There's a million things swirling in my head right now but I'd just like to say how over the moon I am to have crossed over a MILLION hits on my fanfics on ao3!
It's surreal, honestly, I wouldn't be here had it not been for my readers' constant love and support towards my fics. Even when I had my moments of self-doubt and couldn't update for months, it was your support that kept me going and got me to this milestone, and for that I am so utterly grateful. Your support means more to me than I can ever truly express - it feels like more than I deserve. 💌
There are so many incredible writers on Fanfiction.net (where I got my start!) and ao3 that are an inspiration to me - Perry_Downing, tm_writes, ReyloTrashCompactor (NextToSomething), crochetaway, SageMcMae, forthelongestday, EricaNoelle180, ohwise1ne, blueenvelopes935, SouthSideStory, corvusdraconis, Red_Lily_Wine (Lilia_ula), Avdal, Simaril, TearoomSaloon, HollyDB, Ever-so-reylo, FlamingMaple, Janina, BelleMorte180, avidvampirehunter, Elywyngirlie, Hormonal_Trashbag, and countless more.
I was 15 when I started sharing my work on fanfiction.net, and I'm about to turn 25 (in just a couple of minutes...!). It feels like a character arc in itself haha; the journey from losing my mind over a hundred views to now over a million! Thank you all so much - I hope that you continue to enjoy my work in 2024 (and yes - Curious Girl will be updated!). 🥂💖
Hi! I am a huge fan of yours! I love your Harry Potter and Asoiaf fanfics. I have been thinking of Tomione where Hermione is Esmeralda while Tom is Claude Frollo in the Hunchback of Notre Dame. Maybe you could write a Prompt about it if you don’t mind? The dark passionate obsession can be applied here.
Thank you so much for your kind words—they mean everything to me. I apologize for the delay in responding. Writing your idea was a challenge (in a good way!), and I hope you enjoy it. You can read it Blooming Here (And There) here or down below. 🙏💖
Beneath a full moon, its silvery light casting an ethereal glow upon the ancient cobblestone streets of Paris, a grand carriage rumbled through the night. The carriage, an imposing sight, was painted in a deep, lustrous black, its polished surface reflecting the moonlight like a mirror. Golden accents adorned its frame, catching the light with every movement, and intricate carvings of mythical creatures and floral patterns decorated the wooden panels. Reinforced with gleaming metal, the wheels clattered rhythmically, echoing through the quiet, empty streets.
Yet it was not merely the grandeur of the carriage that caught the eye—it was the crest emblazoned upon its door that truly inspired fear. The crest depicted an ouroboros, a serpent devouring its tail, an ancient symbol of eternity and cyclical destruction. This was no ordinary emblem but the mark of Tom Riddle, a man blessed by the Church, titled the archdeacon of Notre Dame Cathedral and trusted by the Archbishop. In this city, Tom Riddle held a position of immense influence and authority, his name intertwined with both reverence and dread.
Four magnificent horses, their coats as black as the carriage they pulled, moved in perfect harmony, their breath visible in the cool night air. The horses' harnesses were adorned with silver trimmings that glinted under the moon's gaze.
Inside the grand conveyance, the air was thick with a tense and enigmatic silence. Three companions sat on the plush, velvet-lined seats, each absorbed in their thoughts. The first, a sullen woman, stared out of the window with an expression of profound melancholy. Her eyes, shadowed by sorrow, flickered with the passing lights of the city.
Beside her sat a man, his demeanor calm and composed, yet his eyes betrayed a wealth of knowledge and secrets. He observed his companions with a knowing glance, a faint, enigmatic smile playing on his lips as if he were privy to a truth that eluded the others.
Opposite the knowing man sat the third companion, a weeping man. His face was buried in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent sobs. Tears streamed down his cheeks, glistening in the dim light of the carriage's lanterns. His sorrow seemed boundless, an ocean of grief that threatened to overwhelm him.
Poor fool that he was.
"If you wanted a rest from Paris, you should have asked me, Hermione," Tom murmured, "I would have been happy to escort you."
"I wouldn't go anywhere with you."
"Are you certain about that?"
Hermione stiffened, her cheeks flushing a pretty shade of pink. Tom admired the pale column of her neck and imagined how lovely she would look when he laid a necklace across it.
Rubies, he decided, would suit her. Their deep red hue would contrast beautifully with her creamy skin, drawing attention to the graceful lines of her throat. He could already envision how the gemstones would catch the light, glinting with a fire that reflected his little hellcat.
There was so much anger in her, so much unrestrained pride, that he'd recognized it from the moment he met her amidst a group of wandering performers and outcasts. Heathens, really, who were all too eager to sell a young girl who asked endless questions and was another mouth to feed. She was a child of the streets, fierce and untamed, with hungry eyes that he recognized.
She wanted everything that the world had to give, only she hadn’t learned that she would have to take what she wanted. No one would give it to her freely.
He had learned that lesson well.
Everything that he had, he had taken from someone else, trampling their spirit beneath his feet as he prayed for their damned soul.
He was not a man of mercy; he was a man of opportunity.
He hadn’t asked himself why he wanted her, nor had he quibbled over her asking price that was less than the new set of quills and ink that he’d had custom-made to his liking. He only knew that she'd caught his attention, and her tiny hand felt warm in his.
And her dark curls –
They were plaited down her back, the ends tied into place with a yellow ribbon, a splash of color in her filthy attire. She looked up at him with fear and curiosity and waited for him to ask her name as if it would matter to him.
Instead, he asked something that mattered far more.
“Will you be good, little one?”
“I’m always good, Monsieur,” she’d promised, with wide, clear eyes that held a flicker of hope. It was a lie, of course, but one that he found amusing.
She was a clever girl.
“Very well.”
He’d taught her to read and to dream, and she believed every word that he said.
She trusted him like the birds he fed in the church courtyard, following in his shadow and slipping into his bed at night to ask him questions about the books they read and the lessons he taught. She watched and listened, tucking away every sentence of his, pulling them apart in her mind until she asked for his help putting them back together again.
He left scars on his palms where his nails dug into his skin, aching to break her beating wings.
“I’ll make arrangements for you.”
And he had, as he placed her at a convent for where she could study as much as she liked without needing to take vows, and he sent the abbess an allowance for her without fail. In return, the abbess sent him detailed reports about Hermione, how she cherished every book and letter he sent, tucking the newest one beneath her pillow as if it were a precious treasure.
The reports were thorough, covering her academic progress, her interactions with the other girls, and her emotional development. The abbess wrote of Hermione's insatiable curiosity, her quick grasp of complex concepts, and her unwavering dedication to her studies. She also noted the girl's solitary nature and how she often preferred the company of her books to that of her peers.
'There is a stray cat that Hermione has adopted, and she feeds scraps when she believes no one is watching.' (‘Crookshanks,’ Tom thought, remembering a previous letter from Hermione where she’d confided in him that she thought of the cat as hers. The cat was confined to the courtyard after it had eaten one of the other girl's songbirds, leaving behind a mess of tears and feathers.
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ Hermione defended, ‘He was terribly hungry, Monsieur.’
Tom was hungry, too.)
‘I’m afraid she’s hopeless at embroidery.’ (‘It hurts when the needle pricks my finger,’ Hermione explained, dots of blood smeared on the page.
Tom didn’t ask why he had her excused from learning to sew and embroider; essential skills for any young woman, and allowed her to study ancient Greek for sheer pleasure.)
'She asked when you would see her again.' (If he could, he would see her every day.)
On and on it went until a letter arrived that made Tom stare into the flickering flames in the hearth, watching as the parchment crumpled and burned.
‘Do you have any plans for her future, Your Reverence?’
He knew what went unsaid: she was now old enough to marry.
To spread her legs and breed.
Only who would take responsibility for her? As her guardian, Tom knew he could find a partner for Hermione. He would – only, he wanted someone who wouldn’t ruin his investment in her. Who would nurture her mind as much as he had? She knew too much to be content as a prized broodmare, with nothing in her mind but thoughts of her children and her aching womb.
A passing thought –
Turned into a tempting fixation.
He knew that he could fill both her mind and her womb.
It wasn't unusual for a man, even a man of the cloth, to keep a mistress even if he couldn't take a wife. Many of the children Hermione had grown up with in the convent were illegitimate children of noblemen and priests, including one from the Archbishop, Abraxas Malfoy, with striking blonde hair and silver eyes whose existence was an open secret.
No one would question Tom if he set up a mansion on the outskirts of Paris and kept Hermione there, even if they filled it with children. However, such an extravagant move seemed unnecessary when Tom could easily keep her at his residence within the city walls, conveniently near Notre Dame Cathedral. Who would object?
No one.
He could do anything he liked with Hermione.
Only Tom hadn't expected for her to climb the convent walls and tumble into company with a grotesque fool, who'd whispered into her ear about the exact kind of holy man that he was and the dreams that he had.
(Pettigrew, the loyal and unassuming servant, had always been privy to the darkest secrets of his Master. He had witnessed countless acts of depravity and ruthlessness. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the sight that awaited him that fateful night.
Nothing.
As he stealthily navigated the dimly lit corridors of the grand estate, Pettigrew felt a familiar sense of unease gnawing at his insides. He knew that his Master's private chambers were strictly off-limits, but his curiosity often got the better of him. As Pettigrew cautiously approached the door, he noticed a small hole in the wood, just large enough for him to peek through.
He hesitated for a moment, his heart pounding in his chest, before mustering the courage to press his eye against the tiny aperture. What he saw on the other side left him both shocked and appalled. There, in the center of the room, stood his Master, Riddle, with his trousers around his ankles and his cock in hand. Pettigrew watched in disbelief as his Master pumped his fist with fervor, his face contorted in a grotesque mixture of pleasure and pain.
To Pettigrew's horror, he noticed that Riddle's gaze was fixed upon a portrait of a woman, her delicate features and graceful form captured in exquisite detail. As Riddle's climax neared, he began to chant her name, 'Hermione,' his voice echoing through the room like a desperate prayer. ‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck – ‘
Jealousy burned in his veins as Pettigrew imagined his Master saying another name instead.
Of course, he didn't tell Hermione that when Pettigrew said, "Father Riddle desires you, 'Mione.' And watched with grim satisfaction as the woman refused to meet his gaze.
What did she know?)
As perceptive as Pettigrew was, he and Hermione were naïve to believe they could evade Tom in a city under his absolute control. A few subtle inquiries were all it took to uncover the ship they planned to embark on and how Hermione had secured their passage by offering to transcribe for the captain.
Tom wondered how Hermione would react if she knew that he had personally severed the captain's hand, the very same hand that had caressed her cheek and countless women before her. He was well known at the docks for accepting runaways who fell into his debt and could never find their way out.
Only Tom had never wanted Hermione's gratitude.
"You were a liar then," Hermione said, her voice trembling with anger. Her thoughts were tangled together, and ever since she'd run away with Pettigrew, she hadn't been able to even begin to untangle them. "And you're still a liar now."
"Perhaps," Tom agreed, inclining his head toward her. "I've lied to countless people but not to you."
Never to her.
There was no need to.
"What do you want from us?"
"Don't you know the answer to that, Hermione?"
She flinched as he'd intended her to. "I'd rather die than submit to your twisted desires."
“So lovely yet so painfully naïve," Tom murmured, "Won't you listen to my proposition? You won't die, and neither will he," his gaze flicked to the gagged and bound man, who cowered at his gaze. "If you become my companion."
There were a dozen words that he could have used, and all of them meant the same thing to Hermione. He wanted her to be his whore.
“You’re a monster,” Hermione hissed.
There was the hellcat he adored, fiery and unyielding, as she glared at him with defiance burning in her eyes. Her cheeks flushed red with anger and indignation, a testament to her fury.
"You would use your power to coerce me into your bed, Father?" she challenged, hating how her voice trembled with disgust and disbelief. She knew the position he held and truly believed that he honored the vows he had taken.
She knew nothing about him in that regard. No one did.
He would have done anything—said anything, become anything—to raise himself from the filth-ridden streets. Desperation had inspired him to do many things, none of them righteous or kind, and he felt nothing when he thought of them.
They were simply a means to an end.
Over and over again.
It was a world that Hermione had long forgotten, a distant memory of flea bites washed away with soap and a ribcage once stark but now padded with soft flesh. She was spoiled with countless luxuries because of him, a fact he doubted she would ever truly understand. Hundreds in her place would have clung to his robes, begged for absolution, and never judged him for the vows he had taken—and betrayed daily.
He shrugged, knowing that his movement would only infuriate her further.
“Ah, but it's not coercion. It's a choice. A choice between life and death. And I think you will find that I am... persuasive, sweetheart.”
He had already given her a taste of what life would be like at his side when he'd slipped novels into her possession, each page inscribed with fresh ink and their covers bound with the softest calf leather.
It was a gesture, seemingly innocuous yet laden with significance. The novels, carefully chosen to pique her interest, spoke volumes of his intentions. They were not just gifts but invitations into a world of luxury and refinement, a world that he could offer her.
And she hadn’t hated it.
Far from it.
She had reveled in the feel of the supple leather beneath her fingertips, inhaling the ink's scent as she turned each page. The stories within had captivated her, transporting her to foreign lands and enthralling her with their tales of adventure and romance.
In those moments, as she lost herself in the pages of those meticulously chosen novels, Hermione had glimpsed a glimpse of the life that Tom could offer her—a life of opulence and indulgence, where every desire was catered to, and every whim was fulfilled.
It was a seductive proposition that she found herself drawn to despite her better judgment. And as she looked back on those stolen moments of luxury, she couldn't help but admit that she had liked it.
She’d liked it too much.
Her hand twisted in her lap, her knuckles turning white. “You may have power, but you’ll never have me,” Hermione said, her voice dropping to a whisper. “Not like that – not all of me.”
Not how he'd dreamed when he sank to his knees and clasped his hands with his head bent. He knew how to lie in half a dozen languages, yet he could only tell the truth in French, which he'd always used with Hermione.
God had abandoned him long ago, and he'd found her in his place.
A mere slip of a girl, a gypsy rat at that.
That he wanted to possess.
Would she like the power she held over him? Tom believed she would once she realized what it meant. Hermione could possess anything she desired, anything she requested, so long as she allowed him to bury himself inside of her warm body.
How long had he been freezing inside?
“You’re wrong.”
He lifted his hand when she went to protest, a silent command that was enough to silence her then. She flinched when she realized it, a subtle acknowledgment of his power over her, and he was forgiving enough not to comment on her obedience.
He had no need to.
“I do have you.”
He let his words hang between them, a weighty silence settling over the carriage. His gaze slid toward the hunchback who was listening to every word, with a furrowed brow and snot running from his nose.
Why had she ever listened to Pettigrew?
(Because she was scared at what being his meant, she found running easier.
Just as he’d done when he sent her away.)
“I know how you feel, Hermione. I’ve always known.”
He'd read her affection in every letter that she'd sent him as her handwriting grew steadier, and every letter grew longer than the last. He fed her letters to the fire after he read them, remembering each and every word. It meant something to him, having a relationship with someone who demanded so little from him yet at the same time asked for so much.
She wanted him beside her; his monthly visit was never long enough for her to show him every book she had read and a review of the subjects she had learned. She still held on to his hand, even when the top of her head reached his shoulder, and the scent of roses clung to her skin.
‘She asked if a priest could ever marry.’
He wasn't blind to how she watched him when she thought he wasn't looking or how she flushed when he offered his arm to her. It was a situation he hadn't thought would change, a miscalculation he chided himself for making.
He should have taken her from the convent sooner, keeping her close to his side from the very beginning. She would have never learned to look away from him then and would have allowed him to bury his head between her legs, his tongue lapping at her cunt in worship. Would she have pressed his face closer while chanting his name –
“Please, Tom, please – “
He knew what she would say.
“Be kind to me.”
Had he wanted to be kind to anyone before?
Only to her.
“I’ll give you what you need, Hermione.”
What they both craved.
Even if she wanted to take from him without asking, grinding her cunt against his mouth, and hooking her legs around his shoulders, forcing him closer still. He would have let her use him until his lips were red and swollen, and his mouth was stained with the sallow taste of her slick.
What a fine introduction into adulthood that would have made.
(He’d imagined it more times than he could count.)
"Don't do this – " Hermione's voice wavered, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and longing. She grew paler, knowing full well that he wouldn't heed her plea. She could see how his eyes darkened with resolve in the determined set of his jaw. He would say it, the words that would shatter the fragile peace she had constructed around her heart.
Tom paused, his expression softening just for a moment as he took in the sight of her. He knew this was a childhood dream that she had tucked away deep within her chest, a dream that made her ache even now. The dream of resting her head on Tom’s knee and feeling his fingers gently carding through her hair, soothing away the world’s harsh edges, as if he didn’t have the harshest edges of all.
Down, down she fell into Hell.
He would never stop her when he was there, waiting for her.
“You don’t see me as a Father, do you, Hermione?”
"You're trying to manipulate me," she accused, neither of them believing what she said. This was a side of him that she had never seen before, a side of him that made her want to bury her face in her hands.
Only she knew that she couldn't pretend to be somewhere else.
This wasn't the Tom she knew, but someone else in his place. The Tom that Pettigrew had warned her about when she'd first met him over the convent wall. The pitiful, hunchbacked man knew countless things about the priest he had served as a bell-ringer—countless, horrible things that made vomit rise in her throat.
How many people had Tom tortured and burned for the Church? The same hands that had gently covered hers when she learned to write were now stained with sin and ash—an unimaginable reality she could never have conceived before. She had realized, then, how much was kept from her in the convent where she could read for hours on end and learn for even longer from nuns who adored her. Boredom was a stranger she had never known, and selfishness was her closest companion.
She made marks in the book she cherished most using the quill that Tom had sent her, one fashioned after the quill he used, counting the days between his visits. Keeping track of the days in her mind meant something different when marked on the page—something tangible and real that she could hold onto. She'd had nothing before when she lived with countless gypsies, their faces and names a blur before Tom took her away.
She wouldn't admit she was sold because her questions had chased her away from the people she loved as her family—a family that thought nothing of her and sold her to a man who could have done anything to her.
Nor could she admit that Tom had sent her away to the convent without a word after she had stayed by his side, asking him endless questions that he'd always answered.
(Only-
He'd sent her away, too.
Just like her family before, without asking her.
Did Pettigrew know she hated Tom too, resentment coiled in her lungs?)
She wanted to be with Tom.
Her Tom.
Only there were things she didn't understand that she doubted she would ever understand, which made her shred her skin to ribbons and snap the cherished quill in half before she left.
How could he be so gentle and kind to her yet vicious and hateful toward others?
How?
And in the name of God?
She’d cried when Pettigrew showed her the scars on his back, still bleeding and raw from the last whipping Tom had given him. It was why he had run away, following the path he knew Tom’s carriage often took, to a convent where he hid something precious.
Someone.
“We’re the same,” Pettigrew had whispered, his gnarled hand stroking her shoulder as she cried. "He wants to use you even more than he's used me."
She leaned into his touch, even though it felt wrong.
Why did she still want Tom to hold her?
Even then?
"Perhaps," Tom conceded his tone calm and calculated. "But it's not just manipulation. It's the truth. And I know that you feel it, too."
Her resolve faltered, her eyes fluttering closed as if to shut out the unsettling truth. Despite her efforts to deny it, the undeniable pull between them lingered in the air, a palpable tension that neither could ignore.
She hated it, as much as she couldn’t hate him.
“What if it's true? What if I do feel something for you?”
Tom smiled then.
“Then say yes.”
It would be easy, so very easy, then. “Stay with me, Hermione, and I’ll let Pettigrew go.”
“As your companion,” She replied, licking her dry lips. He made no response, knowing that she knew the answer. "Your whore."
Never, never had she imagined that things would come to this.
No.
For all that she had read, nothing had prepared her for this.
“Do you... do you know what love is?” The confined space of the carriage felt suffocating, and she longed to throw open the window to let in a breath of fresh air. “Do you even understand what love truly means?”
“Love?”
His smile turned into a sneer. “I know exactly what love is.”
His mind drifted back to his childhood, to his mother, a laundress with dreams far beyond her station. She had fallen in love with a nobleman, believing his empty promises that he would leave his wife for her. It was an impossible dream, a fantasy woven from desperation and naivety as if she could ever be more than she was.
Tom remembered the nights she would come home with new ribbons in her hair, gifts from her noble lover. She would twirl before him, her eyes sparkling with hope and delusion, while their stomachs remained painfully empty. He hated those ribbons, symbols of her misplaced faith and their unending hunger.
His sneer deepened as the memories grew darker. His mother’s health had declined with each passing day, her body weakening under the strain of pregnancy. She had clung to her lover’s promises, even as her life slipped away. In the end, she had died bringing his malformed, stillborn sibling into the world.
Only when the room was engulfed with flames did Tom feel full for the first time in his young life—not with the gnawing ache of hunger that had plagued him for months but with a twisted sense of contentment. The flames had licked his skin, warming him with their fiery embrace, as if purging him of his past sins and shortcomings as his decrepit home burned.
And he’d never looked back.
“Love is a weakness. A foolishness. And I am not weak, Hermione.”
“Then maybe we're not so different after all.”
Was it a lie, or was it the truth?
Did it matter?
Tom reached forward, his hand trembling slightly as it outstretched toward her. His brave little girl stayed in place, her eyes wide and unblinking, as his fingertips skimmed her cheek, the touch turning her cheeks an even deeper shade of pink. Her breath hitched, but she didn't pull away.
He would rather have her hate and her lies than her apathy.
As she attempted to turn her face away, his hand moved quickly, cupping her chin with a firm but gentle grip, guiding her gaze back to him. His thumb caressed her plump bottom lip, tenderly brushing away the blood that had gathered from where she’d bitten through the skin in her anxiety.
Tucked away in his manor, nothing would happen to her; sorrow and anxiety barred from the door. It was a foolish thought, but Tom allowed himself to have it all the same. It was something he was— a girl who had placed her hand in his and lied to his face as if he would have ever believed her.
(And she still thought she was honest and straightforward when she was as crooked and selfish as he was. His sweet girl, who believed the world was a place that would follow everyone's will.
She was a fool, a beautiful fool, that he wanted to hold impossibly close to him.
Wasn’t that why he sent her away in the first place?)
"Let me in," Tom whispered, "And I'll let him go now."
“You don’t mean that.”
“I do.”
Her lips parted slightly, and he took the opportunity to slip his thumb inside. The warmth and softness of her lips enveloped him, creating a sensation that sent shivers down his spine. The gentle, almost teasing touch of her tongue as it grazed his skin only intensified the tingling feeling.
His arousal grew steadily beneath his robes, his cock stiffening with anticipation.
She had no idea what she did to him.
“Good girl,” he whispered when she made no move to bite him. “Do you see how easy it is to obey?” Without taking his eyes off hers, he tapped on the carriage window with a deliberate, measured motion, the sound sharp in the silence of the night.
The carriage soon came to a smooth halt, the clatter of the wheels fading into the background. Outside, the imposing silhouette of a grand cathedral loomed against the moonlit sky, its spires reaching towards the heavens. The sudden stillness inside the carriage was palpable, starkly contrasting to the tension that had filled the space moments before.
Releasing her mouth, Tom turned his attention to Pettigrew, who sat bound and silent in the corner. The hunchback's eyes were wide with a mixture of fear and resignation, his frame shivering slightly in the dim light. With practiced efficiency, Tom moved to free Pettigrew from his bonds, his fingers working deftly to untie the ropes.
The carriage door swung open as the final knot came loose, revealing the coachman standing outside. The man was dressed in a dark, somber uniform, his expression stoic and unreadable. He tipped his hat to Tom with a gesture of respect, his eyes briefly flickering to the figures inside the carriage before returning to the ground.
“Your orders, sir?” the coachman asked.
“See our friend out.”
The coachman nodded and stepped forward, hauling Pettigrew to his feet before he could look toward Hermione. Pettigrew was forced out of the carriage with a rough shove, stumbling down the steps. His already sore body met the cobblestone streets with a painful thud, eliciting a grunt from deep within him.
Pettigrew tried to steady himself, his limbs trembling from exhaustion and fear. The coachman stood over him like a silent sentinel, ensuring he wouldn't make any sudden moves. Hermione watched from inside the carriage, her expression unreadable, as Pettigrew struggled to rise.
It was a disgusting scene, a terrible scene—
It was the last thing Hermione saw before the man shut the door.
“Ah-ah, I don’t think so.”
Tom caught her wrists as she moved to follow her friend. His grip was firm, his eyes locking onto hers with a steely intensity. “Do you intend to go back on our deal, Hermione?”
He’d fulfilled his end.
“He’s hurt, Tom, and he won’t know where to go,” Hermione started, her lower lip trembling. As if Pettigrew wasn’t born a gutter rat, the same as she was, and he. They would always find somewhere to go, somewhere that kept them safe from the bitter rain and howling wind. “He needs my help—”
Tom's gaze hardened as he cut her off sharply, his grip tightening on her wrists. “I need you.”
As Tom pulled Hermione onto his lap, she stiffened in protest, her body tense and rigid against his. His grip was firm yet oddly gentle as if trying to balance dominance with a semblance of tenderness. For a moment, their eyes locked, a silent battle of wills playing out in the dim light of the carriage.
“Trust me.”
More than you trust a hideous fool.
“Please,” Tom murmured, “Please, Hermione.”
He would say anything, do anything, to keep her there.
“Tom – “
Her expression crumpled, and he felt flames licking his chest again. She didn't beg for Pettigrew, cry for him, or look back as the carriage started forward once again. Instead, she looked at him with conflict in her eyes, a—conflict that he knew he could use.
“I need you,” he repeated, his voice a whisper filled with urgency and longing.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, Tom leaned in and pressed his lips to hers. The kiss began with a cautious exploration, his mouth moving softly against hers, testing the waters. Hermione's initial resistance was palpable, her hands pressed against his chest as if to push him away. But his kiss's persistence and unexpected warmth began to erode her defenses.
Gradually, she felt her body soften, the tension ebbing away like a receding tide. Her hands, once pushing against him, now clung to the fabric of his robes, her fingers curling into the material. The kiss deepened, growing more urgent and fervent, a mingling of breath and heat. Tom's hands roamed gently up her back, pulling her closer as if trying to meld their bodies into one.
He wanted all of her.
As their kiss deepened, Tom's fingers found their way to the hem of her dress, and he began to lift it up, revealing her thighs. He traced delicate patterns on her skin, causing her to gasp into his mouth. Slowly, his fingers ventured further until they found her warm, wet cunt. Hermione moaned softly, her body betraying her even as her mind screamed at her to resist.
Tom's fingers began to slide in and out of her with a steady rhythm. Hermione's moans grew louder, her body bucking against his hand. She felt her climax approaching, and she clung to Tom, desperate for release.
He knew that she’d never felt anything like it before.
As she reached the peak of her pleasure, Tom pulled his fingers away, leaving her gasping and trembling in his embrace. He gave her a sly smile, his eyes gleaming with desire.
How could he always remain in control?
She remained oblivious to the way his breath caught in his throat, and how his thoughts were filled entirely with her.
They always had.
"Is this what you wanted, Hermione?" he asked, his voice low and rough.
Hermione could only nod, her body aching for more. Tom chuckled, his hands moving to unfasten his trousers. He pulled her on top of him, guiding her down onto his erection. She gasped at the sensation, her body adjusting to the unfamiliar fullness.
She had waited for him while he saw her face in every whore that he fucked.
He could feel the tightness of her body as he pushed into her, the sensation of her virginity adding an extra layer of excitement to their intimate encounter. As he broke through the final barrier, he could see the tears welling up in her eyes, a mixture of pain and ecstasy. He chased away her tears with his lips, his tongue lapping at her skin.
He could spend the whole of his life devoted to her and her precious cunt.
Slowly, they began to move together, their bodies joining in a primal dance. Hermione could feel her pleasure building again, the heat spreading through her body like wildfire that threatened to consume her. Tom's hands gripped her hips, guiding her movements, and she found herself lost in the sensation of their bodies entwined.
It was nothing.
(It was everything.)
There was no space between them for words or hate, as they came together like they were always meant to be. He wouldn't let go of her; he never would.
This was how devotion was supposed to feel.
As they reached their climax, Hermione cried out, her body shuddering with release. Tom followed her, his fingers digging into her hips as he found his own pleasure. They collapsed together, their bodies slick with sweat and their breaths coming in ragged gasps.
They’d fallen together; their limbs and their thoughts entwined.
Hello! I just discovered and read your fic Curious Girl! I love how you've written Tom and Hermione and the affection between them. Do you know when you might update it?
Hi! That makes me very happy to hear, thank you for letting me know! 🖤 I'm going to update Curious Girl this year.
While I was writing it, I started to lose confidence in my writing. It's something that I'm working to overcome, and I just posted a new tomione story to help with that! It's Narnia inspired (you can read Night Light here, or down below! It is NSFW.)
Once upon a time, in a land where magic whispered secrets in the wind, and shadows danced with mischief, there lived a young girl named Hermione. She was a beacon of brightness, her curiosity burning like a fire that refused to be extinguished. But in this world, questions were met with stony silence, and her thirst for knowledge was considered dangerous.
“Why?”
Hermione's home was a grand castle ruled by the Lion, a king as majestic as the sun and as powerful as the earth. Yet, despite its grandeur, the castle felt like a prison to Hermione. Though kind and noble, the Lion had little patience for her incessant questions. "Curiosity is a curse," he would say, dismissing her with a wave of his regal paw.
He was warmer to the countless other children who dwelled in the castle's wings; especially one with dark hair and thick-rimmed glasses that hid eyes that shone like stars in the night, and another with bright red hair and freckles that danced across his face like fireflies on a summer evening. They always got into trouble, but the Lion never seemed to mind. He would chide them and send them to bed without supper, but everyone knew they would sneak back down to the kitchens, their laughter and whispers echoing through the halls.
They didn’t even try to hide.
Hermione followed them once, her ears tuned to the crunch of an apple and the joy of their laughter while the Lion's countless mice scurried about her, whispering secrets in his ear that she was out of bed. And she was punished, made to sweep the hallways with a stiff and heavy broom while the boys went unpunished.
It wasn't fair, Hermione thought; it wasn't right that they were favored by the others.
By the Lion.
Especially by the Lion.
Hermione longed for the Lion's approval. She clenched her hands beneath her thighs, biting her lip until it bled, ensuring she never dared to ask a question in one of the classes that never seemed to cover anything important. But sometimes, a question would slip out like a jar of wriggling slugs and squirm on her desk.
"You've done it again," a voice would snicker, a constant reminder of her folly. In endless lessons, countless questions tumbled out of Hermione's mouth, prompting laughter from her peers. They never wondered about the world outside the windows, which carried whispers of breathtaking places and unimaginable creatures.
‘Why can’t we go out?’
Aside from Luna, had anyone tried to leave before?
Hermione wanted so much more than the world the Lion had created within the palace.
Feeling isolated and disheartened, Hermione boldly sought answers outside the castle walls. Under the full moon's light, she slipped away from the realm she knew and ventured into the enigmatic dark forest that encircled it. She stumbled upon another hidden castle veiled from the world deep in the woods.
This castle was a spectacle of wonder, unlike anything she had ever seen. Its spires stretched towards the heavens, and its walls glimmered with an enchanting allure. Snowflakes clung to its surfaces, adding to its ethereal beauty. With a mix of apprehension and fascination, Hermione took a step forward. And then another, and another, until she was at the gates, where a figure wrapped in white ermine waited.
His eyes gleamed with intrigue as he regarded Hermione, a knowing smile playing on his lips. He saw the nervous twine of her fingers, the magic bubbling inside her veins.
She had the same hunger that he had, even if she didn’t realize it yet.
Still-
The White Warlock observed Hermione's arrival with a mixture of fascination and caution, wondering if this was yet another scheme by the Lion to lure him. The warmth of the sun and the sweet fragrance of roses encircled her, casting an ethereal glow on her youthful form. It was as if the beast had orchestrated this calculated move, aiming to pique his interest.
He couldn't forget how the Lion had prattled about the danger of curiosity and how easy it was to follow it into sin. And yet, here stood a young girl, the embodiment of that curiosity, drawing him in with her innocence.
The Lion's stance on involving children remained unchanged.
"Ah, a curious one indeed," the White Warlock remarked, his voice smooth as velvet. "What brings you to my castle, child?"
Hermione's eyes widened in awe as she answered, "I-I wanted to explore! Who are you?"
He chuckled softly as if he had heard the question countless times before, "I am the White Warlock, the keeper of this castle and its mysteries. Come, let me show you some magic."
“Magic?” her eyes grew bright.
She knew what magic was.
It was the prick in her skin and the nipping at her heels when she grew impatient, pulling books off the shelf into her hand. It was a secret only one other knew: Luna, who had also known magic. Only Luna believed she could sprout wings and fly far away to a place she swore she had come from, with people who loved and missed her.
“My parents are looking for me, but they won’t open the cupboard door,” she'd whispered. "They won't see the light that comes through it. They can't."
Hermione had wrinkled her nose, not understanding what Luna meant, feeling a twist in her chest at the idea of Luna having parents and coming from somewhere beyond the Lion's reach.
‘Why was Luna leaving her behind?’
Her smile curved into a frown as she thought of her only friend, whom she had both loved and hated. She remembered how she had cried when Luna, after crafting wings by gluing wooden sticks and feathers pulled from her down pillow, discovered she couldn’t fly after all.
“Don’t cry.”
Hermione blinked rapidly as the man wiped away her tears. "You're past that time now, Hermione." She didn't ask him how he knew her name, not when his hand moved from her face to grasp her hand, something no one had ever done before, and led her into the heart of his home.
‘This is right.’
‘This is wrong,' a quieter voice whispered in her ear, a voice that she decided to ignore, as the man helped her into a chair carved from birchwood and tucked his ermine cape across her lap. He kept his promise, too, about showing her magic as an otter carved from ice swam about her, its whiskers tickling her cheek as it chattered and nestled in her arms. She felt its weight and how the smell of fish clung to its breath as it rubbed its head against her arm.
As Hermione poured her heart out to him, speaking of her loneliness, desire for knowledge, and frustration with the Lion's silence, she savored a delicate cup of Earl Grey tea with a touch of milk and two sugar cubes, paired with the most exquisite scone filled with cream and fresh raspberries. Her words flowed freely with each sip and bite, mingling with the tea's aroma and the treat's delectable sweetness.
The White Warlock's smile was as gentle as a summer breeze, and his words were like a warm invitation to a world of wonder. Only...
He could never hide the bitterness in his dark eyes, a bitterness buried there for countless lifetimes—the same kind of bitterness Hermione would have shared had she stayed with the Lion and never run away.
"Fear not, young one," he said, "for here, questions are not met with silence but with answers. Let me show you the wonders of this castle, and together, we shall unravel its mysteries."
The words echoed through the halls, yet they left a faintly bitter taste in his mouth, a reminder of the secrets he kept hidden. He had once believed someone who promised similar revelations, only to discover they were a deceitful liar. Yet, he meant his words. Somewhat.
And so, in the quiet heart of the castle, Hermione's days unfolded like a tapestry of wonder and discovery. Her journey from childhood to adolescence was marked by the gentle passage of time as she explored the ancient corridors alongside the White Warlock. Her curiosity, once a childlike wonder, evolved into a deeper understanding of magic's secrets.
With each lesson, the White Warlock guided her, his teachings unlocking new realms of possibility. Together, they delved into the intricacies of every facet of magic, including how it could harm as well as heal. Hermione's skills honed with every flick of her fingers and every whisper as her self-control began to steady. Though she doubted she could ever match the White Warlock's mastery, his magic seemed an integral part of him, flowing through him like lifeblood.
As the days passed, Hermione's confidence grew, and her magic began to take shape. The White Warlock watched her with an air of interest, his eyes glimmering as he guided her through the labyrinthine corridors of the castle. Despite the doubts lingering in his heart, he couldn't help but be drawn to her innocence, eagerness to learn, and unwavering trust in him.
‘If I must fall, I pray that it is pleasant.’
"You have to listen to magic," the White Warlock explained, his hands gently resting on her shoulders, "before it will even consider listening to you."
"Was that what you did?" Hermione inquired, taken aback by the sound of his sudden laughter. It was a sound that she loved, as rich and decadent as the hot chocolate that she sometimes drank, even as she learned that many times it wasn’t true. There was the White Warlock she knew, which was far different from the one others thought they knew.
The castle had few visitors: Mr. Pettigrew, a timid and jittery faun who seemed perpetually on edge; Lord Greyback, a harsh and brutal werewolf; and Prince Malfoy, a proud and elegant fae. He often arrived with a sleigh towering with gifts of honeyed wine and velvet bags filled with gold, precious gems, and ingredients perfect for brewing potions. All three were identical, as Hermione could tell they wanted something from the White Warlock.
Just as she had as a child.
There was also Lady Nagini, a naga that watched Hermione cling to the White Warlock's side with knowing eyes and seemed closer to a friend to the White Warlock than the others. At least... Hermione thought so, something that made her feel uncertain.
Shouldn’t she be happy that the White Warlock had a friend?
She knew what it was like to not have any.
‘Are we friends, sir?’
It was one of the few questions Hermione would never ask, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip until it bled. Instead, she ignored it like she ignored Lady Nagini until the woman found her on the castle rampart, snow drifting around them and a flock of birds flying overhead.
“I like you, Hermione,” Lady Nagini told her once while cupping her cheeks. “You’re good for the White Warlock. You unnerve him.”
Hermione saw her reflection in Lady Nagini's golden, slit-like pupils. She looked like a scared little girl, a child who seemed the exact opposite of the White Warlock’s equal.
“I’m not- “
“You are exactly what he needs, what he craves."
Hermione had stuttered in reply, making Lady Nagini smile, rows of gleaming white teeth on display. “I understand," she'd added as if she knew that Hermione thought the White Warlock was the prettiest person she'd ever seen –
Including Prince Malfoy.
"I wasn't patient enough for that," the White Warlock confessed while remembering how he'd forced magic to bend to his will. He'd made magic his slave, and it resented him deeply, "but it will be different for you, pet."
His response sparked a thrill within her, contrasting sharply with the Lion's teachings. Hermione's thirst for knowledge was insatiable, and she delved deep into the mysteries of magic with the White Warlock as her guide.
Magic permeated every corner of the castle, and Hermione found that she could conjure anything she desired with a mere thought. She discovered that she could ask for new books to read and wool socks to keep her feet warm, and the castle would respond instantly. The White Warlock watched her with a bemused smile, his eyes sparkling with an inner light as he guided her through the labyrinthine corridors.
As she spent more time with the White Warlock, Hermione felt her reservations melting away, like the warmth of a summer breeze dispelling the chill. She shed her sweaters and long woolen skirts, no longer needing to bundle up against the cold. The bitter air of the castle seemed to fade away in his presence, replaced by a sense of comfort and belonging.
When she listened intently to the whispers of magic, she began to sense a deeper connection to the ancient castle and its secrets. And amidst the whispers, she heard a mournful lion's cry echoing through the vast lands surrounding the castle. The meaning behind this haunting sound eluded her, leaving her to wonder about the secrets hidden within the walls of the ancient fortress.
What was it hiding?
Her thoughts turned like a lock sliding into place as she considered a different question. It was one she wouldn't ask—not yet. A part of her wanted nothing to change, as she loved the castle and the days that stretched before her, where everything could repeat without end. The thought was as comforting as the ermine cloak she often wore, the same that the White Warlock had covered her lap with so long ago.
But—
Wasn't that what she had run away from in the first place when she escaped from beneath the Lion's paw?
What was he hiding? The enigmatic White Warlock who had shown her the wonders of magic guided her through the twists and turns of his world with a charm that both captivated and unsettled her.
The thought clung to her like a burr in her sweater, persistent and uncomfortable. She couldn't shake the feeling that there was something the White Warlock wasn't telling her, something hidden beneath the surface of his calm exterior. Was it a dark secret, a sinister plot, or simply a truth too painful to be revealed?
It was difficult for Hermione to think of the White Warlock being afraid of anyone or anything. Luna wasn't afraid either, even when Hermione had screamed from the open window when her friend came tumbling down.
‘I wish that he would tell me.’
As Hermione contemplated these questions, she couldn't help but notice the subtle signs of her aging: a newfound grace in her movements and faint traces of maturity in her features—reminders that she was not the same girl who had first stepped into the White Warlock’s home.
There was the terrible night, too, when she awoke with blood on her sheets and pressed her hand between her legs, finding her fingers smeared red. She had run to his room without thought, tears streaming down her cheeks as she cried for him to help her.
“I don’t want to d-die.”
‘I don’t want to leave you behind.’
No one had told her about her body and how it would change as she became an adult. The children remained as they were within the Lion's palace, never becoming something more.
“Silly girl,” the White Warlock chided her, “You aren’t dying.”
‘As if I would let you.’
He knew he was damned as he slipped from his bed and drew her a comforting bath, the weight of his actions pressing down on him like an unbearable burden. Her wide, frightened eyes never left his as he explained what was happening to her, and she held on to his sleeve.
“This... this is normal then, sir?” she’d asked, and he’d swallowed dryly as he remembered how he'd laid alone in his rooms, panting as his legs burned. He'd never experienced growing pains before, and it had been a torturous experience, one that made him shred the Persian carpet beneath him until there was nothing left.
“Unfortunately, so.”
Hermione had become quiet then but had refused to let go of him as she bathed.
With the Lion's purring echoing in his ear, he gently wrapped Hermione in one of his robes after she finished and carried her into his room, setting her down on his bed. His room was a place that held little personal trace of him; stark in its barrenness, aside from grand windows overlooking the castle walls framed by velvet curtains and a tapestry that hung over the fireplace mantle depicting a lion torn apart by a murder of crows.
It was a place that had never held any importance to him before that moment.
Slowly, he brushed out her hair with an ivory brush, watching her eyes glaze over with sleep. Discarding the brush, he tucked her against him, his hand resting on her stomach, kneading her flesh through the fabric until she fell asleep.
The White Warlock exhaled as he shifted, and Hermione followed his movement. Even in her sleep, she trusted him as no one else ever had, and she was utterly defenseless as she nestled against him. Only it was the White Warlock who felt vulnerable as his eyes closed.
‘Was this what you intended, Lion?’
He remembered every word.
Every pointless lesson.
‘Courage, dear heart.’
When Hermione awoke, she found herself in her room, the faint traces of the White Warlock's presence lingering like a fleeting dream. Confusion clouded her thoughts as she tried to piece together the previous night's events, the memory of being cradled in his arms still vivid.
Slowly, she sat up, her gaze wandering around the familiar surroundings of her chamber. The sunlight filtered through the curtains, casting a warm glow upon the room and dispelling the shadows of the night. Yet, despite the comfort of her own bed and the safety of her sanctuary, Hermione couldn't shake the lingering sense of unease that tugged at her heart.
Had it all been a dream? The White Warlock's tenderness, his whispered promises of protection—were they nothing more than figments of her imagination? Or-
She tucked her knees against her chest, burying her face against them. There were too many things she didn't understand, making her tummy turn. She hated not knowing – not understanding – even if it was something she was too young to.
She wanted to know.
She wanted to understand. Everything.
"I will," she promised herself before tucking further thoughts about him away.
(She knew she had run to the White Warlock, with fear pulsing in her veins and tears rolling down her cheeks. She was embarrassed and relieved that the White Warlock hadn't barred his door to her, for it was a line she had never crossed. What did he think about her - what could he think of her – no, she wouldn't think about it anymore.)
Yet, amidst her growth, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling of the White Warlock’s watchful gaze. It seemed as though he waited, poised on the edge of something unseen, his presence a silent but ever-present force guiding her path. She didn’t ask where he was taking her, only that he stayed beside her.
Her feelings remained the same as years passed, even as her dreams whispered secrets in the form of a familiar lion—a silent observer who revealed the White Warlock’s name, a revelation that lingered in her waking thoughts like a half-remembered melody.
"I loved him," the Lion said, "I still do."
My wayward son.
In the quiet solitude of the castle's corridors, Hermione's voice echoed softly as she dared to utter his name. "Tom," she whispered, her cheeks tinged with a warmth she couldn't deny. The syllables hung in the air, heavy with unspoken questions and a burgeoning curiosity that she could no longer ignore.
"Who are you really?"
As the words slipped past her lips, she felt a shift in the air as though the very walls of the castle were listening, waiting for his response. And in that moment, Hermione realized that her interest in Tom went beyond mere curiosity—it was a stirring of something deeper, something she couldn't quite name.
She didn’t want to name.
Tom turned to face her, his gaze piercing yet unreadable, a faint flicker of something unreadable dancing in his eyes. "Who am I?" he echoed, his voice a low murmur that sent shivers down her spine. "Perhaps that's a question for another time, Hermione."
He had never denied her an answer before.
But despite his cryptic response, Hermione couldn't shake the feeling of connection that crackled between them, like the static charge before a storm. With each passing day, she found herself drawn to him, her awareness of his presence growing more acute, even as she sensed that he, too, was becoming increasingly aware of her.
Her thoughts and feelings changed in ways the Lion would have never allowed. A familiar ache blossomed between her legs, a hunger that demanded to be satisfied. Unable to resist the growing urge, she slipped her hand beneath the covers, her fingers finding their way to the sensitive spot between her thighs.
‘Her cunt.’
She’d learned the word from a book that Lady Nagini had pressed into her hand, its pages rich with illustrations about how she could-
How they could come together.
As she began to explore the contours of her own body, her touch was gentle at first, hesitant. But as her excitement grew, her movements became more confident and daring. She sought to replicate the sensations she imagined Tom's touch would bring.
She could almost feel his hands on her, his fingers trailing a path of fire across her skin. In her mind's eye, she saw him standing at the edge of her bed, his eyes dark with desire as he gazed down at her. It was as though he could sense her thoughts and desires and responded in kind.
With a soft moan, she slid a finger inside herself, her body tensing at the unfamiliar sensation. But the feeling was intoxicating, and she found herself craving more. Her hips began to move in time with her hand, her body writhing beneath the covers as she lost herself in the feeling.
And at the end of her bed, Tom stood, his eyes locked on her as he watched her fall apart. His knuckles turned white as he grasped the curved headboard, the dark wood creaking in protest beneath his grip.
“Beautiful,” he whispered.
It was the loveliest picture he’d ever seen, and he wanted to hate her for it.
He knew.
He knew.
He knew he'd made a mistake ever since she appeared at his door, drowning in the smell of sunshine and her cheeks tinged pink with sweetness. He should have never let her into his home.
And his still heart.
He should have sent her into the woods where she came and let the wind strip the skin away from her bones, as he'd done to so many before. Their father had never helped them then.
How many children were buried beneath their feet?
Only Tom felt his thoughts thin and his words dry as he thought of Hermione leaving his side. She was worse than anyone that Albus had sent because she was utterly perfect for him.
It would be a simple thing, a mere whisper from his lips, to have her bound and helpless on the bed, her legs spread wide in offering. He envisioned her writhing beneath him, her body trembling with need as he lowered his head between her thighs. With a single, expert stroke of his tongue, he would taste the sweet, tangy essence of her desire and feel her body respond with a shudder of pleasure.
As he continued to explore her depths, he would feel her muscles contract around his tongue, drawing him in further, urging him to savor every drop of her intoxicating nectar. And as he did so, he would know that he had bound her to him and his greedy mouth.
What did she know?
She was so small and young compared to him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. Everything she knew about magic and life came from him; why couldn't he teach her about death, too? He wanted to see her fall apart in his arms, if only so he could bring her back to life again, remade in his image.
“Hermione,” Tom breathed, unwilling to move or look away. He could feel blood trickling from his palms as the wood that he held splintered and cracked. It was too much and too little all at once, and he knew he would never be able to look away from her.
(He would take himself in hand, groaning as he as he started to stroke his erection. He could hear the slick sound of his own lubrication as he envisioned Hermione's fingers sliding in and out of her quivering cunt.
Her breaths were ragged, her moans filling the air around him. Tom's grip tightened around his own shaft, his movements growing more frantic as he imagined himself in Hermione's place, feeling her fingers exploring his own depths-)
Until he remembered the Man that had made him into what, and who he was.
‘I made her for you.’
He went white.
And when the door slammed behind him, Hermione felt her stomach twist, uncertainty chasing away the pleasure she felt. She scrambled off of the bed, feeling slick drip down her thighs.
He wouldn't send her away.
He couldn't.
She prayed like she was in the Lion's home again, kneeling on the hard floor in her nightgown and clasping her stained hands together. She hated that she could smell herself on her fingers and felt shame rise in her throat. "No," she whispered, "No!”
She wouldn’t feel this again- she wouldn’t do this again- looking at the floor as if it were covered in slugs that she’d vomited up. Again and again without end.
‘Why did he run?’
Praying was something she hadn't done ever since Luna died, and Hermione had prayed for days at a time until she realized that her friend was never coming back to life again.
"Please."
She followed the trail he left, as she'd once followed two errant boys to the kitchens where they gorged themselves sick. Only, this time, she followed a boy with stars in his eyes and watched as he took the Lion's hand in his. The Lion was a Man made of flesh and bone and walked on two legs instead of four.
“Albus," Tom murmured in her ear as she curled in his lap, her head tucked against his shoulder as if she belonged there. His name was Albus then, and his pride was his downfall.”
His hand smoothed over the memory of a foolish boy and an even more foolish man.
The Lion's pride, with its dual nature of strength and cunning, began to take shape in Hermione's mind. Tom's words painted a vivid picture of a powerful guardian, yet one that was not without its flaws. The Lion's pride could blind one to the truth, leading them down paths they never intended to tread.
Hermione's brow furrowed in confusion as she asked, "But why pride and duplicity?" Tom's response, delivered in a soft yet resolute tone, was like a gentle rain shower on parched soil - it brought life to the parched landscape of her mind.
"Because, Hermione," Tom replied, "the Lion's pride is not without its flaws. It can blind us to the truth, leading us down paths we never intended to tread. And yet, within that duplicity lies a cunning that can be harnessed for both good and ill."
As Tom spoke, the shadows cast by the flickering candlelight seemed to deepen as if the darkness conspired to reveal the secrets of the Lion's nature. Hermione's eyes were drawn to the ancient tomes surrounding them, their leather-bound covers seeming to hold within them the secrets of the past they had witnessed.
And they had, as Tom would tell her later. He'd taken them from Albus when he became the Lion and decided to abandon the knowledge that he'd cherished as a Man.
“He used you,” Hermione said, her brow knitting, “He hurt you.”
Tom's voice was barely above a whisper, the words tumbling out of him like a confession. "He made me his equal."
Albus had never expected a child to show the same penchant for magic as he did, the world around them shaping their will. It was an intoxicating feeling, a temptation that Albus had unwillingly created, and he sought to balance it as he decided their roles.
One would be damned, while the other was blessed.
Their lives without end in tandem together.
Only there was more to it than that, wasn’t there? For while Albus went from two feet to four, he couldn’t forget how he’d failed the son that he’d once loved.
‘Man was never meant to be alone.’
"Do you ever wonder why you ended up at this castle?" Tom asked, turning his face away. "Why you are no longer a child?"
She could lie and say that she had.
It would have been easier to admit the truth: how she had scoured every book in Tom's library, hoping to find answers about the changes in her body and the implications of adulthood. Yet, despite her diligent search, she could not confront the reality. Instead, she pushed the books aside, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment, her hands nervously twisting her curls.
‘As an adult, she could be his as much as he was hers.’
Her hand found his chin, and he let her turn his face back toward her.
Hermione's voice was a soft whisper, her words barely audible above the crackling of the fire. Her admission was like a confession, a revelation that spoke volumes about the depth of her emotions. "I hadn't wondered.”
Tom's expression remained inscrutable, yet his eyes seemed to hold a hint of warmth as if he understood the complexity of Hermione's emotions.
He always had.
"I know I always seek answers to my questions," she confessed. "But with you, I find myself... happy. Content to be here, learning from you, exploring magic together."
As Hermione spoke, her eyes locked onto Tom's, and for a moment, it seemed as if the entire world had come to a standstill. The fire crackled and spat, but the silence was palpable between them –
Carrying the roar of the Lion away.
A tender smile spread across Hermione's lips like a sunrise breaking over the horizon. It was a smile of contentment, peace, and acceptance. "I am happy," she affirmed, her voice steady with conviction. And perhaps that's all the answer I need."
The words hung in the air like a benediction, a blessing that seemed to envelop them both in its warmth. Tom's gaze never wavered, his eyes holding Hermione's with an intensity that seemed to say: "I am here for you, and I will always be here for you."
It was as the Lion had whispered in his dreams.
‘She was born for you.’
He left her.
As she sank into the leather chair, still warm from Tom's body heat, Hermione curled into it and dreamt while awake for the first time.
"I’ve given you everything.”
He'd named the boy Tom and the man the White Warlock. A devil to his god, for he loved his son more than he had ever thought he could love anyone before. He looked for Tom in every child that entered his castle and listened for the call of magic inside their veins.
He'd never found any trace of Tom until Hermione came with a soul brimming with endless questions and a longing in her veins for more than he could give her. She was the same as Tom was, and he would have kept her close to his side had he been able to.
But she had a role to play, the same as he and Tom did.
"You've given me nothing you can't take away, Albus."
Tom hissed, his words turning into a snake made of hate. It wrapped around her feet, drawing tight against her body, as she fed it her warmth, for she had no fear of it.
It was a part of Tom, a part that she loved.
She loved every part of his soul.
‘I want to make him happy.’
Hermione's eyes fluttered open, her cheeks kissed by falling snowflakes that clung to her skin. She felt warmer than ever as she shed the lace nightgown she wore.
“Hermione.”
His voice caressed her bare skin as she followed his call and left footprints in the snow. She could only think of him.
"I'll never change," Tom murmured as she came to where he was. She was as bare as he was, with a translucent robe settled over his shoulders that he cast away. His body was defined by hate; his porcelain skin was smooth and flawless, concealing the countless times it had knit back together. "You know that, don't you?"
She shook her head, her dark curls framing her face. “It doesn’t matter.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“It never has,” Hermione promised, “I want you, Tom.”
That was all it took for him to close the distance between them, his lips crashing into hers with a fierceness that stole her breath away.
Hermione gasped in surprise as the kiss deepened, the taste of blood filling her mouth as her lips split from the force of their passion. Yet, despite the pain, she found herself unable to pull away, her fingers tangling in his hair as she surrendered to the overwhelming tide of desire that surged between them.
Their thoughts were stripped away in a frenzy of heat and hunger, each touch igniting a fire that threatened to consume them both. Tom's hands, scorched by fire, explored every inch of Hermione's body, his fingers tracing the contours of her curves as though he were trying to memorize every inch of her.
She reciprocated in kind, her hands roaming over his lean, muscular frame, relishing the sensation of his skin beneath her fingertips. Their bodies were a tangle of limbs, their breaths mingling in the air as they sought to satisfy the insatiable craving that had taken hold of them.
Tom's lips left a trail of searing kisses across her collarbone, his teeth grazing her skin as he moved lower, sending shivers down her spine. Hermione arched her back, offering herself to him willingly, her moans of pleasure filling the garden as his mouth continued its sensual journey.
As Tom's lips found the most intimate part of her, Hermione's world exploded in a kaleidoscope of sensations, her body writhing beneath his expert touch. Her fingers clenched in his hair, pulling him closer as she lost herself in the waves of ecstasy that crashed over her.
She never wanted it to end.
When he finally rose above her, his eyes dark with desire, Hermione's heart pounded in her chest as she gazed up at him, her body aching for him to come inside her. With a low growl, Tom entered her, their bodies becoming one in a primal dance of passion. Their movements were frantic, desperate, as they sought to sate the hunger that had grown between them for so long. Each thrust brought them closer to the edge, their cries of pleasure mingling with the sound of their bodies colliding and becoming one.
Nothing about it had been slow, gentle, or kind.
It was perfect for them.
She settled against Tom’s side, tucking her head against his chest as if she could hear his heartbeat. His heart was still in his chest, just as hers would soon be.
"I'm yours," Hermione said, and Tom smiled brighter than ever before.
I'd like a Sansa x Sandor, he finds his way to Winter fell to rescue her from Ramsay, but he arrives as she's feeding him to his dogs
I apologize for how long it's taken me to fulfil your request! It turned out a little different from your original request and I hope you like it (you can read it here or down below)! I deeply appreciate your support, and can't thank you enough. 🐺🖤
He held his breath until he saw a flash of red hair. There she was.
He found himself drifting toward her wherever she went, despite the lingering guilt that gnawed at his conscience. Their paths had crossed at Castle Black, where he had pledged to Jon Snow to keep her safe during the chaos of war. They all knew what could occur when men were lost to bloodlust.
Including himself.
And, it seemed, his Little Bird too.
Sandor approached cautiously, his heavy boots crunching on the snow. "Thought you'd be inside, celebrating."
Sansa, without turning, her voice steady, replied, "There's nothing to celebrate yet."
He stopped beside her, his eyes on the gruesome scene that she had imagined enacting countless times. "Guess the bastard got what he deserved."
She finally looked at him, her expression unreadable. "He did. They always do, in the end."
He grunted, watching Ramsay's demise with a mixture of disdain and satisfaction.
As if he had any right to watch.
To feel, as she did.
Sansa kept her expressions still, tucking her resentment into the narrow depth of her ribcage. It was the same place where Cersei’s cruel smiles and Joffrey’s venomous taunts resided, where echoes of her family’s laughter once brought warmth, and where her childish dreams lay. It was a place that no one could take, no one could see; a place where she hid her name, and the pain etched upon her face.
“I am Sansa Stark of Winterfell. This is my home.”
The dogs howled, tearing at the marrow within the bones, their whimpers echoing when their hunger couldn't be sated. They were hideous creatures, their fur matted with blood, and muzzles dripping with frothy saliva. They had no loyalty to the master that starved them; their bodies were littered with scars, their pads cracked and aching without end.
“And you can’t frighten me.”
Sandor exhaled; his breath visible in the bitterly cold air. "Gods, girl. You've grown cold."
Meeting his gaze, a flicker of something—pain, perhaps—passed through her bright blue eyes that he’d often dreamed of. "I've had to."
She wasn’t the girl adorned in silk, its threads dyed crimson and gold, her tiny bones once yearning to bear the weight of golden-haired lions. Sandor felt a pang in his chest as memories flooded back, memories of when her moonblood came and he found her stuffing bloodied strips beneath her mattress.
And what had he done?
Sandor swallowed hard, the buzzing sound in his ears growing louder. He had grabbed her by the arm, his grip firm, and told her there were no secrets in the Red Keep; none that she could keep. He had known he was hurting her, could feel bone grinding against bone, and yet he hadn’t let go. Her arm had been warm against his touch, and he had wanted more; a warmth he could never claim for his own.
Look at me, he’d wanted to snarl, look at me, and sing me a song, Little Bird.
He'd wanted to carve a space inside of himself for her as if he could hide her from the lions that prowled the Red Keep. The fact that he couldn't made fury and regret and disgust at himself simmer in his stomach until he'd vomited after every meal until he drank himself to black out every night instead.
Fuck her.
No –
Fuck me.
He’d kept her secret, but it hadn’t mattered. Sansa was soon summoned to see the Queen, who announced her engagement to the buggering dwarf.
“This world’s done you no favors,” Sandor admitted, his voice rough with regret. He gestured towards the dogs who were now scrabbling in the dirt for any trace of human remains. “But this..." he paused, struggling to find the right words. "This ain't you."
"Maybe not. But it's the world we live in. You taught me that."
"Aye, I did. “
He wished she would sing him a song then; one that was beautiful and sweet as spun sugar melting on his tongue, and would take him away from there. Instead, he tasted ash and dirt, and worms making their way into his gums. He knew what he’d done, and the man that he was.
He wasn’t worth hearing her pretty songs; not realizing that his Little Bird had no more songs to give. She had stopped singing long ago; her voice wasted on her guardian had sold her to a man who ensured she would never feel safe in her home again. Nor were her songs meant for her bastard brother who looked at her as if he wanted everything from her while knowing that he could expect nothing; or to the northern families whose loyalty was swept away in the river alongside their fallen king, and her eldest brother. None of them had ever come for her, regardless of how loud she had sung.
So, Sandor sang a song of his own.
“I failed you, leaving you to face it alone."
Once, Sansa’s heart would have quivered in her chest, hearing his song that was as hauntingly beautiful as any she had ever sung. She closed her eyes briefly, taking a deep breath.
"We can't always choose what we become. Only how we survive."
His fingers twitched. "Surviving ain't the same as living, girl."
A cold, ironic smile tugged at her lips. "No, it isn't. But it's a start."
Softly, almost to himself, he said, "You deserve better."
Whispering, more to the night than to him, Sansa replied, "We all do."
It was easy to imagine her siblings and the life they should have led. She envisioned a future filled with warmth and laughter, where they were all together, surrounded by the love and protection of their family. Arya would be free to roam the forests of Winterfell, her spirit untamed and wild. Bran would explore the mysteries of the world, his mind unlocking the secrets of the past and the magic that lay hidden in the shadows. And Rickon, the youngest of them all, would grow strong and brave, his laughter echoing through the halls of their ancestral home.
But woven into these dreams was the image of Robb, their noble brother, crowned as King in the North. Sansa imagined him standing tall and resolute, a beacon of hope for their people, and a worthy successor to their beloved father.
Not for the first time, Sansa wondered if her mother had known the fate of her children if she would have let them emerge from her womb. If it were her –
What would she have done?
She didn’t want to answer. She couldn’t answer; not when she thought of the first night at Castle Black. The memory of doubling over with cramps and staining the bed sheets with her blood was still vivid. She hadn’t let herself cry even as Jon had pulled her against his chest and buried his face in her hair, tracing soothing circles over her back. She would have never allowed Ramsay’s babe to live. She couldn’t have.
“I’ll protect you,” Jon had whispered in her ear, and bile rose in her throat. She believed in Jon’s actions, but she couldn’t believe his words.
“No one can protect anyone.”
After a moment of silence, Sandor’s voice a low rumble, he continued, "I failed you once, Little Bird.”
‘As you’ve said,’ Sansa thought, sinking her teeth into her bottom lip.
She knew that he was drawn to the sight; blood rising to the surface. Did he think of the blood that trickled from her wounds when the Kingsguard beat her on Joffrey’s order or of the blood that dripped from her cunt when her moonblood came? She’d been desperate to hide it from the southern court, knowing that it meant she had come of age for breeding. Cersei had made it clear that when she did, Sansa would marry the dwarf and have his monstrous babe; one that would tear her cunt apart.
“For your sake, I hope it’s a boy, little dove.”
She remembered how gentle Cersei’s tone was, even as she cupped Sansa’s cheeks and dug her nails into her skin. The cruelty took her breath away, and even then, Sansa questioned how she ever thought the woman was tender and kind.
‘I am slow to learn, and slow to forget that which I have learned.’
Sansa knew what Sandor wanted from her, the same as Petyr did. They wanted her sweetness and her submission, and a place in her heart that no one else did. Perhaps Jon too, wanted that place in her heart; one that her mother had given to her children but never, ever, to him.
How could she?
“I was a hound for the Lannisters, but my place is here now, by your side. As your hound, if you'll have me."
‘Pity that he didn’t bend down on one knee,’ Sansa thought, even as she knew it was dark, and mean. Her thoughts were ugly things; twisting and turning in her mind and demanding to be let out. They were the kind of thoughts that would have made Septa Mordane weep, and her mother –
She wasn’t sure what her mother would think of her anymore.
What did she think of herself?
"You'd be my hound? How noble. And what happens when you grow tired of me?"
He didn’t flare with anger like she'd expected. Instead, he thought of his time with the brothers, of digging grave after grave, envisioning flaming red hair and blue eyes with every corpse he buried. She was inside him, and he couldn't get her out, no matter how he tried. "I won't. I owe you that much."
He owed her far more than that.
"Perhaps,” Sansa allowed the cold in her voice to thaw just enough for him to hear it. She knew that regardless of how much he had changed, she could only push him so far. “But loyalty is a rare thing. I've learned that the hard way."
Who was she loyal to?
The North.
The Starks.
Who was loyal to her? Truly loyal?
Jon, she thought immediately, and Ghost. Arya and Bran. Sansa knew they were out in the world still and believed they would make their way to Winterfell again.
“The lone wolf dies but the pack survives.”
Even then, there were so few of them against many.
Grey eyes met blue then, as Sandor murmured, "I ain't leaving you again. My place is here, by your side, Little Bird. Always."
He was serious, she realized then. He truly believed he could protect her. Protect her from what she wanted to ask. From the monsters that fill my dreams? The ones who wear the faces of my husbands, those with golden hair, my aunt who hated me, and my guardian who wanted me to call him father and sit in his lap as if she couldn't feel his reaction to her?
Her mind spiraled back into the depths of her nightmares, each one a place she had already been. She remembered the cold, harsh walls of King's Landing, the cruel sneers and whispers, the constant threat of pain and betrayal. She thought of the Vale, where her aunt's jealousy and madness had nearly destroyed her. She saw Ramsay's sadistic grin, felt Joffrey's cruel hand, and the calculating eyes of Littlefinger. These were not just dreams; they were memories, indelibly etched into her soul that would always be with her.
I am never alone; she almost said, swallowing the words as they rose in her throat. I’ll never be alone. She had already said enough –
And there was a part of her, the stupid, silly little girl, that reminded her Sandor had never hurt her. His scars had scared her, yes, but he had never harmed her as other men had. All he had ever taken from her was a song.
A song.
The only sound Sansa wanted to hear now was the noise Ramsay’s dogs made as they panted and settled, their bellies full to bursting for the first time in weeks. The thought of the waste inside them gave her a grim sense of satisfaction, a feeling the girl she had once been could never have imagined experiencing. Then again, she had experienced countless things that she could never have imagined, let alone dreamed of. Her world had been turned inside out, filled with horrors and unexpected twists. Yet, amidst the chaos, there were moments of clarity, moments where the impossible became reality.
She toyed with the sleeve of her fur cape; the one tell that she couldn’t break herself of as a thought came unbidden to her; a thought that made her feel as if she too, had a belly full of waste, and ached from the sheer weight of it, after going weeks without eating. The smell of copper was heavy in the air, but for once, it did not emanate from Sansa’s bruised frame.
Ramsay was gone.
If she hadn’t seen it with her own eyes, a part of her would have always doubted that he would never be able to touch her again. That was why she had stopped Jon from killing him – he would have done the same, had she decided to hang the men involved with killing him, in his stead.
It still didn’t feel quite real, even as she knew that it was. Ramsay would never be able to touch her again. No one would.
She stilled, her thoughts turning in her head.
If Ramsay could die, why couldn’t the Hound live for her?
The sheer size of the man beside her made her relax, as she knew that no one in the whole of Winterfell could tower over him. His presence was a fortress, a wall of strength and defiance against the darkness that had plagued her for so long. The Hound, with his scarred face and gruff demeanor, had always been a figure of fear and fascination. Yet now, he represented something else entirely: safety.
Why couldn’t she use him?
Her pink lips curved into a soft smile, one that Sandor found as lovely and earnest as the smiles his sister used to give him, back when she had a missing front tooth and her hair tied with yellow ribbons that he gave her. She had loved him, and he’d let Gregor kill her.
Sansa saw the starving look in his eyes—a desperate craving to be wanted.
To be needed.
Once, she’d had the same look in her eyes.
Sansa’s hand drifted toward his forearm; her fingers resting there. She didn’t miss the way that he stiffened and stared hard at her face. He didn’t scare her now.
He never would again.
“I’d like that,” Sansa admitted, her voice as faint as the beating of a sparrow’s wings. She would be his Little Bird again; one that sang pretty songs and placed its head into the mouth of a hound. A hound that had little idea about the wolf that crept behind it, with gleaming eyes and sharp canines.
My health has gone downhill again *but*! I’ve started playing Stardew Valley and I’ve had so much fun playing the game (though Harvest Moon is still first in my heart!).
I install mods for almost every game that I play and it’s amazing how many mods exist for Stardew Valley! What are your favorites? 💗
I’ve been editing a translated dialogue mod for someone, and I can’t wait to share it with you guys! It’s perfect for those who like a fantasy/cottagecore take on Stardew Valley. 🌼🦎
The photo above is our new kitty, Sunny, who was abandoned by our neighbors and is 10 pounds of sugar (with a pinch of sass). He makes my family so happy, and I hope that 2022 brings all of you the same peace and happiness. 🤍
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
"Come back to me, little wife.”
His words were gasoline dripped on to fire; her fingers curling in, her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. Sansa said nothing as he cradled her jaw and tipped her head up to look at him. His fingers left bruises behind on her skin, ones that he would soothe with his lips and his tongue if she asked him to.
If she never asked him to.
“Please,” she whispered, knowing that he would have little mercy for her. Her husband was made from sharp edges and knowing touches, as he drove her into heat.
More than once, he’d stripped her down and swathed her in soft furs, before guiding her to rest on her hands and her knees. He would sink into her warm heat until her face was buried in furs and slick dripped down her thighs, allowing him to thrust further inside her.
“You’re a greedy, little girl, aren’t you?”
Werewolf dystopia au | Heavy ac/nsfw, breeding kink, and a/b/o. Inspired by ‘Wrong Turn’ (2020).
(Psst...click the link above or you can read the fic down below the spoiler line! 🖤 I’ll have a second chapter up soon - Ramsay won’t let his father keep his mate all to himself!!)
"Come back to me, little wife.”
His words were gasoline dripped on to fire; her fingers curling in, her nails cutting into the flesh of her palms. Sansa said nothing as he cradled her jaw and tipped her head up to look at him. His fingers left bruises behind on her skin, ones that he would soothe with his lips and his tongue if she asked him to.
If she never asked him to.
“Please,” she whispered, knowing that he would have little mercy for her. Her husband was made from sharp edges and knowing touches, as he drove her into heat. More than once, he’d stripped her down and swathed her in soft furs, before guiding her to rest on her hands and her knees. He would sink into her warm heat until her face was buried in furs and slick dripped down her thighs, allowing him to thrust further inside her.
“You’re a greedy, little girl, aren’t you?”
He never fucked her without making her scream, as he dragged his knuckles against her clit and stuffed his fingers inside. It was always too much as he thrust his bulging cock and his fingers inside her, making her feel as if she would break –
“Please R-Roose, please!”
He would coo at her screams, his knot inflating inside her.
He treated her gently then as if she were a kit that he could scruff and hold against his chest for hours with his knot firmly inside her. He would chase her tears away with his tongue and nuzzle her cheek against his, something that no one would ever see. If she closed her eyes and listened to him purr, she could pretend that he loved her.
Cherished her.
She wanted to laugh at the idea but buried her amusement deep inside her melancholy. It kept her safe and sound, for she could never be happy with her husband.
He would never love her; he couldn’t love her.
Roose was Death incarnate.
The Foundation was a haven once, where the full moon hung overhead, and villagers slept quietly in their beds. Everything changed when Death came, with a curse in his wake.
The villagers became infinitely more, as they shed their skin and became grotesque and hulking beasts.
They were creatures that followed Death and Death alone, for he was the only one that could make them heel. It took only a look –
A sharp word –
And they came to heel.
Sansa recognized the constant fear that swept through the village, as thick and rancid as the black pudding that her younger sister, Arya, once made on a dare. The pudding had bubbled and burst on her tongue, and neither she nor Arya could swallow it without pinching their noses closed.
After that, Arya had dumped the rest down the sink, and they ate handfuls of trail mix to chase away the taste. They’d kept it a secret from their mother, who never approved of such childishness.
Only, Arya wasn’t there, and Sansa could hide nothing from Roose.
No one could.
Every one of the villagers had their uses, and those that faltered were placed on display. The stocks were marked with stains of human excrement and the air was heavy with their fearful cries. The ones who were lucky were avoided, with none passing by them. The less lucky were pelted with sticks and stones and rebuke.
The least lucky weren’t sent to the stocks at all.
They were blinded and bound before being led to the underground cells where the forgotten roamed. They wanted everything and nothing, as they stumbled in the dark; their eyes gouged, and hands left bound.
Sansa heard their mournful wails when Roose held court when she perched on his knee, and he fingered her before his council. They were men and women without faces, they were beyond names. They said nothing as she gasped and writhed in his hold, the silence filled with the sound of his fingers delving in and out of her slick cunt. She would stain his furred jerkin with her cum, as she fell apart in his arms, and still –
Still, the council said not a word.
“Good girl.”
He smiled against her fire-kissed hair, as he sent her higher. The keening noises that slipped from her lips were more animal than human as if her bones snapped and twisted beneath the full moon too.
She could do nothing as his arm curled against her waist and he held her in place; her legs bared and cunt gushing. She was nothing to him, and everything to them if her womb could nurture Death’s seed.
For they saw Roose as a god incarnate, one they were bound to worship through fear, and hate.
Sansa couldn’t lie.
She wouldn’t.
Fear was thick and bitter on her tongue, the same as the cold syrup her mother made her take.
He would plunge his fingers in and out of her without care, while his thoughts and commands rarely faltered. When her slick soaked his knee, and she chanted “please – “into his ear. He always made her beg before he unbuckled his jerkin, and freed his throbbing cock –
She would do anything to welcome him inside her.
“Beg me, little one.”
And she would, by the gods, she would as he slipped his fingers inside her mouth and made her suckle them. She’d whisper a choked plea while licking his fingers, and drool dripped on to her chin. The mark on her neck burned when he teased her, the mark one of his making.
It was a mating gland, one that he’d claimed as his own.
(She could never burn his touch away.)
He told her later of brides that came before, who were mated by the village head yet shared among the council. They were the mother, the omega, incarnate; their very purpose entwined with the litters they bore. The families that made up the village were bound together by blood, making one line that nothing could separate.
“I find that I have no wish to share you,” Roose admitted, caressing her cheek with his hand. His fingers were calloused and rough in contrast to the softness of her skin. “Does that relieve you, Sansa?” his tone was teasing and cruel, and still her cheeks warmed.
Sansa couldn’t bring herself to ask why.
He was everything that she needed and everything that she despised. He wasn’t gentle or kind and had little sense of honor, cutting men down in their beds and dragging women from their homes.
If they turned rabid, as his creatures sometimes did, he would kill them.
His hands were stained red, and nothing would cleanse them.
“How could you stand beside him, Sansa?”
She heard her father’s voice carried through the winter wind, over, and over again.
“I can’t trust you.”
“No,” his laugh was as warm and as pretty as the sun. “No one can, Sansa. They would be a fool to.”
Her lips ached when he pried her mouth open and looked at her blunt teeth and clicked his tongue at the sight of her bleeding gums.
He covered her mouth with this own, slipping his tongue around her own. His hands came to cover her own, his fingers tangling around hers as he poured his venom inside her.
It wouldn’t hurt her, no –
It healed her.
The buzzing in her ears increased, and she tried to duck her head away. It never worked, no; she was used to his ‘treatments’ that kept her whole, and beside him. They found she couldn’t go more than a few days without his venom pooling through her veins, keeping her steady, and wholly bound to him.
Her mate.
'Mine,' her traitorous heart said, and it wasn't wrong. They were bound by a ribbon that could never be unwound, no matter how far apart the ends were pulled.
“You were born for me,” Roose murmured, sinking his teeth into her earlobe. She hesitated when he teased, his quiet humor as cutting as the howling rain that battered against their cabin door. “Will you live for me, too?”
He knew the thoughts that rolled through her mind, his laughter taunting and teasing and unbearably cruel as he took them away from her. She wanted what she would never have, as he held her thin wrist in his hand and held his thumb against her pulse. Her heart beat without pause; the blood rushing through her ears whispering that she would live, regardless of how much she wanted to die.
He would keep her healthy and whole, for as long as the full moon hung in the sky.
(The sun never came to look down on the Foundation since Death came...)
The only light Sansa knew came in the form of Jeyne, sweet and precocious Jeyne, who was Roose's daughter from his first marriage. The young child rarely left her side, and Sansa dreamed of escaping with her if only to spare Jeyne from what awaited her when she came of age.
She would never experience trips to the mall, with the taste of bubblegum on her tongue and clip-on earrings dangling from her ears. clinging to her ears. No, Jeyne would never know what it was like to be normal –
To be childish and free.
Oh Jeyne.
Sansa would see her swathed in white, with rosy, pink on her cheeks and a thin rope of gold wound about her neck. Her husband would own her and would expect a song from his newest pet.
A son –
Sansa wanted to laugh, as much as she wanted to cry.
Groomed within the walls of the Foundation, a woman would never be safe until she delivered her husband with a red-faced and squalling son, that survived childhood. Only then would they be safe, and their place secured. If they miscarried, or, worse, gave birth to a stillborn child or a squalling and ugly little girl, they were damned.
(Or, if their husband’s seed never took at all...)
Sansa didn't like when her thoughts turned that way, slipping and sliding through foul and bitter tar. She wanted to press her hands against her ears and bite her tongue like a young kit if only to make to send her ugly thoughts away.
Then she could play with her mate, nipping and kissing at the curve of his jaw and the upturn of his lips. When he buried his fingers in her hair and tugged, she thrilled at the pain.
“Fuck the gods above– “
She wanted to laugh when he lost control, if only because of how rare it was. He moved with purpose; his muscles taut and his teeth sinking into mating gland when he filled her with his seed, before cupping her glistening folds with his palm after. He wouldn’t let his seed trickle from her cunt, no, he wanted to keep it buried safe inside her.
“You were made for me, Sansa,” Roose told her, the first time he’d wrapped her in furs before covering her small frame with his larger one. He sank inside her as if she were his home, and fucked her until her tears dried on her cheeks and her hands wound through his short, dark hair, “You were made for this.”
His touch kept her tethered there –
Hidden from the sun.
Her toes curled inside the thick, woolen socks she’d knitted, though the cold still seeped deep into her bones. Her mate was the only one who could keep her warm, his hands on his shoulders and his brow pressed against hers as potent as any fire.
Roose’s first wife was a child of summer, one who embodied fecundity and gluttony.
She had passed three seasons before, leaving crumbs of herself behind.
Sansa had taken her dresses apart, reusing the vast amount of material apart for clothing of her own. Roose said nothing of the dresses she made for his only daughter; a shy, timid girl who never failed to cling to Sansa’s skirts. She never spoke a word, but hummed in tandem when Sansa sang the songs of her childhood, though their meanings were lost upon her.
“I won’t leave you, Jeyne,” Sansa promised, the first time the motherless girl placed her chubby hands in her own and whispered her name. She was a shy child, a sweet child with a thin little face and lost eyes, and Sansa couldn’t bear to send her away. Instead, Sansa kept her near; feeding and bathing her in the springs that ran near the village, as if she were her child in truth. She made a fabric doll for her too, with rags stuffed inside, and two heart-shaped buttons for the eyes.
Though Jeyne begged to stay underfoot, Sansa had to leave her to another at night. Roose rarely welcomed his daughter’s presence and allowed none but himself and his mate to stay in their home.
No, Sansa thought. It wasn’t her home – it never could be.
She missed her home where her siblings were ever underfoot, laughing and dropping things while their mother yelled, and their father hid away. It was a mess of noise and chaos, and Sansa found her memories slipping through her fingers, no matter how hard she tried to grasp them.
It was Roose that she knew, and Roose that she remembered as if she had never known any other life before him.
Only that wasn’t true, no, no, no, and his home would never be hers.
It was saturated with the scent of him, from the furs that covered the pallet bed, to the larder that overflowed in the cellar below. Sansa would never admit how the notes of cardamon, leather, and ash made her toes curl or her chest ache.
His home was made from oak and stone, with a high ceiling, rounded doorways, and crudely made windows overlooking the village. Villagers tended to the wild garden that stretched around the hut, defined by masses of medicinal herbs, rooted vegetables, and leafy greens that kept without end. Summer passed with winter on its heels, and still, the gardens bloomed with life.
Everything and everyone knew to follow Death and his will.
Sansa too knew her place.
Her expected role.
Her heart fluttered and her cheeks tinged pink as she pressed her thighs together. She promised Roose that she would obey him – please him – in any way that he wished, but she couldn’t make her body follow suit.
“Provide me with an heir, and you will always have a place here, little one.”
Sansa prayed to the gods of her childhood every time they coupled, and Roose slid a pillow beneath her hips to keep his seed inside of her. It was the same silk pillow that countless brides before her used, to keep their mate’s precious offering inside them.
Without spilling a drop.
He took her relentlessly, forcing her to her peak over and over again, even when she begged for him not to. There was no escaping his knowing touch, and when she saw his cold smile, she knew that he read her thoughts.
She couldn’t get away from him.
She wouldn’t.
Not when he drowned her in his scent and bathed her with his tongue, drowning every part of her in his saliva. He would lick her cunt until she screamed, and he swallowed mouthfuls of her cream. She couldn't make him stop, nothing could make him stop until she was weak and wet and whimpering that she couldn't come again.
Then he would turn her over and trace her puckered hole, before delving his fingers and his tongue inside. There was no part of her that she could hide from him, and nausea rose in her throat as she felt him see her brothers and her sister that she missed without end.
And the half-wild dog that she loved, who responded to her name and had eyes filled with love. She was gentle and sweet and embodied everything that Sansa wanted to remember.
“Lady,” she whispered, “Her name was Lady and I loved her more than I ever loved anyone or anything.”
There were countless other things that she wanted to remember, even as she knew there were things already lost to her. The world had changed overnight, and she too had to change with it. Her family was gone, and she would never have a pet like Lady again.
Nor would she sink her teeth into apples covered with sticky sweet caramel or re-read a battered copy of her favorite romance novel and imagine herself in the heroine’s place.
After Death came, none of the Foundation had experienced life outside its walls. They were kept in place by Roose and made to follow in his wake, without indulging in rape or murder or a thousand other things.
Moving screens and books among them.
“I hope you’ll be happy here, Mother,” Ramsay crooned, as he held her hand in his and brushed a kiss across her skinned knuckles. Knowing eyes met hers, and he smiled, as pretty and sweet as spun sugar melting on her tongue.
Ramsay was Roose’s eldest bastard, with dreams that exceeded far past what his father would ever imagine. Sansa wanted nothing to do with him, nor the few Foundation members that followed in his wake. They were reckless and cruel, shrieking with laughter as they set fields blaze, and watched as crops turned to ash.
Ramsay had Death in his veins and could circumvent Roose's influence to a certain extent. He had sharp teeth and dark eyes that wanted everything that he saw, and everyone that he encountered without care.
He wanted the world, and his companions emulated his example.
They treated betas and omegas the same, leaving countless bruised and broken.
Broken –
Sansa knew that Ramsay imagined her broken too.
He watched and he waited, and he wanted, and she hated him when he came close to Jeyne. He drew his half-sister close, braiding trinkets into her hair and brushing chaste kisses across her temple. He made her laugh as much as he longed to make her cry; his dreams filled with tears slipping down her cheeks, as he tore her fabric doll apart –
As Sansa, his pretty stepmother Sansa watched.
(Ramsay liked to imagine Sansa as his mate, where she would cling to his side and play his games, with her laughter ringing in his ears and her small hand tucked in his...)
He was reckless and unpredictable whereas his father was calculating and precise. He was a wildfire that leaped where it wanted and crackled with manic laughter. He was a wildfire that left nothing in its wake, and Sansa hated him as she never could hate Roose.
How long would it be before Ramsay moved against his father?
The question left Sansa reeling, as Roose cuffed her cheek. There were questions she could never ask, and he would never answer –
Until he lay with his cheek against her breast, and his guard was left beneath the floorboards.
“Ramsay was a mistake.”
Sansa held her mate’s words close, and his promise to bind Ramsay closer still. Roose would fulfill his promise when she bore him a son, one that was made in his image down to the quirk of his brow and the sneer of his lips. Sansa knew that she couldn't gamble and take one of the other Foundation men as if she would ever allow one to mount her in the vast fields as if she were a breeding bitch for any to have -
(Wasn’t she?)
Sansa knew that she was prey to the gods above, and below – only she was loyal to the god in her bed, the one that would never let her go. It was his name that she whispered and his image that she saw when she knelt on all fours and prayed that his seed would take, and create life inside her.
Then, she would be safe, if not free.
Then, she would be whole, with a child in her arms and one at her hip, for she would never forsake Jeyne.
“I won’t let you go,” Roose said, watching her.
It was less a test, as it was the truth.
“I know,” she whispered, her lips trembling as relief underlined her words.
He was enmeshed in her, from the hickeys he left on her skin, to the seed that he filled her with. No one knew the bruises that she left on him in turn, as she whispered her sins into his ear while clutching him closer still.
“Keep me with you,” she’d asked –
She begged.
“With you, alpha.”
Roose knew that she dreamed of the world that never was. She dreamed of living in a snow-clad land where shadows never came, and sacred trees adored her peals of laughter. She had everything she wanted, and everything that she dreamed of there.
Her heart beat free.
"You'll never find that place, Sansa.”
His arms wrapped around her waist, pulling her flush against him. It was a world away from where she, and their future children were, a world they would never roam free in.
Nothing but death roamed beyond the settlement walls.
He kissed her roughly, making her hands scrabble against his chest. Her protests never failed to amuse him, as they both knew she would never break his hold. She could fashion as many arrows as she’d liked, hiding knives away in her socks and stuffing a knitting needle beneath her pillow, but nothing would change the connection between them.
“I want to hate you,” Sansa whispered, her teeth catching on her bottom lip.
He was a creature from Hell, some claimed, a rabid, black dog that even the dragons that once roamed Westeros would have feared. He was colder and harsher than the winter winds ever were, yet he showed her more than the world would ever know.
His warmth, his laughter –
It was wrong.
It was perfectly right.
“If only you would,” Roose crooned, brushing his lips across her cheeks. “If only you could, little one.”
His claim marked her; the memory of his teeth sinking into her mating gland making her ache with need. She stuffed her fingers inside her, whining as she ground her hips against her open palm. Her fingers weren’t enough to soothe her, the flames leaping higher and higher inside her.
She was less than a human, as the ones above watched her burn alive.
Every member of the Foundation knew that she belonged to him, just as they knew when her small clothes were damp with slick and desire. No one would ever meet her eyes, nor respond to her desperate mewls.
One among the Foundation had tried and lost his life for it.
For her.
When the hunting party found her alone in the woods, she wasn’t his.
Not yet.
She was hers; a girl with no name and no face, one who would never have a place among them. Not if she was naked and filthy when she needed to be clean and bathed in his milky white cum.
She had never known another’s touch, not even her own.
Her childhood friend, Margaery, had given her a small vibrator that she’d kept tucked away in the bottom of her nightstand, without ever trying to use it.
Sansa laughed at the memory when no one could hear her. She didn’t recognize the girl she had once been, having left her in the forest that loomed outside the Foundation.
She was little more than a rabbit caught in a snare; Death’s followers having caught her without care.
They had her limbs bound and a gag forced into her mouth, before carrying her within the Foundation walls. She remembered the barren room they kept her in still, where she had nothing but the sun and fat, buzzing flies for company.
Food and drink came when the sun was at its peak when it was lowered down to her by a fraying rope with a woven basket on the end.
No one saw her, but she knew that he was there.
The man with eyes that saw through her, the one whose lips quirked in cruel amusement. He watched as the change came, the rush of heat through her abdomen the same as a fire lit beneath her skin. She pawed at the ground before she pawed at herself, twisting the remnants of her bra cup.
Her thoughts were scrambled, and her words rushed.
“I-I can’t – “
She wasn’t safe, she wasn’t cherished –
Her arms wrapped around her skinned knees as she curled into herself.
She felt more alone than she ever had and wailed a long, desperate sound. It was one that no alpha could resist, but the one above her did.
Why -?
“I don’t w-want to be alone,” Sansa whispered, “Not again.”
Making her cry, and press her belly against the stone ground, as if it could soothe the fire that crackled and roared inside her. Her heat was relentless, devouring her dignity in its wake.
She needed to be bred.
She had to.
She had nothing to nest with, and her cries had reached a fevered pitch when her heat came. Grinding her hips against her fist, she had sobbed as she came - again and again - without a knot inside her.
She needed an alpha to cover her with his scent and soothe her with everything he had; his fingers that were longer and thicker than her own, his teasing tongue, and an aching cock that he would thrust inside her weeping cunt.
She needed, gods, she needed -
She needed Death.
"P-Please -"
A mate, that would keep her safe and sated; tucked away in their nest until she was filled to the brim with pups.
"Please," she'd cried. "I'll be good- please - I can't -"
The man who peered down at her wasn't the same as before. He watched her with unfathomably dark and knowing eyes, and she had wept harder and harder until she collapsed on her hands and her knees and stuck her ass in the air. Her very scent was laced with her sweet pleas as if someone needed more encouragement to breed her.
"Alpha.”
The one that her body wanted came then, having never strayed far in the first place.
Sansa had called to him ever since she set foot within his forest.
“Omega.”
She was offered the greedy man's beating heart and sank her teeth into it as Roose held her close. Roose, she wanted to cry, the letters burned on to her tongue. What will you do to me? Will you hurt me?
Will you protect me if I’m good?
She clung closer, and closer to him instead.
"My omega will want for nothing," he murmured, his fingers splayed across her nape. His thumb massaged her unmarked mating gland, the sudden rush of endorphins making her knees buckle and her heart lurch. She was his, even if he would never be hers. "She will be safe and knotted every night, as long as she behaves. Can you be a good girl, Sansa?”
She hadn’t realized then, that she’d never told him her name.
Safe -
She had never felt safe before, her memories filled with the gruesome creatures that flew high above, untouched by the drifting ash and filthy screams they left in their wake. They drew no distinction between man and beast, their hunger without end.
Her family turned to hideous beasts made of ash.
There was nothing left of the ones that she loved, with snapping and snarling beasts left in their place. She’d run from the only home that she’d known, a small suburb with a name that she couldn’t remember, in a town she could no longer find on the map.
For Death had let his curse spread throughout the world, with none but the Foundation allowed to survive.
Sansa, his pretty and sweet Sansa had crashed through the forest knowing none of this. There were hounds at her heels and hounds waiting for her, for Death knew that she would come to his call.
She was always meant to be his, Roose thought, and whispered once, when he thought she was fall asleep.
He should have known better.
Nightmares of hounds kept her awake, as she remembered one's warm breath on the back of her neck and the searing fire that came as it sank its teeth into her shoulder. She no longer knew if it was a memory or a nightmare.
“Oh Mother, please keep me safe.”
She had wandered in the forest for weeks before Death’s hounds caught her, as she stumbled and fell. She’d scraped her hands and her knees and left chunks of her hair behind, as her braid caught on low-hanging branches. She took to trees when she could, haphazardly scaling their branches and cringing from the insects that scattered.
Her lips grew cracked, and her mouth dry from disuse, though she screamed when an errant branch cracked beneath her weight. She’d hurtled down to the ground, and was dazed as she watched the clouds above.
She had nothing left.
She closed her eyes lay there, amidst decaying leaves, until she heard the cries of an owl overhead and a centipede chittering in her ear. She was less than human then, a waif, and dirty thing that listened to the world that she had always ignored.
There was a place, they said, a place where the living and the dead would never go.
For the Foundation only cared for its own.
She was a stupid little girl then, one who thought she would be different.
(She remembered how the hounds howled and watched her with hunger; as if they could strip her flesh from her bones with their gaze alone.)
Only –
Only she no longer knew if what she remembered had ever happened.
"Come back to me, Sansa," Roose chided, drawing her away from her thoughts.
“Stay with me.”
Please.
Her small hand found his, their fingers entwining.
He brushed his lips across her throat, nipping and licking at her skin. His marks covered her frame, while the bruises she left on him were few.
The first time she raked her nails down his back while he fucked her into the thick pile of fire, he'd roared with his release and stuffed her weeping cunt full of his bulging knot. "Are you a wolf, sweet one?" he'd mused, his cold gaze meeting hers, "Or a naïve little bird?"
His answer came when she took pleasure for herself, waking him by straddling his waist and delving her hands into his dark hair. She wanted him to fuck her until she couldn’t think anymore, and he did.
Only-
She hadn't expected him to let her go after.
“Roose?”
Will you tell me the truth?
Her teeth sank into her bottom lip, keeping the silly words in.
She pulled the covers around her, their bed feeling empty when he left it.
(What had she done?)
He went to the room she was never allowed to enter, one that she knew he kept the key to on the leather cord that hung from his wrist. She’d watched him with wide, doe-like eyes when he came back with a book in his hand and settled back on the bed.
How long had it been since she was able to pretend?
Books were an escape, one that she had always gravitated to. Her brow knit when she remembered the rows of white shelves in her bedroom, and how they were covered with countless pretty books where no one ever died, and love thrived.
They were a world away from her own, and she had lost herself with every turned page.
He'd patted his lap and she laid with her head on his thigh and his cock in her warm and wet mouth while he read aloud to her. She closed her eyes as she suckled, and listened to his low, soothing tones.
I’m receiving my first dose of the vaccine today and may spend the next couple of days reading fanfic and playing Harvest Moon. Lots and lots of Harvest Moon.
I’m going to update Devil’s Harvest (Roose/Sansa) and post a very fluffy, canon au Sandor/Sansa before New Year’s - and I’m going to catch up on replying to comments and messages too.
You guys are incredibly sweet and thoughtful, I can’t thank you enough! I’ve struggled with a lot of doubt/low self-confidence about my writing over the past year, and your support has helped me through it so, so much. 💙🤍
Hello, I hope you don’t mind if I request Sansa x Tywin to you. A modern au were the two of them are contenders to become the president of Westeros and so much sexual tension going on. And then Sansa wins unexpectedly but Tywin gets to be the First Lady hahahahaha
Done! :)
I loved your request, though I hope you don't mind how angsty the story is (it has a bit of romance and a happy ending - pinky promise!).
Posting the fic beneath the cut too...4k+ words of tysan! 🐱💖
PS: Please let me know if you have an account on ao3, I'll dedicate it to you. :)
Hello can I request a Stannis x Sansa oneshot where they are married and boom they have triplets all boys. And Stannis will be his turn on taking care of the babies because Sansa is at work? Domestic fluff one shot
Yes, you can! 📚💙
See below the cut for the fic (or click here to read it on ao3!). Thank you for being so patient - I hope that you enjoy it.
“I’m home!” Sansa called, toeing off her heels.
After her first day back at work, she was impatient to see her husband and their three little ones. She hadn't thought that she would make it, after spending hours pouring over fabric swatches and sketches for the newest collection. In-between every thought she'd spared for work, she wondered how her husband, Stannis was, and whether their boys were behaving.
She blushed when Margaery took her phone away, after the tenth time she'd checked it for any calls or messages. Sansa knew that she needed to focus - there were only so many things that she could do through text messages, emails, and constant Zoom sessions – as Margaery had reminded her, over and over again.
“Everyone misses you here,” Margaery had pled, batting her eyelashes, and pouting her lips; knowing that it would make her friend and favorite lingerie designer laugh. “I miss you, Sansa. Won’t you think about coming back? For a day or two a week?”
They both knew she couldn’t stay away.
Not forever, no – Sansa enjoyed creating too much to stay away for long. After growing up watching old Hollywood movies and burying herself in every copy of Vogue that she could get her hands on, she’d studied fashion and design at university. In her first year, she'd met Margaery and soon found herself with a best friend and business partner. The Red Rose was their joint-baby, their lingerie line that was dedicated to releasing pieces that were as timeless and elegant as they were revealing.
It hadn’t taken long for their first launch to sell out, with every release after following suit. Their customers couldn't get enough, and they had a strong online following as well. The day their account was followed by one of Margaery's favorite influencers resulted in a marathon of rom-com movies and a bottle of wine to celebrate.
It was a dream come true, one that Sansa held close to her heart.
Only there were dreams she held closer still, ones that she had never dared to imagine. Margaery had never told her the name of their company’s initial investor, the one that would later sweep Sansa off her feet...
The one that she would fall utterly in love with, and be loved by in turn.
And have three, precious children with.
Sansa smiled a slow, sweet smile that thoughts of her family always created. There was nothing in the world that had prepared her for how happy they made her, nor how much they made her heart ache with love. It was sweet and enthralling like the stories that Old Nan once told her and her siblings.
Only Sansa had begged to hear more before sleep.
It was more than she had ever thought that she would have and softened the memory of a childhood dominated by her mother's criticism, and her siblings constantly overshadowing her. They constantly jostled for attention, while Sansa fled the other way. She had always been terribly soft and quiet with a head full of dreams that her siblings had found difficult to relate to.
She didn’t roughhouse with Robb or their cousin, Jon, and she shied away from the pranks that Arya and Rickon loved to play. It didn’t help that she was the constant victim of their pranks, as they hid worms in her pockets and filled her shampoo bottle with black hair dye. Catelyn had grounded Arya and Rickon for six months after the latter prank, while it took just over a year for the dye to fade from Sansa’s hair.
As much as Sansa loved her family, their distance from her had hurt her feelings. She felt small when she was with them, and unimportant as she could never think of the right thing to say, or do.
And her father, Ned, had never known how to treat her, more so than her mother or her siblings. He couldn't volunteer to coach her sports teams as he did with Rickon and Robb or take her to fencing lessons as he did with Arya. Nor had he ever sat at the end of her bed and read stories aloud as he did with Brann. As much as she disliked too, she sometimes wondered if they would have been closer had she been born a boy too.
“She’s a little lady in the making,” Old Nan had often crowed.
Sansa ran her fingers through her hair, gently pulling her braids free.
Stannis had changed everything for her. He stood beside her, her hand tucked in his when she was too afraid to face the world and made her feel like anything was possible in his quiet, knowing way. Where others thought he was harsh and stern, Sansa saw him differently.
She always had.
He only said things that he meant refusing to lie to anyone. There was something that Sansa found she could respect in his approach, as unforgiving as it could be. He never lied to her, yet he wasn’t as harsh as people thought, no –
He was gentle with her, never pushing her away.
“He’s your ‘lobster,’ isn’t he?” Margaery teased, while she made quotation marks in the air. She and Sansa had often watched Friends together while cramming for finals, and they used the line often. For lobsters mated for life (thus fitting Sansa) while Margaery referred to herself as a black widow.
“Someone has to pay for my Louboutin’s, besides my dear grandmother.”
For all of Margaery’s teasing nature, she understood how happy Stannis made her friend. She was Maid of Honor at their wedding, and her support meant everything to Sansa – especially when Ned and Catelyn refused to attend. They had never approved of Sansa’s relationship with Stannis, citing their age difference as one of many issues. While Sansa still maintained a relationship with Brann and, surprisingly enough, Jon, she had little contact with the others.
“I’ll let you go, if you ask me to,” Stannis told her, keeping his face turned away from hers. “I don’t want to take you away from them – “
Sansa had wrapped her arms around his waist and rested her cheek against his back. “I don’t want you to leave me, Stannis. I never will.”
Not long after that night, Sansa had found herself pregnant.
Her heart skipped when she saw blankets stretched between the velvet chaises, and pillows haphazardly stacked beneath to create a pillow fort. Stannis had admitted it was something he’d loved to do as a child – with Robert and Renly diligently working and bickering alongside him. “It was more than a game to us,” Stannis explained, holding her small hand in his, “It was the only place we felt safe after... – “She’d filled in the spaces herself, her hand squeezing his.
It was the first time that he'd opened up to her after he'd grown quiet and withdrawn during her pregnancy. She hadn't known how much he worried about her, or how his thoughts turned to the loss of his parents. The news they were expecting triplets had only increased his fears until she curled her arms around his waist and laid her head on his shoulder and asked for him to come back to her.
“I... I’m here, Sansa – I’ll always be here.”
“Why?” she’d asked, even as she knew that he meant every word, for Stannis would never lie.
Not to her. Not to anyone.
“Because I’m yours, sweet girl.”
“Now, and always,” Sansa repeated, smiling at the memory despite her aching feet, and the last wisps of anxiety that clung to her sleeves. She hadn’t wanted to leave her boys behind, the past two years she’d spent at home for her maternity leave sheer bliss. Steffon, Jasper, and Lyonel were a wolfpack in the making with their dark curls, blue eyes, and knowing smiles that won anyone’s heart twice over.
They also had endless amounts of energy, learning to run before they could walk, and sticking everything they could get their hands on inside their mouths. Sansa had never seen her husband scowl as much as when their boys developed a taste for paper and had happily chewed on every errant document and open book left out in his office! At the sight of their boys’ cheeks bulging like chipmunks, she hadn’t been able to resist laughing – and neither had Stannis, as his scowl faded into rich laughter – before they had gained control once more.
Well –
As much control as a parent could have over three rambunctious toddlers.
Sansa crept down the hallway, pausing when she reached their bedroom. The door was left open, and Stannis lay on their bed, quietly reading aloud from a naval historical, while their ‘pack’ crowded around him. Steffon snuggled against his right side, with Jasper doing the same on his left, and Lyonel laying across his chest with his head on his shoulder.
As if she were in a wonderful dream, Sansa saw that all three boys were fast asleep.
And, hidden behind the book that he had read countless times before, Stannis hid his knowing smile. He'd missed his wife desperately since she'd left in the morning, their house colder without her. He'd worried their boys would cry without her near, not taking to his company as they did hers.
They loved nothing more than to climb in her lap and play with her hair, while she read their favorite stories aloud to them, or balanced a sketch pad on her knees and dreamed of a new collection. She was patient and sweet; teaching the triplets not to pull at her skirt or tear at her sketchpad, without raising her voice or scowling at them.
How did she do it?
Stannis knew their children would love her, as everyone did.
Still, it made him feel things that he couldn’t put a name to, as he saw her cradle their children close and pepper their cheeks with kisses. She made them laugh when she slipped fuzzy socks on their feet and brushed their hair back with a small, gilded brush much like her own. They did as she wished without ever throwing a tantrum, though it was a different story when he was there –
Then they would throw a tantrum, whether it was because he had cut their sandwiches the wrong way, or chose the wrong outfits for them to wear.
“How do you do it?” Stannis had asked her when he couldn't help but scowl after Jasper covered himself and his brothers' head to toe with applesauce. He'd scolded them until Sansa had appeared, and promptly sent him to run a bath for them. She'd cleaned the kitchen while he'd cleaned three, squirming toddlers, and found himself soaked in bubble bath and remnants of applesauce at the end. “How do you make them love you, no matter what you do?”
(How can I make them love me too?)
Sansa hadn’t laughed, as he feared she might.
She’d taken his hand in hers, and pressed it against her cheek. “I don’t make them do anything, Stannis, and neither do you. I don’t think we could if we tried.”
She’d moved closer, nestling her small frame against his.
“I know you’re afraid of screwing up – and you will. We will.” Sansa pressed her lips against his chest, and he'd wound his fingers through her thick tresses as if he could pull her closer still. “We already have by letting them eat sugary snacks and naming Robert as their godfather. That doesn’t mean they will love us any less, Stannis, as long as we love them in turn.”
And more than anything, he did.
Sansa and their boys were everything to him. Everything.
Sansa was as warm as the sun and as loving as pure sugar melting on his tongue –
While he knew he was hardened and gruff, and never saying the right thing. He loved Sansa and their children, and the last thing he'd wanted was their children to fear him...only they'd hadn't, no – they were thrilled when he helped them to build a pillow fort, something they had never done before.
There was little bickering between the triplets, as they studiously followed his lead and had shrieked in delight when they were able to crawl into the finished space. They'd soon dragged every stuffed animal they had into the belly of their fort and had asked him to come too.
How could he deny them?
Stannis had played with them for hours, in-between making them breakfast, lunch, and dinner before he gathered them up for a bubble bath. After that, he'd been faced with three droopy-eyed and begging children, as they asked to stay up until Sansa came home. Stannis had agreed after he wrestled them into their pajamas, and tucked them into his bed. Then he read aloud to them, knowing the account of the Dreadnought would lull them to sleep...
And it had until Sansa snuggled in beside them.
“My little wolf pack,” she murmured, her loving smile matching her husband’s.
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the Organization for Transformative Works
Posted a sweet, smutty sansan story for my friend @metalvenomludens7 !! I played heavily with canon and created a happier story for sansan (the starks are alive, sansa never goes south, and lady and sandor remain at her side) 🐺💖
(Click the link above or look below to read it! nsfw!!)
“Sandor!” Sansa giggled, as he pulled her flush against him. She thrilled at how small he made her feel with the crown of her head barely gracing his shoulder, and his heavy arm draped across her slim waist.
She wore one of his favorite creations; her gown a rich emerald color, with sleeping hounds and yellow daisies embroidered across the flared skirt. Fur-trimmed the end of her sleeves and the round neckline of her bodice, yet Sansa confessed that he kept her warmer than her gowns ever could. “Anyone could see us – “she whispered.
Sandor snorted, as he moved to cover her frame with his own. He could care less about an idle servant seeing her bare arse or the marks that her scrabbling fingers left behind. “Bugger anyone that tries.”
Her lip curved into a pout; the kind she knew drove him mad. “They could still hear us,” she said, glancing at him from beneath her eyelashes.
“Aye, Princess, they could.” Sandor rasped. The first time they’d coupled, he found what a screamer she could be. She was a wolf clad in fine lace in his bed, snapping and snarling until he pinned her hands above her head and thrust his cock between her quivering thighs. “We can’t have that, can we?”
She nodded shyly, before squealing as he hoisted her up against the stable wall. Thrusting his knee between her legs, he balanced her against him; the little bird that she was. Her eyes widened as he held her chin in his hand, and thrust his pointer and middle finger inside her warm and wet mouth.
“San – “
He shushed her muffled protest, as he bunched her gown up around her hips. “Suck on my fingers, Little Bird,” Sandor grunted, his cock hardening as her tongue timidly curled around his fingers, “and no one will hear you.”
She should have known that he always took care of what belonged to him.
He groaned as he rutted against her, his cock straining against his trousers. He felt her warm cunt through her delicate small clothes and inhaled the heady scent of her desire in the air. She was already dripping wet, her nectar trickling down her thighs.
His Little Bird was ready to breed, whether she knew it or not.
Ever since Gregor had disfigured him, Sandor had given little thought to having a family of his own. It was a bitter thought, one that became heavier still when low and high-born maidens alike refused to look him in the eyes and scurried the opposite way. He knew that he was an ugly beast, the kind that would never be trusted, even if they were led on a tight leash.
Yet with Sansa, sweet and ever-chirping Sansa, Sandor could allow himself to dream again.
The thought of their keep filled with children made him want to weep as if he were a boy whose balls had yet to drop. The thought of Sansa swollen and heavy with his child, with milk leaking from her pretty teats was more than he could stand.
A distant part of him feared that carrying his heir would be too much – he still remembered how his mother had screamed and wept while delivering a babe that hadn’t lived to see its first name day. His mother had nearly died in the birthing bed, and the Maester advised his father to not breed her again.
His father hadn’t listened, but Sandor would.
He always would when it came to his sweet and beautiful wife.
Regardless of the famed Tully fertility, Sandor hesitated at the thought of losing Sansa. He would gladly go childless to keep her there, beside him, though he knew how she yearned for children. She told him as much when she drew his hand between her legs, allowing him to cup her swollen sex before whispering her wish.
“I want to feel you inside me, my Lord. “
She wanted him, and everything that he had to give. He'd never imagined having a wife, let alone one that mewled and snuggled close against him while begging for his touch. She was so wet and willing and responsive that it made him harden whenever he was near her.
He wanted to breed her, over and over again.
She mewled against his fingers, as she tried to grind herself against his knee. He held her too tightly to let her do so, and she keened at the ache inside her. She wanted Sandor, her lust-filled distress causing thick globs of water to trickle down her cheeks.
“Shhh, shhh,” Sandor crooned, licking the tears from her skin. His free hand moved to unbuckle his trousers, forcing them down to his knees. His cock sprang free, the bulbous tip weeping. “I’ll give you what you need.”
From the moment they met, he was never able to deny her.
She was only ten and four to his twenty when they first met. The Starks realized the Crown Prince’s interest in their precious daughter was far less than sweet, and Sandor had laughed himself sick when the honorable Ned Stark first approached him.
“Will you protect her, Clegane?”
Somehow the man knew his vows meant nothing to him, the white cloak around his shoulders as meaningless and pathetic as a maiden trussed up and thrown into the midst of battle. There was no place for honor or grace in King’s Landing, something that was reinforced by the sheer brutality that was fostered in the Red Keep.
“I’m the Hound,” you buggering cunt, Sandor had wanted to add. “You should keep your daughter far from me.”
Somehow, he had not.
For their sweet and chirping bird had met his eyes upon meeting, as no one else had ever dared to. She had not fled from the sight of his scars, nor had she wept when he mocked her dutiful curtsey. She was a little lady with a head filled with golden knights and romantic stories, one who confused pretty fairytales for reality.
“You’re a fool, Little Bird.”
Sansa had looked at him with hurt in her eyes, and her hands twisted in the folds of her gown. “What do you mean, Ser – “she began, and he’d barked laughter.
“Do you know what your golden prince does?” he’d rasped, the vitriol words springing free before he could stop them, “He takes little girls like you and rips them apart – with his fingers, his cock, or the crossbow that his mother handles for him. You wouldn’t last a fortnight in the Red Keep, girl.”
She’d called him cruel when he told her the truth. Her hellion of a sister found him later, with a scowl on her lips, and a pathetic excuse for a sword in her hand. She’d demanded to know what he’d said to her sister, who refused to emerge from her rooms, and he hadn’t said a word.
He’d already said enough to Sansa, though there were many, many things he could add. He was the only one who would never lie to her, even if she railed against him. No one else would.
Not her family nor her golden prince, or his mother.
Especially his mother. Cersei.
Yet Sandor found himself conflicted, wanting to preserve her dreams as much as he wanted to rip them away from her. For the moment they met, they saw the other as no one else had. He was once a green lad with a head full of dreams until his brother had burned every dream and sweet song from him.
He remained wary of fire, the few nights that he spent away from Sansa ensuring that his room remained dark and unheated. He never said a word to his wife about it, yet he found a furred cloak stowed away in his saddlebag all the same. It kept him warmer than a fire ever could and carried his wife's sweet scent. Her scent alone could chase every fear away, even if they returned in the light of day.
Still, the tortured boy wished and wanted –
Especially when Sansa emerged from her rooms with a wane smile and eyes that continually sought his.
“She longs for the South," Ned confessed as if the whole of Winterfell didn't know the dreams of their cherished princess, ones that she had voiced ever since she could walk, "For the Crown Prince. Yet, what I have seen...it troubles me.”
They both knew it was an impossibility, for Joffrey had come to Winterfell with Lady Margaery in his wake. Even as he clung to his mother’s bosom, he reached for the noble whore; his hair fisted in her hair, and his eyes bright with longing for her cunt. They were shameless with their desire, neither keeping their hands off one another. The Court saw, the Starks saw, and Sansa –
Sandor was sure that she saw most of all.
Thus, he wasn’t surprised to find her crying in the hall outside of her rooms. He'd roughly taken her by the hand and forced her into her rooms, where no one could see, and no one could hear. The sight of her tears was one that Joffrey would have delighted in, and Sandor knew what would happen if the arrogant cunt found her alone.
“Men have their needs,” Cersei would have said, with a sickly-sweet smile and a shrug of her shoulders. It had happened before, and it would happen again, regardless of the thorny rose in Joffrey’s bed. The Hound had ignored the screams that echoed throughout the Red Keep by keeping himself awash in drink and fear. Few approached him without the stench of piss and fear surrounding them, and he had welcomed it.
Embraced it.
He cared for no one, spoke to no one, and was no one. The world saw what they wanted to see, and the Hound was merely a rabid dog kept on a tight leash. He thought nothing of carrying broken and bleeding maids away from the prince's rooms. He couldn't think. He couldn't speak. He couldn't feel if he wanted to survive the Red Keep.
“You aren’t safe out there, Little Bird.”
“Am I safe with you, Ser?” she’d whispered, and they’d both known the answer, even as Sandor had slammed the door behind him and left to find Stranger. His horse had never taken to living in the stables, even as Sansa’s dire wolf, Lady, had taken to sleeping beside him...as if they could be more than predator and prey.
They were all fools in the North, where stories of hideous creatures that lived past the Wall and the flow of wine never ceased. Sandor was unsurprised by the last, as the bitter cold was harsh and unforgiving.
What else was there to do but drink?
Mayhap it was why the drunken queen mother released him from his vows, without a backward glance as Sandor swore himself to the Starks instead. It was the last time that he would bend the knee, for his path was set.
He became Sansa's shadow, and she became his light.
They became inseparable as they began to accept the North as their home. With her betrothal set aside, Sansa accepted more and more of her mother’s duties, for she would become the Lady of Winterfell until her brother Robb married. She tended to the sick and the weak, regardless of whether they were housed inside the keep or in the cabins that littered the surrounding forest.
She reminded the northerners of a goddess in the flesh when she laughed, with her cheeks tinged pink and her frame wrapped in the prettiest of furs. She was gracious and kind, and as she took to the northerner's company, they took to hers in kind. Sandor was the only one that knew how she worried about saying the right thing and cried over the ones she couldn't save; the ones lost to the bitter cold, or childbirth, or the ones who left with a hunter's party and never came back. She was sweet and caring and good.
Sandor knew how she never forgot a face nor a name when she prayed in the Godswood. Her piety was a true and innocent thing, as far from the false devotion that most in the Red Keep observed. Their worship was marked by festivities and debauchery, with the pursuit of pleasure the shrine that every courtier knelt at.
Except for Varys, Sandor thought.
No, Sansa meant every prayer that she whispered, often kneeling until snowflakes covered her braid and her limbs felt numb. More than once Sandor had swept her into his arms as they left if only to keep her from falling face-first into the snow.
(It wasn’t an excuse to hold her close, and feel her warm breath against his neck, no -)
He couldn’t help but ask, “What do you pray for, Little Bird?”
She hesitated a moment, her eyes meeting his and pink emerged on her cheeks, “I pray for everyone that I know and I love, and those that I haven’t met yet.”
She tended to the plants that blossomed within the glass gardens and learned to make salves and potions from the herbs that grew there. It was on Sandor's name day that Sansa came to his rooms just before sunrise, with a basket filled with fresh rolls of bread and slices of tender meat and fresh fruit. They had a 'picnic' as she called it, where she leaned against his side and tempted him into feeding her by hand.
“I have something for you,” she’d whispered, and he’d tensed, knowing that wonderful things never happened to him. He knew what he was, even if Sansa had forgotten.
His stomach had rolled and he’d nearly wretched when she presented him with a jar of foul-smelling cream. It’d taken him a moment to realize what she’d intended, as she came close to him - how he’d snapped and snarled before grabbing her hand, squeezing it until her fragile bones nearly broke -
“Don’t fucking touch me,” he’d rasped, as she whispered that she’d intended the cream to make his scars ache less. She didn’t want to change him, she said.
She lied.
He wanted to howl in pain as if he was one of the dire wolves that followed at every Stark's heel. If he could gnash his teeth and tear away at bone marrow he would, if only to keep his thoughts from the girl before him.
The woman, who drew him in until he was buried beneath her ribs. He couldn’t get out and he couldn’t let her in, the thought making him tremble.
“They’ll never go away,” Sandor hissed, referring to the scars that defined him.
And Sansa hadn’t protested, no – she’d leaned forward and brushed her lips against his cheek, where his skin was a molten and twisted mess that revealed flashes of his gums and teeth. There was no disgust nor shame in her eyes as she kissed the curve of his jaw, and the tip of his nose, before pressing her lips against his.
She was as sweet as the snowberries that stained her lips red, and her tongue darted out to trace the seam of his lips. She treated him as if she cared, the thought making him pull her flush against him. Fuck, no one made him come undone as Sansa did.
“I’m sorry, Little Bird.”
She didn’t want to change him.
“I don’t want you to hurt anymore, Sandor.”
How he loved her –
For he loved her, he knew he did, since the day she had knelt at his feet as if he were a highborn lord.
He’d watched and he’d waited for her parents to announce her betrothal to some northern lord, yet they hadn’t, no. Sandor had grown suspicious when few offers came, for Sansa was without equal. Who wouldn’t want a chirping, beautiful bird in their bed? When Sandor heard that Joffrey boasted throughout the south that he’d had a taste of the wolf’s cunt, he smashed his horrid helmet in two.
Only later did Sandor realize that Joffrey had given him his chance, for Ned and Catelyn observed him constantly with their daughter. They saw that he was different with her, more man than beast.
Nor would they ever know how many times Sandor came in his hand, spurting thick rivets of his seed while roaring Sansa’s name.
“Fuck,” Sandor snarled, as he thrust his cock inside her welcoming cunt. He knew that she could take whatever he gave her, and so, he set a brutal pace. His hips bucked against hers as her cunt squeezed his cock, the pressure making them both groan.
His need increased as she sank her teeth into his fingers, reminding him just how much of a wolf she was. Sandor relentlessly fucked her, his heavy sac slapping against her cunt with every thrust. He wanted to bury his fingers inside her as well, though he loved the feel of her teeth and her wet tongue too much to let her mouth go –
And he loved it when his little bird let herself go, and allowed him to fuck her as if she were any common whore. He cherished her whimpers and her cries, the same that he loved the feel of her cunt as it soaked his cock with slick and cum, and the way her body grew taut as she neared her release.
He would be anything she asked; her friend, her lover, even her husband if she wished. If she had never glanced twice at him, he would have followed her still, as her feral hound or her sworn shield. The idea of marriage between a lady and a hound was obscene, though Sandor knew he would never deny her. They could marry in the Godswood and stay with her family if she chose to, or cross the roaring sea if she wished to chase fairytales still. Sandor laughed and laughed at the idea, while his chest ached all the same.
Sandor would never forget the night he'd first had her after Lord Stark had gifted him with a nearby keep. He had given up his family keep long ago and had given little thought to establishing a new one. He could never revisit the place where his face was burned away, and his mother joined his sister in death.
Still, it seemed that Lord and Lady Stark were no strangers to what occurred in Winterfell, and were determined to make him their daughter's equal. He snorted at that as if he could ever be –
Yet when he felt how Sansa trusted him, no, cherished him, he couldn’t help but dream that he could be. It was his reason for visiting his keep and ordering dramatic changes, as he sought to make the keep a place that his precious bird would never wish to leave.
He had the Lord and Lady’s chambers expanded and filled with sumptuous rugs and a roaring fireplace, as well as creating a connecting study with two desks, and rows of windows that overlooked the courtyard. The keep was far smaller than Winterfell, yet he saw its potential, as it had hundreds of virgin acres and the keep itself had a sturdy foundation.
He doubled the stables and ordered additional servants' quarters built while having the keep itself scrubbed and emptied of moth-eaten tapestries and foul-smelling rushes. He wanted his Little Bird to be happy there, with him, and knew that she could make the keep into a home that would rival Winterfell’s appeal. Thus, he drew short at transforming the barren yet glistening rooms and sent abroad for talented craftsmen to come to the keep.
Sandor had rarely spent coin on anything but drink and had enough stashed away for Sansa to do as she wished. The only liberty that he took was ordering a four-poster bed made, one that was large enough to accommodate his height and girth. Nor did Sandor think that Sansa would bar Lady from their rooms, thus the bed would be large enough for the dire wolf to settle between them. And later, their children too.
Without word to anyone, Lady Catelyn sent him a raven with a copy of plans for Winterfell’s famed glass gardens, ones that she hoped he would replicate for her daughter. Sandor had work immediately begin on establishing the gardens, for he knew that Sansa would fill them with lemon trees and leafy green vegetables, as well as dozens of precious herbs that would never thrive in the harsh, northern landscape.
Nor did the keep have the heated springs that Winterfell possessed, though Sandor knew they would have little need to send for firewood. The virgin acres surrounding the keep were teeming with trees that were thrice the height and girth of him and were well tended to. They were enough to keep every fireplace roaring in the keep, keeping winter at bay, as well as ensuring the keep had something valuable to trade.
Sandor planned to breed horses too, as they had enough space and he received word from a distant cousin seeking a position. He remembered the lad had a talented hand at breaking in horses, even with Stranger’s wild sire, whom he’d trained for several winters.
There was no other keep in the North that bred horses, and Sandor knew that it would only add to their trade appeal. And if he thought that Sansa would delight in braiding every horse’s mane, and would coo in delight with every foal that emerged – it only made sense, for Sandor intended that she would be his equal in every way.
She was far more than a pathetic dog deserved, yet the gods had allowed him to have a place beside her. He'd set his famed helmet aside as he knew she was the only one that he would follow. He was lost for her and would do whatever she asked him to. It was the sort of devotion that made him sneer at the Kingslayer and his relationship with Cersei until Sandor found that he no longer could now that he understood.
Sansa was his, and he was hers -
This guided Sandor to Winterfell where he met his betrothed in the Godswood. They became one in name before Sandor whisked her away to their keep, with bitter hope nipping at their cheeks. She wore his cloak around her shoulders, and he wore her name across his heart.
By the gods, Sandor hoped his Little Bird would stay with him.
When the keep was ready, Sandor knelt at his little bird's feet and offered her everything that he had to give: his name that she often whispered, his cloak that she had embroidered with snarling dire wolves, and his keep. It was the last that Sansa had admitted to dreaming of, far more than he would have ever known. She admitted to praying for a future filled with dark-haired and blue-eyed children that scampered underfoot, while Sansa perched in his lap, with Lady asleep at their feet.
“You’re all that I want,” Sansa had whispered, and gods, how Sandor had wept like a softhearted boy at that. “You, Sandor, just you.”
Sandor gathered his love closer still, as he felt her shiver. "Come for me, Sansa," he rasped, pressing his brow to hers. There was nothing between them then, as she shattered in his hold. Her release came swiftly, and all Sandor could hear were her ecstatic cries that were slightly muffled by his fingers and the slap of his sac against her dripping folds as he thrust faster than before.
He held her impossibly close against him, not wanting her head to bang against the wall. He knew that he could break her without trying, regardless of how her cunt squeezed his cock, or wordlessly pleaded “more, more, more – “
He would never forgive himself if something happened to her.
“Fuck!” Sandor groaned.
He stilled as he came, pumping his seed inside her cunt where he wished for nothing more than it to take root. The idea of Sansa, sweet Sansa, swollen and round with his child did unimaginable things to him. She was everything that he dreamed of, and everything he thought he would never have.
Cradling her small frame against him, Sandor withdrew his fingers from her mouth. She whimpered as he did so, her cunt squeezing his cock, as if she could keep him inside her longer still. “I’m yours,” Sandor rumbled, finally able to tangle his fingers in her gorgeous tresses, “for as long as you’ll have, Sansa.”
She beamed up at him, “I’ll always want you by my side, Sandor.”
Always –
He liked the sound of that more than he ever could, or would, admit to.
I was accepted into my #1 choice for a master’s program and it’s just aaah--- I’m super excited to start classes in August! I’m going to split my time between being buried under schoolwork and updating my fics for the next year or so. 📚💙💼
