#a guttural scream somewhere

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[covenofagatha]

But you're my stepmom! (Chapter 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.

[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

[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.

[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!”

[sasheemo]

When we collide

Chapter 7

Read on AO3

Fic masterlist

Chapter Summary: Drawn by the memory of a fleeting figure in the forest, you find yourself seeking answers amid the trees. In a powerful exchange, you instinctively reach out, offering a quiet comfort that might change everything.

Word Count: 3k

TW: abusive parent, magic used as a mean of violence

A/N: see end of chapter

You sprint through the dense forest, heart pounding as branches brush against your shoulders and leaves scrape across your skin. The whole forest feels alive, pulsing, as if it’s leading you somewhere, drawing you closer. You’re not even sure where you’re headed, but your instincts seem to know better, pulling you toward that one spot. A wry smile tugs at your lips as the realization settles, a strange, almost absurd irony.

You can’t help but scoff at yourself. “Of course.”, you think “Back here, again.”. And yet, even as the thought echoes, you can’t bring yourself to turn back or change direction. Something deeper urges you on, bracing you for what lies ahead.

When you reach the clearing a pang of unwanted disappointment settles in your chest. It’s empty. Only ashes remain from the pile, the last remnants of Agatha’s rage and her attempt at repair. Your eyes linger there, thoughts drifting back to the way she’d sat across from you, her face guarded, her words clipped. 

The memory of the figure you’d seen running from the gathering hall suddenly surges. She must be here, somewhere.

An abrupt, strange noise interrupts your thoughts, a sound you don’t immediately recognize. It’s almost like… water? It’s very faint at first, you frown, instincts sharpening as you start moving toward it. Your movements are quiet, cautious but resolute, as the noise grows gradually clearer.

And then you hear it. A scream. A raw, guttural, sound you feel all the way to your bones, filled with a pain that cuts through the quiet, making every muscle in your body seize. You freeze, heart hammering, listening. But silence falls again, broken only by the same splashing sounds you’d heard just a few moments before. 

Driven by a mix of curiosity and apprehension, you move closer. Footsteps light as you follow the noise, each step quieter than the last as you approach its source. The sound grows louder, filling the air with a rhythm that carries weight, anger, hurt. 

Then, the forest opens to reveal a small, hidden, lake. It’s shrouded in thick, tangled vegetation, the water dark and undisturbed except where stones hit the surface, sending ripples outward.

And there, standing at the water’s edge, you see Agatha. 

She doesn’t see you, her back turned, her entire presence charged with fury. Her cloak lies discarded on the ground, as if it had been flung aside in fury. Her hair is wild, a dark, tangled mess, and her dress is torn, jagged edges where branches must have ripped at it, as if she’d run recklessly through the trees. 

She picks up stone after stone from the shore, hurling each one into the lake with all her strength. Each throw, each movement, is a violent release, a silent scream, as if she’s trying to cast away everything inside her. Her shoulders shake with every swing of her arm, and her voice, strained, cracks in sounds that barely resemble words, more like cries that carry her emotions into the water, as if she could drown them there.

Agatha picks up a larger stone, and her hand trembles as a deep, pulsing, violet glow blooms from her palm. The stone levitates, her magic holding it suspended, her fingers twitching with the weight of her rage.  And then, with a single, heart-wrenching movement, she clenches her fist. The stone shatters, fragments scattering in every direction, casting streaks of purple light through the air. Some of the pieces rain down into the water, and for a moment, the lake itself seems to ripple with the force of her magic. 

But, when every remnant of her purples fades, so does she.

Agatha’s stance breaks, her hands fly to her face, and her shoulders collapse inward as she breaks down completely. Her fingers press hard against her eyes, her breath hitching, each sob rough and desperate, as if they’re tearing her apart. Her shoulders shake as her cries echo off the water. But she remains standing.

Something in you aches at the sight. You shift your weight unconsciously, and a twig snaps underfoot.

Her head jerks up instantly, her tear-streaked face twisting into a mask of fury when she sees you. Her eyes, bloodshot and glistening with tears, narrow with a hatred so fierce it almost feels like another wave of magic.

“Leave.” Her voice is cold, dead, yet fractured, her throat raw from the remnants of her sobs. Her hands tremble as she curls them into fists at her sides, her whole body tense as if holding herself back.

You do the last thing she expects you to do. You take a slow, hesitant, step forward. 

“Agatha I-“ but the words die on your lips. You simply don’t know what to say. 

In that deafening silence, Agatha’s expression shifts, anger sharpening further, her frustration flaring like a storm. “I said LEAVE!”.

Her voice cracks with the force of her command, and before you can react, she grabs a stone from the ground and hurls it straight at you. You sidestep just in time, but instead of backing away, as if pushed by some invisible force, you take another step forward.

That’s when she snaps. 

Her arms lift wide, slowly, and an aura of purple magic crackles to life around her. Her fingers curl, each hand a pulsing center of power, and her eyes burn with violet fire as they lock into yours. A glare blazing with rage and magic. All around her stones lift from the ground and emerge from beneath the lake, hovering in the air. 

She stands there, the very image of destruction, her magic coiling, vibrating, ready to strike, ready to hurt. 

And yet, something in you doesn’t flinch. You look at her as the words slip from your lips. Unexpected. Unplanned. 

“Agatha… you don’t have to fight. Not me. Not this time.”

They hang in the air, bridging the distance between you, carving through all of her defenses.

The magic in her eyes flickers, something fragile lingering there. Her hands tremble, her fingers loosening, and in that single moment, the walls she’s so carefully built around herself crumble. Her power fades, purple light dissolving around her. The stones fall, dropping onto the earth and water with a finality that echoes through the air. Her knees give out, and she sinks to the ground, hands pressed to her face as sobs wrack her body anew, even more broken and desperate than before.

You don’t hesitate, not even taking the time to think about what you’re doing, your body moving of its own will as you rush over. You’re there beside her, kneeling on the cold, damp earth, reaching out instinctively but hesitantly, until your arms find their way around her shoulders.

You pull her close, it’s a cautious embrace, but it’s real, solid, grounding.

And, to your surprise, Agatha lets herself lean into it.

She surrenders to the touch, her whole weight pressing into your side. Her hands grip your cloak like it’s her lifeline, holding on with trembling fingers, as if you’re the only thing keeping her anchored. And you can feel every tremor that runs through her, every shuddering breath.

Her head falls against your shoulder, and the weight of her trust, her pain, settles heavily against you. She cries, her sobs muffled against you, her breaths catching in a way that makes your chest tighten painfully. You don’t speak. Instead, you hold her a little tighter, letting your hand trace slow, soothing circles on her back, grounding her, comforting her in the only way you can.

You are completely immersed in the moment, the weight of Agatha’s pain pressing down on you like a force of nature, every sense heightened. You feel the soft, chaotic brush of Agatha’s hair against your face, tickling the edge of your cheek. Her grip on you is fierce as her nails press through your cloak, through the fabric of your dress, and into your skin, in desperate need of something solid to hold to. You breathe in, focusing on the feeling of her body against yours, each tremor a silent cry that you feel in the tightness of her muscles. Her back rises and falls with every breath, and each beat of her pulse, each shallow breath, brings you closer to her pain. 

It’s in this state, fully absorbed, that something catches your eye. Your gaze drifts to where Agatha’s right hand is clawing at your cloak, and there, beneath the frayed cuff of her sleeve, you see it. Her wrist is red, vivid burn marks against her pale skin. The sight is like a knife to the chest and an ache forms in your throat, a wordless sorrow.

Without thinking, your hand moves. Your fingers wrap gently around the back of her hand, your touch careful, steady. Slowly, you move her arm, bringing it closer to examine the burns. The contrast is startling. Raw, red welts against the porcelain smoothness of her skin. Your thumb hovers over the angry, red marks, lightly grazing the edges of the burns. You feel your insides twisting. 

And then, her name comes out in a whisper. “Agatha…”.

She stiffens, pulling her wrist slightly as if trying to hide it, her face tense. For a moment it seems as though she won’t say anything at all. But a few seconds is all it takes for the words to spill out.

“It was after the meeting…” her voice nothing but an ephemeral murmur, frayed and hollow, as if each word takes something from her she’s not sure she can give. There’s a bitterness in it, a resentment that carries like an undercurrent. “My mo- Evanora… she… she held me back, made me stay after everyone else was gone. She…” Her breath hitches, and she clenches her hands, trying to steady herself.

“She told me… she told me I am weak, a disappointment…”. Her voice wavers, and she clenches her fists tighter. “And then she grabbed my wrist…” she whispers, almost as if she’s reliving it. “She… she used fire magic. I… I could feel the heat, the pain.”

The words spill out of her, each one pulling her deeper, further into the memory until it consumes her entirely. Her voice drifts, quieter, almost detached, as if she’s no longer in the present. She’s back there, in that room, and the scene unfolds vividly.

“Explain yourself!” Evanora’s voice is like a whip, each word a crack against the stone walls, echoing with a sharp, venomous edge. Agatha stands tense, bracing herself, knowing she’s about to face her mother’s wrath, though she doesn’t understand why. Her mind is racing, searching for what she could have possibly done to provoke such reaction.

But nothing could truly prepare her for the anger burning in Evanora’s eyes, the kind of fury that comes from betrayal. Because that’s what Evanora sees in Agatha’s silence, a betrayal of the image, the expectations, she’d molded her daughter to fulfill.

“Do you have any idea what this looks like?” Evanora spits, her words laced with contempt. “My own daughter, the heir to everything I’ve built, standing there silent when we speak of facing the hunters. You didn’t step forward, you didn’t volunteer—”. She practically snarls the words, her hands curling into fists. “You should have been the first to offer! To prove that you are strong, that you are ready to lead!”

Agatha swallows, her face blank, hiding the quiet resentment that grows sharper with each accusation. “The hunters aren’t a real threat, and if you wanted me to join the reconnaissance group, you could have spoken to me beforehand” she replies, her voice as steady as she can manage. But even as she says it, she knows this answer will only fuel her mother’s rage.

Evanora’s eyes flash with fury. “You think this is about fear? About what you want?”. She steps forward, her voice a menacing hiss. “This is about respect, about showing our people who you are and what you stand for. My daughter, my heir, is supposed to show strength, to prove herself every chance she gets, especially in front of the coven! But you—” Her gaze narrows, her voice dropping to an icy whisper. “You made me look weak.”

The words land like blows, but Agatha stands her ground, every instinct urging her not to show a single crack. She knows her mother’s expectations too well, knows how Evanora has always held her to standards that feel suffocating, unyielding. A leader, a force of power and control, loyal to whatever is demander of her. That’s who Evanora wants her to be. But to Agatha, it’s a role that feels more like a cage, every demand pushing her further from herself, from any chance of her own identity.

“Perhaps I’ve been wasting my time on you.” Evanora sneers, her voice dripping with scorn. And before Agatha can react, Evanora’s hand clamps onto her right wrist with an iron grip, crimson tendrils of magic coiling around them. 

And then Agatha feels it. A fierce, burning heat blooming against her skin, a flame that bites, scorches, that she can feel sinking into her flesh.

The pain is blistering, relentless, but Agatha won’t let herself react. She won’t give her mother the satisfaction of seeing her wince. She forces herself to stay silent, to let the agony wash over her as she holds her expression steady, unyielding. It’s a look she’s worn countless times, a mask of defiance that she knows will drive her mother even further into fury. And still, she clings to it.

“Weak.” Evanora hisses, her voice a deadly whisper. “And unworthy.” The words burn as much as the magic itself, tearing deeper, lacerating her already wounded pride.

Finally, with a cold indifference, Evanora releases her grip, her hand falling away from Agatha’s wrist as if she was nothing more than an annoyance. “You may go now.” she says, her voice dismissive, empty. The finality of those words cuts through Agatha as sharply as any blade.

Agatha turns without a word, each step away from her mother a struggle as her wrist throbs, pulsing in pain, her hand trembling. She walks as steadily as she can, but the moment she’s out of sight, the mask cracks. 

And then she is running. 

Fleeing from her mother’s cruelty, her mother’s fire, until the world around her is nothing but trees and silence. She doesn’t even know where she is going, but she has to get away, as far as her legs will take her, to some place where the weight of her mother’s voice can’t reach her. Her feet moving on their own, driven by a desperate, instinctive need to escape. 

All she can do is run, her body carrying her forward, searching blindly for safety amidst the thick, sheltering trees. She can feel her magic rising, pulsing at the edges of her control, a storm desperate to break free. It claws at her insides, wild and unrestrained, begging to burst forth, to be unleashed. But she fights it, clenching her fists, gritting her teeth, holding it back with every ounce of strength she has left, afraid of what might happen if she lets it go.

You don’t have to reach far to picture it. The image is almost too clear: Agatha, face held in a stoic mask, enduring the agony with a hardened gaze, determined not to flinch. Even as her skin sears under the heat, you can see her standing rigid, jaw set, refusing to give Evanora the satisfaction of her pain. It’s a look you know well, one that chills you every time you see it. But here, in this moment, you feel the weight of what that look costs her. That ability to hide, to bury her pain beneath a cold mask, it’s a kind of strength, but it’s also a cage, one she’s been trapped in too long. And you realize, with a pang, that this is her default, her instinct. To endure in silence, to bury her own suffering where no one can see it.

Suddenly, her words pull you back into the present. 

“She looked at me like I was��� nothing.” her voice choked, strained.

You lean forward slightly, willing her to meet your eyes, searching for her gaze to no avail. Your hand is still cradling her wounded wrist, grounding her. 

“I’m here, Agatha. You don’t have to face this alone.” you say softly, your voice steady. “And you’re not ‘nothing’. No matter what she made you believe.” a quiet resolve underlying your words.

For a moment, she stays frozen, as if weighing the depth of your words, and you think she might pull away.  

Then, her wrist turns in your grasp, her palm coming to rest softly against yours. Her fingertips graze your palm, feather-light, and a shiver runs through you. They slide across your skin, tracing a slow, tentative path. Her touch is subtle, careful, as though she’s testing this fragile connection, as if she’s not yet sure it will hold. Slowly, her fingers drift further, sliding along the lengths of yours until they reach the tips. She pauses there, a touch so delicate it almost feels like a shadow. Smoothly, her fingers curl around your hand, creating a quiet, steady hold that feels both new and somehow familiar.

For a few suspended seconds, you simply exist together in the stillness. Until her grip tightens, and in that gentle pressure, you feel a silent plea. A wordless need for something solid, something true. You respond with a soft squeeze, gently stroking the back of her hand with your thumb, warmth seeping through you, spreading like a quiet spark.

It’s a simple kind of touch, and yet, it feels like a spell.

“I got you. I promise.” you whisper, the words faint yet unwavering.

At last, Agatha slowly lifts her gaze. Her eyes meet yours, raw and unguarded, emotions laid bare in a way that takes your breath away.

A single tear slips down her cheek, but she doesn’t wipe it away. Instead, her gaze stays locked with yours as she lets out a shuddering breath, as if finally allowing herself to believe in the words you just spoke.

-------

A/N: Writing this chapter was a real emotional journey for me. Honestly, I never thought I'd cry writing a fic ... WRONG lol. I really tried my best to capture the vulnerability and rawness between the characters in a way that felt authentic and true to their evolving relationship, but also to Agatha as a character. I wanted each line and moment in this chapter to be charged, a challenge for me to dig into the quiet intensity of their bond. I hope you feel the same connection and tension that I felt while crafting it. Thank you for coming along on this journey, it truly means the world! 💜💙

[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.

[delusionalmultilingual]

IMAGINE SHOUTO TODOROKI BEING INJURED AND HIS LOVER THOUGHT THEY LOST HIM!!!

"Shouto?" Almost a cry came from your voice as you lifted large parts of concrete off the demolished grounds. Blood and sweat staining your clothes as well as debris and dust from the collapsed building.

The areas surrounded was rubble. Destroyed. The building collapsed after one of the villains in the area used a earth shaking quirk in the vicinity of 100 metres. Catastrophic, the evacuation protocol didn't even take place. And the villian was nowhere to be found.

You knew he bad to be nearby somewhere, he was right next to you before this whole shitshow happened. It was difficult to remember, it must have been at least 2 hours before you woke up underneath a large slab of cement. Was your ankle sprained? Yes. Your arm? Broken. But surprisingly you weren't dead, you weren't able to say for some other people.

The rescue team already found 8 dead people, all civilians, all innocent. A man who spotted the rubble moving above you quickly called over three more people, the all lifted you up and identifying you immediately. Ushering to get you medical attention, however your stubbornness leads you to wandering helplessly through the demolished buildings. A sad attempt of finding your husband of 2 years, boyfriend of 7 years.

Your voice was cracked and hoarse, holding your arm in pain and trying to find him. You just want him. Nothing else matters right now. "Shouto!" Cracked screams come from you as you slip and knock your arm on some old pipes in a column.

"Shouto!" Another pained yell came from your weakened state, sure. You've fought in situations like this, but the adrenaline of the fight was gone. Maybe it was more or less shock at the time.

Falling to your knees, weak and still probably concussed. You stand back up shakily, limping through the destroyed area, spotting soke blood stains on the dust covered concrete.

Your eyes widen as you get closer, running as best as you could before falling beside him. "Shouto!" A guttural cry came from deep inside of your throat, trying to throw the large slab off his blood soaked body.

His bicoloured hair was stained with a film of dust and blood, specks of cement on his face. Using one arm you manage to push the slab off him in three minutes before cupping his face with your non injured arm and begging him, begging him to stay. Screaming for someone to help you, help him.

"Please Shou... Don't fucking leave me!"

You scream at him, propping his head on your chest, your hero costume had been ripped and damaged. Holding his body with one arm as you weakly cried against his forehead.

"Shouto!" You scream at him against, only feeling his cold skin against your warm skin, a film of dust covering his beaten state, Blood over his face and cuts on him.

Sobbing and shaking him, some rescue team members were running towards the two of you, hearing your cry they stopped feet away from you. Watching as you were clearly unconsolable about the loss of him.

A slight movement came from him that you didn't feel, his arm twitching and his eyes opening to see your closed and tear stained one's watching you mourn and cursing at him, begging him to not go.

The rescue team took notice of the fact he wasn't dead and tried to move you so they could assess him but you pushed them away, not knowing they were trying to help before a weak and shaky hand also cups your face.

"I'm okay... Let them..." His voice was weak and quiet, this was something you never usually see. The fact he hides his weakened state with many other people.

More tears streamed down your cheeks as you embraced him and kissed his face. Not caring about the sweat and muck on his cheek, he was alive.

[reallyhatethiswebsite]

blame @ultrakatua for this raphael eats tav's heart (she's into it lol)

Read on AO3

-

“I heard an interesting saying once,” says the devil. Soft, slow, murmured like a gentle prayer by a devout at church. “You mortals are so terribly fond of those.”

“What saying,” says the mouse. Hushed, fast, words pushed through cracked dry lips licked one-too-many times by a tongue that cannot lay still. Impatient, but obedient.

“That the quickest way to a man’s heart is through his stomach,” says the devil. “Quite the allegory. Don’t you agree?”

“Quite,” says the mouse.

The devil circles her. Stares, eyes dark and glittering. Calm, controlled, despite the yawning hunger so clearly written all over his handsome face. He is always hungry. Gluts upon the things he covets: souls, power, subservience. Her. Men like him cannot be sated. He will consume everything she offers and everything she doesn’t, for eternity. What a thrilling thought.

“I wonder,” says the devil. “What is the quickest way to your heart?”

He drags one sharp and solitary black claw along her bare flesh. Displayed so sweetly for him. Damp with sweat. Muscles quiver beneath her fragile skin that does not break, not yet, not until he wills it. Blood flows close to the surface yearning to be spilled. Her little baby hairs all stand on end.

“Raphael,” the mouse whispers. There is the gentle, ominous chime of a grandfather clock from somewhere.

“Beloved,” the devil croons. Smiles. Reaches between her legs to rub two fingers through her mons. She gasps, hips jerking when he nudges her swollen clit, but all he’s looking for is to coat himself in her warm slick. “A meal as fine as this should be savoured.” He holds those wet fingers up to her lips. “Open.”

The taste of her cunt is tart, earthy. Underneath it is purely him: cherries, smoke and magic. Reverently she sucks his digits clean. Bites them, thrilled by his quiet groan, the expanding of his pupils, the swish of his tail. Violence is a devil’s love language, after all. When he frees his fingers from the moist prison of her mouth, her teeth catch on his knuckles. He leaves twin trails of spit down her chin and throat as he lazily lets his huge paw rest between her breasts. She grows breathless with anticipation.

He doesn’t need a blade. The singular claw that earlier teased her with terrible promise is enough. He draws a division from the hollow of her clavicle to the end of her sternum, a division of red that blooms and blossoms into an incision, splitting skin and fat and muscle tissue like bursting fruit. She arches up off the table where he had her present herself, as all choice cuts should. The noise she releases is guttural, both agony and ecstasy. His first slice is always the deepest.

“Such beautiful sounds you make,” the devil purrs, voice tight. “Sweeter than all the music of the Hells. Let me hear more.”

Of course she obliges. Screams and whimpers and sobs even as her hands help him widen the wound further, pulling skin and meat slippery with gushing blood apart from the stained ivory of her ribs. It’s pain indescribable and pleasure inexplicable. The exposing of her true and tender self to the man who she wants to tear her apart. What he seeks, what she yearns to offer him, is protected behind a cage of bone. If he gave her a hammer, she would smash it open herself.

“Oh, my sweet pet. My darling little mouse,” the devil growls. His composure unravels the more she suffers. He is a monster below his veneer of charm and decorum, a monster excited and aroused. “You are exquisite.”

“Raphael…!” The mouse weeps.

He answers her call. Strokes her face, smearing it with crimson. His fine clothes splattered with blood. His hard cock strains in his trousers. He breathes through his mouth, fangs shining, pupils so large his eyes are abysses sunk into his deep sockets.

“Just a little more,” the devil promises.

Together they pry away her ribs, snapping them like dry twigs, and at last she can watch him reach into her chest, reach into her very being, and wrench out the thing that will always belong to him. Her heart beats loud and fast, torn valves spurting bright red arterial blood everywhere, as he holds it in his palm like a treasured jewel. Stares with insidious desire. She feels nothing but depraved satisfaction.

“Eat it,” the mouse chokes. “It’s for you. It’s yours.”

He feasts. Sinks his teeth into her heart as easy as a man eating an overripe peach. Rips pieces of rubbery muscle apart and swallows them whole. Pieces of her sliding down his gullet. All of the twisted, consuming emotions he makes her feel, the dark things about herself she could never escape – everything she is, was, and ever will be, contained in that bloody mass, and he is devouring it. Such sick rapture, to be destroyed by someone who wants you that much. Now she’ll be a part of him forever.

[tehrevving]

Vincent Valentine Week Day 4 - Monster

“Wake up. Fuck. Please wake up.” You shake Vincent’s shoulder roughly, but there’s no response. He’s slumped sideways against a tree, soaking wet from the rain in the middle of this stupid fucking forest. You can’t lift him, you can’t move him. You managed to drag him under this tree, to futilely attempt to shelter from the downpour, but that’s all that you’ve got in you. He’s too heavy, his limbs too long and awkward for you to lift.

You’d gotten separated from the rest of the group in the rain, the terrain growing slippery while you were stalked by fiends. You’d slipped in the mud and fallen, set upon by an obscene amount of disgusting bug-like things. You shudder, still able to hear the disgusting wet clicking of jaws in your ear. Vincent had ended up transforming, Galian beast clawing the bugs off you with a roar, large body slipping in the dirt and cracking the earth, eventually sending the both of you tumbling down a steep incline that you can’t climb back up.

His massive body had protected you from the fall, but he had crashed to the ground hard, landing on jagged rocks and crying out in pain. He had limped upright, carrying you in the crook of his elbow in an attempt to return to the others, or get out of the rain. It must have taken too much energy to heal the injuries from the fall, or maybe Vincent was weak to begin with, but he had barely moved from the crater he’d made when landing, when he began to transform back.

Vincent had set you down quickly, stepping away as bones cracked and skin slithered. He was filthy, cape brown from dirt and hair plastered limply to his face from the rain. He had looked up at you, exhausted, horrified, upset, and worried, so fucking worried as he’d slumped to the floor moments later, passed out and completely dead to the world.

You’re cold, starting to shiver in your soaked clothes. The rain is showing no signs of letting up and you know it’s going to start getting dark soon. It’s going to be too cold to stay out here in the rain once that happens, and you don’t know how you’re going to survive in the dark. You need to find shelter, somewhere you can light a fire, but you can’t move him.

He’d probably be fine if you left him, but he’d panic if he woke and you weren’t there. He’d fret over your absence and likely end up transforming again. You have no faith in your ability to find shelter either, you’d probably just end up getting more lost. You need to stay with him, you need him to wake up.

“Please,” you beg again, trying to keep your voice down but you’re almost hysterical. “Vincent. I need you. Wake up. Please.” You shake him, kiss his forehead, smack his chest. You try everything you can think of but it’s no use. You know that when he passes out after transforming, he’s out for hours.

“Fuck!” you scream into the rain, giving up and slumping on the ground next to him. You lean against his side, burying your face into your hands and try not to cry.

Something twists beside you, a shifting creak of leather and metal. You turn. Vincent’s eyes are open, wide open, too open. He’s staring right at you but the glow in them is yellow instead of red. You scramble back as he blinks, head tilting sharply towards you, cocking to the side like an animal. There’s something wrong in his gaze, it’s not human. You wonder if one of his other monsters has woken up.

“What is the matter, precious thing?” Vincent says, wrongly. His lips move but you don’t hear his voice. You hear something else, a dark, guttural thing, sliding and hissing over stilted syllables. A mimicry of speech, shaping sounds instead of words.

You scamper back further.

“Do not be afraid,” the voice lilts, darkness curling in the space between you. “Vincent is not here but I can help you.”

“Wa-wake him up,” you stammer, voice weak with uncertainty, with fear.

“No!” it snarls, forcing an aching, full body shiver down your spine. “It is me or nothing.”

You’ve made it angry, you’ve made it angry and you’re completely fucked. Energy surges, a crackling heat that steals the breath from your lungs. Swirling horns of an intangible, sludgy darkness crest over its forehead while shadowy skeletal wings crack against the tree, bark scattering to the ground. You gasp, suddenly recognising the creature.

When Vincent is emotional, when he’s overwhelmed and angry but not ready to transform. When his jaw is clenched and body tight with impending release, sometimes there’s a moment of stillness, a shadow of horns and wings. “I know you,” you say to the creature, to Vincent.

It cracks a foul grin, lips spread too thin, too many teeth exposed. It’s an abomination of a smirk, full of dark, suggestive implications. Its wings beat silently with glee. “Come here, out of the rain,” it purrs, voice sounding more natural, like it’s becoming accustomed to speaking. It lifts a shadowy wing, tilting it up, blocking the rain from a small patch of ground beside it.

You hesitate. You don’t know much about Vincent’s transformations. You’ve only ever met Galian before, and he is kind, thoughtful if not animalistic and instinctual. Vincent has never warned you against trusting his monsters, but he’s also the type to never mention it. You don’t have a choice, you’re still stuck, still stranded and lost. You inhale deeply and slowly make your way towards Vincent’s body, towards the shelter underneath a shadowy, bat wing.

You sit down, feeling energy and heat radiate from Vincent’s body. The wing curls above you, protecting you from the rain and wind. The creature looks down, yellow eyes fixated, pupils slit like a cat’s. You’re terrified, lost and afraid, and you don’t know what to do.

“How can I help you?” Vincent rumbles, voice sounding impossibly close to your ear. You jolt and the creature chuckles lowly.

“I’m lost,” you reply. You don’t know if you should tell this creature anything, but it’s offering help and it’s your only choice at the moment. “We’re lost and it’s raining. I don’t know where to go, I don’t know what to do. We need to find shelter but I can’t carry him.” You take in a deep, shuddering breath. You try to compose yourself, but you can’t stop the tears from falling.

“Do not cry,” The creature hisses, reaching out to you with Vincent’s gauntleted arm. He never reaches for you with that arm, always tries not to touch you with it. You’re not sure what to do, the action is so jarring. The hand presses to your cheek gently, the touch so soft and at odds with everything else that’s happening. Golden fingers carefully brush the tears from your eyes.

The hand recedes and the creature holds it up to its face. It licks your tears from the metal, tongue too long and wide as it laves over sharp fingers. It purrs with contentment, a deep sound tumbling through its chest. “I will find you shelter,” it hisses, “where you can wait for him to awaken.”

“Thank you,” you murmur, feeling mistrustful, but not really having a choice.

“There is a price,” the creature cackles.

Your mouth gapes open, speechless. You have no idea what this creature might want.

Vincent’s face laughs, mouth open too wide, head thrown all the way back. It’s an expression he would never make. A slitted gaze snaps to you, lips peeled back with too wide of a smile. “A kiss,” it coos, voice curling like smoke.

You’re confused.

He snarls. “You kiss him all the time. I want to try.”

You don’t have any other options and a kiss is fine. It’s still Vincent, it’s still his face, his lips. It shouldn’t be any different to kissing him normally. That’s what you try to convince yourself of anyway.

“Alright,” you say, mind made up. You steel your resolve. You’re committed to this now, you’re not going to back down.

The creature laughs and leans towards you. Vincent’s gauntlet hooks underneath your chin, tilting up your head. Yellow, slitted eyes stare down at you, blinking unnaturally, one at a time. A too long tongue darts out to lick full, reddened lips, twisting its length as if to show off. “Call me Chaos, Sweetling,” it purrs, voice laced with innumerable promises as the foreign, broken face of your lover slips closer.

[kookiewithluv]

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.

[fantasyandshit]

Little bird

Type: one shot

Pairing: Rhysand x fem!reader

Based off of this request

Masterlist here

Angstttt- torture, kidnapping, death, no comfort.

“I’ll go.”

“No you won’t.” The high lord- and my mate quickly protests. We need someone to go to the Autumn court, with Cassian, Mor obviously wasn’t going to be forced to do this, Azriel was out on another mission, Amren wasn’t going for- again, obvious reasons; and Rhysand was drowning in work. It only made sense for me to go with Cassian, which is what I tried to argue to my husband.

“Rhys. Baby it’s three days, I can handle myself- plus, Cassian will be there too.” I’m stern as I stare at the male.

“Fine.” He sighs, “but- I want updtates every night and if I suspect anything weird from the bond- I’m coming down right away. Understood?”

“Yes love. I’ll go get packed and me and Cass will leave in the hour.” I give Rhysand a soft kiss, my hand going to rest on his cheek as I whisper, “I will be perfectly fine, nothing will go wrong. Promise.”

Rhysand nods softly as I pull away, “goodbye Darling. I love you, be safe ok.”

“Always love. I love you.”

———

“Yn! Yn! Wake up! Please wake up Yn!” I groan in protest to the hands shaking my tired body.

“Wha- Cass? What’s going on?” My head is pulsing and I can feel my skin scraping on concrete.

“We were ambushed as we arrived across the borders. I woke up about two hours ago- I think? We’re in a dungeon somewhere- in Autumn presumably.”

I nod slowly, trying to sit up from where my head rests on my friends thighs. I groan, my head is killing me. I lean against the wall with Cassian, trying to gather my thoughts as best as possible. Looking around- I find Cassian is right, concrete walls surround us, other than the bars leading out into a hallway. A fae light on the outside seems to be our only source of light, and I can hear water trickling further down.

As I try to reach out to my mate, I find our bond blocked- shit. Fae bane.

Me and Cassian sit in the cell side by side for what feels like an eternity, just silently wondering how this could happen. Wondering if Eris somehow planned this or if he was none the wiser.

“Ooh, looks like our little bird is finally awake.” I look up at the voice, jolting as a snap sounds and then my body is hanging, feet chained to the ground and arms to the sealing, hanging in a sort of star shape. Cassian faces me, his arms shackled to a wall above him.

I glad at the man as he steps forward, his hand grabs my chin and I take the opportunity, turning my head and biting down. Hard. He grunts, pulling away, blood leaking from his wound and my mouth as I smirk, showing off bloody teeth. Cassian sits with a mixture of shock and proud as I spit out the crimson liquid. That look switches to horror as I’m back handed, my head swiveling as I spit a tooth out. My chin is yet again grabbed in a rough hold. “Now you listen here bitch. You’re gonna learn to listen and behave. Do you understand?” I don’t respond, simply glaring silently as he throws my head back, walking to a cart I didn’t realize was there. He walks back with a leather strap of sorts- at first I assume it’s a whip, only to realize how wrong I am when it’s strapped across my head and a ball is shoved in my mouth. He gagged me.

He fucking gagged me.

That little bitch.

———

Rhysand started freaking out as the hours ticked on with no update from you. You promised. You promised to update him every night and so far the bond was cold. Too cold for his liking. “Calm down cousin. Shes probably just warn out from the travel. She’ll get to you tomorrow.”

Rhysand shakes his head, unable to understand how his cousin is so calm. She just doesn’t understand.

Finally after much back and forth, Morrigan gets Rhysand to calm down. He could wait till tomorrow to start worrying.

———

Another guttural scream leaves me as a fae bane tipped blade is plunged into my thigh. I had tried staying silent, but after so long of trying, I couldn’t anymore. I was so tired. In the distance, beyond the ringing, I can hear Cassian begging for the man to stop, to hurt him instead, but he is simply ignored.

As said man leaves yet again, I’m dropped from my chains and cassians disappear as well. My friend crawls to me, cooing softly as he cradles my head in his hands softly. “Oh dear. I’m so so sorry Yn. Rhys will come soon. Cauldron I’m sorry. You’re so strong, so brave.”

A small smile graces my lips. “It’s ok. You stay strong. I can handle this. But what I can’t handle? Is seeing you hurt. So just stay strong ok. We’ll get through this.” I’m exhausted, my eyes fluttering shut.

———

My eyes shoot open as the chains reappear around me. But I notice. This is different, there’s a cool metal under me, my body is strapped in a star but I’m strapped down to a table. This is also when I notice- no gag. For some reason this scared me more than the gag and hanging chains, because I don’t know what to expect here. The man walks in, this time, as I look over. I notice he’s carrying a bucket and a rag. Shit. I know what this is. I squirm as he moves forward, my fit bringing him joy as he chuckles, setting the bucket down beside the table as he moves towards me.

“This is gonna be fun.” He smiles darkly as he puts the rag over my face, bending down to get the water. No. No please no. Gods please no.

I hold my breath as he poors the water over me, I hold it as long as possible, but eventually- I have to suck in a deep breath. Gasping and spluttering as the rag gets sucked in, feeling like I’m drowning. I can hear Cassians chains rattling as this continues.

Another snap.

I’m back in the hanging chains.

I wince as I hear the flicker of fire. Fuck. Water now fire. I can’t do this anymore. Ive been holding on for Rhys but at this point im convinced no one is coming, and im exhausted. The man’s words wring through my head as the flame is brought to the bottoms of my feet.

‘They aren’t coming.’

‘No body cares about you.’

‘If they were truly worried, if they truly loved you. They be here.’

And I started to believe him. At first I didn’t, but slowly, I started to believe him, his words clawing into my brain and nestling there. No one was coming for me. No one cared.

———

The next time I’m let from my chains, I land in a puddle of my own bodily fluids, blood, tears, piss, and puke. Fuck. Everything hurt. My mind flashes to the electric rods, the burning that filled me with the electricity. The convulsions caused a minor seizure from what I understood. This- was the cause for the piss I now laid in. My mind moves to the flashes of the whip, beating down on my back, tearing through skin and tissue and muscle. The pain was so severe after fifty three that I pulled my brains out- for the sixth time since we were captured. Next, my mind flashes to the crow bar. I can practically feel my ribs cracking again, I splutter as I cough up more blood. A result of my punctured lung from said crowbar. The same reason for my leg bone sticking out of my skin disgustingly.

But by far. The worst thing. It wasn’t the physical torture no. It was hearing Cassian beg. Beg for them to beat him, to just leave me alone as I’m beaten and bruised. It was the thoughts that now swam around my mind like a whirlpool, telling me that no one loved me. That no one missed me. That Rhysand. My mate. Would be here if he truly cared.

My mate.

He didn’t care.

He probably wanted me gone.

That’s why he agreed to let me go.

“Hey. Hey. Come back to me. Look at me sweetheart.” My eyes flutter open, meeting Cassians as he pets my hair. “Shh. It’s ok. Your ok.” I cough up more blood as I struggle to breathe.

“Cass…I’m-fuck- why has no one come for us? Do they not care.” I gulp a ragged breath of air

“Hey. No hey. Don’t let his words get in your head. They care. They are trying to find us. In fact, they are probably charging here now. Ok.”

I nod, still not fully believing him as my eyes flutter shut again and I float into darkness.

———

“Fuck!” Rhysand throws the table across the room. Three days. Three fucking days! He was close to finding you but not quite able to yet and it was not only pissing him off, but blinding him with rage and agony.

“Rhysand.”

“Fuck! Eris I will fucking kill you! What the fuck do you want! How did you get here!” The son of Autumn is pinned by the neck against the wall.

“Well. Your wards are quite weak. Also- I know where your precious mate is.”

“Where?” He growls, calling for Azriel in his mind. Once the shadowsinger arrives, they are winnowed to Autumn, the dungeons under the castle to be exact.

“All I can tell you is a few of my father’s men took them. They will be down here. We better hurry.”

The three tear through the halls. Till finally, they reach the cell they are looking for.

———

“-Fear bo evil. Feel no pain.” Cassian finished the prayer to the mother, sending you off to a peaceful land of eternal sleep. Pushing your hair back and kissing your head softly. Silent tears cascading down his face as he cradles your broken body.

“Cass?” Rhysand drops to his feet beside his friend.

“I’m so sorry brother. She was so strong, so brave. But- I. I couldn’t save her.” The brothers eyes meet, nothing but pain rushing through them as Cassian hands his brother his mates body.

“Fuck baby. I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry I wasn’t here sooner. Forgive me love. Please forgive me.” Rhysand cries and begs, begging for you to come back, to not leave him. Begging for your forgiveness and chanting about how sorry he is.

“Rhysand. I truly am sorry but we have to go. Now.” Even Eris’ eyes prickle with tears and his voice betrays him as he speaks, cracking a bit in the middle of his sentence.

The high lord of night nods, picking you up and moving to the door. The four make it to the house of wind. Rhysand setting your body in the dining room table. Bending over your body, weeping into your cold shoulder. As Mor makes it into the room, she gasps, her hand flying to her mouth as lets out a cry. Falling to her ‘sisters’ side.

That night. The sky was a little bit dimmer- all except the bright shooting star that flew past the house of wind, lighting up the dull night. Rhysand knew. He knew that was you, showing him you’d always be there, always be with him.

—————

Okkkk I hope this was ok? I was really struggling but I hope it’s up to standard? Thank you sm for the request and I promise I am slowly but surely making my way through the lists.

[autumnleaves1991-blog]

Happy thirsty Thursday! Have a doozy one for you! Will's girl writes erotic novels. Which he reads from time to time. One day he comes home to see her laptop was opened. Reads part of the story. He got so turned on. He wants to act out that scene with her.

Oh, yes. Thank you for making a request, bestie! Here's a little drabble for you.

Pairing: William Ironhead Miller X Female Reader

Warnings: 18 + implied smut, language.

"Babe!" you stand and stretch, "I'm going to make a cup of tea, you want anything?"

"A cup of tea sounds nice, honey, thank you!" Will shouts from the bathroom, washing his hands and smiling at seeing you sashay toward the kitchen.

He sits down on the couch, moving your laptop over and getting curious when he sees the amount of words you've typed into the google doc. Curiosity gets the better of him and he reads:

“Oh no you don’t,” he grabs your hips, pulling you back and pounding into you. The headboard smacks against the wall, the rabbit moving faster and vibrating harder as he picks up speed.

The feeling is indescribable, the warmth growing deep in your belly and when he presses your back down into the mattress and fucks you hard using his other hand to push the rabbit onto your clit you scream. It’s guttural and comes from somewhere deep inside you. Ray shouts your name but it sounds foggy like you’re underwater, the vibrating moves down to a light tremble and your body goes slack.

"You okay, babe?" you return from the kitchen holding the two steaming mugs. Will is staring hard at the screen of the computer and you freeze, "whatcha reading there, babe?"

He doesn't respond only looking between you and the laptop. He clears his throat, coughing slightly, and pointing towards the computer. "Is this what you're into?"

You think back to the scene you'd been writing the heroine being tied up and fucked with both a rabbit dildo and his cock in her ass at the same time. "Uhm," you put down the cups of tea, and wrap your arms around yourself, "I mean I've always fantasized-" the words barely leave your mouth before he's off the couch, tossing you over his shoulder. "WILL!" you shout, pressing on his back, "what are you doing?!"

"Time to make those fantasies a reality baby," he runs to the bedroom, you giggling happily the whole way.

"Well I could always use more content."

[just-some-random-blogger]

hello dear! need some angst with daemon really bad. maybe daemon makes his usually strong-willed wife cry during a fight? screaming too loud/saying smth too harsh/hurting the most vulnerable part or anything you wish.

your works are so gorgeous i'm literally in love. thank u in advance! take care!

I, Unfortunately, Love You Most

Daemon Targaryen x Reader

Summary: You loved him. He was your husband. You wished nothing but clear skies and laughter for him, but he seemed to make it a point to be contrary, and now you've reached your limit.

Word Count: 1k+

Warnings: Opens with allusions to sex, depictions of domestic violence, fem!reader, wife!reader, i hate daemon, misogyny, angst, typos, etc.

A/N: it really be the one you love that fucks you up the most. thank you for the req nonnie and for the sweet words. I am gorgeous aren't i? 🤩 ugh. why wouldn't you be in love with me? 🙄 Another day another angst. we love it here Tagging: @pinksirensong @deniixlovezelda

"Daemon," I pant as I come undone all over him. Our faces were pressed together. My parted mouth was heaving heavily against his neck. For a moment, I relished his warmth, his feel against me, inside me. I felt the tension in my body roll off in more ways then one when I felt his grip on my thighs, underneath my hiked up skirt.

Daemon came back to me. He was finally back to being my-

"Get off," he quips, shoving me off where his hands were, "I have somewhere I have to be."

I barely have enough time get on my feet with his adamant actions to rid me from his lap.

I begin to fume.

He was just inside me, he fucking used me, and now he was so quick to tuck himself in his pants, as though he relieved himself in one of his whores. I scoffed to myself as I watched him tie his breeches.

I mean I clearly was his whore in his head-- except he married me, except I have never had anyone else but him, and so he was the reason why I was defiled at all.

Daemon's eyes dart to me as I stare at him with scorn. He narrows his eyes and steps forward, tilting his head down at my disheveled form. He reaches out for my skirt and flattens it. He presses a kiss on my jaw, "thank you for indulging me, my dear."

"Fuck you," I quip back, staring at him as he pulls away.

"Later," he states but has no humor in his tone.

I growl, as he walks towards the door. I grab a pillow and chuck it at him on his way out, "I HATE YOU!"

He is undeterred when the soft object hits his back. It seems as though it is my loud heaving and sobs that make him halt his actions.

Daemon looks over his shoulder. I rip at my hair as I crash down to the bed. My chest constricts, along with my throat. My tears are blurring my vision. I want to hurl myself out the window when I hear him call my name.

I feel him come up to me, and when he does, I rise to my feet and shove past him.

He grabs my arm, then the other, and forces me in front of him. His expression is tight, angry, and confused. Hatred burns brighter within me when he asks, "what's wrong?"

I let a guttural scream, thrashing in his clutch.

Daemon is obviously too strong for me to fight off. He screams my name back and asks me the same question again, but this time, with more harshness.

"WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT'S WRONG?!" I burst.

"Clearly, I would not be asking you if I knew, bitch!" he rebuts, releasing me with a shove.

I reel back at his words. My breathing grows more taxed when I see that he as well is heaving. I lean into him, shaking my hands by the sides of my head when I scream again.

He tenses at this, face contorting in horror, "have you gone fucking insane?"

"YES!" I step forward and shove him, "BECAUSE OF YOU!" I shove him again.

I keep shoving him, over and over and over again, and he reels back at my violence. Daemon lets me take out my frustrations in him, just as how I let him just moments ago. When this fact dawns upon me, that I have been letting him use me because I wanted to soothe him, and yet here he was, spitting at my bones. My chest rises and falls in anger. It hinders my further movements.

"If you're quite done," Daemon states dryly, straightening himself up, "tell me what's gotten you so rabid."

I cannot believe what his words, his tone. I cannot believe the repulse written on his face. Tears stream down my cheeks as I glare at him, "just because you are devoid of emotion does not mean I do not hurt because of you," I seethe with venom, "husband!"

He narrows his eyes at me, "I hurt you?" he asks in disbelief.

"You just fucking USED ME!"

"You are my wife!" Daemon barks, stepping forward, point a finger to the ground, "I do with you what I see fit."

I pull back at his words, jaw slacked, heart broken. I shake my head rapidly, "so I'm no more than a gaping hole for your cock?"

"YOU ARE MY WIFE!" he steps forward, grabbing my face tightly.

I shove him away, but he does not budge. I hit him, much harder this time, and he squeezes my face forcefully because of it. I let out a pained whine and he pulls away, airing out the rest of his aggressions on the fucking furniture.

I cover my ears at the sound of crashing objects he throws and kicks down. I scream out his name, telling him to stop.

He does not. I don't think he can hear me.

And yet I scream out still, "I WANT TO FUCKING HELP YOU, DAEMON!"

Daemon throws one last vase to the floor, turning to me with a delirious look. I shudder and heave. I am practically vibrating in anger.

"You are so FUCKING insane and withdrawn," I start again, making Daemon's eye twitch. He storms towards me as I continue my rant, "that you don't even realize how your emotions have gotten the best of you lately."

He grabs me by the hair on the back of my head; in turn, I grab his collar. My face is forced up to look at him, but it does not hinder me from finishing, "do you not know that I want to fucking help you, you piece of shit?! That I care for you? That I bleed for you?!"

I pull him close to me as his grip on my hair loosens, "I know you have only ever learned to fuck your worries away, but you could at least have the decency to treat me like a human instead of a piece of flesh you own, purely to relieve yourself."

Daemon's eyes are watery, so much so that they fall down his face; he actually begins to cry.

I feel his arm shake as he pulls away from me.

My heart hurt for him, but I could not bear to make him whole, not today.

Suddenly, a pair of guards burst into the door.

I turn to them, shocked by the sudden appearance, but then quickly realize they were here because of our intense fight.

"Is everything alright, my princess?" the guard asks me, as Daemon did not even spare them a glance.

I shake my head, "we got into an argument," I sniffle and walk over, "it would be wise if you two simply went your way and turned a blind eye to this."

They take in my expression. I offer then a stoic look, "no one was hurt. It's all just the furniture."

A moment passes as they turn to each other. With one prompt nod to themselves and to me, they leave us be.

I decide to let them walk far enough before I leave the room myself.

[halosdiary]

somniphobia | boogeyman! r. sukuna x reader | 呪術廻戦

a/n: damn, I'm on a FUCKING role! I need to remember I made like 5 more stories for this month.

wc: 2.7k

contains: psychological horror, nightmares, absolute torment, SUKUNA.

synopsis: imagine having some inner demons. good luck.

It began on a night like any other. You had heard stories, of course. Who hadn’t? Rumors of a malevolent spirit, a demon who could bend reality to his will, a curse so ancient that its very name sent chills through those who knew of it—Ryomen Sukuna. But you never believed the tales, brushing them off as mere legend, something to tell around a campfire to keep people entertained.

Yet now, as you lay in bed, staring at the darkened ceiling, you felt a presence—a weight on your chest as though the very air had thickened with malevolent intent. The first night he came, you didn’t see him, but you felt him. A cold draft swept through your room, and in the silence, a whisper brushed your ear, too soft to discern but unmistakably real.

You jolted upright, heart pounding. Your room, bathed only in the pale light of the moon, seemed unchanged, but something was different. You could feel it. A strange pressure lingered in the air, making it hard to breathe.

"Did you think you could escape me?"

The voice was soft but chilling, oozing with amusement. Your body froze in place, muscles locked, as if the very atmosphere had turned against you. It was then you realized: Ryomen Sukuna had found you.

The first night, his presence was only an introduction—a warning of things to come. The next night, it escalated.

You didn’t want to sleep, but exhaustion claimed you despite your best efforts. And when you fell into the inescapable clutches of slumber, the nightmares began. You were trapped in a vast, ancient temple, its walls covered in eerie carvings and blood-red sigils. The air was thick with the scent of decay, and every shadow seemed to twist and writhe as though alive. Somewhere in the distance, you heard footsteps—slow, deliberate, mocking.

"Run," a voice echoed in your mind, and without thinking, you obeyed.

You sprinted through the labyrinthine hallways, heart racing, as the sound of laughter filled the corridors. His laughter. It was a dark, guttural sound, filled with a sadistic glee that made your blood run cold. Every turn you took brought you deeper into the maze, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were being herded, directed like a helpless animal toward its doom.

And then, you saw him.

He stood at the end of a long, dimly lit hallway, his towering figure cloaked in shadow. Two faces, both malevolent and twisted with cruelty, stared at you from the darkness, eyes glinting like sharpened knives. His four arms flexed, each hand holding a different deadly weapon—a massive sword in one, a jagged spear in another, and the other two free, as though eager to tear you apart.

"You cannot escape me," he said, his voice slithering into your mind, bypassing your ears. "You belong to me now."

You tried to scream, but no sound came out. Your legs refused to move, rooted to the spot by an unseen force. As he approached, the ground beneath you began to crack, and you felt yourself being pulled downward, the floor turning to quicksand beneath your feet. His laughter grew louder, more oppressive, until it was the only sound in the world.

You awoke with a start, drenched in cold sweat, gasping for breath. The room was silent, but the lingering sensation of his presence remained. You knew this wasn’t over.

The next evening, you refused to sleep. You kept all the lights on, checked every corner of your room, and locked every door and window. But the moment night fell, he returned. The air grew heavy, and the familiar pressure settled over your chest. The shadows in the corners of the room seemed to move, shifting as though something was hiding just beyond the reach of the light.

"Sooner or later, you’ll give in," his voice whispered from nowhere and everywhere at once.

Desperate, you reached for your phone, trying to distract yourself, but the screen flickered, then went black. In the reflection of the darkened screen, you saw him—standing right behind you, his two faces grinning with wicked delight. You spun around, but nothing was there. Only the oppressive silence remained.

Each time you closed your eyes, even for a second, his image flashed behind your eyelids—closer, clearer, more real. You could feel his hot breath on the back of your neck, his hands reaching out to claim you.

The third night was worse.

He began to appear not only in your dreams but in your waking life. You would catch glimpses of him in mirrors, in windows, in the corners of your vision. His twisted faces would leer at you from darkened doorways, his eyes following you wherever you went. The world itself seemed to warp around his presence; rooms became distorted, walls shifting, the ground beneath you unsteady.

Your isolation grew. No one believed you when you told them what was happening. Friends dismissed it as stress, maybe hallucinations brought on by lack of sleep. But you knew the truth. Sukuna had claimed you, and there was no escaping him.

By the time the fourth night came, you were a wreck. Sleep-deprived, paranoid, on the verge of breaking. But Sukuna was far from done with you. That night, he didn’t wait for sleep to claim you. He came as soon as darkness fell.

This time, he appeared before you fully, his towering form materializing from the shadows. His presence was overwhelming, his two faces grinning with malevolent glee. His four arms flexed, the weapons in his hands gleaming with a hunger you could feel in your bones.

"Bow to me," he commanded, his voice filling the room like thunder. "Pledge your soul to me, and I might let you live a while longer."

You wanted to run, to scream, but your body wouldn’t obey. The room seemed to close in around you, the walls warping and twisting as though reality itself was being bent by Sukuna’s will. His eyes, glowing with an unnatural light, bore into yours, filling your mind with images of horror—of death, of endless torment.

"Bow!" he demanded again, and this time, the force of his voice sent you crashing to your knees.

Tears streamed down your face as the weight of his power pressed down on you, suffocating, inescapable. There was no way out. No escape.

"You belong to me," Sukuna whispered, leaning in close, his breath hot against your skin. "Forever."

And in that moment, you knew there was no hope. No salvation. You had been marked by Ryomen Sukuna, and your soul was his to torment for all eternity.

As his laughter echoed through the room, you felt the last vestiges of your sanity slip away, consumed by the darkness that had claimed you.

The haunting would never end.

By the fifth night, you stopped fighting.

There was no point. Every breath, every waking moment, was drenched in his presence. The lines between dreams and reality had blurred so completely that you could no longer tell if you were awake or trapped in some sick nightmare conjured by Sukuna. He controlled everything now—your thoughts, your actions, your very will to live.

You began to hear his voice, not just in the darkness of night but during the day as well. When you walked down the street, his laughter echoed in your mind, a cruel mockery of your attempts to pretend everything was normal. You saw his twisted faces in every reflection, his eyes gleaming from the shadows cast by trees, buildings, even the people passing by. The world had become a grotesque funhouse of terror, and you were its only prisoner.

One afternoon, as you sat in your room, you heard a soft knocking on your door. It was strange—nobody ever visited anymore. You’d pushed everyone away, driven mad by the constant presence of Sukuna. But the knocking persisted, slow and deliberate. Against your better judgment, you stood and opened the door.

Nothing.

The hallway was empty. But before you could turn back, the door slammed shut behind you, and the lights in the hallway flickered, casting the walls in a sickly, pulsing glow. The familiar sense of dread crawled up your spine, and you knew he was near.

"Run again, will you?" Sukuna’s voice rumbled from all around you.

Panic surged through your veins, and despite everything, you ran. You fled down the hallway, the walls twisting and warping around you, each step pulling you further into a distorted version of your own home. Doors appeared and vanished, floors bent under your weight as if they were alive, breathing and pulsing with each beat of your frantic heart.

It didn’t take long for Sukuna to appear.

He materialized in front of you, his two faces leering with that same sadistic pleasure, his four arms outstretched as though welcoming you into his embrace. His laughter filled the air, loud and thunderous, shaking the very walls of the twisted hallway. You froze, trapped by the weight of his presence, unable to move as he approached, each step echoing like the tolling of a bell.

"This game grows tiresome," he hissed, his voice like poison seeping into your ears. "Why continue to resist? You are mine, body and soul. No amount of running will change that."

You wanted to scream, to beg, to plead for your life, but your throat was dry, and your legs felt like lead. His power was overwhelming, a suffocating force that made every breath a struggle.

He raised a hand, and you felt your body lift off the ground, suspended in midair by some unseen force. His eyes bore into yours, and you felt your very essence being pulled from within, as though your soul was being unraveled, thread by thread.

"Look at you," he said, a twisted grin spreading across both of his faces. "So weak. So fragile. You humans are all the same—filled with fear, so easy to break. And yet, you still cling to hope, don’t you? You think there’s a way out, that you’ll wake up and this will all be over."

The grin widened, and his two faces twisted into something even more grotesque, their mouths stretching unnaturally wide as they spoke in unison. "But there is no escape. Not for you. Not ever."

With a flick of his wrist, you were hurled backward, crashing into the wall with a sickening thud. Pain exploded through your body, but even that felt distant, dulled by the oppressive weight of Sukuna’s power. He approached slowly, savoring every second of your torment, his eyes gleaming with a hunger that went beyond simple malice.

As he loomed over you, his breath hot on your face, he spoke again, this time in a low, almost intimate whisper. "You will break. And when you do, you will beg for me to end it. You will beg to serve me."

The words settled over you like a curse, sinking deep into your mind, where they would fester and grow. And then, without warning, the room around you changed.

Gone was the warped version of your home. You were now in a vast, dark void, the ground beneath you cold and slick like wet stone. The air was thick with the stench of decay, and all around you, you could hear whispers—faint, unintelligible voices that seemed to come from every direction. You looked up, and there, far above, you saw Sukuna’s towering form, watching you from the darkness like a god surveying his domain.

You were nothing here. A speck in the vastness of his world.

And then the ground shifted, pulling you down into the cold, inky blackness. It was as though the world itself was swallowing you whole. You thrashed, trying to fight it, but the more you struggled, the deeper you sank, until only your head remained above the surface.

"Sink," Sukuna whispered from the darkness. "Sink into oblivion. Let go."

Your heart pounded in your chest as the darkness crept up your throat, suffocating, choking. You were drowning in it, sinking further and further into the abyss. His laughter echoed through the void, mocking you, growing louder and louder until it was deafening.

And just when you thought you would disappear completely, a hand—his hand—reached down and pulled you back to the surface. You gasped for air, your body trembling with fear, but Sukuna’s grip was firm, unyielding. He held you just above the surface, his eyes boring into yours with a look of dark amusement.

"Not yet," he said softly. "I’m not done with you yet."

With a flick of his wrist, the world around you dissolved, and you were back in your room, lying on the floor, gasping for breath. The night was still, the silence deafening. But you knew this was not mercy. This was not the end.

Sukuna was never going to let you go.

He would return, again and again, each time worse than the last. Each time driving you closer to the edge of madness, until there was nothing left of you but a hollow shell, broken and hollow.

And when that day came, you would kneel before him, not out of fear, but out of a desperate, all-consuming need for the torment to finally end.

But even then, you knew, it wouldn’t. The torment would never end.

Not with Ryomen Sukuna.

By the seventh night, you barely functioned. The boundaries between your waking life and the nightmares were completely shattered. Sleep was your only escape now, but even that was a lie. Sukuna's presence followed you into the depths of unconsciousness, warping your mind, your dreams, your very soul. Each night was a new horror, a slow unraveling of your sanity.

Tonight, though, something was different.

The air in your room felt thick, suffocating, as though it carried the weight of impending doom. Shadows clung to the corners of the room, darker and more twisted than before, as if they were waiting for something—waiting for you. Your body was heavy with exhaustion, and despite your terror, you could feel sleep creeping up on you like a predator stalking its prey.

You fought to stay awake, but the pull of sleep was too strong. The moment your eyes closed, you were back in that temple—his temple. The ancient stone walls oozed with malevolent energy, and the carvings of demonic faces stared down at you from every corner, grinning in cruel anticipation.

You felt it—his presence. Sukuna was near.

You heard the familiar sound of his footsteps, slow and deliberate, echoing through the vast chambers. There was no running this time, no escape. You had no strength left. You knew he would find you, and you knew there was no point in resisting.

As he approached, you felt the temperature drop, a chill that seeped into your bones. And then he was there, towering over you, his two faces grinning with wicked delight. His four arms stretched out, and you saw the weapons he carried glinting in the dim light—the sword, the spear, the hands that had torn through countless souls before yours.

"At last," he whispered, his voice crawling through your mind like venom. "You’re ready."

You tried to speak, to beg for mercy, but no words came. You couldn’t move, couldn’t scream. All you could do was stare up at him, helpless as his shadow loomed larger and larger, consuming everything around you.

"You’ve run enough," Sukuna said, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your face. "Now it’s time to sleep. Forever."

He raised one of his hands, a single finger extended, and touched your forehead. A searing pain shot through your skull, but it was brief—just a flicker of agony before the darkness descended. Your body grew heavy, your mind slowing, everything fading into a deep, cold void.

As you sank into the endless blackness, you felt an overwhelming sense of release. The pain, the fear, the torment—it was all slipping away. Your body was numb, your thoughts were quiet. Sukuna's laughter echoed faintly in the distance, but even that was fading.

You were finally free.

But in the depths of that final sleep, just before everything went completely dark, you realized the truth.

You hadn’t escaped.

You were still his, even in death.

And in the eternity that followed, as your consciousness slipped away into oblivion, you felt his presence linger—waiting, watching.

You had died, but Sukuna’s torment was not bound by life or death.

It would follow you, even in the afterlife. Forever.

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