours, but we leave early to check the loot"

You nodded again, your eyes tracing the lines of Abby's form as she settled beside you. The dim light from the cracked window cast shadows across her features, highlighting the sharp angles of her jaw and the steady rhythm of her breathing.

For a moment, there was only silence. The kind that stretches out long and heavy, filling the empty space between two people. You should've been asleep by now, but your mind was too restless. Your body ached from the walk, but your thoughts kept wandering back to something... something that had been bothering you since this morning.

Abby let out a soft sigh, adjusting her position on the bed until she was lying on her side, facing you. Her eyes flickered toward yours, and she gave you a small, quiet smile.

"You okay?" she asked, her voice softer now, like she actually cared.

You hesitated, your fingers twitching where they rested on your knee. You'd been through so much in such a short time, and the constant stress, the fear, the uncertainty—it was wearing you down more than you cared to admit.

"I'm fine," you replied, though the words felt hollow coming out of your mouth. You weren't fine. None of you were.

Abby's eyes softened, her lips pulling into a small, understanding frown. "You can talk to me, you know. I'm not gonna bite."

You gave her a weak smile, not sure what to say. You wanted to open up, to tell her about the things you'd been carrying around—about the life you'd lost, about the people who were no longer there. But you couldn't find the words. It was easier to keep them locked away, to pretend like everything was fine.

Instead, you let your gaze drop to the rough fabric of her shirt, your eyes tracing the outline of her muscles through the thin material. You couldn't help it. Abby's body was... impressive. Strong, defined, the kind of strength that you envied and admired in equal measure.

You hadn't really noticed before, but now, in the dim light of the room, the way the fabric of her shirt hugged her torso, you could see the defined lines of her abs. The way her chest rose and fell with every breath. You felt heat crawl up your neck as you traced the faint outline of her muscles with your eyes, trying not to be obvious about it.

Abby caught you staring—though, by the way she raised an eyebrow, she probably knew exactly what you were doing. Your cheeks flushed, and you quickly averted your gaze, pretending to be interested in something on the floor. But you couldn't shake the warmth that spread through your body.

"You're staring again," she said, her voice teasing but not unkind.

You swallowed, your heart pounding in your chest. "Sorry, I didn't—"

"Relax," Abby interrupted, her voice still low but gentle. "I'm not gonna bite your head off."

You chuckled nervously, the tension in your chest easing just a little bit. "It's just... you're kind of a badass. I didn't realize how... how much you've been through."

Abby's expression softened, and for a moment, you saw something else behind her usual guarded demeanor. Vulnerability, maybe? Or just a fleeting glimpse of the woman behind the soldier. But it was gone just as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the hard, calculating look that was so familiar to you now.

"You don't know the half of it," she said, her voice quieter this time, more thoughtful. "But it doesn't matter. I'm here. And you're here. That's what counts."

You nodded, unable to find the right words to say. Instead, you just sat there, the soft rustling of Abby's breathing and the distant sound of Alice's paws on the floor the only noise in the room.

And then, out of nowhere, you found yourself talking. It was strange how the conversation came so naturally, like a river finally breaking free of its dam.

"Back before all this," you began, your voice almost a whisper, "I had a cat."

Abby glanced at you, curiosity in her eyes. "A cat?"

You smiled, the memory of your old pet making you feel warm inside. "Yeah. His name was Mr. Mac and Cheese. He was... he was an ugly-looking motherfucker. Like, real gremlin vibes. I'm talking crooked teeth, matted fur, and a hiss that could shake the walls. But he was my cat. And I loved him."

Abby chuckled, the sound warm and genuine. "Sounds like a real charmer."

"He was," you said with a small laugh. "He'd follow me around the house, yowling at me for food, and then he'd curl up on my lap like he was the king of the world. I miss him. I miss the stupid little things."

You glanced at Abby, and for a moment, you could swear you saw a flicker of something soft in her eyes—maybe understanding, maybe something else. But it was gone just as quickly as it had appeared.

"That's the thing about all of this," she said softly, "we lose the small stuff. The stuff that made everything feel... normal."

You nodded, feeling a strange sense of connection with her, like for a moment, you weren't just two people surviving. You were just two people, sharing memories of a life that seemed so far away.

As the night stretched on, you and Abby shared more stories—of the lives you used to lead, of the things you missed. And when you finally settled into the bed, your bodies close but not quite touching, you couldn't help but feel a sense of calm settle over you.

It wasn't much. But it was something. And for the first time in a long time, you felt like you could breathe again.

You woke up to the strangest sensation.

The first thing you noticed was warmth—so much warmth. It enveloped you like a heavy, comforting blanket. You tried to shift, but something was holding you there. Something... solid. Your eyes fluttered open, and you realized, with a start, that your face was pressed into Abby's chest.

Her body was warm and firm against yours, and in the dim light filtering through the broken windows of the hospital room, you could see her long, muscular arms draped loosely around you. You had somehow managed to end up tangled together in the night. Your legs were intertwined, your bodies pressed so close that it felt like you were physically fused into one being.

Your heart skipped a beat.

You froze. Your mind scrambled to piece together what had happened while you slept. Had you—had you moved in your sleep? Or had she pulled you close somehow, without realizing it? The heat rising in your cheeks was almost unbearable, but you couldn't bring yourself to pull away. Not when the weight of her arm around you felt so safe, so solid.

You felt her chest rise and fall with every slow, steady breath. Abby was still sleeping, her face relaxed in an expression that was unfamiliar to you. It was vulnerable, soft. Not the hardened, battle-worn expression she usually wore. In that moment, she looked... almost human. Not just a survivor, but a woman who, like you, had been through the wringer and come out the other side.

Still, you didn't want to overstay your welcome in her personal space. You carefully began to inch away, gently extricating yourself from her hold, when the sound of a low growl came from beside you.

You startled, your heart racing. The growl wasn't from Abby. It was Alice.

The dog had been curled up at the foot of the bed, her ears perked and her eyes wide open, watching you. She let out a small huff, clearly unimpressed by the situation.

"Shut up, Alice," you muttered, half to yourself, half to the dog, trying to hide the embarrassment creeping up your neck.

Just then, Abby stirred, her arm slipping off you as she slowly woke. She blinked, confused for a moment, before looking down at where you were sitting next to her, tangled in the sheets. Her eyes narrowed, and a small smirk tugged at the corner of her mouth.

"Morning," she murmured, her voice still husky from sleep.

"Sorry," you mumbled, feeling like a fool. "I didn't mean to—"

Abby just shook her head, not looking at you with any judgment, but rather with that same unreadable expression she always wore. "You're fine. Don't worry about it."

You scrambled to untangle yourself, your mind racing. You didn't know if you were relieved or mortified, but one thing was certain—this wasn't the first time you had woken up in close proximity to someone in this hellhole of a world. Still, something about the way Abby had held you made your chest tighten, and you tried to brush it off as you stood up to stretch.

Abby, always the efficient one, was already on her feet, ready to move. "Let's get to work. We need to check out the rest of this place," she said, adjusting her gear and grabbing her rifle. Alice was already up, tail wagging as she trotted over to Abby's side, her nose sniffing at the air.

You nodded, trying to shake off the awkwardness of the morning, and followed them both into the next part of the hospital. The place was a wreck—flooded in places, walls cracked, debris scattered across the floors—but it was as good as it would get.

Abby led the way, her movements precise and controlled. Alice trotted beside her, and you brought up the rear, trying to stay alert. Every hallway you walked through seemed to stretch on forever, endless and empty, but you knew better than to let your guard down. This was a hospital, yes, but it wasn't the kind of place you could trust anymore.

As you passed an old office, Abby stopped, holding a finger to her lips to signal for quiet. Alice immediately froze, her ears perked, and you held your breath, looking around. There was something in the air, a wrongness that only Abby seemed to pick up on.

A faint noise echoed down the hallway—a scraping, skittering sound that made your blood run cold. A low growl followed, and you instinctively pulled your knife from your belt.

Abby's face hardened, the softness from earlier gone. "Runner," she whispered, and you nodded, already moving into position. Your heart pounded in your chest, your grip tightening on your weapon as you crouched low, eyes trained on the hallway ahead.

Abby moved first, gliding silently into the room from which the sound had come. Alice, at her side, was completely still. You followed, your steps soft as you kept close behind Abby.

And then you saw it.

The Runner.

It was hunched over in the corner, its emaciated form twitching as it sniffed the air, its decayed skin taut against the bone. It hadn't spotted you yet, but it was close. So close that you could almost feel its rotting breath against your skin. The hairs on the back of your neck stood up, but Abby didn't hesitate. She took one swift step forward, moving like a shadow, and her knife was in her hand before the creature even knew what was happening.

The sound of the blade slicing through the air was sickening, and the Runner let out a screech of pain as Abby drove the knife into its throat. The thing collapsed instantly, its body twitching violently before going still. You took a quick step back, your stomach turning at the sight of the blood pooling on the floor.

Abby stood over it, her chest heaving, eyes scanning for more threats. Alice barked, once, sharply, as if to remind them that danger was still lurking, but Abby gave a small nod, her posture stiff and ready.

"That's the last of them," Abby muttered. "Let's keep moving."

You swallowed hard, the image of the Runner still burned into your mind. You were getting used to this—used to killing, used to surviving. But that didn't mean it didn't make you sick.

Abby led you further into the hospital, her sharp eyes constantly on the lookout. You passed by rooms filled with old medical equipment, some still intact, others broken and useless. You spotted syringes, needles, vials of various medicines—none of it useful to you right now. You were looking for something more specific.

As you moved deeper into the bowels of the hospital, Abby's eyes lit up when she spotted a cabinet in the back of one of the rooms. She moved toward it quickly, and you followed, watching as she pulled it open.

"Batteries," she said, her voice low but filled with relief. "We need these."

You took a deep breath, your shoulders relaxing. You hadn't realized how much you were hoping for a good find, but the batteries were a godsend. The radios, flashlights, and even the few devices that still functioned in the world required them. Abby stashed them in her pack with a satisfied grunt before moving to the next cabinet.

You stood by the door, scanning the room, letting your mind wander again. There were no more Runners, no more infected to worry about—for now, at least. You looked around at the other supplies: medical junk, unused bandages, and even some leftover morphine. There was something bittersweet about it all—the remnants of a time before the world had gone to hell, now just useless scraps in the hands of people who had to make do with whatever they could find.

Abby, meanwhile, was already rifling through a stack of old medical masks. She held one up and gave it a quick glance. "Could be useful," she muttered, tucking it into her bag.

Alice padded around, sniffing at the shelves, but she didn't find anything that piqued her interest. The room had been picked over, but Abby was nothing if not thorough.

Finally, Abby nodded, slinging her bag over her shoulder and turning back toward you. "That's enough for today. Let's head back before nightfall."

You didn't argue. You were tired, and the weight of the world outside the hospital was growing heavier with each passing moment.

As you made your way back toward the entrance, you could feel Abby's eyes on you—observing, calculating. She hadn't said much since the Runner, and you could tell she was still on edge. But at least now, you had some supplies to keep going.

The cabin was eerily silent, save for the occasional rustling of leaves outside and the soft crackle of the fire in the corner. You sat on the edge of the cot, the thin, worn blanket draped loosely over your legs as you stared at the ceiling, your mind racing in the darkness.

Abby was supposed to be asleep.

But you knew her better now.

You'd both come back to the cabin after a long day scavenging, your bodies aching from the trek through the wilderness, your bags heavy with supplies. Alice had immediately curled up near the door, content in the safety of the cabin's four walls, but you were restless. Your mind wouldn't shut off. Every time you closed your eyes, all you could see were the infected you'd fought off, the quiet tension between you and Abby, the overwhelming weight of survival hanging over everything you did.

The cot wasn't comfortable—nothing really was in this world—but it was better than the hard floor. Even though you tried to convince yourself that you were tired, that you needed to sleep to survive the next day, your thoughts wouldn't stop. The stillness of the room only made it worse.

You could hear Abby's breathing, slow and steady from across the room. She was on her cot, just a few feet away from you, the faint outline of her muscular frame visible beneath the rough blankets. You'd gotten used to the way she moved, the way she breathed, the way she seemed to take up so much space in any room. There was something about her presence—something that calmed you even when you weren't sure if you were supposed to be comforted.

You didn't know what it was, but there was an unspoken understanding between the two of you. A connection that had formed, silently, in the wake of everything that had happened. Yet, even with that, you still didn't know her fully. You didn't know what she thought about when she lay awake at night or what haunted her when she closed her eyes.

A quiet, almost inaudible sound caught your attention. You blinked, trying to pinpoint it in the darkness. Was it the wind?

No.

It was Abby.

She shifted in her cot. A soft grunt escaped her lips, barely a sound, but you could hear it. It was subtle, a clear indication that she wasn't asleep like she'd let on earlier. She was awake—just pretending to sleep.

You felt an irrational surge of curiosity, of loneliness, mixed with the nagging feeling that you didn't want to be alone. The warmth of the fire couldn't quell the cold ache in your chest, the unease that kept creeping in no matter how much you tried to distract yourself.

Sighing, you swung your legs off the cot and stood up, moving silently toward Abby's cot. You glanced over at Alice, who was fast asleep by the door, her soft breathing the only other sound in the cabin. You stepped carefully, making sure not to wake her.

You paused just beside Abby's cot, hesitating for a moment. You had no idea why you were doing this. Maybe it was the quiet ache that had settled into your bones, the kind of ache that only silence in a place like this could bring. Or maybe it was just that you couldn't handle the weight of the darkness pressing in around you alone.

But before you could second-guess yourself, you gently lowered yourself onto her cot, the blanket shifting beneath your weight. Abby didn't move at first, but you could feel her tension—like she was holding her breath, waiting for you to make the next move. You didn't say anything. You just sat there, your back against the wall, legs crossed awkwardly as you stared at the fire.

For a moment, everything was still.

Then, finally, Abby shifted, turning her body slightly toward you, her back still mostly to you. She was pretending to be asleep, you could tell, but the movement was telling. She was aware of your presence, of the fact that you were so close to her now.

"I'm not asleep," she murmured, her voice low, rough from sleep.

You stiffened, heat flooding your cheeks. You hadn't expected her to acknowledge it. "I didn't think you were."

There was a brief silence between you two, the kind that stretched out too long, filled with the unspoken things you didn't know how to say. Abby didn't turn around, but you could hear her breathing change, like she was considering her next words carefully.

"Couldn't sleep?" she asked, her tone soft but not unkind.

You shrugged, feeling a little ridiculous. "I don't know. Just... needed to get out of my own head."

Abby didn't reply at first. The air in the cabin was thick, and the fire crackled faintly in the corner. The tension between you was palpable, but somehow, it didn't feel as suffocating as it could have. There was a strange kind of comfort in it, even if you didn't know how to navigate it.

"Yeah. I get that," Abby muttered.

For a few moments, neither of you said anything more. You both simply sat in silence, the weight of everything pressing on your shoulders as the minutes ticked by. The smell of the fire and the damp wood filled the air, mixing with the faint musk of sweat and exhaustion that clung to both of you after a long day on the road.

You were beginning to wonder if she was going to ignore you again, when Abby finally shifted, her movements slow and deliberate. She didn't say anything, but the next thing you knew, she had rolled over slightly and scooted closer to you. You could feel the heat of her body next to yours, the familiar presence of her just inches away. It was strange. Comforting, but strange.

Your heart skipped a beat as she propped herself up on her elbow, her eyes glancing sideways toward you. The dim light from the fire barely illuminated her face, casting sharp shadows over her features. You could see the intensity in her gaze, the rawness of everything she had been through. You didn't know how to read it, but it felt like something was shifting between you—like the tension had started to break just a little, if only for a moment.

"You know," Abby said after a pause, "it's been a while since I've actually slept in a real bed."

You raised an eyebrow, unsure of what she was getting at. "How long has it been?"

"Too long," she replied with a sigh, leaning back against the wall, her gaze turning toward the fire. She seemed lost in thought for a moment, her posture relaxed but guarded.

It was strange to hear Abby—someone who had spent so long fighting, surviving, always one step away from danger—speak so openly about something as simple as sleep. It was human. It was raw. And it made her feel... real. Like she wasn't just the warrior that the world had turned her into, but a woman who needed rest. Who needed peace.

"I used to sleep like a rock," Abby continued, her voice quieter now, almost to herself. "Back before all this. But now... I'm always listening for something. Always expecting the worst."

You could relate to that. The endless vigilance. The fear that never quite leaves, no matter how long the night stretches.

"I know the feeling," you said softly. Abby's gaze shifted back to you, her eyes softening. "Yeah. I figured you might."

There was a long pause, and then Abby did something unexpected. She shifted closer, her shoulder brushing against yours. It was a small thing, but the closeness hit you harder than you expected.

"You're welcome here," Abby said quietly. "I'm not gonna push you away. You don't have to be alone."

The sincerity in her voice caught you off guard. You'd expected her to put up more walls, to keep herself distant. But instead, she was offering you something you hadn't realized you needed—something that, despite everything, you wanted.

You couldn't find the words at first, but the weight of it settled over you, heavy but comforting. "Thanks," you said, finally, your voice small but full of meaning.

The air was crisp, the kind of cold that bit at your skin without mercy. The cabin was warm inside, but you were outside, standing beside a small clearing at the edge of the woods. The fire was still crackling in the hearth inside, but Abby had insisted on getting some more firewood for the coming night. It was a routine—something you’d gotten used to in the past couple of days—and the familiar weight of the axe in her hands seemed to be almost effortless for her.

You, on the other hand, were more than content to stand there, watching.

Abby swung the axe with a practiced motion, the edge biting into the thick log with a resounding thud. Her biceps flexed with each strike, her muscles taut and defined beneath the worn sleeves of her shirt. You couldn’t help but stare. Honestly, who could blame you? The sight of her—her sheer strength, the way she handled that axe like it was a part of her—was enough to make your heart race.

Her arms were sculpted, strong, every movement fluid and controlled. There was something undeniably sexy about the way she worked. She wasn’t just a survivor, she was a force, and every time she swung the axe, it was like you were watching her claim her space in the world, piece by piece.

You shifted your weight from foot to foot, trying not to stare too obviously, but failing miserably. The fire crackled in the distance as the wind rustled through the trees, and all you could focus on was the rhythmic swing of the axe and Abby’s focused expression.

She wasn’t looking at you, of course. She was too absorbed in the task at hand, her brow furrowed in concentration. She wore a tight-fitting shirt now, sleeves rolled up, and you could see the way her muscles flexed beneath the fabric with each motion. The way her body moved was effortless but graceful, each swing of the axe sharp and powerful, her form seemingly made for this kind of work.

Your heart skipped a beat as the realization settled in.

Fuck, she’s so hot.

It wasn’t like you hadn’t noticed before. You had, of course. The way she moved, the way she carried herself, the confidence in her every step. You had seen her before in moments of action, in the heat of danger, but now—now, in the soft light of the early afternoon, with the faint scent of wood in the air—it hit you harder than ever.

Abby Anderson was fucking beautiful.

Her shoulders were broad, strong, with the kind of muscles that weren’t just for show—they were practical. Everything about her, from the way her jaw tightened when she focused to the way her hair fell in wild, golden streaks across her face, made your stomach flip. The sense of calm authority she radiated, mixed with an intensity that burned beneath the surface—it was intoxicating.

You realized you were staring a little too long. You quickly tore your gaze away, looking down at the ground, heart racing in your chest.

Get it together, you thought to yourself, but it was no use. Every time you glanced back over, you were just… drawn to her. It was impossible not to be.

Abby swung the axe again, and you turned your attention elsewhere—at the wildflowers growing around the clearing. They were a patch of color against the dry ground, a burst of yellow, purple, and white, and you realized with some amusement that they weren’t exactly flowers. The mix of greenery in front of you wasn’t anything special, not by pre-apocalypse standards, but here, in the wasteland, it was a rare sight.

The flowers weren’t exactly pretty—more like little weeds that had somehow managed to sprout from the ground despite the odds—but they had their own kind of charm. Maybe it was the way the petals swayed in the breeze or the contrast they provided against the stark landscape. You weren’t a botanist, but you knew they were about the only thing in the area that could pass as “pretty” without much effort.

You crouched down and started picking a few of them, hands shaking slightly. They were delicate, surprisingly tough despite their small size. You could make something out of these—something simple, something that would make Abby smile. You weren’t sure why, but the thought of making something for her made your stomach flutter.

You twisted the stems together as best as you could, braiding them into a loose circle, and after a while, you had something that resembled a flower crown—however rough around the edges it was. The flowers didn’t match perfectly, their mismatched colors giving the crown a quirky charm. You stood up, holding the crown carefully, inspecting your work. It wasn’t perfect, but it was something. A little gift in the middle of all this chaos.

Abby was still at the log pile, chopping through the wood with her axe. She was so absorbed in her task that she didn’t notice you approach, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. You stepped up behind her and, without thinking too much about it, placed the crown gently on her head.

Abby froze, mid-swing, the axe hanging in the air as she glanced down at the flower crown perched atop her head. Her expression was unreadable for a moment. You held your breath, suddenly unsure of what to expect. Did she think it was silly? A joke?

But then, Abby’s lips quirked into a smile—a smile so rare, so genuine, it made your heart stutter in your chest. She lowered the axe, the weight of it still in her hand as she reached up, carefully touching the flowers with a look of surprise in her eyes.

“You made this?” she asked, her voice soft but with a teasing edge to it.

You nodded, trying to hide the warmth spreading across your cheeks. “Yeah, I… thought it would be nice.”

She let out a short, breathy laugh, shaking her head slightly. “Well, I wasn’t expecting a flower crown today,” she said, her voice light but appreciative. “But… thanks. It’s, uh, actually kinda cute.”

Cute? You nearly choked on the word. Abby had just called your awkward little gift cute, and she didn’t seem the least bit embarrassed about it. For a moment, you just stood there, completely flustered. Your mind scrambled to make sense of what was happening, but all you could focus on was her smile—the one that had turned from surprised to something warmer, something that made you feel like you could breathe again.

The flower crown sat awkwardly atop her messy hair, and you couldn’t help but laugh nervously. “It’s not much,” you said, your voice trailing off. “But I thought… maybe it would make you smile.”

Abby tilted her head to the side, considering you for a moment. “It did. More than you know.” She paused for a beat before adding, “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you?”

You felt your heart race at her words, that simple acknowledgment making everything inside you buzz with an unfamiliar energy. You were grateful she hadn’t brushed it off or made you feel foolish. Instead, she seemed… pleased. Even more than that, there was a strange tenderness in her eyes as she looked at you. The moment felt raw, like something real—something that wasn’t just about survival or the day-to-day grind of living in a broken world.

Abby reached up and, almost shyly, adjusted the crown, her fingers brushing against your hand for just a second before she pulled it away. “Well, I think it looks better than I expected,” she said, her voice softening. “You know, it’s not just the flowers… it’s the thought behind it. I appreciate it.”

You couldn’t hold back the smile that spread across your face at her words, the weight of everything in your chest lifting just a little. The past few days with Abby had been a whirlwind of emotions, of survival, of tension, but this moment—this simple, sweet moment—felt like a turning point.

You realized then, as you looked at Abby, how much you had started to care for her. How much she had become a part of your world, even in the chaos of it all. You had no idea what the future held, but in that moment, with her standing there in your flower crown and a rare smile on her face, everything else seemed a little more bearable.

And maybe, just maybe, this was what hope felt like.

The liquor store was barely standing. The roof had caved in on one side, shelves toppled over and glass shards littering the floor. The scent of dust, mildew, and something faintly sour filled the air, but nothing compared to the relief of finally finding something worthwhile.

“Think any of this is still good?” you asked, stepping over the broken remains of what used to be a checkout counter.

Abby huffed, adjusting the strap of her bag over her shoulder as she scanned the shelves. “Only one way to find out.”

It wasn’t the first time you’d scavenged together, but it was the first time you’d come across something fun. Most of your searches had been for the basics—food, meds, batteries. But liquor? That was a luxury.

You carefully maneuvered through the wreckage, eyes scanning labels. A lot of bottles had been smashed, their contents long dried and sticky on the floor, but tucked behind some fallen shelving was a single dusty bottle of whiskey.

You picked it up, squinting at the label. “Holy shit, this is the good stuff.”

Abby turned, raising an eyebrow. “Yeah?”

You grinned, wiping some of the dust off the glass. “Good enough to make us forget this hellscape for a night.”

She smirked, walking over to you. “Or make us regret it in the morning.”

You shrugged, holding it up. “Worth the risk?”

Abby rolled her eyes but took the bottle from your hands, inspecting it before finally nodding. “Guess we’ll find out.”

Back at the cabin, the fire crackled in the background, casting flickering shadows on the walls. You and Abby sat on the floor, the bottle between you, two mismatched cups in your hands.

Abby uncorked it, taking a sniff before making a face. “Jesus.”

You snorted. “That bad?”

She poured you a generous amount before taking her own. “Only one way to know.”

You clinked your cups together. “To… I don’t know. Not dying?”

Abby chuckled. “I’ll drink to that.”

The first sip burned like hell. You winced, feeling the warmth spread down your throat to your stomach. “Fuck,” you coughed.

Abby wasn’t much better, her face scrunching as she swallowed. “That is strong.”

But neither of you stopped.

The second sip went down smoother, and by the third, the warmth started to settle in, spreading through your limbs, loosening the tension that always seemed to cling to your bones. The world outside still sucked, but here, in this moment, with Abby sitting across from you, her cheeks dusted pink from the alcohol, things didn’t feel so bad.

“You’re staring,” Abby said, her lips quirking into a smirk.

You blinked, snapping out of it. “Am not.”

She raised an eyebrow, leaning back against the wall, stretching her legs out. Her muscles flexed, and your brain short-circuited for a second. “You totally are.”

You rolled your eyes, taking another sip, letting the warmth settle. “Maybe you’re just nice to look at.”

Abby’s smirk faltered for a split second before she scoffed. “You’re drunk.”

“Not yet,” you shot back. “Just tipsy enough to tell the truth.”

Abby shook her head, amused, but you caught the way she shifted, suddenly a little more aware of the space between you.

The drinks kept flowing, and soon enough, the conversation drifted into easy laughter and stories from before the world went to shit. You told her about stupid pranks you used to pull in school, about the ugly little stray cat you once had named Mr. Mac and Cheese. Abby laughed at that one, deep and genuine, her eyes crinkling at the corners.

“He was a menace,” you said, grinning. “Ugly as hell, but I loved him.”

Abby hummed, swirling the liquid in her cup. “Sounds kinda like Alice. Ugly but loveable.”

“You take that back,” you gasped, feigning offense. “Alice is adorable.”

Abby chuckled, shaking her head. “Fine, fine. Maybe not ugly. But still a menace.”

The warmth of the alcohol made you bold, and before you could think twice, you leaned in just a little closer. “You’re cute when you laugh.”

Abby stilled, her gaze flicking to your lips for just a second before she swallowed, looking away. “You really are drunk.”

“Maybe,” you admitted, setting your empty cup down. “But that doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

The air shifted.

You weren’t sure who moved first, but suddenly, there wasn’t as much space between you. Abby’s eyes were locked on yours, and for the first time, she didn’t look away.

“You shouldn’t say things like that,” she murmured.

“Why not?” you asked, voice softer now.

She swallowed. “Because I’ll believe you.”

Your breath hitched.

The fire crackled behind you, but all you could hear was the sound of your own heartbeat, loud and steady. Abby was close—so close you could feel the warmth of her breath, the scent of whiskey on her lips.

“Abby,” you murmured.

That was all it took.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against yours in the softest, most hesitant way. It was barely a kiss—more of a question, a silent is this okay?

You answered by closing the space entirely.

The kiss was warm, a little messy, the taste of whiskey lingering between you. Abby sighed into it, her hands finding your waist, pulling you closer. Your fingers tangled in her hair, nails scraping against her scalp as she deepened the kiss.

She was strong—God, she was strong���but her touch was surprisingly gentle, like she was afraid of breaking you.

“You’re gonna regret this in the morning,” she murmured against your lips.

You grinned, breathless. “Then I’ll regret it in the morning.”

Abby huffed a soft laugh, shaking her head before kissing you again, harder this time.

And fuck—if this was a mistake, it was the best one you’d ever made.

The first thing you notice when you wake up is the weight on your chest. Heavy, warm, and steady, like a furnace pressed against your ribs. The next thing you register is the dampness on your forehead, sticky and cool, like the remnants of a fever dream. Your eyelids flutter open, but everything is blurry—your head feels like it’s been split in two, the aftereffects of too much whiskey catching up with you in the worst possible way.

A groan escapes you before you can stop it, and the tightness in your chest shifts, slightly. The pressure eases, and a soft breath of air ruffles your hair. You blink again, trying to focus, your vision still fuzzy from the remnants of your hangover. Slowly, your mind pieces things together, like a jigsaw puzzle snapping into place. The floor beneath you is hard, but you’re warm, too warm. The smell of the fire, mixed with something distinctly… Abby, lingers in the air.

And then, the realization hits. You’re in Abby’s arms.

The heat surges through your chest, followed by an immediate rush of panic. What the hell happened? Your mind races, a series of fragmented images flashing—laughing, the kiss, her lips, the warmth of her hands on your skin—and it’s all there, in full clarity now, each second dragging you deeper into the weight of the situation.

Abby’s arms are around you, wrapped tightly, her body sprawled over yours as if you two had collapsed together after a long night. Alice, her Chesapeake Bay Retriever, is curled up on top of you both, her weight adding to the suffocating heat that lingers. You swallow thickly, trying to calm your heartbeat as you shift under the dog’s fur, trying to extract yourself without waking her.

But Abby stirs, shifting beneath you. She lets out a soft groan, and you freeze, hoping you haven’t disturbed her too much. Her breath tickles the back of your neck, and a strange sensation prickles through your skin, making the hairs on your arms stand up.

When she speaks, her voice is rough, hoarse, like she’s just woken up from a deep sleep, and it sends a shiver down your spine. “You awake?”

Your breath hitches, your mouth suddenly dry. You turn your head slightly, finding her face so close to yours. Her eyes are still closed, lips parted in a small, soft sigh, and you can feel her body rise and fall with each breath she takes.

“Yeah,” you croak, your voice sounding foreign in your own ears. “What the hell happened last night?”

Abby doesn’t immediately respond. Instead, she shifts again, tightening her grip around you like she’s unwilling to let go. Her cheek brushes against yours as she nuzzles her face into your hair, her breath hot and slow against your skin. You freeze, and her voice, softer now, cuts through the space between you. “I don’t know. But… I remember.”

You blink, your heart thumping in your chest. “Remember what?”

Her eyes crack open, the blue of them piercing through the haze of the morning. She looks at you, and for a moment, there’s a vulnerability in her gaze that makes your breath catch.

“The kiss,” she says simply, as if it’s the most obvious thing in the world.

You swallow thickly, the air between you thickening, the weight of her words settling over you. The kiss—right. The kiss. You remember it, too. The taste of whiskey on her lips, the heat of her hands on your skin, how everything had felt in that moment. How perfect it had felt.

Your stomach flips.

“Shit,” you mutter, shifting slightly, trying to distance yourself. The space between you suddenly feels too small, too intimate. You try to sit up, but Abby’s grip tightens, keeping you close, her arm snaking around your waist like she’s afraid you’ll run away.

“You’re not going anywhere,” she murmurs, her voice thick with sleep. “I’m not letting you go that easily.”

You try to laugh it off, but it comes out weak and strained. “It’s not that,” you say quickly, but your mind is racing, and you can feel the heat creeping up your neck. “I just… fuck. I wasn’t expecting that, Abby.”

The silence that follows is thick. For a moment, it feels like everything’s holding its breath, waiting for something—anything—to break the tension. You both just lie there, the soft rise and fall of your chests the only sound filling the room.

Abby’s grip loosens just slightly, and she turns her head, resting her forehead against yours. “Me neither,” she admits softly, the words gentle, raw. “But…”

“But what?” you ask, your voice small.

She hesitates, pulling back just enough so she can look at you fully. Her hand moves to brush a strand of hair from your face, her fingers lingering against your cheek. “I don’t regret it.”

You freeze, your heart hammering in your chest. You look into her eyes, searching for something—anything—that might tell you she’s not just saying it to fill the silence. But there’s only sincerity in her gaze, and the tenderness that radiates from her makes your breath catch.

“I don’t either,” you whisper, the words slipping out before you can stop them.

There’s a beat, a shared understanding that passes between you, before Abby leans in again. This time, her lips don’t hesitate—there’s no uncertainty. She kisses you slowly, gently, a soft meeting of lips that deepens only when you kiss her back, just as eagerly.

It’s different this time. Slower, more deliberate, as if you both are testing the waters, trying to see if this is real, if this could be real. The kiss is warm, sweet, and it makes you forget everything except the feel of her lips against yours, the way her body molds perfectly against yours.

Alice shifts then, her body pressing a little more heavily onto you both, and the moment breaks. You laugh softly, breaking the kiss with a sigh. Abby smiles too, her chest rising with a deep breath.

“Guess we’re not getting up anytime soon,” she says, her voice low and teasing.

You chuckle, trying to push Alice off of you. “This dog is a menace.”

Abby snorts, moving Alice’s body off of yours with ease, before she pulls you into her arms again, settling into the floor with a groan. “But she’s a good girl.”

You smile at that, the warmth of Abby’s body against yours calming the storm of confusion in your head. “Yeah, she is.”

The air between you two isn’t as thick with tension anymore, but it still lingers, a quiet promise hanging in the space between breaths. You close your eyes, your head resting against Abby’s chest, and for the first time in a long time, you feel… safe.

It’s not the kind of safety that you’ve been craving all along, but it’s something else entirely—something warm and new. Something you could get used to.

“So,” you begin, shifting a little to look at her. “What now?”

Abby smirks, her fingers running through your hair. “We figure it out,” she says simply, her tone steady. “But I’m not in a rush to leave this spot right now.”

The rain falls in sheets, tapping softly against the cabin’s roof, drowning out any other sounds. The storm outside is relentless, the wind picking up and rattling the few broken windows. You’re tucked away inside, safe and warm beneath layers of blankets, but the atmosphere feels tense in a way you can’t explain. The air inside the cabin is thick with silence, punctuated only by the occasional sound of Alice’s paws scratching against the wooden floor or the low crackling of the fire.

You can’t remember the last time you had a day like this—a day to do absolutely nothing. There’s no rush, no immediate danger. Just you, Abby, and Alice. The entire world seems to have quieted, leaving the three of you in a little bubble of warmth and… something else.

The tension between you and Abby is palpable, though. The kiss from last night still lingers in the air, unspoken words hanging heavy in the space between you. It’s like you’re both trying to figure out what to do with each other now that the line has been crossed.

You’re sitting on the floor by the fire, nursing a mug of warm tea—if you can call it that—while Abby lounges nearby. Her head is propped up against the wall, her arms stretched out on the floor in front of her. She looks… comfortable, but something about her posture, the way her jaw tightens every time you glance at her, suggests otherwise. She’s always so damn composed, but you can tell the calm exterior is just a mask.

You shift uncomfortably, aware of her presence in a way that makes it hard to breathe normally. Abby’s so… Abby. The kind of woman who can make something as simple as sitting together in silence feel like a thousand emotions crashing through the room.

“Is it always this quiet?” you ask, your voice breaking the silence. You didn’t mean to sound so tense, but you can’t help it. The awkwardness is so thick between you, it feels like you’re both walking on eggshells.

Abby lifts her head, her blue eyes locking onto yours for a moment before they flicker toward the window. She shrugs, but there’s a smile playing at the corner of her lips. “I don’t mind it,” she says, her voice low and casual, like she’s used to this kind of quiet. “Sometimes, it’s nice.”

You nod, taking another sip from your mug, hoping the warmth will settle your nerves. But it doesn’t. The silence stretches between you two again, but it’s different this time—sharper, somehow. You can feel the weight of Abby’s gaze on you, even if she’s pretending to be distracted by Alice, who’s lying near the fire.

Your pulse quickens when you realize that Abby’s not pretending. She’s just as aware of the air between you as you are.

“So…” You try again, your voice a little lighter this time, but still full of that same nervous energy. “Anything fun you’ve got planned for the day?”

Abby chuckles, the sound warm and low. “Can’t say I’ve had much of a ‘fun’ day in a while.” She turns her head to look at you fully now, her eyes holding something you can’t quite name. “But I’m open to suggestions.”

Your heart flutters in your chest, a strange, electric feeling that surges through you whenever she looks at you like that—like she’s seeing right through the walls you’ve built around yourself. You open your mouth to respond, but before you can, Alice suddenly perks up, her ears twitching, her eyes wide and alert.

Abby’s gaze snaps to her dog, and you follow her line of sight to see Alice standing, tail wagging furiously, looking toward the door with an intensity you’ve never seen in her before.

“What’s up with her?” you ask, leaning forward slightly, your eyes narrowing in curiosity.

Abby doesn’t answer right away. Her lips press into a thin line as she watches Alice for a moment longer. Then, with a curse under her breath, she stands up suddenly, the movement so fast that it catches you off guard.

“Alice!” Abby snaps, already halfway to the door, her boots thudding against the floor. “No!”

Your heart skips a beat as you scramble to your feet, watching as Abby hurries to the door. Alice, of course, doesn’t listen, already dashing toward the yard. You don’t even have time to process what’s happening before Abby pulls open the door, stepping outside into the pouring rain, her figure disappearing into the mist.

You hesitate for only a second before your legs start moving, instinct taking over. The last thing you want is for Abby to be out there alone in the rain, especially with Alice causing chaos. You grab your jacket and follow her out, braving the storm as the rain drenches you from head to toe in a matter of seconds.

You catch up with Abby just as she’s already running through the mud, her expression determined as she calls for Alice again. Her breath comes in sharp bursts, and the way her muscles flex beneath her soaked clothing has you momentarily distracted before your brain catches up with the situation.

“Alice!” you shout, your voice rising above the sound of the rain. “What the hell are you doing?”

You see Abby’s hand shoot out, and for a split second, you think she’s about to grab you, but then she takes a sharp turn and starts running again, pulling you along with her. The tension between the two of you—now amplified by the chase—is unbearable, like you’re tethered to her by something deeper than just the shared mission of catching Alice.

But Alice is fast. You can barely keep up with her, your legs shorter than Abby’s. You watch her weave through the trees, dodging between thick trunks and leaping over rocks like she’s been doing this her entire life.

“I swear to god, that dog,” Abby mutters under her breath, her voice gruff with frustration. Her biceps flex as she pushes herself harder, trying to close the distance between them.

You don’t realize you’re breathless until you stop, leaning against a tree to catch your breath. You watch Abby, the rain dripping down her face, her hair plastered to her forehead as she sprints after Alice. There’s something captivating about the way she moves, something hypnotic in her raw strength and determination.

But Alice is just as stubborn. She’s not stopping, and before you know it, Abby has stopped running, both of you standing in the middle of the rain, panting and laughing in equal measure.

“Fuck, we’re never catching her,” you say, your voice hoarse, the sound of the rain pattering on the ground barely registering anymore.

Abby chuckles breathlessly, shaking her head. “She’s got more energy than I do, that’s for sure.”

“Maybe she knows something we don’t,” you reply, glancing over at her, suddenly aware of how close the two of you are standing. Your heart races, the cold rain making your skin flush as your eyes linger on Abby. The sexual tension that’s been hanging between you two finally breaks, but it doesn’t go away. It thickens.

She looks at you then, really looks at you, like she’s seeing you for the first time, and it sends a jolt of electricity straight to your chest.

“I don’t know what it is about you,” Abby murmurs, her voice quieter now, though still edged with that same raw, unfiltered energy. “But you drive me crazy.”

You swallow thickly, your pulse hammering in your ears. You want to say something, anything, but the words are caught in your throat, tangled up with the feeling of her eyes on you. Instead, you take a step closer, the rain still coming down hard, and for a split second, the world slows down.

But before you can get any closer, Alice finally stops. The dog has clearly tired herself out, and she looks back at the two of you with a little wag of her tail, as if saying, “Are you coming or what?”

You laugh, finally breaking the tension, and Abby follows suit, a relieved chuckle escaping her lips.

“Come on, let’s go before she runs off again,” Abby says, turning toward you, her expression softening. “Rain’s not so bad when we’re together.”

You nod, your heart still beating fast in your chest as you follow her back toward the cabin, the weight of the moment still hanging between you two—unspoken, but undeniable.

The rain came down in heavier sheets now, turning the world outside into a blur of gray.

You sat on the creaky cot, peeling off your damp shirt and pants, your fingers stiff from the cold. Alice was off in the other room, probably making the floor wet from her adventure outside. Abby stood near the fireplace, stoking the embers, her broad back illuminated by the flickering light. Her tank top was soaked through, clinging to the contours of her muscles, making it impossible not to stare.

She turned, catching you looking, and smirked. “You alright?”

You swallowed, nodding. “Yeah. Just—cold.”

Abby hummed, tugging off her own wet shirt, revealing the white sports bra underneath—well, what used to be white. Now it was stained, stretched, the fabric barely holding together. Your eyes dipped lower, drinking in the way it clung to her, the outline of her firm breasts teasing through the thin material.

“You’re staring,” she teased, stepping closer. “…again”

You licked your lips, tilting your chin down shyly. “I am..”

Abby huffed a small laugh, but there was heat behind her gaze now. She reached out, cupping your jaw with a gentleness that sent a shiver down your spine.

“Don’t be shy…I like it,” she murmured, pushing down her pants and kicking them off.

You barely had time to breathe before her lips were on yours.

Her kiss was warm, slow, like she was savoring the moment—like she was holding back. You pressed closer, your hands finding the solid planes of her stomach, tracing the ridges of her abs. She inhaled sharply against your mouth.

“Fuck,” Abby rasped, pulling back just enough to look at you. “You sure you want this?”

You nodded, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her boxers, teasing the warm skin beneath. “Yeah,” you whispered. “I’ve wanted this.”

Abby groaned low in her throat, her resolve snapping. She lifted you with ease, her strength effortless, placing you in the center of the bed before climbing over you, caging you in with her broad frame.

Her lips found your neck, sucking slow, open-mouthed kisses along your pulse. Her hands roamed, slipping beneath your shirt, pushing it up, exposing your bare skin to the cool air.

“You’re so soft,” she muttered, her palms sliding up your ribs, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts.

You arched into her touch, gasping when she finally pulled your shirt over your head and tossed it aside. Her mouth was on you in seconds, wrapping around a nipple, her tongue warm and wet as she sucked lightly.

“Abby,” you whimpered, your fingers threading through her blonde hair.

She groaned in response, her hands gripping your hips, keeping you in place as she kissed her way lower. She took her time, pressing kisses down your stomach, across the waistband of your underwear, her breath hot against the damp fabric.

“You’re already so wet,” she murmured, pressing a kiss right over your clothed clit. “You been thinking about this, huh?”

You whined, hips twitching, desperate for more.

Abby chuckled, hooking her fingers into the sides of your underwear, dragging them down your legs. She sat back on her heels, eyes locked onto your glistening folds.

“Fuck,” she breathed. “You’re perfect.”

You flushed, squirming under her gaze. “Abby, please—”

She cut you off with a deep, possessive kiss, pressing her weight against you, making you feel every inch of her. You could feel the heat of her through her boxers, the firm press of her core against your inner thigh.

“You wanna feel me?” she asked, voice thick.

You nodded, reaching down, pushing at the waistband of her boxers. Abby lifted her hips, helping you tug them down, and when her slick heat pressed against yours, you both moaned.

She was so warm, so wet—her swollen clit pressing right against yours as she ground down, slow and deliberate.

“Holy shit,” you gasped, your fingers digging into her shoulders.

Abby groaned, her breath shaky. “Fuck, you feel so good.”

She moved with precision, her strong thighs flexing as she rocked against you, the drag of her clit against yours sending sparks of pleasure up your spine.

It wasn’t rushed—Abby was taking her time, watching every reaction, learning what made you gasp, what made your nails dig deeper into her back.

She kissed you through it, swallowing your moans, her hands gripping your hips, keeping you exactly where she wanted you.

“Look at you,” she murmured, pulling back just enough to watch your face. “So fuckin’ pretty like this.”

You whined, lifting your hips to meet her thrusts, the wet slide of your bodies making your head spin.

Abby cursed under her breath, one hand slipping between you, her fingers joining the mix, rubbing tight circles over your swollen clit.

You cried out, your body tensing, pleasure coiling tighter and tighter.

“That’s it,” Abby whispered. “Let me feel you, baby.”

You shattered beneath her, your orgasm rolling through you in waves. Abby didn’t stop—she worked you through it, her movements slowing, drawing out every last pulse of pleasure until you were trembling beneath her.

She pressed her forehead against yours, her breath coming in heavy pants.

“You okay?” she asked softly.

You smiled, still catching your breath. “More than okay.”

Abby chuckled, kissing your temple. “Good.”

She wrapped you in her arms, her body warm and solid against yours. And for the first time since you started traveling together, you felt safer than ever.

[vampirq]

I think we all should agree that Abby looked hot as hell in the boat scene, and I can’t stop thinking about taking sub Abby from behind, how do you feel about writing it?

sub ! abby (we all cheered) . dom ! reader . abby getting dicked down . strap usage . smut . mdni . ass slapping (r)

she looked so beautiful like this, so desperate. her muscular back arched perfectly, giving you the perfect view of her ass. “you gonna learn some fuckin’ manners, abigail?” you spat, your tone becoming low and demanding. she knew she was in trouble, “gonna stop talking back and giving me attitude?” 

instead of responding to you, she stays quiet, her arrogance getting the best of her. it frustrates you, so you land a sharp smack to her ass. 

“ohh, fuck! yes — yes, i’ll stop. won’t talk back to you anymore.” she whines, her words coming out stuttered and twisted as you slam into her harder. 

abby is known for having a mouth on her, witty come backs shooting out at any given moment. it was a simple, and an easily avoidable punishment, even she knew that. but it didn’t stop her from pushing your buttons to see how far you would really go. 

which is what led to her being face down, ass up in your bed. getting pounded further and further into bliss.

“yeah, baby? ‘cause i don’t think you will. you know what i think? i think you’ll go right back to being a bratty, needy girl just so you can get your brains fucked out, yeah?”

a guttural moan leaves her lips, followed by a gush of wetness from her cunt. oh, she liked that.  her reaction makes a smug smirk stretch across your face, gripping her hips to control your pace. you know she liked it rough, hard and deep to the point she was on the brink of tears. but, it was hard to give her that when you could feel the base the strap hit your clit. 

“mmm, this — this greedy fuckin’ pussy. she’s soaking me, huh?” you breathe, shifting your aggressive pace to something more deeper and slow. the new tempo elicits another whimper from abby, causing her grip on the sheets to tighten.

“close, so, so, close. please let me cum, please.” her body falls limp against the bed, no longer being supported by her elbows. small whines and a string of unt, unt, unts pouring out of her lips with each thrust. 

“yeah, you gonna cum for me?” your hips pick up pace again, drilling into her wet cunt and pressing on her spine. “scream my name, baby. let this whole stadium know who’s making you feel like this.”

and she does, your name ripping from her throat as you pound deeper into her. the sheets below begin to darken from the flood of her juices, pouring out and soiling the bed. if you could take a picture and capture this moment, you would. it’s not every day you get to see, abby anderson, the WLF’s top, stoic solider whimpering and cumming for you. 

her whines begin to heighten in pitch as the overstimulation takes over. the feeling of you slamming into her relentlessly becoming too much. “c-can’t take it, too much.” 

“i know, love, i know. just a little — mmmfff, just a little more, okay?” your tone is more gentle now, slowing your pace but still keeping the strap buried in her. 

you feel your own orgasm start to form and bubble over. continuing to grind your clit against the base of the strap. the plastic material rubbing against it perfectly. your hips start to stutter, praises tumbling out of your mouth, a complete contrast to your condescending words earlier.

“gonna cum again, ohh—” her loud moans fill the room, clashing with the sounds of squelches and your own lewd noises. both of your releases come out at the same time, leaving the two of you exhausted. 

you caress abby’s hip as you pull out, smoothing your hand over the several love bites from earlier. the harness is quickly removed from your hips and thrown off to the side somewhere. you flop down next to abby and pull her into a tight embrace. 

“you did so good, my love. so proud of you.” you whisper, brushing your hand over her disheveled hair. she relaxes from your touch, her shallow breathing turned into something more steady and calm.

a few minutes of serenity pass before her body becomes pliant, a signal that she’s resting. you relish in the moment, mumbling sweet nothings, running your fingers over every curve in her back, realizing that this is where you want to be, home. 

[rhiannonsknife]

Do you think Lottie's parents would let her poor best friend (cough cough, her girlfriend) visit her in Switzerland?

Like imagine it, we're together before the crash, she disappears and we lose her, she comes back and she's 'different' and silent. It's sickening upsetting to see happen to the person you love.

Trying to help as best as possible but just as there's improvement, she's shipped off. After a while she is finally allowed visitors and we're greeted with 'our Lottie' (the Lottie we saw with the bob cut, acting somewhat normal when she calmed her roommate down ?)

- 🌿

— YOU’RE AS FAR FROM ME AS MEMORY

— warnings: hurt/comfort. angst. established relationship. post-crash lottie & gn!reader.

— a/n: after receiving some lottie requests, i finally sat down to edit this old draft. i’m so sorry it took over a month to finish 🌿 anon! i hope you like it <3

before the crash, back when you and lottie were inseparable, practically two halves of the same whole, you were hers, and she was yours.

you weren’t the same, far from it, but where she was softer, quieter, you had no trouble filling the gaps. the differences never mattered. not to her. not to you.

you were her safe place, her person. it didn’t matter what anyone thought, not the other girls on her team, not even her mother, with her sharp eyes and even sharper comments.

the disapproving glances, the subtle digs about how you spent too much time at their house, how you were ‘a distraction’, none of it ever phased lottie. she would just roll her eyes, brushing it off like it was nothing. ‘ignore her,’ she’d say, grabbing your hand and pulling you toward the door.

and for a long time, nothing could get between the two of you. what did change that, in the end, was the crash.

when the plane goes down, you lose her in the worst way imaginable: not to death, but to the agonizing unknown. there’s no closure like this, no way of saying goodbye, just the silence that follows the chaos and a stretch of empty days that bleed into weeks, into months. 19 torturous months. you cycle through grief, hope, and despair as the world gives up on the girls one by one.

you never do.

you hold on to her in the only way you know how, clinging to every memory to keep whatever remains of her alive: the sound of her laugh. the way lottie would say your name when no one else was listening, soft and unguarded.

even as the days go on endlessly and everyone around you insists it’s time to let go, you refuse to believe she’s really gone. you don’t care that the world seems to move on without her, without any of them. you don’t.

because in your heart, in your stubborn, aching heart that refuses to let go, you know lottie is out there. somewhere.

and then, against all odds and after almost 2 years, she comes home.

she’s thinner than you ever could have imagined, gaunt and hollowed out as she steps off the plane. the shadows beneath her eyes seem to belong to someone else, someone you’ve never known and her face bears the mark of whatever things she’s been through out there.

a new scar cuts across her face, a jagged line of red against her pale skin and her eyes don’t look at you. they don’t meet yours as she steps forward, as if the world around her is something she can’t quite make sense of anymore. lottie’s alive. she’s standing right in front of you, but somehow it feels like she’s still a thousand miles away.

she doesn’t speak at first. not to you or anyone else.

the girl you remember is gone. in her place is someone entirely different. someone guarded. quiet.

lottie flinches at any loud sounds, her body tensing, an instinctive reaction that feels so foreign. her hands are twitching at her sides when she’s anxious, restless, unable to stay still even when she’s trying.

at night, it’s even worse.

the first time you hear lottie screaming in her sleep, it chills you to the bone. it’s not words, nothing coherent, just these sharp, guttural sounds that tear from her throat, like lottie is fighting something in her dreams, something that’s trying to get her, that won’t let go.

you rush to her side immediately, gripping her hand, whispering her name until she wakes up, gasping and drenched in sweat. still, lottie doesn’t say anything at all. you can see it in the way she trembles, in the way her body curls into itself, that she’s seeking comfort in a world that feels too big, too loud, too overwhelming.

physically, lottie has come back, but it feels like a part of her has stayed behind in the woods where they’ve been found.

you visit her every day, bringing her little things; flowers, books, her favorite snacks. you tell her stories about school, about what she missed.

you know she’s listening. you feel it in the way lottie sometimes glances at you, the way her eyes flicker over your face, as though she’s trying to remember something. but she doesn’t speak. not yet.

one day, you bring a photo of the two of you from before the crash: you, wearing her soccer uniform. lottie, with her arm slung around your shoulder. both of you grinning for the camera.

you place it gently in front of her, your fingers brushing hers as you do. for a moment, there’s a shift. you don’t know if it’s the picture, or just the sheer act of bringing a piece of her past into her present, but something stirs in lottie then.

her fingers hover over it, trembling slightly as though she’s unsure of how to react, but it’s enough to make your heart race. lottie’s lips part, and her breath catches, but instead of saying anything, she simply shifts. slowly, she drapes her arm around you, just like she did in the picture.

it’s not a verbal response, not the reunion you’ve imagined a thousand times, but it’s more than you could have asked for.

you feel the familiar weight of her arm around you, the warmth of her body leaning close. for the first time in what feels like forever, she feels like your lottie again.

slowly, she starts to come back to you.

a nod here, a faint smile there: small but significant changes, each one another glimmer of the girl she used to be.

the first time she speaks, it’s barely more than a whisper: you’re sitting in her room, reading aloud from a book you brought, when she suddenly says, “that’s dumb.”

you freeze, your heart skipping a beat. “what?”

lottie looks at you, her brow furrowed like she’s trying to piece together how to have a conversation again. “the book,” she says, her voice hoarse. “it’s dumb.”

tears spring to your eyes as you laugh, relief flooding through you. “it kind of is, isn’t it?” you agree, setting it aside. “you want to pick something better next time?”

she doesn’t answer, but the corner of her mouth twitches, and she nods.

and just when you start to feel like everything is falling back into place, just when things begin to feel like they’re normal again, it happens.

her parents announce they’re sending lottie away.

it happens suddenly, without warning or time to prepare. one moment, everything is tentative and fragile but steady, and the next, it all shatters.

her mother pulls you aside, her face determined. she explains, almost rehearsed, that it’s for lottie’s own good, that she needs ‘specialized care’ they can’t provide at home.

the next time you see her, her suitcase is already packed.

lottie doesn’t say anything about leaving. when you ask her how she feels about it, she just shrugs, as though it doesn’t matter, as though she has no say in it at all. there’s no fight left in her, not like before.

but when you hug her goodbye, your arms wrapped tightly around her fragile body, you feel it: lottie’s hands clutch the back of your jacket a little too tightly, her fingers digging into the fabric, her breath shaky against your shoulder. you know that she doesn’t want to go.

“i’ll write to you,” you promise with a stolen kiss to her temple. “every day. i mean it.”

lottie doesn’t respond, just nods faintly. and then she’s gone.

the months that follow are almost as unbearable as her time away had been, only this time you know that she’s alive. somewhere out there, across an ocean, in some place that you can’t even imagine, with no real way of knowing what’s happening to her.

theres nothing to find about the facility her mother had told you about, where her parents have placed her in the hopes of fixing what can’t be fixed.

you write to lottie constantly and tell her everything: how much you miss her, how you’re counting down the days until you can see her again, how impossibly quiet it feels without her even though she barely spoke at all in the time before she left. you write her about the little things, too: what the weather is wiskayok is like, updates on your favorite tv shows, silly memories that make you think of her. anything to make her feel like you’re still there with her.

for the longest time there’s no response to your letters.

you try to tell yourself it’s because she’s busy, that maybe the clinic has rules about correspondence, or maybe the letters are just getting lost in transit.

deep down, you’re terrified, scared that lottie is slipping away even more than before.

then, finally, you get one back.

lottie’s handwriting is messier than you remember, shaky and uneven, but it’s unmistakably hers.

she doesn’t say much, just that she’s okay, that she’s adjusting, that she misses you too. there’s one part you cling to, one line that you reread a hundred times: ‘i promise I’m going to be okay’.

you don’t even realize you’re crying until the tears blur the ink on the page. it’s not much, but it’s enough. for now, it’s enough.

over time, the letters start coming more frequently.

at first, they’re short, simple updates on how her therapy sessions are going, what the clinic is like, little details about the group activities they have her doing.

as the weeks go on, they start to feel more like her. she tells you about her roommate, shares stories about the other patients. lottie even slips in a joke now and then, and when she does, you can’t help but smile.

and then, after what feels like an eternity of letters, her parents finally agree to let you visit.

the building is tucked away in the swiss mountains, its clinical white buildings surrounded by green hills and snow-capped peaks in the distance. it’s beautiful, serene, even, but the moment you step through the doors, the atmosphere shifts: inside, things feels too still, the walls too white, too sterile. the faint buzz of fluorescent lights and the quiet murmur of staff members moving through the halls only add to your unease.

you’re directed to the common area, your fingers twisting anxiously in your lap as you wait.

you instantly drop them when lottie walks in.

the moment you see her, you freeze. you barely recognize her: lottie’s hair is shorter than you’ve ever seen it, barely brushing past her jawline, but she looks less hollow, less outside of her own body than she did when she stepped off that plane.

then her eyes meet yours, and her entire face lights up. for this one moment, it’s like nothing’s changed. that smile, the one you’ve missed so desperately, breaks through.

“hey,” lottie says, her voice steadier than you expected.

“hey,” you echo.

neither of you moves.

you’re not sure if you should hug her, if that’s too much, if she’s even comfortable with something like that. before you can overthink it, lottie closes the distance between you. she steps forward and wraps her arms around you, holding you tightly.

instinctively, you bury your face in her shoulder, your breath catching as you fight back tears.

“i missed you,” she murmurs, voice muffled against your shoulder.

“i missed you too,” you whisper back.

you don’t let each other go for what feels like forever, and even when you do, lottie’s hand lingers on your arm, like she’s afraid you’ll vanish if she lets go entirely.

the staff gives you a few hours to spend together, and you’re determined make the most of it.

lottie walks you through the clinic’s garden, catching up on everything she’s missed. she listens, really listens, and for the first time in so long, you feel like you’re finally connecting again.

when she starts to open up, she tells you about her therapy sessions, how hard it was at first to trust anyone there, but that it’s getting easier.

“i’m not…fixed or anything,” she says at one point, glancing at you hesitantly. “but it’s better. i feel…calmer”

“you don’t have to be fixed,” you say firmly, giving her hand a squeeze. “you’ve always been enough, just as you are”

lottie looks at you for a long moment, her eyes softening. “thanks,” she says quietly.

the two of you keep walking, but her hand stays in yours.

as the visit winds down, you find yourselves sitting together on a wooden bench near the edge of the garden, where the mountains stretch out in the distance.

lottie rests her head on your shoulder, her short hair brushing against your neck. her fingers graze against yours absentmindedly, tracing patterns on your skin.

her touch is light, moving as if guided by instinct. you smile as lottie traces a small circle, then angles downward into a triangle, her movements branching out with sharp lines. the pattern shifts, ending in a soft curve in the palm of your hand.

“do you think they’ll let you visit again?” she asks, knowing your time is running out.

you turn your head slightly, resting your cheek against her hair. “i’ll make sure of it,” you mumble. “they’re not keeping me away from you.”

lottie tilts her head slightly, just enough to glance up at you. “you’re always so sure of everything,” she smiles.

“not everything,” you admit, chuckling. “but this? you and me? i’m sure about that!”

when the staff approaches, lottie lifts her head, and you feel the loss of her weight against you immediately. she stands slowly, her eyes never leaving yours.

“you’ll write me?” she asks.

“every day,” you assure, standing up to face her. “and i’ll be back as soon as they let me!”

before you can fully process it, lottie steps forward and wraps her arms around you. the hug is different from the one when you first arrived: this one feels like a goodbye, like she’s holding onto you with everything she has left.

“i don’t want to let go,” she whispers, so quiet the staff won’t hear.

“i’ll come back for you,” you say as you clutch her tighter.

she pulls back just enough to look at you, her hands still clutching your jacket like it’s the only thing anchoring her. “you’re sure about that?”

“always,” you tell lottie firmly, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear.

finally, the staff clears their throat, and you know it’s time. she hesitates before letting her hands drop. “i’ll see you soon,”

“soon,” you echo, watching as she turns and walks back toward the clinic.

you hold onto the hope that next time will be different. that with each visit, she’ll feel a little less like a stranger, and someday, when she finally gets to leave this place, she’ll feel like your lottie again, the one you’ve been waiting for all this time.

the one you will wait for, no matter how long it’ll take.

— c.ai

[tojisun]

this radiates biker! simon energy for both himself and reader. they're both too clingy to not jump at the sound of the keychain lol

THATS SO CUTE PLEAOSJER when she grabbed two diff shoes in her haste, and then when he got guilty bc hes just pranking her so theyre now actually gonna go somewhere???? no bcuz that is biker!simon n reader AHHHHHHH they are so kitten (not the discord mod way) coded im gonna be ill !!!!

thinking about how biker!simon first finds out that he basically pavloved his girl :((

he grabbed his keys to just move them from the kitchen table to the little bowl for keys by the door, the jingle sounds echoing just a tad louder. and you, who have been sitting in the living room, shoots up from the sofa to run towards simon.

"wait!" you scream, socked feet sliding against hardwood floor. simon startles at the guttural sound of your voice and whirls to check if you are doing alright, only to see you barreling towards him.

your loose fleece jacket is now zipped all the way up, your hair pulled up in a short neat pony that you've gotten used to wearing when putting on your helmet-

oh.

aww.

"we goin' somewhere?" you ask when you finally stop running towards him.

simon almost snorts at your use of 'we.' fuck. what a cutie you are.

"yeah," he replies, sounding choked up as he tries not to burst in laughter, and holds out his hand for you to take. "wanna grab donuts?"

"yes, please," you say, tangling your fingers with him.

simon takes the long route going to and from the downtown bakery. <333

[eggcompany]

Younger Silco x older Vander AU

Trans Silco being sex crazed, the addictive gene HEAVY on him. He just wants to cum and cum and cum and he’s addicted to it. He doesn’t know if it’s addiction or hypersexuality, but all he does is think about the next time he can orgasm, touch himself, and sit in wet underwear.

It’s probably hypersexuality but it doesn’t really effect his relationships or his day to day but it’s always there.

Then he meets Vander. Huge, experienced, caring, and kinky. When he finds out how bad Silco has it, how much he needs to feel satisfied, he started planning.

He talks to Silco, well actually Silco stuffed full on his cock, struggling to breath around the intrusion, and Vander’s petting his sides talking to him. Silco nods, tears rolling down his cheeks at the words. ‘As many orgasms as you can possibly have. All you have to do is cum.’

Next thing Silco knew Vander was leading him to a room down in the basement, soundproof and warmed with space heaters. It was a simple room, maybe a panic room with the heavy door attached to it.

He gets strapped down to a floor pillory, big heavy dildo thrusting into him, vibrator set in high and pressed against his clit. He was sure he was going to die. No matter how he struggled or moved, he couldn’t get away from the pleasure. Vander was petting him, a cloth wiping away sweat and tears and drool.

Silco was screaming and sobbing, he was farther than cloud nine he was soaring, deep guttural noises mixed together with whines and pleads to stop all falling on deaf ears. Vander just said sweet words and used gentle hands on him. It was only when he passed out that it all stopped.

He was carried upstairs, floating somewhere between dead and sleeping, only waking up enough to know when he was set into a warm bath and when something touched his abused clit, just for a second, and he cried out. When he actually woke up it had been seventeen hours since he was lead downstairs.

He felt well rested and happy. He moved through the motions of waking up and he felt… good. Finally. Satiated and a little tipsy. He found Vander sitting in his office reading a paper, glasses perched on his nose.

“How do you feel, birdy?” Vander asked when he noticed the younger man standing in the door way, hands around a cup of coffee. 

Silco came over to him, dressed in one of those cottony nightgowns that Vander loved, a big loose comfy thing that his grandma would’ve worn. He perched up on the older man’s lap and nodded, rubbing his cheek against the shoulder of his shirt.

“You’ll do it again? When I need it?” Silco asked, both terrified and delighted at the prospect of getting to feel this calm again. Vander laughed, his little bird would be the end of him.

[holylulusworld]

Inseparable (3)

Summary: Professor Xavier entrusts you with the mission to locate a certain mutant with unknown consequences.

Pairing: Alpha!Wolverine x Omega!(Mutant)Reader

Warnings: angst, language, gruff Wolverine, a/b/o, a/b/o dynamics, scenting, implied true mates, you are on the run, fighting (telepathic/telekinesis), blood, unnamed characters death

A/N: Jean is not Dark Phoenix in this story. The reader is stronger than both Professor Xavier and Jean Grey. She is a telepath, telekinetic, and empath. Most of the time, she suppresses her powers.

Undefeated masterlist

Catch up here: Undefeated & Obstinate

It's been a while, huh...

Words in italics are telepathic orders

“Get out of my head!!” Stryker fights you with all he’s got. Not only the mutants he forces to protect his mind, but the man himself is an impressive opponent. “GET OUT MUTANT SCUM!”

“Hold still, bastard,” you growl while clawing your way inside Stryker’s mind. He’s still fighting me. Whatever he tries to hide from me, it must be important. “I’ll get you.”

“You sure?” Logan glances at you while fighting for control over the car. The roads are icy, and new soldiers are following you and the grumpy mutant. “Your eyes are violet for a while, and you’re fucking glowing. Your nose is bleeding too.”

“I’m fighting five telepaths and Stryker,” you snap your fingers to make Logan shut up. “Stop distracting me and drive. I can’t focus on you and that man.”

He huffs. “Fine. If you die, it’s not my fault.”

“I won’t die so easily,“ you snarl. “If you don’t total the car,” you turn your head to look at him while wiping the blood off your face, “I’ll live.”

You focus on Stryker, and the mutants again. One of them gets weaker, you can feel his control slip whenever you use your powers. “Stop protecting him. He’s a monster experimenting on us.”

The mutant fights your influence, but you won’t give in. One of them must fall first, and then you can take them down—one after another. It’s a low blow, but you show the mutant images of Stryker’s crimes. He screams in your mind, and then he’s gone.

“What the fuck was that!” Logan growls as the rear window bursts. “Y/N! What did you do?”

“Energy must get released,” you gasp for air. Your head feels like it’s going to explode when you turn it to look at Logan. “That wasn’t me, but the first one biting the dust.”

“Did you kill them?” He asks. “I thought you protect mutants.”

“I did not kill him. He’s out cold but alive. Stryker left him behind. At least, now he’s free of that monster’s influence.” Your eyes flash violet again. Focusing on the remaining opponents, you blend the grumpy alpha next to you out.

He huffs watching soft violet light surround your body again. Logan grits his teeth and slams his hands onto the steering wheel, watching your eyes bleed. “Fuck! Stop this shit. You’re going to kill yourself!”

You raise your hand to stop Logan from distracting you. “Drive and don’t stop until we are safe. You know the way.” His body relaxes, and his hands grip the steering wheel less tight.

You can finally turn your attention back toward Stryker, and the mutants protecting him. While Logan drives faster than he should to get you somewhere safe, you dive back into Stryker’s mind. It feels like pulling teeth to convince the mutants to give up. When you push one of the mutants protecting him out of his mind, the next slips inside. You know they got lied to, but slowly you are getting mad.

“STOP THE CAR!” You force Logan to stop the car. There’s no time to ask him nicely. He barely has the time to stop the car when you jump out of the vehicle. The aura protecting you turns red, indicating that you reached the breaking point.

“Y/N! What the fuck!” Logan rips the door of the car open to jump out. His eyes widen seeing your changed aura. “Okay, this is enough! Whatever is going on, you must stop. This can’t be healthy.”

You chuckle darkly—a dark, guttural sound sending a chill down Logan’s spine. You don’t look like your controlled self. The woman in front of him seems like a predator ready to pounce.

“GIVE UP NOW OR I’LL UNLEASH HER!” You scream in their minds. “NOW! OR I WON’T STOP HER!”

The mutants refuse to give in. Stryker trained them well. They won’t believe anything you say. Unlike the first one giving up, they are stubborn and strong-willed.

You fall to your knees, and dig your fingertips into the dirt. Logan watches you growl like a wild animal when the red aura surrounding you turns into human form.

He gasps watching it run toward the mutants. It disappears in the woods. For a moment, there is death silence. Only your heavy breaths and the wind tugging at his jacket fill Logan’s senses.

The hairs on his neck and arms stand up when screams pierce through the silence. Logan doesn’t wait for the red figure to return. He runs toward you, shaking your stiff form.

“Y/N, you got to stop whatever you’re doing. Can’t you hear them scream?”

“I warned them,” you murmur, like in a trance. “She won’t kill them, just show them the truth about Stryker, and force them to face their crimes.”

“Y/N—” Logan slides his claws out sensing the soldiers creep toward you and him. “Get behind me. You’re in no state to defend yourself.”

He glances at you; eyes widening when you slowly get up. The red aura is gone, but you are standing tall. Raising both of your hands, you rip the trees out of the ground, revealing your enemies.

You laugh like a maniac before flicking your wrists to throw the trees at the soldiers. “I told you to stay away. I can see your souls.” Your eyes are dark red when you look at Logan. “They are rotten to the core.”

The screams in the distance ebb up, but the ones coming from the soldiers burn into Logan’s mind. He sees them fall - one, after another. You don’t show mercy. Images of the soldiers’ victims blind your mind and conscience.

“Y/N! You need to stop!” Even Logan feels sorry for the soldiers. He knows they are not good men but doesn’t want you to have nightmares because you killed them all. “That’s a waste of wood too.”

You chuckle darkly when the last soldier falls. It’s done. They are all gone, and their sins got paid for. “It’s over.” You drop your hands, and the trees fall to the ground.

Logan grabs your arm. He tries to drag you toward the car when the red figure walks over the dead soldiers. It drags something behind it, and Logan swears, it is smirking at him.

“They are all asleep,” it says to you, ignoring Logan as it drops an unconscious Stryker next to you. It dips its head to glance at Logan, blowing the alpha a kiss before turning back into the red mist surrounding your body.

“WHAT THE HOLY FUCKING SHIT WAS THAT!” Logan backpaddles when you turn around to look at him. Your eyes are back to normal, but there’s a change in the air he can sense.

“That was my alter ego,” you shrug and crouch down to check on Stryker’s pulse. “He’s alive and won’t wake until I let him. We need to go now before the other mutants wake.”

“Wait! We are not done here! What was that thing?” He splutters, still a little shell-shocked. Logan has witnessed the powers of many mutants in his long life and saw a lot of shit go down. But tonight was a whole new level of shit.

“We don’t have time for chit-chat, Logan. Help me with that bastard.”

“You didn’t answer my question!”

“I told you, she’s my alter ego. Can we go now?” You dip your head to glare at Logan. “Do you want to waste your breath out here, or get somewhere safe?”

“So this is your ultimate power, then?” He crouches down to grab Stryker to drag the man toward the car.

“No,” you open the door to the passenger seat. “It’s only a variation of my powers. I hope you never have to witness my ultimate power…”

Part 4

Tags in reblog.

[daryltwdixon]

Summary: In the cold of a nearby neighborhood, Joel’s condition worsens, and tensions rise as you and Ellie do everything you can to keep him alive. Desperation and doubt linger as you search for answers, only to uncover something you never expected—a letter in Joel's bag.

Inside the still coldness of the basement, somewhere east of Colorado State University, where you’re certain those men won’t track you, you’re huddled over Joel. You and Ellie rip into any fabric nearby—blankets left behind, clothes from your bags—anything you can find. The dim light filtering through a small, dirt-smudged window barely illuminates the room, but it’s enough to see the blood soaking the small mattress you found for him.

“Keep pressure, El,” you say, your voice trembling as you fumble for another strip of fabric. The cloth in Ellie’s hands is already soaked through, dark red seeping into her fingers as she presses down on the wound. Turning back, you grab more, switching out the saturated material for something marginally cleaner.

Joel’s body shudders under your touch, his groans low and guttural. His skin is pale, slick with sweat, and every fevered sound he makes feels like a knife to your chest. Seeing him like this—fighting, slipping—makes you want to scream. But you don’t. You can’t.

“Ellie,” you say suddenly, your voice barely above a whisper. She looks up at you, wide-eyed, her hands still holding firm against Joel’s side. “We need a first aid kit. Something to stitch this up. If we can’t stop the bleeding—” Your voice cracks, but you force yourself to continue. “There’s no use.”

Ellie’s face pales, her breath catching as your words sink in. For a moment, she looks as though she might crumble, her lips trembling as she stares down at Joel. “Okay,” she says finally, her voice small. “Okay. I’ll go look.”

“There was a mall,” you tell her, speaking quickly now. “About a mile away. I saw it when we were riding in. Go there. Take Callus and your gun. Take Joel’s, too.” You grab your bag, yanking it open with shaking hands. “Take whatever you need from here. You’ve got this, kid. Do you hear me?”

Ellie swallows hard, her jaw tightening as she processes your words. “What about you?” she asks, her voice wavering.

“I’ll stay,” you say, your throat tightening as you glance down at Joel. His face is pale, sweat beading on his forehead, and his breathing is shallow. “I’ll guard him. Keep pressure on the wound. Keep the bastard alive.”

“But what if they—what if someone—”

“I’ll handle it,” you cut her off, your voice firmer now. “Joel can’t be moved like this. We’ll just slow you down. You’re faster, Ellie. You can do this.”

She hesitates, her eyes flicking between you and Joel, the fear in her expression so raw it twists something deep in your chest. But then she nods, determination setting her jaw. “I’ll be back,” she says, gripping her gun tightly.

“I’m counting on you,” you whisper, holding her gaze. “Be careful, Ellie. And don’t take any risks you don’t have to.”

She nods again, her lips pressing into a thin line as she grabs the supplies, slinging her bag over her shoulder. With one last look at Joel, she turns and disappears through the doorway, her footsteps fading into the distance.

As the silence settles around you, you glance down at Joel again. His face is slack, his breaths shallow, but his eyelids flutter weakly. “You’re not leaving us, Joel,” you whisper, pressing harder against the wound despite the tremble in your hands. “You’re not leaving me, dammit. Not like this.”

Somehow, the basement feels even colder now, the chill creeping in through the cracks and settling into every corner. You sit beside Joel, your back pressed against the wall, your knees pulled to your chest as you watch him shiver uncontrollably. His teeth chatter, the sound sharp and rhythmic, and every breath he takes comes out in foggy bursts of air, a stark reminder of how cold it’s gotten.

You shift closer, tentatively placing a hand on his arm. His skin burns under your touch, feverish and damp with sweat, and it makes your chest tighten with panic. His body feels wrong—too hot, like he’s burning up from the inside out. Every labored breath he takes sends another rush of fog into the cold air, his chest rising and falling unevenly.

“Joel,” you whisper, leaning closer. “Hey. You gotta stay with me, okay?”

His head turns slightly, his eyes fluttering open just enough for you to catch the faintest glimpse of brown beneath his heavy lids. He doesn’t speak, just groans softly, his teeth still chattering so hard it seems to shake his entire frame.

“Shit,” you mutter, brushing damp hair away from his forehead. His skin is slick, his breath shallow and ragged. You glance around the room for something—anything—to help stabilize him. But you’ve used everything, and there’s nothing left. Panic swirls in your chest, but you push it down, forcing yourself to act.

You tug at the zipper of his jacket, pulling it open as you slide your hands beneath the layers. His body radiates heat, and for a moment, you hesitate. He’s feverish, burning up, but the freezing air around you is a bigger threat now. You need to keep him warm—keep his body from going into shock. His skin may be hot, but you know the cold is getting to him quickly.

Carefully, you maneuver yourself closer, slipping beneath his jacket and pressing against him. The heat from his body is almost overwhelming, and the dampness of his clothes clings to your skin, but you ignore it. Wrapping your arms around him, you adjust until your chest is flush against his side, your head resting just beneath his collarbone.

“You’re okay,” you whisper, your breath brushing against his neck. “You’re gonna be okay.”

Joel stirs faintly, a soft groan slipping past his cracked lips. His arm moves weakly, holding you against him.

“Save your energy.” you murmur, holding him steady. “ Let me do the work for once, alright?”

The words are shaky, barely audible over the pounding of your heart. His body is too hot, the fever taking its toll, and it makes you feel helpless. But you press closer, letting your body warmth stabilize him as best as you can.

“Just stay with me, Joel. Please. Don’t—don’t leave me like this. Not when I...”

You falter, the words catching in your throat as tears threaten to spill. Your head rests gently against his chest, and you close your eyes, letting the quiet between you fill with everything you can’t quite say.

“Ellie needs you.”

Hours later, Ellie’s voice pulls you from the restless fog of sleep.

“Hey,” she whispers, crouched beside you with a medkit clutched tightly in her hands. You blink, grogginess weighing down your limbs as you untangle yourself from Joel’s side, slipping out from under his jacket. The cold rushes in immediately, biting at your skin, but the sight of Ellie’s determined face and the kit in her hands ignites a spark of hope.

You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes as you reach for the kit. The unmistakable smell of alcohol wafts out when you open it, revealing gauze, a small bottle of antiseptic, and the tools needed for sutures. Relief floods through you, threatening to spill over in the form of tears.

“Ellie,” you whisper, your voice trembling as you glance up at her. “You found it.”

She lets out a long, shaky sigh, her shoulders dropping as she nods. “Yeah. Took a bit, but I got it.”

You press your lips together, a mix of pride and gratitude swelling in your chest. “Good job, kid,” you murmur, setting the supplies beside Joel. He’s still feverish, his breathing shallow but steady, and you brush his damp hair away from his forehead before reaching for the suture needle and thread.

“I’ve done this before,” you say, your voice steady despite the nervous tremor in your hands.

“You have?” Ellie asks, her wide eyes flicking between you and the needle.

“It’s been a long time,” you admit, your mind drifting back to distant memories of your father and Frank. They’d come home with their share of injuries—cuts, gashes, wounds from their stubborn insistence on doing things the hard way. “But yeah. I’ve stitched up worse than this.”

Ellie swallows hard, her face a mix of determination and apprehension. “What do you need me to do?”

You glance at Joel, your fingers brushing his cheek as if to steady yourself. “I’m going to need your help holding him down if he wakes up,” you say softly, looking back at her. Your voice is calm, but the gravity of the moment weighs heavily in the air. “He’s not going to like this. It’s going to hurt.”

Ellie nods, determination settling in her expression. “I’m ready.”

You draw a deep breath, focusing on the task at hand. The needle feels foreign in your grasp, but the movements come back to you as muscle memory takes over. You glance at Ellie again, her hands poised to steady Joel, and together, you begin. The room is filled with nothing but the sound of Joel’s uneven breaths and the faint clink of the needle as you work, every second stretching into an eternity.

Everything is quiet except for Joel’s ragged breathing and the faint rustle of your movements as you sit by his side. The air feels heavier now, the kind of stillness that presses into your chest and makes it hard to breathe. Ellie had gone out to scavenge, her promise to return with whatever she could find still echoing in your mind, but the hours since she left feel like an eternity. 

Joel’s skin is pale and slick with sweat, his fever unrelenting, and every shallow, uneven breath feels like it could be his last. You keep checking his chest, watching it rise and fall, each movement anchoring you to the present, holding you back from spiraling into fear. But even that tether feels fragile, like it could snap at any moment. He needs antibiotics, and he needs them soon.

You try to focus, your trembling hands moving to your bag as you search for anything useful. Nothing, it was everything you remembered you’d put in there. Nothing useful.

You move to his bag. Spare ammunition, rags, water—anything to help. Your fingers brush against random odds and ends: loose bullets, a dented canteen, an old, frayed cloth. None of it is enough. None of it feels like it will make any real difference.

And then your fingers touch something else, something that stops you cold. The texture is different—thicker than paper, folded neatly, as if it were placed there with care. Your breath catches as you pull it out, your heart pounding in your ears.

It’s a letter.

The edges are worn, but the folds are crisp, precise. Just as you remember. The weight of it in your hands feels disproportionate, as though it holds something heavier than just ink on a page. Your throat tightens as you turn it over, and the sight of the handwriting makes your stomach drop.

It’s unmistakable. The scrawling, familiar penmanship. Your father’s.

You blink rapidly, your vision blurring as the realization settles in. It’s addressed to Joel. The neatness of the fold, the careful way it was placed in his bag—it all feels deliberate, significant. You knew this letter. You’d given it to Joel yourself, back in the relative safety of your own home, trusting him to understand whatever your father had needed to say. But now… now it felt different, heavier.

He had kept it. Not as something to glance at once and discard, but as something worth carrying. Even through all this. Even now.

For a moment, you just sit there, staring at it, your mind racing. Why had he kept it? What did it mean to him? The questions tumble over each other in your head, tangling with the emotions already threatening to overwhelm you. Your fingers tremble as they grip the letter tightly, and you realize your heart is racing faster than it should be.

But before you can process it fully, Joel stirs beside you.

“Joel,” you whisper, leaning over him. His eyes flutter open, glassy and unfocused, but there’s something there—some faint spark of awareness. “Hey, you’re awake.”

His gaze flickers to you, his lips parting as he tries to speak. His voice is a raspy whisper, barely audible. “Go,”

The words hit you like a punch to the gut. “What?” you choke out, leaning closer, your throat tight and your eyes beginning to well. “Joel–” you whisper and your heart aches, a desperate kind of panic seizing you. You’ve never felt so useless in your life. If only you could do something, get medication, food, anything.

Joel’s hand shoots out, his fingers clutching the collar of your jacket with surprising strength. He pulls you closer, his eyes burning despite the fever dulling his gaze, “You take that girl and you go.” His voice cracks, but he doesn’t show weakness. He shoves you back with more force than you expect. You stumble, landing hard on the cold cement floor, your palms scraping against the rough surface. It stings, but not nearly as much as the ache that’s growing in your chest.

Your fingers twitch, tightening around the letter still clutched in your hand. The emotions bubbling inside you threaten to spill over, a storm of sadness, frustration, and anger knotting in your chest. How could he do this? How could he think you’d leave him behind, like he’s just some burden?

You swallow hard, blinking rapidly to chase away the tears stinging your eyes. But it’s no use. They gather anyway, blurring your vision as you look back at him.

Joel’s head lolls slightly, his breathing shallow and uneven, but that fire—his unrelenting stubbornness—still flickers in his gaze. It makes the ache in your chest even worse, anger and anguish twisting together into something almost unbearable.

You push yourself up slowly, your legs unsteady as you stand. The letter feels heavier now, the weight of it digging into your palm. Without a word, you turn toward the stairs, your movements stiff and mechanical.

Ellie’s voice breaks the silence as you reach the top. “Hey,” she calls, stepping inside, her breath visible in the cold air. “I saw a deer! But, uh... I lost it.”

You force yourself to nod, your expression unreadable. “Good,” you say, your voice quiet and strained. “That’s good.”

Ellie frowns, glancing between you and the stairs leading to the basement. “What’s going on? Is Joel okay?”

You avoid her gaze, brushing past her as you grab the rifle leaning against the wall. “He’s fine. I need some air,” you mutter. “Watch over him for now. If anything happens, you know what to do. If anyone shows up, lure them out on Callus before doubling back, you hear?”

Ellie’s eyes widen, her concern obvious. “Wait—what? Where are you going?”

“I’ll get the deer,” you say, your voice tight. You adjust the bow in your hands, avoiding her questioning gaze. “Just... stay here. Keep him safe.”

Ellie hesitates, her mouth opening like she wants to argue, but she doesn’t. Instead, she nods slowly. “Okay,” she whispers. “Be careful.”

“I will,” you reply, already stepping outside.

The cold hits you immediately, the sharp wind biting at your cheeks as you walk into the trees. The letter feels impossibly heavy in your hand, each step making its weight seem more unbearable.

You don’t go far, just enough to put some distance between you and the ache still sitting in that basement. When you find a tree at the end of the yard, you sink down against its trunk, the rough bark pressing into your back.

The letter is crumpled slightly in your grip, your fingers shaking as you stare at it. For a moment, you can’t bring yourself to unfold it. But the emotions swirling inside you—grief, anger, love—demand an outlet.

With a deep, shaky breath, you smooth the paper against your lap and carefully unfold it. The familiar scrawl of your father’s handwriting blurs as tears prick at your eyes. Slowly, you begin to read, the world around you fading as the weight of his words pulls you under.

[chelseeebe]

fate steps in

18+. mdni. no smut but my blog is strictly 18+.

day two of spooky week is a little meet cute with stevie who helps poor reader when she’s scared

.𖥔 ݁ ˖🦇 ݁˖ ݁𖥔 .

Eddie's idea. 

Clearly some scheme to get the girl he was seeing this week to cradle under his arm instead. 

He’d gotten the whole gang in on it, Steve was surrounded by couples. Robin and Vickie. Nancy and Jonathan. Eddie and whatsherface. 

And Steve. 

Left to wander the mazes on his own. Stuck by himself or with some stranger on the ferris wheel. 

Robin had tried to convince him to find a date, rambling through girls he’d been on one date with or a list of names he’d vaguely mentioned before. It’s not lost on him that he was the awkward fifth wheel here. 

“It's not like the others.. they can actually touch you here," Eddie amazes, walking the group through the shabby makeshift gates. 

Chance would be a fine thing. Steve thinks to himself. 

It'd been a while since anyone had touched him like that. Well, touched him at all, really. 

He sighs walking around the shoddily painted amusements, trailing behind the group while his eyes latch onto every single loved up couple walking past. 

He also sighs as Eddie guides them up to the entrance of the haunted manor, prepared to wander around aimlessly on his own while Eddie shuffles off to the nearest dark corner and the rest of them run through as fast as they can. 

Nancy clings onto Jonathan’s arm, Robin and Vickie laugh at the jumpscares, unfazed by the entire thing. 

And Eddie? He’s gone the second the lights flash back on, disappearing into the abyss like this wasn’t his idea in the first place. 

A clown of some sort pops out of the wall right between the group and Steve, too engrossed in their conversations to realise he’s no longer following behind. 

His eyes dart around the dark corridor, no trace of his friends to see. Oh fuck. 

Steve’s not scared of generic clown masks or fake blood but he really, really didn’t want to do this on his own. 

A deep cackle begins from behind or maybe in front, it’s too dark for him to see clearly, not with the lights flashing in his face too. 

It’s just an actor. An actor. He reminds himself. Snarling in his ear as they pass, before letting out the most guttural scream he’s ever heard. 

He grabs onto the nearest object. Nails digging into the soft surface as the lights flash rapidly in his face, the actors hiss and laugh at his reaction, no doubt amused by his petrified face. 

This object, just so happens to be a hand. 

Your hand to be exact. 

Looking equally as terrified as he was. 

“Shit! I’m sorry!” he yells over the ominous background noise, dropping your hand as quickly as he’d grabbed it. 

Your eyes are wide, shaking in your spot, “please hold my hand again,” offering your tremoring palm back out to him. 

Steve does so, gladly. Clasping your hand again rapidly, finding quick solace in the warmth of your palm, the gentle squeezing of your fingertips against his knuckles. 

“I think.. I think they’re gone,” he laughs awkwardly, hoping you’ll want to hold his hand for the entirety of this hell house. 

You nod, clearly still reeling from the scare. “Can we leave before they come back?” tugging gently at his arm. 

He’s more than happy to get the fuck out of there before he embarrasses himself in front of you again. 

Steve leads the way, a knight in shining armour ready to lead you through the ghouls in the dark. His friends still nowhere to be found, as to be expected. It doesn’t really seem to matter anymore, he had a pretty girl holding his hand and no friends around to tease him about it. 

“Are you here on your own?” you ask warily, probably wondering why he was stood yelping in a dark corridor on his own, second guessing taking his hand. 

“No no, my friends are here.. somewhere, they all walked off,” trying to reassure you that he wasn’t some creep trying to prey on scared women.

You nod, squeezing his fingers as the door ahead slams shut, “oh, me too.. bitches,” laughing to yourself. 

“Yeah, bitches,” Steve repeats, only slightly hoping this scary house went on forever. 

“I hate these things,” swallowing loudly, “I didn’t even wanna come in here,” he can feel your eyes on the side of his face, eyeing the nervous sweat, no doubt. “But I’m glad I did now,” averting your eyes as quickly as possible, chuckling into the darkness. 

His heart is in his throat, and not because of the ghouls hidden behind doors. 

“Me too,” smiling sincerely at some girl he didn’t know the name of but was pretty certain he’d marry. 

When you do eventually reach the end, enduring plenty more failed jumpscares and reassuring hand squeezes, he doesn’t want to let go. 

The outside is cold, much colder now he wouldn’t have you right by his side. 

“You know, I wasn’t even really scared,” he mutters into your ear, grateful that his thumping heart could finally rest. 

“Oh totally,” you smirk, “me neither,” wiping your clammy palms down your jeans. 

He gets a proper look at the girl he had been clinging onto for the past twenty minutes. You look different in this light, even prettier than before, especially now the terror had been wiped off your face. 

Someone yells something from across the courtyard, your head flying around to find the voice, meaning you must recognise the voice. Their hand hurriedly beckons you over, a gaggle of girls and their unimpressed boyfriends linger, waiting for you like his friends were undoubtedly doing somewhere. 

“Oh shit,” pouting slightly as you turn back around, “I gotta go, I’ll see you around.. thank you again!” before you’re gone, scurrying over to the group with one last glance back at Steve before they pull you away. 

A harsh hand claps him on the shoulder, jeering right into his ear, “well who was that, Stevie boy?” Eddie swings into Steve’s peripheral, with that arrogant grin Steve wishes he could slap right off. 

He scoffs, shaking his hand from his shoulder, “that was.. that was.. I don’t know,” realising he’d never even asked your name, let alone your number. 

“Well shit, what were you doing in there? We’ve been waiting for you for ages man,” wiggling his brows suggestively, as if Steve would ever behave like such a miscreant like him. 

“Gross,” grimacing at Eddie’s blatant disrespect, “we were just talking,” his eyes turning to scan the crowd, desperate to find you once more. 

“If that’s what just talking looks like, I think that we should go back in there,” slinging his arm over the shoulder of Stacy or Hannah, whatever her name is. 

Steve begins to walk off, unwilling to waste anymore time entertaining Eddie’s dumbass schtick and get to finding you. 

“Woah dude, wait,” Eddie calls, “I was just joking, no need to get your panties in a twist.” 

“I need to find her,” only stopping to try and persuade his friends to help him re-find the potential love of his life, “are you gonna help me or not?”

They look between one another, well aware that the girl he had spoken to for twenty minutes probably wouldn’t appreciate a group of his friends tracing the ground to find her. 

“Steve,” Robin warns softly, “if she didn’t give you her name in there, I don’t think she’ll want you stalking her for it,” flashing him a pitying glance, one he received quite often. 

“That’s not- Jesus Rob, I’m not a stalker,” running out of motivation to convince his friends, “are you coming or not?”

Nancy stands with her arms firmly across her chest, “I am not going in anymore of those things.”

He looks to Eddie for a little backup, surely he’d understand, right? 

Eddie just shrugs, looking around at the displeased group, “sorry man.. you’re on your own.” 

He scoffs, all night he’d traipsed around after these fuckers and yet, the second he finds anyone with even a tiny bit of interest in him, they can’t do the same for him. 

“Fine. I’ll meet you back at the car,” spinning back around to continue his quest, they could all kick rocks for all he cared. 

Fuck ‘em.  

The doe-eyed couples and high-schoolers in dollar store makeup crowd the street, making it damn near impossible to spot anyone, let alone a girl he’d only seen in dim lighting. He couldn’t forget you though, not ever. 

As if by fate, he spots your powder pink jacket, pacing up the cobblestone path, your brows screwed together and a saddened expression on your face. 

Steve speeds up, pushing past the bustling crowds before you slip out of his eyesight again. He couldn’t let you leave without at least trying. Maybe you had a boyfriend or maybe you wouldn’t even be interested at all but if destiny had brought you two together in that house, he had to at least try and honour it. 

You look up from the floor, stopping before you crash straight into Steve’s chest, “oh my God,” a smile creeping onto your lips, “you! I was trying to find you, I mean.. to thank you, obviously,” clearing your throat, turning all bashful and coy. 

Enchanted by the curve of your lips, he stumbles on his words, forgetting the very reason he’s stalked the entirety of the park,, “I was hoping I’d bump into you too,” turning into a frazzled mess under the weight of your gaze, “I didn’t get your name, or.. or your number,” expelling the air from his chest, praying that your frantic searching had meant something too. 

“My number?” searching his face, letting your smile take over the rest of your features, “my number! Yeah.. yes, of course,” a breath of relief escaping your lips, “do you have a pen?”

No. 

He didn’t have a pen. Who carries a pen anymore? 

Nancy Wheeler, that’s who. Suddenly regretting his harsh words for her over preparation would really help right now. 

“I don’t.. fuck,” flustered and upset, he’d walked the length of this place only to fall at the very last hurdle. 

You put your finger to his face before bounding off to one of the trucks, muttering something to the guy behind the counter. Almost sprinting back over with the pen in your hand, a glorious grin that takes over your entire face. 

Yanking his hand, damn near giving him a burn with the ferocity of which you pull his sleeve up, “here okay?” 

Steve nods rather enthusiastically, he’d let you tattoo your number on his forehead if only it meant that he had it. 

You etch your number into his skin, fluttering your lashes when you’re done, “I have to go but please call me,” squeezing his arm for good measure, “it was so nice to meet you!” hollering as your friends wait impatiently.

“I will! I’ll call you!”

[hidden-behind-the-fourth-wall]

Fool - Sandor Clegane x Reader

Summary: You save a man once and despite all it was the best decision of your life.

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

Warnings: Angst, a bit of violence, swearing, Sandor is a dick, not really smut a bit of touchy-touchy.

AN: Soooo... I did a thing... I hope you enjoy it :)

Words: 11 287

The dusk settles thick and silent over the hills, fading the world around you into muted grays and purples. The only sounds are the sigh of wind across the barren moorland and the steady crunch of your boots as you make your way home. The house you live in is a squat, stubborn thing, as weather-worn and tenacious as you have become in these years since your brother left it to you. Just enough land, just enough walls to hold out the loneliness. It’s more than you’d ever thought you’d have, and, somehow, just enough to keep you here.

The moor stretches in rough, empty shadows around you, vast and silent. That silence is part of why you stay; it settles around you like a second skin, a balm after years of watching your brother lose himself to things he’d seen in war. For all the ways you wish you could have saved him, solitude, at least, has kept you whole.

The moor stretches out before you, dark and endless beneath the heavy cloak of twilight. You’re just reaching the edge of your small plot of land when you hear it—the faintest, rough sound cutting through the silence. A groan, low and guttural, catches your ear, half-swallowed by the winter wind. You stop, heart pounding, every instinct screaming to turn back. You’ve heard enough tales of what lies beyond your quiet little corner of the world: soldiers who have no home but war, men who live by taking what isn’t theirs, the dying, the desperate, and the dangerous.

Yet something draws you forward.

You cross the stretch of frostbitten grass, weaving between the trees, and as the shadows deepen, you catch sight of a hulking figure slumped against a tree. He’s half-collapsed, head bent forward, shoulders hunched beneath a tattered, bloodstained cloak. His breath comes in ragged gasps, misting in the cold air.

For a moment, you think he’s dead. He’s so still, his body slouched in a way that seems to defy life. But then, with a low, pained growl, he shifts, bracing himself with one hand in the snow, lifting his head just enough for you to see his face.

And it takes everything in you not to gasp.

The man’s face is a study in harsh contrasts, a brutal landscape of scars and strength. The left side is hideously burned, a grotesque mass of raw, twisted skin that gleams faintly in the fading light. But it’s his other side that holds you captive. The skin there is unscarred, rough from battle and the elements, but it holds the remnants of a fierce, almost unwilling beauty. His cheekbone is high and sharp, his jawline as hard as iron, and his mouth—had he ever known kindness, you think it might have once held a smile.

But his eyes—dark and watchful, flickering with something bitter and broken—pin you in place. There’s a wildness there, something untamed and angry, like a wolf forced into a corner. His gaze is sharp, assessing, as if weighing your worth in that single, searing look.

This man is dangerous. You can feel it in the way he holds himself, even in weakness. There’s something in his bearing, in the raw strength of his frame, that speaks of violence, of a man who’s known blood and pain. And yet, as you take in the curve of his mouth, the line of his jaw, you realize that somewhere beneath the scars and bitterness, there’s a strange, reluctant handsomeness to him. It’s not a softness, not beauty in any traditional sense, but an intensity, a rawness that catches you off guard.

He grunts, a harsh, frustrated sound as he tries to push himself up. His hand slips in the snow, and he slumps back against the tree, his face contorted with pain. Instinctively, you step forward, your own caution dissolving under the faint pull of pity. He hears you, and his head snaps up, his gaze locking onto yours with a ferocity that makes your breath hitch.

“Don’t come closer,” he snarls, his voice a low, gravelly growl that carries an unmistakable warning. “Nothing worth taking here.”

The words are hostile, but there’s a roughness to his tone, a weariness that almost borders on defeat. He’s like a wounded animal, too proud to show his pain, but unable to hide it completely. You feel the weight of his gaze, the cold edge of his mistrust, but something in you softens. Despite his snarl, his threat, there’s a woundedness in him that you recognize, that calls to you.

For a moment, you think of walking away. You tell yourself it’s only logical, that he’s a stranger, a man who looks like he could tear you in two with a single hand if he wanted. But your heart, foolish and unyielding, won’t let you abandon him here.

You take a step forward, keeping your voice low and steady, as if coaxing a feral creature. “You’re hurt. Let me help.”

He looks at you like you’re mad, his mouth curling into a grimace that could almost be a smirk. His eyes hold yours, dark and searching, as if trying to understand why anyone would risk themselves for a man like him.

After a long, tense moment, he slumps, too exhausted to protest. “If you’re going to do something,” he mutters, his voice barely above a rasp, “do it quick. Don’t have time for… pity.”

You swallow, your gaze drawn again to that scarred, angry face, and to the strange beauty hidden within the hardness. He’s a man scarred by life, brutal and battered, but still something about him calls to you. Maybe it’s the strength that radiates from him even in his weakness, or the deep, restless pain in his eyes. Maybe it’s the way he seems like he could have been someone else, someone better, had the world been kinder.

You move closer, your hands gentle as you help him to his feet. He leans heavily on you, his weight a harsh reminder of the raw, unyielding strength in his frame. His body radiates heat, even through the blood-soaked cloak, and as you guide him towards your home, your heart pounds with a strange, nameless thrill.

Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you wonder if this is the worst mistake you’ve ever made. But as his rough voice murmurs a grudging, bitter “thank you,” you feel something flicker within you—a spark, a warmth that defies the winter cold, that promises something you don’t yet understand.

You don’t know if this man will bring you harm or if he’ll leave you with nothing but regret. But for now, you can’t bring yourself to let him go.

***

The walk back to the house is hard with the weight of his body slung over your shoulders, but somehow, you manage. Once inside, you lay him out on your small, sturdy bed, and your breath comes in gasps as you straighten, shaking out your sore limbs. He is still, barely breathing, but alive. The fire flickers nearby, casting his harsh features in half-shadow, softening the edges of that burnt, brutal face.

You busy yourself gathering water and cloth, setting out to clean the wound. Your brother had insisted you learn a few things about tending wounds, enough to patch up a gash and keep someone from bleeding out in the night. You settle beside the stranger and begin, peeling back the bloody cloth with steady hands, trying not to think about the heat of his skin or the size of his scarred hands. You just clean the wound, murmuring quiet apologies as you stitch the torn flesh, trying to ignore his low groans of pain, even in unconsciousness. When the wound is bound, you wipe your brow, exhausted but satisfied.

Your stomach rumbles, reminding you that it has been hours since you last ate. As you ladle out some stew into a bowl, you look back to the bed. His chest rises and falls with labored breaths, but he’s alive. And tonight, strange as it is, that feels like a small victory.

***

The next morning, you’re awakened by a low, pained grumble from across the room. Your eyes snap open, and you see the man stirring, his hand rising to his side. His face twists in confusion and pain as he tries to sit up, and before you can even think to approach, he’s on his feet, moving with surprising speed and strength, his eyes blazing with something that’s half terror, half rage.

“Easy now,” you murmur, holding up your hands. “You’re safe here.”

But he doesn’t see you. The wild look in his eyes is that of a cornered animal. In one swift, instinctual motion, he reaches for you, his hand closing around your wrist, shoving you back against the wall. His other arm raises, ready to strike, but you don’t flinch. Instead, you meet his gaze, calm, steady.

“Go on, if it’ll make you feel better,” you say softly. “But I doubt it will.”

He hesitates, the haze of panic clearing as he takes in his surroundings. You feel his grip slacken, the tension in his shoulders slowly ebbing away as his mind catches up to where he is. He lets you go, blinking in disoriented silence, his breath coming in ragged gasps. You watch his eyes flit across the room, lingering on the bed, the bowl of stew left unfinished by his side, and finally, back to you.

“Where am I?” he rasps, his voice raw and full of suspicion.

You rub your wrist absently, shrugging. “In a poor excuse for a house, on a plot of land no one would want, with a stew that probably won’t kill you, but I’m making no promises.”

The corner of his mouth twitches, though it could hardly be called a smile. There’s a look of recognition in his eyes, though he quickly masks it.

“You brought me here,” he says, still wary.

“Yes,” you reply, keeping your tone casual, unbothered. “I found you bleeding out on the moor. Looked like you’d had a bit of a rough day, so I figured I’d give you somewhere to pass out that wasn’t a muddy ditch.”

He studies you, his eyes still narrowed with distrust. “And what do you want for it?”

“Nothing,” you reply honestly. “Maybe I just have a soft spot for stray dogs.”

A flicker of surprise crosses his face, and then, almost reluctantly, he sinks back onto the bed, wincing as he shifts to keep pressure off his wound.

“My… My brother acted like that too,” you say, unprompted. You look away, clearing your throat. “He’d come back from battles all twisted up, thought I was something dangerous more often than not. Woke up with nightmares, sometimes shouting, sometimes striking out.”

The man watches you, his expression softening almost imperceptibly. “I’m not your brother,” he mutters.

“No, you’re not,” you say, shaking your head. “But you’ve got that look about you. Lost, mean…not sure what to do with someone trying to help.” You offer a small, self-deprecating smile, letting out a soft sigh. “It’s all right. Doesn’t hurt as much as you’d think. My stew’s likely to do worse damage to me than you will.”

He lets out a low grunt, but you sense something easing in his posture, a faint crack in the hard shell he wears like armor. He leans back, the barest hint of a smirk tugging at his mouth.

“Do you know who I am?” he asks, his tone testing, as if expecting fear or awe.

You shake your head lightly. “A lost soul needing help, far as I can tell. I’m not much interested in the rest, if there’s any more to it. You’re here, you’re alive…well, mostly.”

For a long moment, he holds your gaze, something unspoken passing between you. Then, he nods, almost as though he’s granted you some small, silent approval, and shifts his attention to the bowl of stew. You pass him a spoon, keeping your distance, letting him have the silence he seems to need. The room settles into an easy quiet, with only the soft clinking of his spoon against the bowl and the crackle of the fire.

You know he’ll be gone before long; men like him don’t linger. But for now, he’s here, and maybe that’s enough for the both of you.

One morning, while setting a cup of weak ale by his side, you accidentally call him ser, and his reaction is swift, a growl that seems to rumble up from somewhere deep.

***

The days pass in a quiet, uneasy rhythm, and you begin to learn the habits of the stranger who now shares your roof. Sandor is a hard man, as unyielding as winter itself, his words as few and cold as the frost clinging to the windows each morning. He doesn’t speak unless he must, which you’ve come to find is perfectly fine by him. When he does respond, it’s in a grunt or with a sidelong glare, his acknowledgment as brief and gruff as possible.

“Not a knight,” he snaps, his eyes hard as they settle on you. “And I’m no lord, neither.”

You raise your hands in mock surrender, but a smile pulls at the corner of your mouth, despite his scowl. “Fair enough,” you say lightly. “But what am I supposed to call you, then?”

He scowls at the question, his gaze darkening as though you’ve struck a nerve. It takes him a long moment, his jaw clenching as though he’s forcing himself to speak, before he finally mutters, “Sandor.”

“Sandor,” you repeat, tasting the name on your tongue, trying to decide if he’s telling the truth or just pushing you away with a lie. His eyes hold a hard, unyielding light, a barrier between himself and anyone who might try to cross it. You decide not to question him further. If he’s offered a name, it’s enough.

“Well then, Sandor,” you say softly, meeting his gaze as steadily as you can manage. “Now you know my name and I know yours, so I’d say we’re even.”

“Even,” he mutters under his breath, as if the idea itself is laughable.

Sandor is a man as thorny and unyielding as a bramble bush, prickling with gruff remarks and muttered complaints, yet for all his hostility, there’s a strange comfort in his presence. For years now, your house has been quiet, its rooms filled only with the soft creaks of settling wood and the lonely whistle of wind against the shutters. Now, though, his muttered grunts and low growls, his heavy footsteps against the worn floorboards, feel like a balm to the ache you can’t quite admit. That ache of loneliness, the deep, unspoken grief that has weighed down your heart for so long, eases just a little with his presence.

He heals quickly, each day growing stronger, his movements less labored and his strength returning in steady increments. By the week’s end, he’s able to stand and move without wincing, his rough, dangerous strength a reminder of the man he was before his injury. Relief fills you, tempered by a strange, reluctant dread. Part of you wonders if, once he’s fully mended, he’ll vanish as quickly as he came, slipping back into the wilderness, leaving you to the silence and the solitude you’d almost forgotten.

One morning, with the weather turning colder and the threat of snow looming, you walk down to the neighboring farm to barter for milk. The farmer, a kind, weathered man who’s known you since you were small, hands over the jug with a gentle smile, pressing a few thick blankets into your arms as well, “For the winter,” he says. “Keep yourself warm, girl.”

When you return home, though, the warmth of his kindness is quickly overshadowed. There, hunched over in the center of your small home, is Sandor, his broad back turned as he rummages through your belongings, rifling through cupboards and drawers with an urgency that sends a chill through you. His hands move roughly over your things, his muttered curses breaking the fragile peace that has grown between you.

You stop in the doorway, clutching the jug of milk tightly as you watch him. He tosses aside your few meager belongings, his face set in a hard, bitter line as he digs through your things, as if preparing to leave. A strange, painful mixture of betrayal and resignation rises in your chest, twisting into something sharp. Of course he was planning to leave. He’s not the sort to stay.

But seeing him like this—rummaging through your belongings, discarding your few possessions like they mean nothing—hurts in a way you hadn’t expected. You want to feel angry, to confront him, but instead, a heavy weight settles in your chest, the same hollow ache you’ve felt so many times before. Like father, like daughter, you think bitterly, remembering how your father had always trusted too easily, given too freely, only to be taken advantage of time and time again. He’d been a kind man, giving everything he had even when it left him with nothing, and you were foolishly, painfully similar.

Sandor turns at the sound of your footsteps, his face hardening, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword as if you’re an intruder. His eyes narrow as he takes in your figure standing in the doorway, milk jug still in hand. There’s a harsh, guarded look in his gaze, and it sends a shiver down your spine—an unspoken warning to stay back.

You force yourself to keep your gaze steady, even as something inside you twists painfully. “Planning to leave?” you ask softly, trying to keep the hurt from seeping into your voice.

His mouth twists, a sneer curling over his scarred face. He steps forward, his hand tightening on the hilt of his sword, the edge of his voice low and dangerous. “Don’t be foolish,” he warns, his tone a cold blade against your skin. “Give me everything you’ve got.”

For a moment, you can only stare at him, the weight of his words sinking into you, bitter and sharp. You swallow hard, fighting back the hot sting of tears as you reach into your cloak, pulling out a small package you’d prepared the night before, just in case. It holds a bit of food, dried meat, and a few dressing supplies you’d set aside for his wounds.

You hold the bundle out, your hand trembling slightly as you offer it to him. “Here,” you murmur, the word barely above a whisper.

He stares at the bundle, his gaze hard and unyielding, and for a brief, flickering moment, something almost like hesitation crosses his face. But it’s gone as quickly as it came, replaced by his usual mask of scorn and indifference.

“Your coin, too,” he snaps, his voice like steel. His sword hovers near your chest, a silent, unyielding threat. “All of it. Don’t think I’ll leave a thing behind.”

A hollow feeling settles in your stomach, a weight that presses down on your chest, heavy and unrelenting. You’ve never had much, but the thought of giving up the little you have, of facing winter with even less than before, fills you with a quiet, aching despair. Yet even now, you find yourself trying to reach for something, a thread of understanding, a flicker of humanity in his gaze.

“Please,” you murmur, your voice breaking just slightly. “I… I don’t have much coin. If you take what little I have, I’ll have nothing left for winter.”

He sneers, his mouth twisting with something like contempt, and the weight of his disdain cuts through you, sharp and cold. “Maybe this’ll teach you,” he spits, his voice low and harsh. “A lesson in trusting stray dogs.”

He snatches the package from your hands, his grip rough and unyielding, ignoring the quiet desperation in your eyes. The words hang heavy in the air, a bitter wound that tears open inside you, leaving only a raw, aching pain in its wake. You swallow hard, forcing back the tears that blur your vision, but one slips down your cheek, betraying the hurt you’re trying so desperately to hide.

For just a second, you think you see something shift in his gaze—a flicker of regret, a shadow of something softer. But it’s gone almost as quickly as it came, replaced by the hard, unyielding mask that has come to define him. He shoves past you, his heavy boots thudding against the floor as he strides toward the door without a backward glance, leaving only the echo of his footsteps in the quiet.

You stand there, rooted in place, your heart pounding painfully in your chest, tears rolling down your cheeks as you watch him go, as the last fragile thread of hope slips away, leaving you alone in the silence once more.

***

Winter’s chill settles deep into your bones. It’s an unforgiving season here, the kind that tests everything from your wits to your resolve. Your small house creaks and groans under the weight of ice and wind, and you wonder, at times, if it might be better to go into the village, to stay there until the thaw. But you’re stubborn, more stubborn than you should be, and you’ve come to find a strange comfort in the solitude.

You take up odd jobs at the inn when you can, enough to keep your stores filled. It isn’t much, but it keeps you busy, keeps you from feeling the sting of an empty house quite so sharply. But it’s no joy. The men there are rough, rowdy, especially after a few rounds. They leer and jeer, grabbing at your arm or the hem of your sleeve. You despise it, the feel of their hot breath, their drunken grins, but the coins in your pocket help you keep your head high. You grit your teeth and bear it because you have no choice.

You’ve been keeping company with a new stray—a scrawny brown dog that wandered onto your land and decided to stay, curling up at your feet by the fire each night, his tail thumping whenever he sees you. You named him Fool, a reminder of the soft, foolish heart you’ve inherited. A part of you still aches, still feels betrayed by the man who once sat in that same spot, the one who had sneered at your kindness and left you with nothing.

You’ve come to accept it as part of your nature, something passed down from your father. He had been a good man, too kind for his own good, always helping others even when it meant less for himself. Your brother had hated him for it, berating him every chance he got, calling him weak, calling him a fool. But you never saw it that way. You admired him, adored him. And, though your brother couldn’t understand it, you became just like him, carrying the same silly heart that gets broken again and again.

One evening, just as you’re finishing your meal with Fool at your feet, you hear voices outside—low and ragged, like someone fighting just to breathe. You tense, listening. It’s not the sound of drunken revelry, nor the calls of travelers. It’s something closer, something weaker. Fool growls, his ears pricked as he looks toward the door, his body stiff with tension.

Slowly, you rise and make your way to the door, drawing it open to peer out into the night.

At first, you can hardly believe it. There, slumped against the old tree on the edge of your land, is the familiar hulking figure, dressed in ragged, bloodstained clothes, his face twisted in a half-smirk even as he bleeds into the snow. Sandor. Or whatever his name truly is. His eyes catch yours, filled with that same strange, dark amusement that first unsettled you.

You stand there, frozen, the cold biting through your cloak. He watches you, the smirk faltering as his breath hitches. Blood drips from his side, staining the snow beneath him dark red, and his skin is deathly pale, as if the winter itself is pulling the life from his veins.

“Didn’t… think I’d come crawling back, did you?” he rasps, his voice rough, tinged with something you don’t recognize. “But here I am.”

He laughs, the sound hoarse, pained, a laugh that nearly turns into a cough. It’s as if the sight of you, standing there shocked and hurt, is some cruel joke. He closes his eyes for a moment, breathing heavily, then looks at you with a half-lidded gaze, his expression somewhere between frustration and amusement.

“You’re… not going to leave me to die, are you?” he mutters, a taunting edge to his tone. “I know you’re too soft for that.”

For a long moment, you don’t move. You want to turn around, to let him suffer in the cold as he’d left you to face winter alone, empty-handed and betrayed. But that part of you, that foolish heart you can’t quite stamp out, stirs again. You can’t just let him bleed out there, not while you’re able to help. It would go against everything your father taught you, everything you’ve tried to be.

You kneel beside him, close enough to see just how deep the wound is. Your breath forms clouds in the freezing night air, and you shiver as the cold seeps through your clothes. Gently, you reach to peel back his cloak, trying to assess the damage.

But before you can even touch the wound, his hand shoots out, iron-strong despite his weakness, clamping down around your wrist in a crushing grip. He looks up at you, half-delirious, but his gaze is sharp, angry, almost as if he expects you to exact some imagined revenge.

“No… revenge for you,” he slurs, his voice thick with exhaustion. He laughs again, harshly, even as his fingers dig into your skin with bruising strength. “You… thought you’d get to watch me… rot out here, did you? Not… going to give you that satisfaction.”

You wince, the pain of his grip flaring hot and sharp in your wrist. It feels like he’s about to snap the bone. You try to twist free, but his hold is unyielding, as if every last ounce of his strength is focused on this one, foolish grip. The pressure builds, and you can’t help the pained cry that escapes your lips.

His eyes widen slightly, as if the sound finally registers through his haze. His grip loosens, more from weakness than mercy, and his hand falls away as he sinks back against the tree, his breaths shallow, his skin sickly pale. You rub your wrist, feeling the tender flesh pulse with pain, but you swallow it down, forcing yourself to focus.

He’s slipping, you realize. The blood loss is taking its toll, his head lolling to the side as his eyes flutter shut.

And so, once again, you find yourself hauling him back to the house, his weight leaning heavily against you. It’s harder this time—your strength worn from winter’s hardship, from the nights of cold and hunger you’ve endured because of him. You half expect him to turn on you again, to mock you for your foolishness, but he’s silent, unconscious, his head slumping against your shoulder.

As you drag him inside, your heart is a heavy, tired thing, pounding against your ribs with equal parts anger and despair. You manage to get him onto the bed, his limp form settling like a dead weight. His face is ghostly pale, the scarred skin standing out in harsh contrast. For a moment, you just stand there, watching his shallow breaths, wondering what in the gods’ names possessed you to do this again.

This time, you think, as you go to fetch the bandages, this time, if he turns on you, you won’t hesitate. If he threatens your life again, if he makes even a single move to hurt you, you’ll do what you should have done before—you’ll leave him out in the snow. You’re not strong enough to keep making the same mistakes, to keep paying the price for a kind heart in this unforgiving world.

But as you bind his wounds, as you feel the rough heat of his skin beneath your hands, that soft heart of yours, the one your father instilled in you, refuses to harden. You’ve been foolish, yes. You’ve been hurt, and you’ll likely be hurt again. But as you watch Sandor’s labored breaths begin to steady, you know that some part of you would rather be foolish than cold.

And so, for better or worse, you tend to him, wondering, with a tired bitterness, if this kindness will be the last one you’ll ever give.

***

The first thing Sandor feels as he surfaces from unconsciousness is something warm and wet against his face. For a moment, he’s sure he’s lost more blood than he thought, until he cracks one eye open and sees the mangy face of a dog staring back at him, tongue lolling and nose sniffing eagerly. With a low groan, he shifts his head, feeling the ache flare up along his side. Before he can shove the mutt away, you swoop in, pulling the dog back with gentle hands.

“Sorry about that,” you murmur, pulling the dog’s scruffy head back and rubbing his ears to settle him down. “Fool doesn’t know what ‘personal space’ means.”

Sandor raises an eyebrow, a wry smirk tugging at his mouth despite himself. “Fool, huh?” he mutters, his voice rough, still thick from sleep. “Fitting, that. You’re both a pair of fools.”

He can hardly believe it. Here he is again, bleeding and half-dead in your bed, in your home. After everything he’s done—after holding a sword to your throat, stealing what little you had—and still, you dragged him back here, fussed over him like a wounded animal. The stupidity of it, the softness in you that hasn’t been beaten out by life, it boggles his mind.

As he’s about to mutter some biting remark, something stops him. He looks at you properly, for the first time since he woke, and he notices the changes. Your clothes hang a bit looser on you, as if you’ve shrunk inside them. Your cheeks are thinner, a bit hollowed out, and the brightness that once lit up your eyes is gone, replaced by a dullness that tells him of long, hard days, of nights colder and hungrier than they should’ve been.

The smirk fades from his face, replaced by a flicker of something unreadable. He opens his mouth, but before he can say anything, you speak.

“I… took care of your wounds,” you say, almost formally, as if you’re a healer giving a report. “You’d lost a lot of blood. If you’re planning on walking out again, I thought you might like to know where things are. There’s stew on the hearth if you’re hungry. And, if you feel the need to repeat that goodbye of yours, just… don’t destroy anything this time.”

The words are matter-of-fact, but there’s a thread of sadness running through them, a tired acceptance that pricks at something deep within him. You straighten, brushing off your hands before turning to the door, as if it’s no big thing that he’s here again, as if his threats and cruelty were no more than a mild inconvenience. Your voice, soft and resigned, reaches him one last time.

“I’m off to work now. Do as you please, Sandor.”

And with that, you leave, closing the door quietly behind you.

For a long time, he lies there, staring at the door. The dog, Fool, looks at him curiously, tilting his head as if wondering why Sandor hasn’t moved yet. There’s a restlessness in Sandor’s chest, a knot that twists and pulls, refusing to settle. He’s had people look at him with fear, with hate, with indifference—but no one has ever looked at him the way you do. You looked at him like he’s something worth saving, worth trusting. It grates on him, that look of yours, that damn fool’s kindness that he doesn’t understand, doesn’t want to understand.

He forces himself to sit up, biting back a grunt of pain as the wound throbs in protest. Swinging his legs over the side of the bed, he surveys the small room. It’s as bare as he remembers—nothing of much value, nothing a sane person would want to steal. There’s a wooden bowl by the fire with the stew you’d mentioned, and though he’s hungry, he can’t bring himself to touch it. Not yet.

His eyes drift to the small pile of belongings he’d rummaged through during his last departure. They’re stacked neatly now, as if you’d placed each item back with quiet care. It stirs something in him—a shame he doesn’t want to feel, a guilt he’s spent his life learning to ignore. And yet, the evidence of your continued kindness, after all he’s done, sits like a stone in his gut.

Grimacing, he looks down at his hands. They’re scarred, rough, made for breaking things, not for accepting the kind of foolish generosity you keep offering. He knows he should leave. But something in the way you looked at him, that dullness in your eyes, that resignation—he can’t shake it.

***

When you return home that evening, you brace yourself to find the place empty again, as you had the last time Sandor left. Part of you expects him to be gone—like some bad dream that you keep waking up from only to find yourself alone, with nothing left to show for your troubles but a sore wrist and a dwindling store of food.

But as you step into the dim warmth of your small home, there he is, slouched on the floor by the hearth, with Fool sprawled across his lap. He looks different in the firelight, softer, though you’d never say that out loud. He glances up at you, a flicker of something unreadable passing over his scarred face, then back down at the dog, his fingers idly scratching behind Fool’s ears.

You’re caught off-guard by the sight. He should be long gone by now. But perhaps he isn’t feeling well enough to travel, not with his wound still fresh. Or maybe it’s just that he hasn’t taken enough to be satisfied—though, truthfully, there’s nothing left here for him to take.

You notice that he’s tried to redress the wound on his side. The bandage is clumsily tied, blood seeping through in faint, angry patches. You want to say something, to tell him he’s done a poor job of it, but who are you to speak? The man would only scoff, maybe laugh, and truthfully, you’re too tired for it. So you say nothing.

With a sigh, you take off your cloak and hang it near the door. Your fingers are cold, stiff from the bitter workday, and the thin chill that clings to your bones makes you shiver. You spent what little strength you had left chopping wood for the innkeeper’s kitchen and serving ale to men with wandering hands and slurred voices. All for a few coppers that barely cover enough to last the week.

Your stomach growls as you sit down, reminding you of the hunger you’ve been pushing down all day. You feel Sandor’s eyes on you, a weight you can’t ignore, but you keep your gaze lowered. Most of what you had went into the stew for him. You’d put in the last of the carrots, a precious few potatoes. He needed it more than you, after all. That’s what you keep telling yourself.

Gathering the scraps left, you prepare a small bowl for Fool, letting him lick at what’s left from the pot. He wolfs it down, not realizing it’s little more than gristle and broth. You lean back against the wall, every part of you aching with exhaustion, and wrap your arms around yourself, trying to ignore the rumbling in your stomach.

The silence between you and Sandor feels heavy, like something you could reach out and touch. You feel his gaze, keen and appraising, but you don’t meet his eyes. Instead, you reach for the small, worn book that rests by your bed, the only one you own. It’s a collection of stories, a gift from your brother, back in the days when the world seemed brighter and he was still full of hope. You run your fingers over its cracked leather cover, a comfort against the cold.

Reading has always been your escape. You loved books even as a child, their pages carrying you to places you could never hope to see. Your brother taught you to read himself, spelling out each word by candlelight until the letters began to make sense. But books are expensive, and now you can barely afford to eat, let alone buy a single new volume. The last coppers you’d saved were gone, taken by the man sitting just a few feet away from you.

As you open the book, Sandor’s low voice breaks the silence, rough and edged with scorn.

“Didn’t know you could read,” he mutters, a cruel smirk playing at his lips. “Didn’t peg you for the scholarly type.”

The words sting, a barb that lands squarely in your chest, and you feel something twist in you, something that snaps like a thread pulled too tight. You bite your lip, trying to push down the frustration, the hunger, the anger that’s been simmering for weeks.

“Yes, I can read,” you reply, the words tumbling out unbidden, your voice barely steady. “I’ve read this book since I was a little girl. It’s the only book I own.”

You look down at the pages, blinking quickly, fighting back the tears that blur the words. But the hurt breaks through, spilling over before you can hold it back.

“I can’t afford books, Sandor,” you say quietly, your voice trembling. “I can barely afford food. And since you stole what little I had before winter, I’ve got even less now.”

The words are bitter on your tongue, and as you say them, the weight of them settles in, raw and unforgiving. Your voice catches as you add, “I hope you enjoyed your stew, because that’s all there is.”

For a moment, there’s nothing but silence. Sandor’s face changes, just slightly—something you can’t quite place, something like shame, maybe, or anger. But you don’t give him the chance to respond. You’ve had enough of his cruelty, his smirks and jibes.

Without another word, you set the book aside, pulling on your cloak with hands that tremble from more than just the cold. Fool looks up at you, his eyes warm and concerned, and you give him a soft pat before whistling for him to follow. The dog bounds to your side, tail wagging, as you push open the door and step out into the night.

The night air is sharp and cold, seeping through your cloak as you walk farther from home, past the shadowed trees and thorny underbrush. The stars overhead feel distant, detached from the world below, indifferent to your weariness and grief. Fool trots by your side, his warmth pressing against your leg as if he senses the turmoil churning inside you.

You keep walking, unwilling to return to that small house, the one place that should feel safe. How could it, when inside is a man who, despite your kindness, has been nothing but cruel to you? A man who mocked the one thing you had, the only treasure that connected you to your past. You’re tired of feeling like the world’s fool. The ache of hunger gnaws at your stomach, and the weight of exhaustion pulls at your limbs. You wander until the cold begins to settle into your bones, until each step feels heavier than the last.

Finally, when you can’t take another step, you sink down beneath a twisted old tree, pulling Fool close and burying your face in his fur. His warmth is comforting, his quiet companionship a balm to the loneliness that has followed you all winter. You run your fingers through his fur, whispering soft words to him, trying to keep your thoughts from straying back to Sandor, to the anger and bitterness that make your chest ache.

“Just you and me, Fool,” you murmur, pressing a kiss to the dog’s head. His tail thumps softly against your leg, his brown eyes warm with loyalty.

You lean your head back against the rough bark of the tree, staring up at the sky, the endless, uncaring blackness. Your eyes feel heavy, the exhaustion you’ve been pushing down finally seeping into every inch of you. You don’t even realize when your eyes slip shut, your body sinking into a restless sleep in the frigid air.

***

The sound of footsteps crunching through the snow pulls Sandor’s attention. He’s been walking for some time, an uneasy restlessness pulling him to his feet as he stoked the fire, watching the smoke curl up the chimney. You’d gone out without a word, and though he’d fought the urge to follow you, something gnawed at him, a sense of wrongness he couldn’t ignore.

He listens, and then he hears it—a faint, muffled bark. He follows the sound, his heavy boots leaving deep prints in the snow, his breath fogging in the icy air. When he finally spots you slumped under the tree, his stomach clenches at the sight.

“Seven hells,” he mutters under his breath.

The last thing he’d expected was to find you curled up like a wraith, Fool nestled beside you. Your cheeks are streaked with tear stains, and your face is pale, your body curled into a defensive huddle against the cold. You look fragile, too thin, too worn, like you could disappear into the frost.

He kneels down, slipping his arms under you, and curses under his breath at how light you are. Fool trots along beside him, whining softly, his brown eyes worried as he watches Sandor lift you. Sandor feels a pang of regret, remembering the words you’d spoken to him before you left—the way you’d put everything you had into that stew, that last precious meal you’d given up for him.

“You damn fool,” he mutters, anger seeping into his voice as he carries you back, fighting the guilt that twists in his chest. Fool barks softly as if in agreement, trotting loyally beside him as he makes his way back to the house.

***

When you wake, there’s a strange warmth wrapped around you, a thick blanket heavy on your shoulders. For a moment, you wonder if you’re still dreaming, but as you shift, you realize the warmth isn’t just from the blanket.

The fire crackles brightly in the hearth, far warmer than the usual thin flames that you can barely afford to keep going. There’s more wood than you remember, enough to keep the room warm all night. You sit up, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, and glance toward the hearth, wondering where the firewood could have come from. It isn’t yours; you’d never have been able to afford such a large stack.

You pull yourself out of bed, your legs stiff and cold, and shuffle to the window. Outside, in the faint morning light, you catch sight of Sandor in your small, snow-covered yard, his back to you as he brings down an axe, splitting another thick log with brutal efficiency. The wood splits with a crack, falling to the ground in two neat halves, and he sets another log in its place, bringing the axe down again with a practiced swing.

For a moment, you just watch him, too surprised to move. When you finally step outside, the cold morning air bites at your cheeks, and Sandor glances up from his work, his eyes flicking over you with a dark, assessing look.

“You’re awake,” he grunts, setting the axe down and stretching his shoulders. “Good. Got some food inside for you. And when I’m done here, I’ll give you back the coin I took.”

You open your mouth to respond, but he cuts you off, his gaze hardening as he crosses his arms, looking at you with something between anger and exasperation.

“Falling asleep outside in the cold. Stupidest damn thing I’ve seen,” he growls, shaking his head. “Do you have a death wish, or are you just that foolish?”

The harshness of his tone stings, but you say nothing, lowering your gaze as he picks up the axe again, splitting another log with a clean, efficient swing. You lean against the porch, too tired to defend yourself, too numb to react to his anger. The weight of your exhaustion presses down on you, but you can’t deny the small warmth of relief at his words, at the sight of the stack of wood growing at his feet.

After a moment of silence, Sandor glances up at you, his expression softer, almost curious. “That book you keep reading,” he says, his voice gruff. “What’s in it?”

You blink, caught off-guard by the question. “It’s… it’s just stories. Tales of old knights and distant lands. My brother gave it to me when I was little.”

He grunts, swinging the axe again, sending another log splintering in two. “Don’t see why a grown woman would waste time with children’s tales.”

A faint smile tugs at your lips, a small spark of defiance as you shrug. “Books are rare. Expensive. I can’t afford more than this one, so I read it over and over. I suppose it just became… familiar.” You pause, a touch of longing in your voice. “If I had a choice, though… I’d like to read something new. Anything, really. A book with tales from the South, or a story about far-off places I’ll never see.”

Sandor pauses, his gaze thoughtful, as if weighing your words. “Stories aren’t going to fill your belly, or keep you warm,” he mutters, though his tone lacks its usual bite.

“No,” you agree, looking down at your hands. “But they give me something to look forward to. Something to hope for.” You glance up, meeting his eyes, your voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve lost so much, Sandor. My brother, my family, everything. The book… it’s all I have left of them.”

He’s silent, his gaze shifting back to the axe in his hands. For a moment, he doesn’t say anything, just keeps chopping, the steady rhythm filling the air. 

You watch him in silence, the soft crunch of snow beneath his boots, the steady rhythm of the axe. Fool wanders up to you, resting his head on your knee, and you scratch behind his ears, feeling a warmth settle in your chest that you haven’t felt in a long time. You know Sandor could leave any day, take the coin he promised to return and be gone by nightfall. But for now, as he stacks the wood, the house feels a little warmer, the world a little less empty.

As you sit there, watching him work, the weight of loneliness lifts, just a fraction, and you find yourself hoping, for the first time, that maybe—just maybe—he’ll stay a while longer.

***

At first, Sandor stays only as long as his wound takes to close, but as the days pass, he doesn’t seem in any hurry to leave. He falls into a rhythm in your home. Some mornings, you wake to find him already chopping wood or tending to small repairs that you’ve let sit for far too long. You aren’t sure what keeps him here, and you don’t ask, afraid that if you put words to it, he’ll take his leave for good.

One evening, as you stand at the hearth stirring stew, you feel him watching you from where he sits by the fire. His gaze is intense, making the hair on the back of your neck prickle. When you glance over your shoulder, you catch him staring, his eyes following the curve of your neck, his mouth set in a strange, unreadable line.

“Something on my face?” you tease, raising an eyebrow.

He scoffs, though you notice he doesn’t look away. “I just don’t get it,” he mutters, leaning back in the chair, his gaze still fixed on you.

“Don’t get what?”

“Why you don’t run screaming when you see me,” he says, his tone rough. “Face like this, most people can’t bear to look at it.”

You stop stirring, turning to face him fully. “I’m not most people,” you say, your voice soft but certain. Slowly, you walk over to him, standing in front of his chair until he has to tilt his head up to meet your gaze. “I don’t care about that,” you murmur, letting your gaze linger on his unscarred side, then back to the marks of fire on the other. “In fact,” you say, your voice dropping to a near whisper, “I think you’re rather handsome.”

His brows shoot up, a mixture of surprise and suspicion flickering across his face. “Handsome,” he repeats, as though testing the word for himself.

You lean down, bracing a hand on the arm of his chair, bringing yourself close enough that you can feel the heat of his breath. “Very handsome,” you whisper, and before he can react, you let your hand slide up his arm, squeezing gently before pulling back.

He shifts uncomfortably, a faint flush rising to his scarred cheek. “Think you’re the only fool in the world who’d ever say that,” he mutters, but you catch the slight twitch of his mouth, the way his gaze softens as he watches you return to the hearth. And when you glance back, he’s still looking, his eyes darker than before, like he’s seeing you for the first time. 

***

After that night, there’s a shift between you, an invisible thread that draws you closer with each passing day. Sandor doesn’t shy from you the way he used to; he lets you touch him, lets your hand linger on his shoulder or arm when you’re talking, even lets you fuss over his bandages, though he grumbles that you’re treating him like some “invalid.”

One night, you sit close by the fire, reading aloud from your single book. Sandor sits beside you, his arm slung along the back of your chair. Every so often, his fingers brush your shoulder, light but deliberate, sending a warm shiver through you. The warmth of the fire and the nearness of him make it easy to forget the hard edge of the world outside.

“Never known someone to be so taken with words on a page,” he murmurs, his voice low as he watches you read.

You smile, leaning against his arm, feeling the heat of his skin through his shirt. “They’re an escape,” you say, meeting his gaze. “They take me somewhere I’ll never get to go.”

He watches you a moment longer, his hand lifting to brush a strand of hair from your face, his touch lingering. “Maybe you don’t need to go anywhere,” he murmurs, his voice softer, almost tentative. “Maybe what you’re looking for’s right here.”

Your breath catches, and you find yourself leaning into his touch, your heart pounding. “Maybe it is,” you whisper, the words barely audible, and for a long, endless moment, you both sit there, your eyes locked, the fire crackling softly in the silence between you.

***

The flirting becomes a familiar rhythm, woven into your days like a song that only you and Sandor know. He’s braver now, bolder, his rough edges softened by the warmth that grows between you. One afternoon, as you wash linens by the stream, he wanders over, watching as you scrub a shirt of his with practiced, careful hands.

“Got no business handling a man’s things like that,” he grumbles, though there’s a glint in his eye as he leans against a nearby tree, arms folded across his chest.

You grin, wringing out the shirt and hanging it to dry. “Well, if you’d quit splitting the seams, I wouldn’t have to.”

He snorts, shaking his head as he steps closer, his hand brushing yours as he reaches for the next shirt. His fingers linger a moment too long, rough and warm, and when he looks at you, there’s a spark of mischief in his dark eyes.

“What would you do without me, then?” he asks, his voice low, teasing.

You pretend to consider it, your own grin widening. “Probably sleep better, eat more.”

He laughs, a rare, genuine sound that fills the quiet air around you, and before you realize what you’re doing, you reach up, brushing a hand over his cheek, feeling the faint stubble along his jaw. He freezes, his breath catching, his gaze fixed on yours.

“You know,” you say softly, letting your hand linger, “for someone so big and gruff, you’re awfully soft right here.”

His lips quirk into a smirk, and he catches your hand, pressing it against his cheek. “Keep talking like that, and you’ll give me ideas.”

“Maybe that’s the point,” you murmur, leaning in, your breath mingling with his. For a heartbeat, you’re sure he’s going to kiss you, but he pulls back, his gaze flickering with a mix of hesitation and want.

“You’re playing a dangerous game,” he mutters, his voice rough with something deeper, and you can see the strain in his eyes, the fight between wanting and holding back.

“Good,” you reply, not letting go of his hand. “I like a bit of danger.”

***

One night, as the snow begins to melt in earnest and the first whispers of spring reach your small home, there’s a knock at the door. The sound is low, almost hesitant, as if unsure whether to break the silence. Fool barks, his ears pricked, and you pull yourself from your chair, wiping your hands on your apron as you approach.You smile softly when you see him outside.

“Are you going to let me in, or do I stand here all night?” he grumbles, shifting the weight of the sack on his shoulder.

You step aside, too happy to see him for your own good, and he walks into the warmth of your small home, setting the sack down by your bed. The firelight casts strange shadows over his face, softening the hard lines, and for a moment, he looks almost uncomfortable, as if he isn’t sure why he’s here, or what to expect from you.

Without a word, he reaches into the sack and pulls out the first of its contents. When you see what it is, you gasp softly.

It’s a book.

The leather binding is rough, worn by years of use, and the pages are yellowed, fraying at the edges. Sandor sets it in your hands, watching as you stare down at it, unable to believe what you’re seeing. Then he reaches back into the sack, drawing out another book, and then another, until a small pile of them rests in your lap.

You stare down at the books, hardly able to breathe. There are five, no, six—each one a little treasure, worn and tattered but precious beyond words. For a long moment, you can’t speak. You just look at each one, running your fingers over the covers, flipping through the pages, reading the faded titles and tracing the spines. You feel like a child, given the greatest gift you’ve ever dreamed of.

And then, before you can stop yourself, you laugh—a soft, breathless sound that quickly turns into a sob. You cover your mouth, the tears streaming down your cheeks, but you don’t care. In that moment, you forget all the anger and hurt, all the cruelty he’d shown you. You launch yourself at him, wrapping your arms around his neck in a fierce hug.

He tenses, his hands hovering uncertainly at his sides, but you cling to him, sobbing and laughing, feeling the solid warmth of him under your hands. Slowly, as if afraid to break something fragile, he lets his hands rest on your back, his touch awkward, hesitant.

“You’re… crying,” he mutters, a trace of discomfort in his voice. “What are you crying for? It’s just a few damn books.”

You pull back, wiping at your cheeks, laughing through the tears as you meet his confused gaze. “Thank you,” you whisper, your voice shaking. “You don’t know… you don’t know how much this means to me.”

He shifts, scratching the back of his neck, clearly uncomfortable. His eyes flicker to the side, avoiding your gaze. “You’re a fool,” he mutters, his voice rough. “Don’t even know why I bothered.”

But there’s something softer in his expression, something that hints at a vulnerability he rarely shows. He watches you, his brow furrowing as if he’s trying to make sense of the sight before him. And then, after a moment, he speaks again, his voice quieter, more uncertain.

“Aren’t you… afraid of me? For real?” he asks, his gaze searching. “Don’t I… disgust you? I know I am not nice too look at.”

You look at him, truly look at him, taking in the harsh lines of his scarred face, the hardness that has been etched into his expression by years of pain. And you realize that, despite everything, you aren’t afraid. You aren’t disgusted. To you, he’s just Sandor.

“No,” you whisper, shaking your head. “I’ll keep repeating that I don’t care how you look. It doesn’t matter to me. What matters is that you’re… that you’re kind.”

At that, he scoffs, his mouth twisting with bitterness. “Kind? I put a sword to your throat. I stole from you, left you to freeze and starve. I’m not a good man,” he growls, the words dripping with self-loathing. “And I won’t be good to you. You think I’m some hero from one of those tales of yours? I’m nothing like that.”

You smile, a soft, sad smile, and reach up to cup his face, your thumb tracing the rough line of his scar. Before he can react, you lean in, pressing a gentle kiss to his lips. He freezes, caught off-guard, but you linger just a moment, letting the warmth of the kiss speak for the words you can’t find.

When you pull back, you see the shock in his eyes, the raw vulnerability he’s tried so hard to hide. You smile again, softer this time, and settle down on the bed beside him, gathering the books in your lap and turning to show him each one.

“Here,” you murmur, your voice soft as you run your fingers over the first cover. “This one’s a collection of songs. My brother used to sing to me when I was little. He’d make up his own songs, silly little rhymes, and tell me I’d learn real ones one day. I suppose now I can.”

Sandor’s gaze softens as he watches you, a strange mixture of regret and wonder in his eyes.

You hold up another book, a thick, leather-bound tome with faded writing along the spine. “This one looks like a history book. Probably dry and boring, but I’ll read it anyway. Who knows? Maybe there’s something useful in it.”

As you go through each book, you feel his gaze on you, steady and intent, as if he’s trying to memorize every detail. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t interrupt, just watches as you trace each title, as you murmur your thoughts, your hopes for each story.

When you finish, you turn back to him, your heart full, your voice barely above a whisper. “Thank you, Sandor,” you say again, meeting his gaze with a sincerity that makes his expression soften, almost against his will. “I don’t care what you’ve done. You’ve given me something precious. Something I’ll never forget.”

For a long moment, he’s silent, his gaze searching yours, his rough hands resting on his knees. And then, almost reluctantly, he nods, as if he’s accepted something he can’t quite put into words.

“Don’t go making me out to be something I’m not,” he mutters, his voice gruff but lacking its usual bite. “I’m not a hero. Don’t need your thanks.”

You smile, resting your hand over his. “You may not be a hero, Sandor. But to me… you’ve been something close.”

He shakes his head, but you catch the faintest hint of a smile, a softness that lingers in his gaze as he looks at you, as if he’s finally beginning to understand the depth of your foolish, stubborn kindness.

As the fire crackles softly in the hearth, the warmth filling the room, you sit beside him, your heart full in a way it hasn’t been in a long time. The books rest in your lap, a symbol of something precious, something more than words on a page. 

“I have something more”, he says after a while. A bottle of dark wine glistens under his arm, rich and rare, the sort of indulgence neither of you have seen in ages. He sets it down next to the books, meeting your surprised gaze with a shy sort of confidence that almost makes you laugh.

“Wine and books?” you say, raising an eyebrow. “You’re spoiling me, Sandor.”

“Maybe I am,” he mutters, looking away as if unsure of himself. “You deserve more than… well, more than you’ve had.”

Something about his tone pulls at your heart, and you take out two clay cups, pouring the wine with quiet reverence. You both take a sip, the taste rich and warm, settling in your chest. It’s delicious, smoother than anything you’ve tasted, and by the time you’ve both emptied your first cup, you feel a warmth spreading through you, loosening your reservations, softening the edges of the quiet tension that’s lived between you.

Sandor leans back in his chair, watching you in the firelight. His gaze lingers on you, tracing the line of your neck, the soft curve of your mouth. When you catch him looking, he doesn’t look away, and the heat of his stare sends a shiver over your skin.

“There’s something different about you tonight,” he says, his voice low, thoughtful.

“Maybe it’s the wine,” you tease, but there’s more to it than that. There’s something in the way he looks at you, something that makes you bold. “Or maybe,” you murmur, reaching across the table to touch his hand, “maybe it’s you.”

He glances down, watching your fingers brush over his knuckles, his rough hands unmoving, allowing the touch. Then, slowly, his fingers close over yours, his thumb tracing a gentle line across your skin. The simplicity of it sends a warmth through you, soft but undeniable, and when he looks up, his dark eyes are filled with something raw, something yearning.

“Why me?” he asks, his voice a murmur, rough yet filled with vulnerability. “Why are you looking at me like that?”

You lean forward, your voice barely above a whisper. “Because I want to,” you say simply, and before he can respond, you press a soft kiss to his knuckles, your lips lingering on his scarred, calloused skin.

He lets out a breath, something that sounds like surprise, and you feel his hand tighten around yours, his fingers weaving between yours as he stands, drawing you to your feet. The firelight flickers over his face, casting shadows over the deep lines of his expression, but his gaze is warm, focused, and you feel your heart pound as he reaches out, brushing his hand over your cheek.

For a moment, you both stand there, caught in the quiet of the moment. And then, in a single, slow motion, he leans down, pressing his lips to yours in a kiss that’s both tender and possessive, his hand cradling the back of your head, holding you close.

The kiss deepens, his mouth exploring yours with a hunger that’s been long denied, a need that thrums through your veins. You reach up, your fingers threading into his hair, pulling him closer, feeling his body against yours, solid and warm. He slides his arms around your waist, his hands moving over your back, mapping out each curve, each hollow, as if memorizing the feel of you.

He pulls back just slightly, his forehead resting against yours, his breath warm on your skin. His hands linger at the small of your back, pressing you close, and you can feel the faint tremor in his fingers, the depth of his restraint.

“Are you sure?” he murmurs, his voice rough and thick with desire, his gaze searching yours.

In answer, you kiss him again, your hands drifting down his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your fingertips. He lets out a soft, low growl, pulling you closer still, his lips finding their way along your jaw, down the curve of your neck. Each kiss is deliberate, sending a warm thrill through you as he holds you, his touch bolder now, possessive.

He guides you to the bed, his hands on your waist, his touch reverent as he lays you down. You watch him in the firelight, his gaze tracing over you, lingering as he lifts the hem of your shirt, his hands sliding over your bare skin with a gentleness that feels almost worshipful. He looks up at you, a question in his eyes, and you nod, reaching out to touch his face, your fingers tracing the scarred lines of his cheek.

Slowly, he shrugs off his own shirt, and for a moment, you just look at each other, caught in the intimacy of the moment. His skin is warm beneath your touch, the muscles beneath his scars solid, strong, and when he leans down to kiss you again, it’s softer this time, filled with a quiet tenderness that makes your heart ache.

You trace your hands over his shoulders, his back, learning each line, each scar, feeling the strength in him, the resilience that has carried him through so much. And as he moves, as he pulls you closer, his hands gentle but insistent, you feel a warmth spread through you, filling every hollow, every lonely ache that has lived within you for so long.

His mouth moves over you, his lips trailing down your collarbone, the curve of your shoulder, each kiss igniting a quiet fire that burns just beneath your skin. His hands find yours, fingers intertwining as he presses soft, lingering kisses along the hollow of your throat, his breath warm against your skin.

When he finally joins you, skin against skin, it feels like something deeper, something that goes beyond words. His hands cradle you, his movements careful, reverent, as if you’re something precious, something he’s afraid to break. You pull him closer, your bodies entwining, moving together in a slow, steady rhythm that feels as natural as breathing.

As you hold each other, your fingers tracing gentle patterns over his back, you feel a closeness, a connection that feels almost sacred, and you realize that somewhere along the way, he’s become more than a mere companion. He’s become part of you, filling the empty spaces in your heart with a warmth that feels stronger, more lasting, than anything you’ve ever known.

Hours pass in a blur of touches, of whispered words and shared breaths, until finally, you lie together in the quiet of the night, tangled in each other’s arms, his hand resting over yours. The fire crackles softly, casting a warm glow over the room, and as you drift off to sleep, his arm tightens around you, a quiet promise that, for now, he’s yours, and you are his.

[auxmodi]

hiiii! I love your stories and have enjoyed myself binge reading them. was wondering if you could do a super angsty fic with sandor? I've been craving it lmao. thank youuu mwah! <3

thankyou SO MUCH. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES i am so glad you asked this O HMYGOODDDD i love love love angsty shit this is gonna hurt so good.

summary: you’re a healer, tending to the wounded in the chaos of war, always close to sandor clegane, but you don’t listen when he tells you to stay behind. you’re taken, captured by the enemy, tortured, and broken. sandor, consumed by a mix of fury and guilt, tracks you for days, desperate to find you.

word count: 2.1k (sorry)

my masterlist

#warnings: heavy violence, SA, rape, physical abuse, angst, emotional distress, swearing, war, disturbing themes, blood, kidnapping.

the battle had been endless. you couldn't remember how many hours had passed, how many bodies had fallen, how many lives had been taken. the clash of swords, the screams, the blood splattered across the snow… it was all too much to process. you weren't built for this. you were supposed to be helping, healing. you were supposed to be where the wounded were, not in the thick of it, not caught up in the violence.

sandor had warned you. so many times. “stay fucking close. don’t wander off. these men aren’t here to play nice.” but you hadn’t listened. you thought you knew better. you thought that you could handle it, that you could save the wounded and not get caught up in the chaos. that the brutality of war wouldn’t touch you.

but you were wrong.

you were so wrong.

it all happened too fast, one minute you were kneeling beside a wounded man, trying to stop the bleeding from his side, and the next, a rough hand was pulling you from the ground. the sound of clashing steel and dying cries seemed to fade as a wave of panic washed over you. you tried to scream, but a heavy hand clamped over your mouth, dragging you backward, away from the chaos of the battlefield.

no. no, no. not like this. not now.

you kept fighting, but the grip on your arm tightened painfully as they dragged you deeper, farther from the fight. your eyes darted wildly. 

sandor. where was sandor?

your throat burned as you tried to scream his name. but the voice of the man holding you was loud and unforgiving.

"shut up," he spat, slamming your head against a broken wall. your vision swam, your thoughts hazy. you tried to keep your focus, to stay awake, but everything was going black. the sharp pain in your skull was overwhelming.

this was the kind of thing that only happened to other people, to those who wandered too far from safety. but you weren’t supposed to be that person.

today you were and there was nothing you could do about it.

you were pulled through the woods, the sounds of the battle gradually fading into the distance. fear curled in your gut, the panic rising as you realized no one was coming. the men were speaking in low, guttural tones, and though you couldn’t understand all of their words, the sneers and chuckles were unmistakable. they were taking you somewhere. somewhere far away.

they shoved you into a small shack, a foul-smelling place that felt more like a tomb than a hiding spot. you stumbled as you were thrown to the floor, landing hard on your knees. your palms scraped against the cold, rough wood as you gasped for air, panic flooding your chest. you tried to crawl, tried to run, but before you could, one of the men grabbed you by the hair, yanking you back.

“you’re a pretty little thing,” the man sneered, his breath rancid. his hands roamed over your body with a violence that made your stomach churn, his fingers digging into your skin as though you were a prize to be claimed.

you tried to fight back, kicking, scratching, but the other men were closing in, pinning you down, taking away the little strength you had. the terror in your chest was all-consuming, suffocating, but it didn’t matter. they were too strong. and you? you were just a helpless girl in their hands.

please, sandor. you thought. where are you?

but he wasn’t there.

they took turns with you, each moment worse than the last, each touch more brutal. your mind screamed for escape, but there was no place to go. no one was coming to save you. no one would.

the world turned hazy, the pain numbing as you tried to retreat into yourself. but you couldn’t. you couldn’t forget the words they whispered, the laughter that followed each brutal touch. you couldn’t forget the way they made you feel, worthless, broken, an object to be used.

and then, mercifully, you passed out. you weren’t sure if it was from the pain, from the exhaustion, or just the sheer overwhelming weight of everything that had happened to you, but the world went black. thank god, you thought. thank god for the darkness.

you woke up hours later or was it days? in a cold room. your body ached, the bruises on your skin swollen and painful, your head spinning. the scent of blood and filth clung to the air, and the silence was deafening.

you could barely move. your limbs were stiff, your hands bound tightly to the bedposts. the very thought of the rope around your wrists made you sick. 

was this it? was this how it ended?

you tried to shift, but even the smallest movement shot pain through your chest and limbs. you were covered in cuts, bruises, your skin too sore to even touch. you could feel the weight of everything, the terror, the helplessness, the rage building up inside you.

but mostly, you felt broken.

the door creaked open, and you froze. the sound of footsteps echoed in the small room, and you knew immediately who it was. one of them.. you couldn’t even bring yourself to look, too terrified to meet their gaze.

"still alive, huh?" he mocked, voice thick with contempt. his boots scraped against the wooden floor as he stepped closer to you.

“thought you’d be begging by now. but guess you’re just a quiet little cunt after all.”

you barely registered the words. please, no more. you wanted to scream, but your throat was too raw, your body too shattered. you couldn’t do anything but lie there, too tired to fight, too numb to care.

and then, it happened.

the door slammed open with such force that the hinges screamed in protest. the men froze, their laughter dying in their throats.

you didn’t know what was happening at first, everything happened so fast. but then you heard it. the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor, the strangled gasps for breath. who was it?

and then you saw him.

sandor.

blood on his hands, fury in his eyes. he was a fucking beast, hacking through men like they were nothing but flies to be swatted away. his sword was a blur of steel, slicing through flesh with a speed and precision that could only come from years of living in blood-soaked shadows. the sickening squelch of metal meeting bone, the gurgling of the men who couldn’t even scream before they were cut down, filled the room.

one by one, they fell, their pathetic whimpers swallowed by sandor’s rage. he didn’t even look at them. didn’t waste a single breath on the bastards who had dared to lay a finger on you. it was the way he moved, cold, methodical, violent, that made your heart race.

he wasn’t talking to them. no insults, no threats. just death. he was cutting them down with no mercy, no hesitation, as if their lives were nothing. nothing compared to the rage inside him, compared to the fury that burned like wildfire in his chest.

you could barely see through the blood and sweat, but you knew this:

sandor wasn’t going to stop. not until every last one of those sons of bitches was dead.

sandor had been hunting for days.

the trail had been cold for a while, but his gut never lied to him. he could feel it in his bones, in the air, the weight of your absence pressing down on him. the fact that you had vanished, taken from him while he had been off fighting with the enemy, gnawed at his insides in ways that felt like a constant, sharp ache.

he had promised to protect you, hadn’t he? but he had failed.

and now, after days of searching, after killing his way through every bastard who had dared to even look like they were lying, he had finally tracked you down to this godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere. he had seen the marks on their bodies, the bloodied, mangled corpses and he hadn’t even felt satisfaction when the last of them fell. no, the rage was still there. still bubbling, an unrelenting fire in his chest.

when he forced open the door, the sight that greeted him nearly shattered his mind.

there you were, broken. gods, you were broken.

your eyes were half-lidded, your face pale, and there was a dullness to them that made something inside of him crack open. you were lying on a bed, but your wrists were bound to the posts, and your clothes, what was left of them, hung in tatters. your body was battered, bruised, marked in ways that made his chest tighten with a violent, unbearable pain.

"no," he rasped, the word coming out in a harsh breath. he couldn’t even control the tremor in his voice. everything about this was wrong. this was his fault. he failed you.

your head turned slightly, and for a brief moment, your eyes met. the sight of you, so broken, so fucking vulnerable made his heart pound harder in his chest. anger twisted in his gut, his hands shaking as they hovered over the sword at his side, desperate to end the lives of those who had dared to lay a hand on you.

he moved toward you slowly, cautiously, as if you might vanish if he made the wrong move. you barely seemed aware of his presence, your gaze distant, your breath shallow. and when he reached your side, when he finally let his hand rest against your cheek, his whole body stiffened at the coldness of your skin.

"hey," he muttered, his voice low, strained. he didn’t know if you could even hear him, but he had to say it. "stay with me, damn it."

your eyes flickered, but you didn’t speak, didn’t respond. nothing. you were so empty, so broken, that sandor wanted to scream.

sandor’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. he gripped your arm and pulled it toward him, the ropes still cutting into your flesh. “we’re getting you out of here,” he said, but it was empty, hollow, a promise that meant nothing in the face of what had already been done, what had already been taken.

he didn’t waste time untying you gently. he didn’t care if he hurt you. he just needed you free. needed to get you out of this hell. his hands were rough, unyielding as he cut through the ropes, his fingers slipping slightly with the blood that had stained his palms.

when you finally fell into his arms, the weight of your body felt like an unbearable burden. you were too light, too fragile, too fucking broken.

the air felt too thick to breathe, and for a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. he was angry. so fucking angry. not just at you, no, never at you, but at the whole fucking world. the fact that he hadn’t been there, that he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening.

"we’re going back to the others," he said finally, his voice hard, but there was something else there, something darker.

“no one’s ever gonna lay a fucking hand on you again,” he growled, teeth clenched tight. the words spilled out like poison, dark and deadly. “i’ll burn every last one of those bastards to the ground. i swear it."

you didn’t answer. didn’t say a damn word, you just stared, hollow-eyed, distant, as if his words had no weight at all.

it ate at him, gnawed at his insides like a wound that wouldn’t close, and the rage swelled up in his chest until he could barely breathe, it hurt more than anything he’d ever felt.

the quiet between you was unbearable, a suffocating weight in the air. sandor’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he brushed your hair away from your face. he touched you, needed to touch you, but you didn’t feel real anymore.

“rest,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “you’re safe.”

but even as you closed your eyes, the tired, broken part of you retreating into unconsciousness, he knew that safety was an illusion. you would never be the same and neither would he.

carrying you, every step felt like a cruel reminder of how much he had failed, how much he couldn’t undo.

the battle had already been won, but in this moment, sandor knew: the war for you was far from over and no matter how many men he killed, how many bodies he left in his wake, there would always be this, this piece of himself that he had lost.

and it would never come back.

[00valentina-writes00]

✞⛧Fading Love (Abby x Reader)✞⛧

Warnings: graphic violence, emotional distress, angst, infection (zombie-related), grief, sad ending

An: Another one from the drafts ✌️😎

The air is thick with dust and the heavy scent of decay. You can feel it in your bones, that oppressive weight that only the world after everything has crumbled can bring. Every scavenger’s mission is filled with the possibility of danger, but you and Abby have become efficient at navigating the wasteland, like two hunters in sync. That’s why this feels different. You didn’t expect to feel so… vulnerable.

The two of you have been out all day, the sun now dipping low, casting long shadows through the overgrown streets. You hadn’t thought it would be a problem, at first, when you spotted that small building—just another old store, its windows long shattered, half-buried under vines and debris. But now, standing with Abby by your side, you wish you had listened to the gnawing sense of unease.

You’ve been in worse places, done worse things, survived worse situations. But as you step into the dark interior of the building, your foot catches on something hidden beneath the layers of rotting wood and scrap metal. You curse, but before you can steady yourself, the creature comes out of nowhere. A click of claws against concrete, followed by the guttural hiss of an infected, and then—pain.

The sting hits your leg first, a hot burst of fire shooting up your calf as the infected’s teeth sink into your flesh. You scream in shock, stumbling backward, but Abby is there—always there—pulling you away, her strong arms gripping your shoulders. She swings her crowbar with precision, the infected’s skull cracking open in an instant. But by then, it’s already too late.

“Shit,” Abby mutters, her voice strained with that raw edge you know so well. She’s already kneeling beside you, trying to keep the panic out of her voice. “You okay?”

The world feels slow, like you’re watching from somewhere far off. Your breath is coming in shallow gasps, but you know what’s happened even before you look down at your leg. The deep puncture marks are already swelling with a sickening tinge of purple, blood welling around the wound. Your fingers tremble as you touch it, knowing full well that the infection is already starting to spread.

“Abby…” you whisper, your voice barely a breath.

Her eyes are wide, and you can see the panic clawing its way up from the pit of her stomach, but she’s fighting it. She’s always so strong, so composed in the face of danger, and yet right now, you can see how utterly helpless she feels.

“Don’t worry,” she says, though it doesn’t sound convincing. Her fingers graze your cheek, and you can feel the tremble in her touch. “I’ll get you back to camp. We’ll figure it out. I’ll fix this.”

But you know. You’ve known from the moment that bite sank into your leg that there’s no coming back from this. The infection spreads too quickly. There’s no cure. No matter how hard Abby tries to save you, the end has already been written.

You force a small, weak smile, but it’s hollow. “It’s okay, Abby.” The words are barely above a whisper, but she hears them, her brow furrowing, a fresh wave of panic clouding her gaze.

“No,” she breathes, her voice tight, almost pleading. “Don’t say that. I can get help. We’ll find a way.”

You want to tell her that there’s no point, but you can’t bring yourself to crush whatever hope she’s clinging to. So instead, you look up at her, your vision starting to blur at the edges. You can see her trying to steady herself, her jaw clenched as she pulls you into her arms. You know what she’s thinking: she’s already planning a dozen ways to save you, even though she knows there’s no saving you from this. The thought of losing you is enough to make her break, to make her desperate.

But there’s a finality to this moment, something that both of you have been trying to deny for months now. That unspoken thing that’s always hovered between you, ever since you first met. The way you felt when her eyes softened just a little too much when you laughed, when you caught her lingering glances. You’d never said it out loud, but you’ve been waiting for it, just like she has. Waiting for the right moment to bridge the gap between you.

You don’t have time for that anymore.

“Abby…” you murmur, your hand weakly reaching for hers, your fingers trembling. She looks down at you, her face drawn tight with worry, but there’s something else too—a quiet sorrow, as if she already knows what you’re going to say.

You reach up, your other hand pulling her closer, your lips brushing against her cheek. You can feel the warmth of her skin against yours, the familiar strength of her body. She’s everything you’ve ever wanted, everything you’ve ever needed, and you’re not sure why you waited so long to let her know.

“I love you,” you breathe, the words tasting like bittersweet honey. They come out so easily, and yet you’ve been holding them in for so long, waiting for a moment that never came.

Abby’s breath catches in her throat. “Don’t,” she whispers, her voice trembling with raw emotion. “Don’t say that. Don’t leave me. Please.”

But you know it’s too late. You can feel the infection crawling up your veins, darkening your skin, numbing you from the inside out. Your heartbeat is slowing, and there’s nothing either of you can do to stop it. The world around you seems to be closing in, but in the distance, you hear her voice, soft and filled with a desperation that makes your chest tighten.

“I’ve wanted this too,” you say softly, your eyes locking with hers, and for the first time in months, you can see the same truth reflected in her gaze. The pain of knowing that it’s too late for anything more, but the desire to feel the closeness before the end.

Abby hesitates, just for a moment, her eyes searching yours, but she knows. She knows what this is. And as she lowers her lips to yours, the kiss is soft at first, tentative and unsure, as if neither of you wants to let go of the moment, even though it’s fleeting.

But the kiss deepens, and everything you’ve been holding inside spills out. The love, the longing, the ache of knowing it’s not enough, that this moment will be your last.

When you pull back, her eyes are shining with unshed tears, her face a mask of anguish, but you can see the understanding between you. The kiss was everything it needed to be: a farewell, a final act of love in a world where so little of it remains.

The world around you fades, the edges of your vision blurring, darkening. Your body grows heavier, the cold creeping up your spine. You know what’s coming, and as much as you want to cling to the fading warmth of Abby’s touch, you feel the sickness crawl deeper inside you. Your heart is slowing, the infection taking its toll on you. You can feel the numbness spreading, and you know, with every heartbeat, that there’s no coming back from this.

You hear Abby’s voice again, shaking with desperation, but it’s too far now. “Please, don’t leave me. I love you…” Her hands are still cupping your face, her fingers trembling as if she can hold on just a little longer, but you know the truth. There’s nothing left to hold onto.

“I love you,” you repeat, barely able to force the words out. It hurts, every breath feels like a weight, but you need her to know. You need her to hear it because you’re not sure she’ll ever hear it again. “Please… just remember that. You’re… everything to me.”

The world continues to darken, and you feel her lean closer, her lips brushing your forehead. She’s crying now, her tears falling on your face, and it’s like her heart is shattering with every drop. But you know it’s inevitable. You know she’s doing what needs to be done, even though it’s killing her inside.

“I’m so sorry,” Abby whispers, her voice breaking between each word. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry… I can’t— I can’t let you turn. I can’t lose you like this.”

Your eyes flicker open one last time to meet hers, her face a blur of emotion, her features twisted with grief, but you see the love in her gaze. It’s the same love you’ve felt all along, but now there’s nothing you can do to change the outcome. You’ve run out of time.

“Please,” she says again, her voice trembling. “I love you. I’m sorry.”

You don’t have the strength to answer. All you can do is squeeze her hand weakly, trying to tell her it’s okay, that you don’t blame her. But you don’t think she’s listening anymore. She’s shaking her head, her face twisted in anguish as she pulls away from you, her breath ragged, raw with pain.

The sound of her sobs fills the silence, and then you hear the distinct, sharp click of a gun being cocked.

Your heart stops, but you know what’s coming. You know what she has to do. You want to tell her it’s okay, but the words die on your tongue. She’s already made the decision for both of you.

“I’m sorry,” she whispers again, almost too soft to hear. Then, there’s the deafening crack of the gunshot, and everything goes still.

It feels like your world ends in a single, violent second. There’s no pain, no more fear, just… nothing.

Abby’s voice, barely a broken breath, drifts through the empty space that’s left. “I’m so sorry. I love you. I couldn’t… I couldn’t let you go like that. I’m sorry…”

[luvst4rc0r3]

“The price of love”

Sevika x F!reader

Apocalypse AU

Warnings:death?

WC:681

Note: there is probably gonna be a part two because I cannot do sad endings😭

PT.2

The safe house was barely standing. Wood creaked under the weight of the storm outside, and the faint smell of damp earth seeped through the cracks in the rotting walls. Sevika had you pinned beneath her on the tattered couch, her flesh arm braced beside your head while her metal one teased at your waist, her sharp smirk betraying her softer, unspoken feelings.

“You keep staring at me like that,” she murmured, her voice low and gravelly, “and I’m going to start thinking you actually like me.”

Your laugh was soft, shaky. The apocalypse had a way of robbing joy, leaving behind only desperate echoes of it. But Sevika? She was a living, breathing piece of joy you refused to let slip away. “Maybe I do like you. What then?”

“Then you’ve got terrible taste,” she teased, leaning down to kiss you. Her lips were surprisingly soft—one of those small, rare comforts in a world that had gone to hell.

The kiss deepened, and for a moment, you forgot about the rotting corpses outside. It was just you and Sevika, the weight of her frame grounding you as her hand brushed your cheek. You almost smiled against her lips, ready to whisper something about how you’d never let her go.

That’s when you heard it: the guttural growl.

“Sevika, behind you!” you screamed.

Her instincts were sharp, but not sharp enough this time. The zombie—a grotesque husk of what might’ve been a human once—lunged, its decaying hands reaching for her exposed back. It was too close. Too fast.

And without thinking, you moved.

You shoved her off of you, rolling into the creature’s path. Its claws sank into your shoulder before its teeth followed, ripping into flesh. Pain exploded, white-hot and blinding, but it was nothing compared to the fear in Sevika’s eyes as she realized what just happened.

“No!” Her voice cracked with rage and disbelief as she scrambled to her feet, her metal arm winding back to deliver a blow that crushed the zombie’s skull in one swift motion. Its body slumped over, but the damage was already done.

“Why the hell did you do that?!” she roared, grabbing you, her hands trembling as she tried to inspect the wound. The blood was pouring too fast. Too much.

“Had to,” you gasped, your vision blurring. “I couldn’t… I couldn’t lose you.”

“You’re not losing me, damn it!” Sevika barked, her voice shaking. She was panicking, for once utterly unable to control the situation. “We can—we’ll find something. There’s still time.”

You reached up, your hand brushing her jaw. “No time, Sev. You know that.”

Her lips parted as though to argue, but the words didn’t come. She knew you were right. Once bitten, the infection spread fast. Minutes, maybe seconds.

“You have to go,” you choked out, your body already feeling heavier. “Run. Before I…”

Her eyes burned with fury. “Don’t you dare tell me to leave you. I’m not—”

“You have to,” you interrupted, grabbing the front of her shirt with what little strength you had left. “I won’t be able to stop myself. You can’t stay. Not for this.”

Her jaw clenched, metal fingers twitching at her side. “I can’t—I won’t leave you.”

“Sevika, please.” Your voice cracked, and her name felt like glass in your throat. “You have to live. For me.”

She stared at you, the storm outside muffling the sound of her ragged breathing. Her good hand cupped your face as though memorizing every inch of it. “I love you,” she finally admitted, her voice breaking. “I should’ve said it sooner.”

You smiled faintly, tears slipping down your cheeks. “I know. I love you too.”

She kissed you one last time, a desperate, searing thing that left her trembling. And then, as your eyes clouded with the infection and your hand fell limp, Sevika stood. She didn’t look back.

The door slammed shut behind her, leaving you alone in the dark as the virus finished its cruel work.

And somewhere in the distance, Sevika’s scream echoed into the night.

Ain’t no way am I not making a part two

I want food and sleep

[parkitrighthere]

Request -

Werewolf Taehyung × Human Reader

Reader who was on a forest trek with her friends , Taehyung attacks their camp only to find out reader as his mate and then he abducts her . Everybody thinks that she is dead but noone has the idea that she is actually in a cabin with her big wolf mate and call it Stockholm syndrome or maybe that mate string pull even reader falls for him after sometime . Please add a nswf part in this too maybe their marking , consummation of mate bond.

● Or alternate request-

Lycan Taehyung × omega reader

Taehyung was abandoned by his pack for being a Lycan ( they feared that he might overtake their alpha someday ) .

Taehyung who finds his mate oneday as they both fall in love but the pack of her mate doesn't agrees with their relationship as he is an abandoned wolf infact they even imprison his mate to prevent their mating and prevent further production of undesirable Lycan offsprings and hence they all face the wrath of a ferocious Lycan who finally puts and end to his and his mate's sufferings . They produce a happily ever lived after little Lycan family 🥺

You can choose any of them and sprinkle your own creativity to produce a masterpiece for us .

Title: dear mate!

pairing: werewolf taehyung x human!female reader

Genre: fantasy!AU, dark romance, paranormal romance, forced proximity, mate bond

Word count: 3.2k

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of non-consensual situations, manipulation, intense power dynamics, physical dominance, and possessive behavior, which may be distressing or triggering for some readers. It also includes explicit sexual content, references to forced bonding, and emotional/psychological manipulation. Reader discretion is advised.

a/n: Hey, Lovely anon! First of all thanks for the ask and I’m really sorry for taking so long to get back to you. I just saw your ask, and your ideas are seriously amazing! I ended up wanting to work on both of them, but I know it took me a while and you might be upset with me. I tried to keep it under 1k words, but I ended up around 3k because the plot you gave me was so thick! I've been super busy with my studies, which is why it took longer than I thought. I apologize in advance if you don’t like what I wrote. I’d love to work on the other idea too if you’re still interested, but I totally understand if you’re not after reading this. I hope you can forgive me if I made your reading experience worse.Thanks for your patience! I really appreciate it! :)

You ran.

As fast as you could.

As fast as your feet would carry you.

But no matter how fast you ran, he was faster. The massive figure of the wolf, who had just killed your friends before your eyes, pounced on you from behind, knocking the breath from your lungs as you both hit the forest floor. You screamed and thrashed, swinging your fists, scrambling to get up, get away, trying to free yourself, but a heavy weight pressed down on you, pinning you to the ground.

You felt warm breath, along with thick, slick saliva coating your neck. A guttural growl followed, low and menacing. You froze, heart pounding in your chest, waiting for the death blow that never came.

Then you felt it—the faint shift of something, followed by the low whisper of mine. The words were a low growl, more human than animal. The presence behind you was as human as it was inhuman, but the hint of humanity did nothing to soothe you. Instead, it only heightened the bubbling anxiety in your stomach. You twisted beneath him, trying to see your attacker, but all you caught in the darkness was the glimpse of piercing yellow eyes—so ethereal, so beautiful, so intense. They set your soul ablaze.

"Dear mate," he whispered with a chuckle, and just like that, everything went black.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

You woke up. The world felt distant, like you were living in a dream, as if this wasn’t real, like you would blink and it would all fade away. Somewhere deep down, you wanted that, but you were smarter than to believe the tricks your mind was playing.

The soft glow of sunlight filtering through the window was as comforting as the oppressive air surrounding you. You were in a small, modest, rustic cabin—a single room with a fireplace, a rough-hewn table, and a door that seemed far too thick for a place this remote. Your eyes caught sight of the chains near the bed, discarded as if they had been used not long ago. The scent of pine and earth filled your senses, making it all feel more real.

You shot up straight, wincing at the stiffness in your limbs. The world seemed to tilt on its axis, but you held yourself together before you could hit the ground. You turned around.

And then you saw him. Standing there, ready to pounce.

Your body ached, but the panic was slow, slithering to the surface. He stood at the far end of the cabin, leaning against the wall, his arms crossed over his broad chest. His eyes locked onto yours, the intensity in his gaze pinning you to the spot. No words, no explanations—just the raw connection crackling between you both. His presence filled the space, dominating it, leaving no room for doubt about who—or what—he was.

You would have recognized those eyes anywhere—those same eyes that attacked you, killed all your friends right before your eyes, and almost killed you too. You always thought the villagers’ tales of werewolves were nothing but lies, but now, with one standing before you, you didn’t know what to do. The biggest question was why you were still alive and why his presence seemed to soothe your senses. Why didn’t his gaze make you want to run? Why did it set your soul ablaze instead?

You swallowed hard, your pulse racing. “What... what do you want from me?”

Taehyung’s lips curled into a smile, a predator’s smile. “You already know.”

You did. Deep down, a part of you had known from the moment his eyes met yours in the forest. It wasn’t just an attack. It was something else—something primal, something you couldn’t fully understand yet.

“Where... where am I?” your voice trembled, fear and anger bubbling beneath the surface.

“You’re safe,” Taehyung’s voice was deep and commanding, yet there was something soothing about it. “In my pack. My home.”

Pack? You blinked, your breath catching in your throat. “What are you talking about? Will you kill me too?”

“No.” He seemed hurt by your accusation. “I would never. Not even in my wildest dreams could I think of hurting you.”

As soft and sweet as his words were, they did nothing to soothe your mind; instead, they left you more puzzled. “Why am I here? Let me go.”

Taehyung took a step closer, his eyes never leaving yours. “I can’t do that.”

Your fists clenched the blanket tighter. “Why not?”

“Because,” he growled softly, his tone more serious now, “you’re mine.”

“I don’t belong to anyone, not to you. You’re insane.”

His gaze softened, though the intensity in his eyes never wavered. “I... I know this is confusing. But you’re my mate, and it’s not something I can control.”

You stared at him, the word echoing in your mind. Mate. It sounded absurd, like some kind of fantasy, but there was something inside you, something primal, that tugged at you, pulling you toward him. Like your body knew something your mind couldn’t accept.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” you said, your breath coming in shallow gasps. There was a heat in your chest, a pull that felt like it was coming from your very soul. “You’re insane.”

He stepped closer, cautiously, as if sensing your fear. “I didn’t want to do this to you. But the bond… it’s stronger than anything I’ve ever felt. I can’t let you go.”

Your pulse raced. It should have been fear, and yet… there was an unfamiliar warmth blooming within you, a need that terrified you because it wasn’t your own. Or maybe it was, but you just couldn’t understand it.

He was closer now, so close you could feel the heat radiating off him. You knew you should scream, run, fight—anything to escape. But you didn’t. There was an inexplicable connection, like your souls were intertwined, something deeper than logic or reason.

“You’ll feel it too,” he said, his voice gentler now, as if he understood the chaos inside you. “It’s only a matter of time.”

You wanted to deny it, to tell him he was wrong. But a part of you knew he was right. A part of you knew you couldn’t run away; he wouldn’t let you.

You didn’t move as he drew closer. You wanted to, but your body was denying all the commands your mind was screaming at you. You should have been terrified, and a part of you was, but it was so small it almost felt insignificant. Almost. The fear was tangled with something more—a warmth, a pull. Your breath hitched in your throat as his hand brushed against your wrist, the contact sending a jolt through your body.

“What are you doing to me?” you whispered, your voice shaking, though it wasn’t only fear you felt.

“I’m not doing anything,” he replied softly, his thumb grazing over your pulse, which raced beneath his touch. “This is the bond, the connection between us. I can feel it too. It’s like… gravity. Stronger than anything we could ever resist.”

You yanked your hand away, your pulse pounding in your ears. “You’re talking about me like I’m some... possession. I’m a person, not something you can just claim.”

His jaw tightened, and for the first time, you saw a flicker of pain in his eyes. “I know that. I’m not trying to control you. But this bond—it’s beyond either of us. I’ve waited my whole life for this, for you. I didn’t choose this any more than you did.”

“Waited for me? You don’t even know me!” you screamed at him. He moved closer, but you backed away quickly, this time listening to the voice in your head.

“Please, don’t. I’m not going to hurt you,” he murmured, his voice smooth but laced with hurt. The words should have been comforting, but they only tightened the knot of dread in your chest.

You stared at him, searching his face for some trace of the monster you'd seen in the woods. The one who had torn through everything you knew, shattered your life in moments. His features softened, but the intensity remained, that raw connection tethering you to him, holding you in place even when every instinct screamed at you to run.

“Don’t be scared,” he repeated, this time softer, as if he were trying to soothe a frightened animal. And maybe, in some twisted way, that’s exactly how he saw you. His prey. His prize.

You shook your head, the conflict inside you threatening to tear you apart. “How can I not be? You... you killed them. You killed my friends!” The memory surged forward, vivid and cold, the blood, the screams, the unbearable helplessness. “Why should I trust you? Why should I believe anything you say?”

His eyes darkened, a shadow crossing over his face. “It wasn’t supposed to happen that way.”

“Then what was supposed to happen?!” you snapped, your voice breaking. “Am I supposed to believe that this—this bond—justifies everything? That it makes it okay?”

Taehyung inhaled sharply, his jaw tightening as he fought to keep control. “I didn’t want to hurt you. I never wanted any of this, but fate—” His voice faltered, and something shifted in his expression. “It’s cruel. It bound us together, and I can’t fight it. I can’t let you go.”

The weight of his words hung in the air, suffocating. But there was something else too, something darker—his frustration, his struggle to contain the primal urge inside him.

Then, his demeanor changed, his control slipping as the storm within him broke through. “Yes, you should be scared,” he snarled, more to himself than to you, as though he was warning you of what he truly was, what he could become. His voice grew rougher, harder, a sharp contrast to the tenderness he had tried to show.

The words came out harsher than he intended, tearing through the fragile calm he’d tried to maintain. He pushed himself away from the bed, storming out of the room, slamming the door behind him with a force that rattled the walls.

He didn’t lock the door behind him, but you were too scared to try and run—or maybe you didn’t want to. There was a need within you tugging at you to run after him, but you stayed put.

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Days turned into nights, though you lost track of time easily. The cabin felt like a prison, yet it was the pull toward him—your mate—that you couldn't escape. You told yourself it was the isolation, the lack of freedom that was twisting your thoughts, but deep down, you knew better. He watched you constantly, his sharp gaze never leaving your form, his presence like a shadow that never relented. It should have terrified you. It should have kept you on edge, waiting for the moment he'd finally snap.

But it didn’t. And that terrified you more.

You found yourself drawn to him. The way he moved, the way his eyes followed your every step—it stirred something deep inside, something primal that you couldn’t shake. Every time he came close, your heart pounded in your chest, but it wasn’t fear that caused the rapid thrum. It was something else, something far more unsettling. The way your body responded to him betrayed everything your mind fought against. How can this be happening?

You told yourself you hated him. You repeated it over and over, like a mantra: He killed them. He’s dangerous. He’s a monster. But the words began to lose their power, weakening with each passing day. There was no escaping the truth that settled into your bones: He is your mate.

The bond between you both was undeniable, a constant, low hum beneath your skin that never stopped. It pulsed with each glance, each accidental brush of his hand against yours. Your breath would hitch, your muscles would tighten, but not in fear. This isn’t real. It can’t be. But it was.

The bond tugged at you with every breath, every moment. His proximity was suffocating and yet, it was the only thing that felt real. The scent of him—earth, pine, something wild—would wrap itself around you, clinging to your senses long after he’d left the room. You could feel the tension between you both, the way his eyes lingered on you as if he was waiting for something, for you to break or give in.

But the worst part? You didn’t want to fight it anymore. Not really. What’s happening to me? you wondered, night after night, as your thoughts spiraled into the same dangerous loop. You were losing yourself. You were losing the version of you who had fought, the one who had screamed for her life as her friends were slaughtered. That girl was fading away, replaced by someone who couldn’t stop thinking about him. About what it would feel like if you stopped resisting.

And that terrified you. But it also made your pulse quicken with anticipation.

The truth settled like a weight in your chest: He is your mate. It wasn’t a choice. It wasn’t something you could deny. The bond tethered you both, winding tighter with each glance, each step he took closer to you. You hated it. You hated him. But you couldn’t stop the feeling that swelled inside you, the feeling that scared you more than anything else—maybe you didn’t want to stop it anymore.

Is this who you are now? Is this what you have become?

It consumed you, filled every moment, until it became harder and harder to remember who you were before him. Before the bond. Your fear began to melt into something far more dangerous, something darker, something you couldn’t ignore any longer. The part of you that wanted to run was growing quieter, drowned out by the part of you that wanted to stay.

What have you become?

✦•······················•✦•······················•✦

Tonight, something between you changed, the air was filled with tension you were unable to ignore. He stood by the fire, his back to you, his shirt discarded and his bare skin illuminated by the flickering light. You watched him, your eyes tracing the defined muscles of his back, the way his breath rose and fell in even, controlled measures. Something inside you stirred.

You didn’t even realize you had moved closer until you were standing just a few feet behind him. He turned, catching you in his gaze, and you froze.

"I see it now," Taehyung said softly, his voice a rumble that resonated deep in your chest. "You're starting to understand."

You shook your head, your throat tight. "Understand what?"

His eyes darkened, and he stepped forward, closing the distance between you. His hand lifted, fingers brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness, but there was a raw, dangerous energy behind it. "That you belong to me. That you've always belonged to me."

Your breath hitched as his fingers slid down to your throat, resting there with a possessive weight that sent your pulse skittering beneath his touch. You should have pushed him away. You should have fought.

But instead, you tilted your head, baring your neck in silent submission.

He smirked, but there was something deeper in his eyes, something that mirrored the fire burning within you. "Good girl."

"You're mine?" he asked. It felt more like a question than a statement, though he'd said it before, many times—more than you could count on your fingers.

Yet your heart still raced at his words, and instinctively, you found yourself saying, "I am." Every fiber of your being responded to him—his touch, his presence. Your very essence was a captive to him now.

He picked you up, cradling you lovingly in his arms as he moved toward the bedroom, his steps slow but purposeful. In no time, he was standing near the edge of the bed. He eased you back onto it, his touch gentle but firm. The mattress shifted beneath you as he moved on top, his weight settling carefully. His breath, warm and shallow, ghosted over your face, drawing a soft giggle from your lips. Your laughter softened his gaze.

"This will be different. I'm not human, and you realize this won't be anything you're used to. I intend to claim you," he said, his eyes searching your face as his hands rested on your hips. "I don't want to force it on you. Do you want this?"

His question felt ironic to you, as the wise voice in your head reminded you that the mate bond was forced on you, and now, with both of you playing a part in it, his asking if you wanted it seemed paradoxically comical. But there was another voice in your head, one whose origin you didn’t know, that only whispered his name over and over. You had ignored it for so long, but you no longer had the will or intention to do so. For once, your intention was clear. You nodded, your voice steady as you said the words aloud. "Yes, I want this. I want you, Taehyung."

With a fierce growl, he leaned in and captured your lips in a searing kiss, as if marking your soul. You melted against him, heat radiating off his body. Your hands tangled in his hair, pulling hard and drawing a low growl from him between the kiss. You pulled him closer, and he froze, momentarily shocked by your boldness.

His gaze met yours, and you swore you were breathless, but this time, it wasn’t because of fear or the intensity of the bond you'd always tried to fight. It was because of the sight before you. He looked heavenly. His swollen lips, those glossy eyes that seemed to flicker between black and yellow, his messy hair—he looked ethereal. You weren't sure if it was the mate bond's effect, or if you'd just been too blinded by fear to ever notice it before.

He leaned in again, kissing the corner of your lips before whispering slowly, "Do you even understand what it means for us to mate?"

You didn’t respond, just stared at him.

"It means you’ll be mine in every way possible, and so will I," he said, his nose brushing against your cheek. "I won’t let anyone else touch you."

"I understand," you said, your heart pounding inside your chest. "I want you."

Satisfied, he smiled, his gaze trailing to your neck as a primal instinct ignited within him. His eyes turned yellow once again, the color you'd once loved. "I’m going to mark you," he said, his voice filled with authority. "Everyone will know who you belong to."

His words sent a shiver down your spine. "Do it," you found yourself saying. You didn't even know where this boldness was coming from.

His eyes darkened at your words, filled with lust and determination. You felt a shift in the air around you—it grew oppressive, as if something intangible was pressing down on you. He kissed a trail down your neck, his lips warm against your skin, sending shivers of anticipation through your core.

When he finally reached the spot, he sank his teeth gently into your skin. The initial pain was soon replaced by a wave of arousal that washed over you. The bond surged to life. He licked the wound to help it heal, a moan slipping from your lips, met with a soft chuckle from his.

You felt warmth pool between your legs as your body reacted to his touch. You had never been able to resist his touch before, but now it felt like you'd become even more sensitive to it.

Taehyung's hands roamed your body, tracing every curve, every inch of your skin with possessive hunger. "You're beautiful," he murmured against your skin. "And I'm going to take you—right here, right now."

"Please." It was all you could manage to say. His hands moved with perfect precision, and in no time, your clothes were discarded, lying on the floor.

He positioned himself between your legs. "I won't hold back," he said as he entered you, filling you completely. You gasped at the sensation. The anticipation was electric, a moment that felt like it could stretch into eternity, and then he was there, claiming you.

A gasp escaped your lips, a mix of pain and pleasure, but it quickly transformed into a wave of bliss. Taehyung's eyes searched yours for any sign of discomfort, and when he found none, he pressed deeper.

"More. Please," you begged, feeling the heat build within you. His pace started slow but soon quickened, each movement sending shockwaves of pleasure surging through you.

With each thrust, he took you higher, and you felt yourself unraveling. "You're mine, and I will never let you go," he whispered fiercely, pulling you closer to the edge.

With a final thrust, you shattered, waves of pleasure crashing over you. "Ta-Taehyung," you cried out his name, the sound echoing in the small wooden cabin. He followed soon after, his body tensing as he reached his peak. He collapsed on top of you, both of you breathing hard, exhausted.

As the night fell silent, the air heavy with the scent of the bond between you, everything felt different. You were no longer the person who had been dragged into this cabin by force, but you were no longer afraid. The way he held you—possessive, yet protective—spoke of a bond that ran deeper than you could have imagined.

The bond wasn’t just physical. You could feel it in your soul, the invisible thread tying you to him, as inescapable as the moon is to the night sky.

Taehyung’s arms tightened around you, as if sensing your thoughts, and he leaned down, his lips brushing your ear. “You’re mine, and no one else will ever have you.”

A chill ran down your spine, but this time it wasn’t from fear. It was acceptance. You belonged to him now. And perhaps, in a way you never thought possible, he belonged to you too.