[selene131]

☾ The Astral Archive ☽

☾ A lunar grave of unspoken oaths ☽

☽ Stories carved in shadows and light

☽ These works wander through many lands, some touching on darker or sensitive themes. Please consume with care and at your own discretion.

☽ Alucard / Adrian Tepes ☾

masterlist

☽ Simon "Ghost" Riley ☾

masterlist

☽ Sevika ☾

masterlist

☽ Sandor Clegane ☾

Forget-me-not

Unseen no more

After dusk

[selene131]

A song in the dust

Cowboy!Sevika x Musician!reader

Next part

Cowboy Sevika sits in the corner of the bar, her chair pushed slightly away from the chaos surrounding her. Her hat rests low over her face, shielding her eyes from the harsh sunlight bleeding through the dirty windows.

A cigarette burns forgotten between her fingers, ash gathering on the dusty floor. The smell of cheap liquor mingles with that of horses, sweat, and perhaps a faint scent of something sweet entering the establishment.

She doesn’t bother to look at who has made their way in. She just wants to finish her business here and move on with her day.

A chair softly scrapes against the wooden surface, the sound lingering until it settles somewhere in the middle of the room.

Sevika takes a lazy drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke invade her lungs before slowly exhaling it past her chapped lips.

She puts out the burning end on the makeshift ashtray, made from a broken bowl - its residue staining the once cream-colored ceramic.

A melodious ring pulls her out of her thoughts. She slightly lifts her hat with her fingertips, just enough to watch what is happening.

And she sees you.

Standing in the center of this place, an old guitar resting on your lap as your fingers move knowingly across the reverberating strings.

You're a new face in this ancient town - a puzzle piece that doesn't fit in.

Everyone around you mocks you.

Laughing. Staring. Pointing.

Yet, you continue to play, doing exactly what you were paid for.

Sevika thinks the bar owner might have hired you to brighten this miserable town with your presence and skills.

She doesn’t know what brought you here, but she recognizes the look in your eyes - the same one carried by people searching for somewhere to disappear.

She brings two fingers between her lips, the tobacco from the cigarette still remaining on them, and sharply whistles.

Everyone stops, looking toward her assigned table, where no one dared to sit.

You gaze at her, and she reciprocates your gesture, holding eye contact for a moment before making one simple move: lifting her chin once, indicating for you to continue playing.

Your music begins again, and no one else is bold enough to interrupt you.

[selene131]

A song in the dust II

Cowboy!Sevika x Musician!Reader

Summary: Leaving behind the applause of the big cities to play your songs in a forgotten town, you never expected anyone to truly listen. Until a sharp whistle from the corner changes everything.

Tags/Warnings: AU, Western setting, strangers to lovers, drinking, smoking, mild flashback, gambling

Word count: 1k

A/N: Initially, I posted the first part as a standalone prompt. I completely intended to leave it that way... and yet, here I am posting part 2. Enjoy!

Previous part | Next part

It is a routine now.

Every evening, when the sun lingers just above the horizon, you enter the bar with your guitar resting at your side. With each step you take, dust swirls through the air, dancing in the waning light filtering through the windows.

No one dares speak against you. By the time you enter the establishment, a chair already waits in the center of the room, where you always perform.

The people who once looked at you with judgment now look forward to hearing you play, your melodies drifting through the town and breathing life into a place that had long forgotten it.

You are no longer an outcast, but the missing piece of this town.

Slowly, you begin to play the nostalgic tune everyone seems to love, making them reminisce about their youth and good memories, when the town used to glow with happiness.

Children playing, screaming, and running around. Parents chasing after them, warning them to be careful before they got hurt. Elderly people shaking their heads, advising the young parents to let the children play, as they are blessed with only one childhood.

It reminds them of the smell of baked goods from the family-owned bakery, where they had the best sweets and bread. Recollections of the dance nights, where all of the town, from the little ones to the grown-ups, used to come. Clapping, swaying, and twirling all night long, until the first light of dawn arrived.

Just simpler days. A simpler life.

Now - gone.

But your presence brings the remaining people together, making them believe there is still hope and light in the dark, gloomy times.

Everyone listens as the last note of your guitar fades into silence, until your fingers start to move faster, lively across the strings.

A difficult song to master, and yet it's worth it all.

Some of the people quickly stand up, shouting and whistling with joy. Their weariness from a long day of work is entirely forgotten as they begin dancing with such passion, the ground reverberating from their ecstatic steps.

Your smile grows wider as you look at the scene unfolding in front of you, watching even the older women who seemed to dislike you gaze back at you with gentle eyes.

They never hated you. They hated the unknown. They didn't find pleasure in something that disrupted their habits, but how they regret it now.

After the animated melody, you're tired and still smiling. Your fingertips are aching, the strings have left their mark upon them - small indentations pressed into your sore skin.

You lower your guitar into its worn-out case, closing the rusty clasps, before going to grab the drink awaiting you.

The owner of the bar has already learned your favorite drink, and at the end of your play, the cold liquid is always there.

You're looking for a place to rest, but all the tables seem to be already occupied. And yet, as you scan the room, your eyes land on the far corner.

Sevika is there, holding a hand of cards, smoke curling from her mouth. She looks up, catches you looking at the crowded room, while taking a slow drag of her cigarette. Without a word, she nudges the empty chair with the toe of her boot, sliding it out just an inch.

An invitation.

The men at the table freeze. One of them pauses, eyes wide, looking between Sevika and the chair like they’ve just seen a ghost.

Nobody sits at Sevika's table unless she allows it. The men she occasionally lets join her usually leave with lighter pockets by the end of the night.

You walk over, setting your drink on the wooden table, and taking a seat next to Sevika. Instinctively, she moves her foot to make room for you. You look at her for a brief moment, observing the way she carries herself: leaning back in her chair, legs slightly spread, a firm grip on her cards, and that distinctive expression she always wears.

The first three buttons of her shirt are open, and old scars emerge - silent witnesses of the life she must have lived. Her ripped, washed-out jeans are fastened by a black belt where a holster is attached, the metal of her pistol gleaming beneath the lamplight.

Then her eyes meet yours.

"Thank you," you utter quietly, showing your gratitude for her small gesture to let you rest at her table.

You raise your glass to her before taking a sip. She mirrors your action, tipping her glass once toward you and drowning the amber liquid in one go.

The men at the table are still watching your interaction with bold curiosity.

"Back to your cards, boys," Sevika's voice pulls them out of their trance.

You enjoy your drink in peace. From time to time, you take a glance at the game, seeing how the men lose their money with each passing round.

As their piles grow smaller, Sevika's grows larger.

Eventually, the luck runs out. With heavy sighs, the last of the men fold their cards and slide away, leaving the table suddenly quiet.

Sevika stacks her winnings, before her dark eyes shift over to fix completely on you.

She looks down at your empty glass.

"Want another one?" she asks you in a low tone.

Without waiting for your nod, she throws a sharp whistle toward the bartender, who immediately reaches for a fresh bottle.

She leans back, her gaze holding yours as a new round of drinks arrives, marking the beginning of your first real conversation.

[selene131]

Just Johnny

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader

Just thinking of Johnny on one of his days off, sitting on a beach in that old, forgotten park he keeps visiting because it's nice and quiet.

His sketchbook rests on his lap, a drawing halfway done, capturing the only other person in the park besides him.

The way the light cascades over your frame, your hair unbound and gently swaying in the breeze, and the concentrated look on your face as your finger follows the lines of your book.

He's frustrated that he can't quite make out your expression, desperate to capture it before the moment slips away.

He squints, trying to focus a little more on your features.

Your eyes lift from the page, your free hand reaching for the makeshift bookmark - a random piece of paper you found in your bag.

Your eyes meet.

He holds your gaze, watching as you rise from your seat, gathering your belongings into your small tote bag.

"Brilliant, Johnny... way to make a first impression," he murmurs to himself.

For sure, you think he's some kind of creep staring at women in public spaces.

But to his surprise, you begin walking toward him.

The distance between you grows smaller and smaller, and now he can make out the details he couldn't see from afar.

Johnny studies your face - the tiny mark only noticeable up close, the faint smile lines, and the small dimple forming as you're about to speak.

"You couldn't just ask, you know?" you break the silence, looking at him with a soft grin.

"Ask what?" he replies, genuinely confused.

"To be your model," you tease.

A pause.

He glances at the drawing, then back at you.

"You knew the whole time," Johnny says with a smile, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're not very discreet," you reply, lowering yourself onto the bench beside him without a word, leaving a respectful distance between the two of you.

If only you knew that, in his line of work, those words could cost him everything.

But this isn't the field.

This is his time off.

Here, he just wants to be a simple man.

Obvious. Clumsy. Present.

For the next few minutes, the two of you simply talk, getting to know each other in the peaceful scenery, where no one dares disturb the tranquility of the moment.

Only the birds flit from one branch to another, filling the quiet with their lively songs.

Finally, you extend your hand toward him, introducing yourself.

He takes it in his, his grip firm yet polite.

"Call me S... Johnny," he replies, catching himself before his call sign slips from his lips.

It isn't that he cares if you know who he is.

But for this one afternoon...

He just wants to be Johnny.

Just Johnny.

[selene131]

Only to remember you

Simon Riley x fem!reader

Simon comes home from a long deployment, shutting the door with the edge of his boot before locking it behind him.

The jingle of his keys alerts you, but truth be told, you would recognize the sound of his footsteps even in a crowded room.

He spots you lying on the couch, a blanket draped over your body and a book resting on your lap.

When you softly ask if he's hurt or if he needs anything, he just declines your offers.

But as always, his body betrays him.

The exact second he steps into your shared home, his guard drops entirely. His gaze softens, his muscles relax, his shoulders finally untense, and his breathing rhythm returns to normal.

Leaning over you, he gently takes the book from your hands. He places the handmade bookmark he brought you as a souvenir from a mission long ago on the page you were reading, setting it aside.

Then, Simon rests his head right on your lap, wrapping his arms securely around your middle to pull you as close as possible.

You exhale quietly, gazing down at the sight in front of you. Instinctively, your fingers reach up to caress his hair - it's grown longer now, and you know he'll inevitably ask you to give him a haircut soon, but that’s a problem for another time.

Right now, he just wants to bask in your warmth and your distinctive scent. To just forget about the rest of the world, and only remember you.

[selene131]

Only to remember you

Simon Riley x fem!reader

Simon comes home from a long deployment, shutting the door with the edge of his boot before locking it behind him.

The jingle of his keys alerts you, but truth be told, you would recognize the sound of his footsteps even in a crowded room.

He spots you lying on the couch, a blanket draped over your body and a book resting on your lap.

When you softly ask if he's hurt or if he needs anything, he just declines your offers.

But as always, his body betrays him.

The exact second he steps into your shared home, his guard drops entirely. His gaze softens, his muscles relax, his shoulders finally untense, and his breathing rhythm returns to normal.

Leaning over you, he gently takes the book from your hands. He places the handmade bookmark he brought you as a souvenir from a mission long ago on the page you were reading, setting it aside.

Then, Simon rests his head right on your lap, wrapping his arms securely around your middle to pull you as close as possible.

You exhale quietly, gazing down at the sight in front of you. Instinctively, your fingers reach up to caress his hair - it's grown longer now, and you know he'll inevitably ask you to give him a haircut soon, but that’s a problem for another time.

Right now, he just wants to bask in your warmth and your distinctive scent. To just forget about the rest of the world, and only remember you.

[selene131]

After dusk

Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

Summary: Beneath the blooming linden trees, he learns your body.

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, smut, established relationship, rough intimacy, biting, Sandor being Sandor

Word count: 1k

A/N: I can read the most descriptive, suggestive, and obscene smut ever... but the second I try to write it myself, I can't stop cringing. Still, I hope you enjoy it!

The dusk light bleeds onto the earth, slowly dripping onto the lush bed of grass.

Shades of purple and red reflect on the calm river's surface, intertwining to create a woven painting of the celestial dome.

The forest is quiet. Only the breeze passing through the leaves can be heard, softly caressing the ancient trees and carrying a faint floral scent through the air.

Somewhere in the heart of the woods, a muffled fire crackles, nearly spent. The once-scarlet pieces of wood now lightly flicker with a muted ember glow.

Beside it, personal belongings are scattered: a waterskin, some leftover food, damp clothes hanging from the tree branches, a sword, and a hunting knife.

The last ray of sunshine shyly filters through the blooming linden, catching the remaining droplets of water glistening on your skin from your quick dip. They glide down your body - from the curve of your neck and the line of your collarbone to your bare waist - where rough hands are holding you.

Night approaches with small steps, heralded by a sudden shift in the wind. The breeze is no longer gentle, but sharp and cold.

Your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but the chill doesn't last. His body crowds closer, forcing you to back away until the tree behind you stops your retreat. The bark presses against your bare back, its uneven, unforgiving pattern digging into your skin, mirroring the intensity of his touch.

He means no harm, and yet everything about his size and strength in this moment screams danger.

His scarred body molds against yours in a strange kind of perfection - coarse edges meeting soft outlines.

His right hand travels higher, resting just beneath your breast, deliberately stopping short of giving you what you crave, making your breath hitch. His left hand remains at your hip, holding you.

Your eyes meet his, boldly keeping eye contact, determined to prove that you aren't giving in just yet.

You lift a hand to the side of his face, tracing the harsh lines of his features with feather-light strokes. Your thumb moves agonizingly slowly over his dry lips.

A ghostly smirk touches the corner of his mouth before he catches both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind your back.

A surprised sigh escapes you, caught off guard by the sudden shift in control.

With his free hand, he reaches beneath your chin, tilting your head upward just enough to bare your throat to him.

His lips hover above your skin, his breath fanning across your collarbone as his grip around your wrists tightens slightly.

Not merciless, just a challenge.

"Tell me..." Sandor begins, his voice hoarse from a long day on the road. "Where'd all that bravery go, huh?"

Sandor presses his lips against the curve of your shoulder before tracing a path of kisses up your neck. He ascends until he finds that particular, sensitive spot. His teeth graze the skin lightly, testing, before sinking in with a firm pressure.

A chuckle escapes your lips, your body leaning more into his touch.

The vibration of your laugh only encourages him to keep going. He sinks his teeth deeper, spit spilling from both sides of his mouth and trailing down your chest. A low, gravelly sound rumbles deep in his throat, like a beast snarling when another approaches to try and steal his freshly caught prey.

Soon, the teasing dissolves entirely, leaving you focused solely on him.

He releases just one of your wrists, bringing the other to his lips to kiss the sore skin.

It is a silent gesture, meaning more than any words ever could.

Your free hand finds its way around his neck, pulling him closer. Your fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, anchoring yourself.

His massive frame crowds you flat against the tree, leaving absolutely no space between you.

His presence is intoxicating - from the feeling of his calloused hands on your waist to his specific scent, a distinct tang of ale blending with the soft fragrance of the herbal soap you made.

Without warning, his mouth finds yours, kissing you fiercely with a hunger that feels impossible to satisfy.

He always kisses you like it is his last day on this cursed earth, making sure you feel all the unspoken things he is too proud, or perhaps too vulnerable, to ever say out loud.

His right hand slides from your waist down to your thigh, squeezing hard once before reaching for the area where you need him most.

The frantic rhythm of his touch makes you lose yourself, the abrasive bark behind you completely forgotten against the overwhelming sensation.

His movements grow wilder as he senses your moment is near. Sandor buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing over the mark he has just sealed onto your skin while whispering the kind of filthy words only he could come up with.

"Look at me," he commands.

You open your eyes in the dim light of the moon, finding his gaze filled with pure lust. He continues to move with precise, unyielding pressure, waiting - no, needing - to see the exact instant you let go.

When the release finally envelops your body, your hand instinctively locks tightly into his hair, pulling him even closer to you as you kiss him passionately.

He responds with a grunt, his unoccupied hand wrapping loosely around your neck, caressing the side of your throat.

As the aftershocks fade into a comfortable silence, Sandor presses his forehead to yours, his heavy hand sliding again to hold your hip.

"This is just the beginning," he whispers, voice thick with desire.

[selene131]

After dusk

Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

Summary: Beneath the blooming linden trees, he learns your body.

Tags/Warnings: NSFW, smut, established relationship, rough intimacy, biting, Sandor being Sandor

Word count: 1k

A/N: I can read the most descriptive, suggestive, and obscene smut ever... but the second I try to write it myself, I can't stop cringing. Still, I hope you enjoy it!

The dusk light bleeds onto the earth, slowly dripping onto the lush bed of grass.

Shades of purple and red reflect on the calm river's surface, intertwining to create a woven painting of the celestial dome.

The forest is quiet. Only the breeze passing through the leaves can be heard, softly caressing the ancient trees and carrying a faint floral scent through the air.

Somewhere in the heart of the woods, a muffled fire crackles, nearly spent. The once-scarlet pieces of wood now lightly flicker with a muted ember glow.

Beside it, personal belongings are scattered: a waterskin, some leftover food, damp clothes hanging from the tree branches, a sword, and a hunting knife.

The last ray of sunshine shyly filters through the blooming linden, catching the remaining droplets of water glistening on your skin from your quick dip. They glide down your body - from the curve of your neck and the line of your collarbone to your bare waist - where rough hands are holding you.

Night approaches with small steps, heralded by a sudden shift in the wind. The breeze is no longer gentle, but sharp and cold.

Your skin breaks out in goosebumps, but the chill doesn't last. His body crowds closer, forcing you to back away until the tree behind you stops your retreat. The bark presses against your bare back, its uneven, unforgiving pattern digging into your skin, mirroring the intensity of his touch.

He means no harm, and yet everything about his size and strength in this moment screams danger.

His scarred body molds against yours in a strange kind of perfection - coarse edges meeting soft outlines.

His right hand travels higher, resting just beneath your breast, deliberately stopping short of giving you what you crave, making your breath hitch. His left hand remains at your hip, holding you.

Your eyes meet his, boldly keeping eye contact, determined to prove that you aren't giving in just yet.

You lift a hand to the side of his face, tracing the harsh lines of his features with feather-light strokes. Your thumb moves agonizingly slowly over his dry lips.

A ghostly smirk touches the corner of his mouth before he catches both of your wrists in one of his hands, pinning them behind your back.

A surprised sigh escapes you, caught off guard by the sudden shift in control.

With his free hand, he reaches beneath your chin, tilting your head upward just enough to bare your throat to him.

His lips hover above your skin, his breath fanning across your collarbone as his grip around your wrists tightens slightly.

Not merciless, just a challenge.

"Tell me..." Sandor begins, his voice hoarse from a long day on the road. "Where'd all that bravery go, huh?"

Sandor presses his lips against the curve of your shoulder before tracing a path of kisses up your neck. He ascends until he finds that particular, sensitive spot. His teeth graze the skin lightly, testing, before sinking in with a firm pressure.

A chuckle escapes your lips, your body leaning more into his touch.

The vibration of your laugh only encourages him to keep going. He sinks his teeth deeper, spit spilling from both sides of his mouth and trailing down your chest. A low, gravelly sound rumbles deep in his throat, like a beast snarling when another approaches to try and steal his freshly caught prey.

Soon, the teasing dissolves entirely, leaving you focused solely on him.

He releases just one of your wrists, bringing the other to his lips to kiss the sore skin.

It is a silent gesture, meaning more than any words ever could.

Your free hand finds its way around his neck, pulling him closer. Your fingers dig into the hard muscle of his shoulders, anchoring yourself.

His massive frame crowds you flat against the tree, leaving absolutely no space between you.

His presence is intoxicating - from the feeling of his calloused hands on your waist to his specific scent, a distinct tang of ale blending with the soft fragrance of the herbal soap you made.

Without warning, his mouth finds yours, kissing you fiercely with a hunger that feels impossible to satisfy.

He always kisses you like it is his last day on this cursed earth, making sure you feel all the unspoken things he is too proud, or perhaps too vulnerable, to ever say out loud.

His right hand slides from your waist down to your thigh, squeezing hard once before reaching for the area where you need him most.

The frantic rhythm of his touch makes you lose yourself, the abrasive bark behind you completely forgotten against the overwhelming sensation.

His movements grow wilder as he senses your moment is near. Sandor buries his face in the crook of your neck, kissing over the mark he has just sealed onto your skin while whispering the kind of filthy words only he could come up with.

"Look at me," he commands.

You open your eyes in the dim light of the moon, finding his gaze filled with pure lust. He continues to move with precise, unyielding pressure, waiting - no, needing - to see the exact instant you let go.

When the release finally envelops your body, your hand instinctively locks tightly into his hair, pulling him even closer to you as you kiss him passionately.

He responds with a grunt, his unoccupied hand wrapping loosely around your neck, caressing the side of your throat.

As the aftershocks fade into a comfortable silence, Sandor presses his forehead to yours, his heavy hand sliding again to hold your hip.

"This is just the beginning," he whispers, voice thick with desire.

[selene131]

A/N: Small fic idea, let me know if anyone would be interested in reading this?

Aemond Targaryen x reader AU where, after Luke's death, a guilt-ridden Aemond flees on Vhagar to a remote island. He thinks it's abandoned, but the reader is the sole survivor of an attack that wiped out her community years ago.

She's been stuck there ever since, trapped by a paralyzing fear of the water.

They end up finding this deep understanding in each other because they both share the same heavy guilt. Just two broken people who know what it feels like to kill when they didn't want to.

[selene131]

Just Johnny

Johnny "Soap" MacTavish x fem!reader

Just thinking of Johnny on one of his days off, sitting on a beach in that old, forgotten park he keeps visiting because it's nice and quiet.

His sketchbook rests on his lap, a drawing halfway done, capturing the only other person in the park besides him.

The way the light cascades over your frame, your hair unbound and gently swaying in the breeze, and the concentrated look on your face as your finger follows the lines of your book.

He's frustrated that he can't quite make out your expression, desperate to capture it before the moment slips away.

He squints, trying to focus a little more on your features.

Your eyes lift from the page, your free hand reaching for the makeshift bookmark - a random piece of paper you found in your bag.

Your eyes meet.

He holds your gaze, watching as you rise from your seat, gathering your belongings into your small tote bag.

"Brilliant, Johnny... way to make a first impression," he murmurs to himself.

For sure, you think he's some kind of creep staring at women in public spaces.

But to his surprise, you begin walking toward him.

The distance between you grows smaller and smaller, and now he can make out the details he couldn't see from afar.

Johnny studies your face - the tiny mark only noticeable up close, the faint smile lines, and the small dimple forming as you're about to speak.

"You couldn't just ask, you know?" you break the silence, looking at him with a soft grin.

"Ask what?" he replies, genuinely confused.

"To be your model," you tease.

A pause.

He glances at the drawing, then back at you.

"You knew the whole time," Johnny says with a smile, shaking his head in disbelief.

"You're not very discreet," you reply, lowering yourself onto the bench beside him without a word, leaving a respectful distance between the two of you.

If only you knew that, in his line of work, those words could cost him everything.

But this isn't the field.

This is his time off.

Here, he just wants to be a simple man.

Obvious. Clumsy. Present.

For the next few minutes, the two of you simply talk, getting to know each other in the peaceful scenery, where no one dares disturb the tranquility of the moment.

Only the birds flit from one branch to another, filling the quiet with their lively songs.

Finally, you extend your hand toward him, introducing yourself.

He takes it in his, his grip firm yet polite.

"Call me S... Johnny," he replies, catching himself before his call sign slips from his lips.

It isn't that he cares if you know who he is.

But for this one afternoon...

He just wants to be Johnny.

Just Johnny.

[selene131]

A song in the dust

Cowboy!Sevika x Musician!reader

Cowboy Sevika sits in the corner of the bar, her chair pushed slightly away from the chaos surrounding her. Her hat rests low over her face, shielding her eyes from the harsh sunlight bleeding through the dirty windows.

A cigarette burns forgotten between her fingers, ash gathering on the dusty floor. The smell of cheap liquor mingles with that of horses, sweat, and perhaps a faint scent of something sweet entering the establishment.

She doesn’t bother to look at who has made their way in. She just wants to finish her business here and move on with her day.

A chair softly scrapes against the wooden surface, the sound lingering until it settles somewhere in the middle of the room.

Sevika takes a lazy drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke invade her lungs before slowly exhaling it past her chapped lips.

She puts out the burning end on the makeshift ashtray, made from a broken bowl - its residue staining the once cream-colored ceramic.

A melodious ring pulls her out of her thoughts. She slightly lifts her hat with her fingertips, just enough to watch what is happening.

And she sees you.

Standing in the center of this place, an old guitar resting on your lap as your fingers move knowingly across the reverberating strings.

You're a new face in this ancient town - a puzzle piece that doesn't fit in.

Everyone around you mocks you.

Laughing. Staring. Pointing.

Yet, you continue to play, doing exactly what you were paid for.

Sevika thinks the bar owner might have hired you to brighten this miserable town with your presence and skills.

She doesn’t know what brought you here, but she recognizes the look in your eyes - the same one carried by people searching for somewhere to disappear.

She brings two fingers between her lips, the tobacco from the cigarette still remaining on them, and sharply whistles.

Everyone stops, looking toward her assigned table, where no one dared to sit.

You gaze at her, and she reciprocates your gesture, holding eye contact for a moment before making one simple move: lifting her chin once, indicating for you to continue playing.

Your music begins again, and no one else is bold enough to interrupt you.

[selene131]

When the sun no longer blesses the earth with its warmth, and night decides to wrap the world in its dark mantle, Sandor rests against a tree, a good distance away from the burning fire.

In one hand, he holds a block of wood.

Just a simple piece - formless, practically weightless in his massive grasp.

In the other rests a carving knife, far too small compared to the size of his hand.

And yet, he begins to carve.

Wood shavings slowly gather at his feet.

Little by little, from nothingness, a familiar shape emerges.

A bird, its tiny wings outstretched toward the never-ending sky.

Sandor turns it over in the dim glow of the waning fire, soft shadows bathing the wooden sculpture.

He lets out a sigh before placing it somewhere safe.

Who knew the hands that could so easily take a life could also breathe one into a shapeless piece of timber?

[selene131]

When the sun no longer blesses the earth with its warmth, and night decides to wrap the world in its dark mantle, Sandor rests against a tree, a good distance away from the burning fire.

In one hand, he holds a block of wood.

Just a simple piece - formless, practically weightless in his massive grasp.

In the other rests a carving knife, far too small compared to the size of his hand.

And yet, he begins to carve.

Wood shavings slowly gather at his feet.

Little by little, from nothingness, a familiar shape emerges.

A bird, its tiny wings outstretched toward the never-ending sky.

Sandor turns it over in the dim glow of the waning fire, soft shadows bathing the wooden sculpture.

He lets out a sigh before placing it somewhere safe.

Who knew the hands that could so easily take a life could also breathe one into a shapeless piece of timber?

[selene131]

Summer rain

Simon Riley x fem!reader

The smile on your face was never this bright before. Your eyes crinkled with softness, the small lines of happiness beneath them gracing your features - silent witnesses of a fulfilled life.

Your neatly done hair was now unbound and untamed, sticking to your skin after the sudden rain.

Your clothes were damp, ruining the freshly ironed shirt you had planned to wear for so long.

The little makeup you bothered to apply was smeared - mascara running down your cheeks, that soft tinted color no longer on your lips.

The multicolored flower bouquet rested in your hand, slightly ruined after running to find shelter beneath a tree.

The rain was still pouring, veiling your figure and muffling your laughter as you didn’t even care that the hours you spent getting ready for this date were in vain.

But it didn’t matter.

All that mattered was that you were content by his side.

And all Simon could do was watch the scene from afar, regret and pain slowly enveloping his whole being.

He knew he couldn’t provide you with the life you truly deserved, not even if he tried his hardest.

You were patient with him.

Never demanding. Never rushing him. Never trying to fix him.

But after sleepless nights, he finally understood that he was not made for you.

To him, you were like the first ray of sunshine appearing from the grey clouds after a storm, slowly warming the cold earth.

Yet, he saw how that light began to dim year after year spent with him.

After that, like a ghost, he quietly disappeared from your life.

In the present, seeing you happy in the arms of another man, he knows it was the best decision he ever made.

[selene131]

Unseen no more X

Sandor Clegane x fem!reader

Tags/Warnings: mentions of past trauma, mild flashbacks, suggestive content, light cursing, teasing, domestic vibes, non-graphic intimacy

Word count: 1.4k words

A/N: After weeks of writer’s block, I am finally back with an update for this story. Thank you for your patience, and I hope you enjoy this chapter 🫶

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A blazing warmth lingers in the breeze of the first night of summer, harshly caressing the exposed skin with each passing moment.

Musical instruments play endlessly, accompanied by the laughter and voices of joyful people, clapping, shouting, and the ground reverberating from their ecstatic dance.

Roasted meat, sweets, ale, and red wine fill the long table placed in the middle of the village.

The children who were supposed to rest at that hour are playing and running, their laughter blending with the music and voices surrounding them.

At the center of it all, the great fire burns fiercely, its scarlet flames reaching toward the heavens above and scattering embers into the night.

Small fragments of ash swirl in the air, disappearing into the darkness, drifting towards the moon or gently tracing the scarred side of his face.

Sandor sits against a tree, a cup of wine resting in his hand, somewhere on the edge of the celebration.

Staying in-between.

Not intruding on the celebration, but not far enough to avoid observing what is happening around him.

His gaze shifts across the never-ending festivity, taking in every little detail, from the elderly women talking about how the summer festival has never changed, to the men getting drunk and challenging themselves to drink even more to see who can resist the longest. Finally, his attention settles on the figure dancing near the fire.

His eyes remain transfixed on the undulating silhouette.

Hair unbound, swaying in the zephyr, catching the incandescent glow of the flames. Body becoming one with the restless rhythm of the drums. The white dress flowing as the figure spins around the bonfire.

Not afraid of getting burned.

Not caring about the silent stares.

Just existing in the moment.

He's bewitched.

He has seen so many women throughout his tormented life, whether dressed or bare, peasant or noble.

All had the same look on their faces: pity, fear, or disgust. Even a combination of them all.

Yet, none of them stared at him with such boldness.

The red radiance glints in your eyes as you make eye contact with him for just a second. Irises filled with passion and wildness, and a small smirk gracing your features as you turn your back to him and continue dancing.

Sandor is motionless, not even knowing how to react. His cup is still full, the wine untouched.

His reflection in the dark ruby liquid mocks him, twisting his expression into something unfamiliar - a genuine smile appearing on the surface.

It couldn't be his true self smiling like a young man whose first love gave him the slightest attention.

Couldn't it?

His gaze lifts from the tarnished goblet, following your moving silhouette as you slowly make your way toward the edge of the fire.

For a moment, the flames become the only thing separating him from you, the crimson gleam enveloping you.

He catches only a fraction of your back before the shifting bodies and veil of light obscure you from him, leaving only a single detail behind.

The glimmer of your buttons.

Small pieces of silver metal reflecting the intensity of the burning wood, shining against the darkness like tiny fragments of a star.

Sandor chuckles quietly to himself.

Only mere hours ago, those same pieces of delicate steel rested beneath his fingertips as he fastened them for you.

"Isn't it beautiful?" you ask Sandor, watching yourself in the chipped, old mirror - the passing time had shown no mercy on it.

His looming figure sits right behind you, focusing on how the dress hugs your body, outlining your features with his gaze and taking in how the garment seems as though it was made for you.

"It's just a piece of fabric," he confesses in a falsely nonchalant manner, not doing a very good job at hiding how he truly feels about it.

"Stupid me for asking you such a question," you sarcastically complain.

Eyeing him in the mirror, a ghostly grin appears on your face as you realize how much effect this simple dress has on him.

"Now don't just sit there... help me with those buttons."

You turn just enough to look directly at him.

"I have a better idea," he says in a guttural voice, approaching you with measured steps.

His cold hand slides beneath the unfastened dress, caressing the soft skin of your waist. Gradually, it travels down to your hips, squeezing the flesh with a firm grip.

"Sandor fucking Clegane," you warn him once.

He slowly takes his hand off you, agonizingly slow, just to infuriate you more.

You try your best not to give him any reaction, as this is what he is chasing after. Just like a dog desperately trying to find a way for its master to give it attention.

And after all those failed attempts, he simply accepts his fate and silently whines.

With unhurried movements, he begins to fasten the line of buttons, starting from the end of your spine to your neck.

He observes your expression in the small mirror, seeing you smile to yourself.

"What humors you?" he questions, his breath fanning against the skin of your shoulder.

You make eye contact through the reflective surface.

"I just realized something..."

He closes his eyes for a moment, inhaling deeply as he prepares himself for another teasing remark.

"What?" he entertains you.

"That it's becoming a routine for you to help me dress rather than undress me," you add, the mischief present in your voice.

"Fucking woman. Don't tell me you have counted the times -"

"Maybe I did," you interrupt him.

"Of course you did, little fox," he finishes his sentence with a kiss to the exposed skin.

And with the last teasing words uttered, silence slowly embraces the room.

What becomes predominant is the slight scent of dried lavender, the sounds of the celebration outside and the fire cracking in the distance.

He moves with rigid caution, forcing the tiny metal buttons through the linen loops without tearing them.

In that moment, Sandor recalls what you told him about this day and its meaning.

At first, he thought these were useless and meaningless traditions.

Yet, when he saw how passionately you spoke about everything, something changed.

"It is called the Ash-Wake," he remembers you saying. "They light a fire to cast away the evil spirits and bad luck. A cleansing."

Back then, he let you continue speaking about what you had learned, seeing how that bright smile returned to your face after weeks of being miserable.

The dress you would wear belonged to the innkeeper's daughter, who had never gotten the chance to wear it to a celebration before her passing. Years had passed, and it remained carefully stored away, waiting for a moment that never came.

Seeing you prepare for the summer festival, the innkeeper's wife decided the dress deserved to be worn, to become part of a happy memory rather than remain untouched.

You told him that with a tremor in your voice, grateful for such a meaningful gift.

At the end of it all, you tell him something that remains with him.

"You don't have to come if you don't want to be there," you add gently, not wanting him to feel forced to witness the great fire, knowing very well what it represents to him.

He hadn't answered you then.

But in the present, he is here, watching you from the shadows, with Eira somewhere close.

The sound of footsteps on the dried grass, scorched by the torrid days, disrupts his thoughts.

You come towards him, your breath uneven from dancing, your hair untamed and sticking to your sweat-covered skin. The red powder accents you applied to your face are smeared, yet your gaze is still filled with life.

Without announcing yourself, you take the cup of wine from his hand, drinking it as if it were plain water.

It spills from both sides of your mouth, dripping onto the ground and almost staining the white dress you wear.

He takes the empty goblet back, watching the liquid seep down your hand and the corner of your lips.

He grunts in disapproval, his thumb reaching to clean your face, wiping the residue away.

"It also seems I have to make sure you are not a mess," he comments with amusement.

Taglist🌙: @brianna-merlim @babypeapoddd

If anyone else would like to be tagged in future updates, just let me know💖

[selene131]

A song in the dust

Cowboy!Sevika x Musician!reader

Next part

Cowboy Sevika sits in the corner of the bar, her chair pushed slightly away from the chaos surrounding her. Her hat rests low over her face, shielding her eyes from the harsh sunlight bleeding through the dirty windows.

A cigarette burns forgotten between her fingers, ash gathering on the dusty floor. The smell of cheap liquor mingles with that of horses, sweat, and perhaps a faint scent of something sweet entering the establishment.

She doesn’t bother to look at who has made their way in. She just wants to finish her business here and move on with her day.

A chair softly scrapes against the wooden surface, the sound lingering until it settles somewhere in the middle of the room.

Sevika takes a lazy drag from her cigarette, letting the smoke invade her lungs before slowly exhaling it past her chapped lips.

She puts out the burning end on the makeshift ashtray, made from a broken bowl - its residue staining the once cream-colored ceramic.

A melodious ring pulls her out of her thoughts. She slightly lifts her hat with her fingertips, just enough to watch what is happening.

And she sees you.

Standing in the center of this place, an old guitar resting on your lap as your fingers move knowingly across the reverberating strings.

You're a new face in this ancient town - a puzzle piece that doesn't fit in.

Everyone around you mocks you.

Laughing. Staring. Pointing.

Yet, you continue to play, doing exactly what you were paid for.

Sevika thinks the bar owner might have hired you to brighten this miserable town with your presence and skills.

She doesn’t know what brought you here, but she recognizes the look in your eyes - the same one carried by people searching for somewhere to disappear.

She brings two fingers between her lips, the tobacco from the cigarette still remaining on them, and sharply whistles.

Everyone stops, looking toward her assigned table, where no one dared to sit.

You gaze at her, and she reciprocates your gesture, holding eye contact for a moment before making one simple move: lifting her chin once, indicating for you to continue playing.

Your music begins again, and no one else is bold enough to interrupt you.

[pmamtraveller]

UNHELD — Lina Poluna, 2026, Oil on canvas