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independent RP Klaus Mikaelson written by DevilishHybrid : please read my verses carefully if you want to write; i do not follow explicit tvd / to canon. Klaus Mikaelson is currently AU.

Contains 18+ content and triggering scenes.

I’m an Adult and do not interact with MINORS OR PERSONAL BLOGS.

Klaus Mikaelson Prompts Verses

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The Vampire Diaries : Damon x Katherine

Word Count : 1500

Damon stood in the middle of the Salvatore crypt, the silence pressing in on him like a vice. The stone walls felt colder than usual, like the truth itself had seeped into the foundation and was mocking him with every echoing breath. "She said she'd wait," he muttered to no one, his voice hoarse, bitter. "She promised."

The tomb had been sealed for over a century, and he had spent years chasing a dream-her. Every drop of blood, every manipulation, every cruel smile he wore like armor had all been to get her back. Katherine Pierce. The woman who had turned him, kissed him with fire, whispered lies between sheets and seduction.

The woman who claimed to love him. But it was all unraveling now.

She hadn't been trapped. Not for long, at least. She had been free. Free to move, to run, to live. And she had never come back for him. Not once. Damon's fists clenched at his sides, veins standing out against pale skin, jaw tight as if holding back a scream that might never end.

Was I that easy to forget?" he asked the shadows. Was I just another plaything to her?"

He had rewritten their story in his mind a thousand times. Believed in it. Believed in her. The way she'd looked at him, the way her touch lingered longer on his skin than Stefan's it had to mean something. He had to mean something. But maybe that was the cruelest part. Maybe he was the fool, the one left waiting while she walked away without a second thought. Maybe she never loved him. Maybe she only ever wanted control, and he was too drunk on the idea of her to see it.

Damon let out a low, humorless laugh, running a hand through his hair. "Guess I'm the idiot after all." He turned away from the tomb, the ache in his chest turning to stone.

Whatever remained of the hope he once carried, he buried right then and there. If Katherine was out there, living her life as if he never existed then he would stop existing for her too. The wind stirred lazily through the cemetery, rustling dead leaves and carrying the heavy scent of decay and regret.

Damon Salvatore stood still, eyes fixed on the cold marble of a headstone he’d memorized long ago. Not for who it marked, but for what it represented his own sense of betrayal. For years, he’d believed Katherine Pierce, the woman who had stolen both his heart and his mortality, had been entombed beneath Mystic Falls. For years, he waited, suffered, hated, loved her from the shadows of delusion.

And now heels clicking against stone, hips swaying like a cat who knew just how sharp her claws were there she was.

“Damon,” Katherine purred, lips painted a cruel crimson, the color of blood and wicked memories. “Missed me much? Sorry I haven’t been around. Things to do. Things to kill. Idiots to run from.”

His body went rigid, the sound of her voice a lightning bolt straight to his spine. He didn’t need to turn around to know it was her. That voice, that mockery of affection laced with venom it had haunted his dreams for over a century.

He turned slowly, his face unreadable, save for the flicker of pain in his ocean-blue eyes. “Katherine,” he said, the name like ash in his mouth. “You have some nerve showing up here.”

She smirked, clearly pleased. “Oh, I have plenty of nerve. I also have style. Something Mystic Falls sorely lacks without me.”

Damon let out a bitter laugh, circling her slowly. “So, let me guess. Klaus finally stopped chasing your ass, and you thought it’d be fun to come stir up a little chaos?”

Katherine raised a brow. “Klaus is a mosquito. Annoying, hard to kill, and drawn to blood. But he’s far from my biggest problem these days.”

“That’s funny,” Damon said, jaw tightening. “Because last I checked, you were my biggest problem for about 145 years.”

She walked up to him, unafraid, her fingertips brushing his chest with the familiarity of an old sin. “Oh, Damon. Always so dramatic. I gave you eternity. You should be thanking me.”

He grabbed her wrist in a flash, eyes darkening. “You used me. Played me against my own brother. The Bulgarian Vampire as always convenient and selfish she did do a good deed and save Damon and Stefan only to give them a more darker life. Vanishing after running From Klaus but also taking up a life of debauchery and feasting. Savage and brutal lives ended blood flowed Katherine did not care. But poor Damon thought she was still in her tomb what a shock that must be to find that tomb empty.

Stranger Things : 500 words Drabble

Steve Harrington x Robin Buckley

Steve stared at the message on his phone for a long moment, thumb hovering over the screen. The words weren’t dramatic, not even long but he could hear the weight behind them, the kind that sat heavy in someone’s chest until it spilled out in the simplest way possible. I just really don’t want to be alone right now. He knew that feeling all too well.

Without hesitation, he typed back, then stopped himself. This wasn’t a moment for something casual, something halfhearted. He tossed the phone onto his bed, grabbed his jacket, then picked it back up. No, she needed to hear it, needed the reassurance that he meant every word.

“Yeah. Come over. The door’s always open.”

When she arrived, Steve was already waiting on the porch, hands shoved in his pockets against the evening chill. He gave her a smile soft, not the usual cocky grin he threw around to mask nerves. This one was real, quiet, almost a little sad.

“Hey,” he said, stepping aside to let her in. “You don’t even have to ask. You know that, right?”

She nodded, but the look on her face told him everything. She didn’t need a lecture or false cheer; she needed presence. So, Steve kept it simple. He led her inside, shutting the door gently behind them, and gestured toward the couch. “Sit. I’ll grab us something water, soda, chips, whatever. No arguments.”

By the time he came back, she was sitting with her knees tucked up, small and tired in a way that made something ache in his chest. Steve set the drinks down, dropped onto the couch beside her, and didn’t bother with space. He leaned close enough that their shoulders touched, a silent reminder she wasn’t alone anymore.

“You don’t have to explain,” he murmured after a beat. “Not unless you want to. Sometimes it’s enough just to… be here.”

She glanced at him, eyes shining with something unsaid, and Steve reached out without thinking, covering her hand with his. Warm, steady, grounding. He held it lightly, no pressure, just enough to remind her that someone was there.

“I get it,” he said, voice low. “I hate being alone too, especially when my head won’t shut up. So if you need someone to sit here all night, or watch dumb movies, or just… not talk at all, I’m your guy.”

For once, Steve didn’t feel the need to fill the silence. He let it settle, let it become a blanket instead of a weight. And when she finally leaned against him, head resting on his shoulder, he only smiled faintly, tightening his hold on her hand.

“See?” he whispered. “You’re not alone. Not while I’m around.”

Stranger Things :

Eleven x Mike Wheeler - She’s Not Glass Anymore

Max x Lucas - Wheels and Wobbles

Stranger Things : Jane Hopper x Mike Wheeler

Word Count : 500 ( Drabble )

Jane Hopper sat on the porch steps, knees tucked to her chest, as the woods whispered around her. The cicadas droned, the night heavy, and beside her, Mike Wheeler fidgeted with the hem of his sleeve.

“You’re quiet again,” he said, trying for a smile. It didn’t reach his eyes.

Jane glanced at him, then back to the trees. “I’ve been thinking.” Mike leaned forward, hope flickering. “About us?”

Her throat tightened, but she nodded. “Yes. About us.”

For so long, he had been her anchor. The first face of kindness she remembered, the boy who gave her a name and a place in a world she didn’t understand. But the more she grew, the more she realized that love real love wasn’t supposed to feel like a cage, even a gentle one.

“Mike,” she began, her voice soft but steady, “I think we should break up.”

The words cracked something open in him. “What? No. El you don’t mean that.”

“I do,” she said quickly, before he could keep building hope she couldn’t return. “You saved me. You taught me love. But I need… space. To know who I am when I’m not just yours.”

His face twisted, disbelief turning sharp. “So, after everything we went through, you’re just done?”

Her eyes burned, but she didn’t look away. “I’ll never forget what you gave me. But I can’t keep being only the girl you see me as. I need to be Jane. For me.”

He swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in his eyes. His hands clenched at his sides, like he could hold on to her with sheer force. “So, what? You don’t love me anymore?”

She hesitated, the truth heavier than the lie he wanted. “I love you,” she admitted, “but not like before. Not in the way you want me to.”

Silence stretched. The night pressed in around them. Finally, Mike stood, shoulders rigid, his voice small. “Fine.”

Jane stayed seated as he walked down the steps, his shadow swallowed by the trees. Her chest ached, but her lungs felt different lighter, freer.

Game of Thrones : Brienne of Tarth x Arya Stark

Title - Oath in the Rain :

The sky had been bruised all day, clouds rolling low and heavy as Brienne of Tarth pressed onward along the sodden roads. She had ridden through hamlets and trading towns, each one the same: faces of the hungry, whispers of war, the endless mutter of fear. Yet she bore them with steady stride, her mind fixed on a single oath one made to Lady Catelyn Stark, to find Arya and bring her home to Winterfell.

It was not an oath she would ever abandon, no matter how many leagues of mud lay before her, no matter how much blood the journey demanded.

By the time the rain began, it was less a drizzle and more a wall, sheets of water drumming down on her shoulders, soaking her cloak, matting her hair to her face. She squinted through the downpour and saw shapes ahead on the road. Shadows in the rain. Men.

Trouble.

Her hand fell to Oathkeeper’s hilt even before her mind finished the thought. The sword gleamed dull red in the dim light when she drew it, forged from ice itself, reforged by Lannister hands but bound to a Stark promise.

As she approached, the shapes resolved. Three men stood around a girl no older than twelve, her dress tattered, face streaked with mud and rain. The men were jeering, crowding close as the girl tried to twist away. Their laughter was coarse, ugly.

Brienne’s jaw set.

“Leave her be.” Her voice carried over the storm, sharp and iron-clad. She stepped forward, Oathkeeper raised, rain cascading from the steel. “If you want to rape someone, try me.”

The men turned, startled at first, then sneering when they saw her size. “Gods,” one spat, his teeth yellow. “It’s a bloody giant in skirts.”

“Not skirts,” another snickered. “Armor. Think she fancies herself a knight?”

“She’s got a pretty blade, though. Maybe we’ll take it from her… after.”

Their laughter rose again, but Brienne didn’t flinch. She met their eyes, one by one, her stance unyielding. The girl, shivering against the mud, tried to crawl backward, away from them all.

“You’ll go no further,” Brienne said, lifting Oathkeeper higher. “I won’t warn you again.”

The largest of the three men, bearded and broad, stepped forward with a cudgel in hand. “And what will you do, wench? Cut us down? There’s three of us and one of you.”

“Then I’ll have less to bury,” she replied.

The man roared and lunged, cudgel swinging. Brienne moved like a tempest, her blade flashing crimson in the storm. Oathkeeper cleaved through wood as though it were straw, splitting the cudgel in half. Before the man could recoil, her knee drove into his chest, sending him sprawling into the mud.

The others cursed and came at her together, one with a rusted sword, the other with a dagger. Brienne pivoted, parrying the sword’s strike with such force the rusted blade shuddered. Her riposte was clean and merciless a slash across the man’s arm, blood mingling with the rain.

The dagger-wielder tried to circle behind her, but Brienne spun, armor clattering, and brought her elbow crashing into his jaw. He staggered back, teeth flying into the mud.

“Still want to try me?” she asked, voice low and dangerous.

The one clutching his bleeding arm spat curses, rage in his eyes. “Bitch!” He rushed again, reckless, and Brienne met him with steel. Oathkeeper pierced through leather, through flesh, and the man collapsed into the rain, choking on the storm.

The last man, jaw broken and eyes wild, stared at her with fury and fear alike. He hesitated, then turned and fled down the road, disappearing into the sheets of rain.

Silence returned, broken only by the storm. Brienne lowered Oathkeeper, her chest heaving, mud spattered up her legs. She looked to the girl, who had pressed herself against the roadside ditch, wide-eyed and trembling.

“It’s all right,” Brienne said gently now, sheathing her sword. She crouched, her massive form folding awkwardly but with care. “They won’t trouble you again.”

The girl’s lips quivered. “Th-thank you, m’lady.”

“Not ‘lady.’” Brienne’s voice softened further, though the correction was firm. “I’m only Brienne. Where is your family?”

The girl shook her head. “Gone. Bandits came through our village. My mother told me to run. I… I don’t know where to go.”

Grief pressed like a weight in Brienne’s chest. How many times had she seen this already? How many children lost, scattered like leaves in war’s endless storm? She thought of Arya Stark, a girl just like this one wild, fierce, lost in a world that devoured the innocent.

She reached out a gauntleted hand. “Come. You cannot stay here. You’ll freeze, or worse.”

The girl hesitated, then placed her small, trembling hand into Brienne’s. Brienne helped her to her feet, steadying her.

“You’ve a strong grip,” Brienne noted softly. “That will serve you well. What’s your name?”

“Lina,” the girl whispered.

“Lina.” Brienne nodded. “You’ll ride with me until I can see you safely to a town where good people will take you in.”

The girl’s eyes brimmed with tears, but she nodded. Brienne lifted her onto her horse with surprising gentleness for one so large. Then she swung up behind her, reins steady in her grasp.

As they set off, the rain still poured, washing blood and mud alike into the earth. Brienne’s thoughts turned inward. Every road she walked seemed filled with the broken, the orphaned, the forgotten. Her oath bound her to Arya Stark, but she could not close her eyes to the others she found along the way.

Lady Catelyn had asked her to find one girl. Yet Brienne knew that keeping her vow meant more than that. It meant standing in the rain, blade bared, against every cruelty the world sought to inflict on the innocent.

It meant being a shield, even when the world mocked her for trying. She glanced down at Lina, who clutched her sodden cloak tightly, eyes closed in exhaustion. Brienne adjusted her hold on the reins and urged the horse forward, determination etched into every line of her face.

The road bent through the dripping trees, the rain easing to a mist that clung to the air like smoke. Brienne kept the horse at a steady pace, mindful of the girl before her. She was light, all bones and wiry muscle, sitting stiff in the saddle as though ready to leap away at any moment.

Find her daughters. Bring them home. The words had settled on Brienne’s shoulders like armor heavier than any steel. She had failed Lady Stark once before. She would not fail again.

But her vow remained. Arya Stark was alive. Somewhere. Brienne clung to that as if it were a prayer.

The girl shifted slightly, breaking her reverie. “You keep looking around,” she muttered.

Brienne glanced down. “The roads are not safe. Bandits, worse than the ones before. I must keep watch.”

“You think you can fight them all?” The girl’s tone carried more steel than fear, and Brienne noticed it noticed the spark. Not meek, this one. Not broken.

“If I must,” Brienne said simply. The girl fell silent, though her fingers tightened on the damp fabric of Brienne’s cloak.

They rode until twilight pooled beneath the trees. Brienne found a patch of high ground, half-sheltered by an outcrop of stone, and set about making a small fire. The girl sat close, legs drawn to her chest, watching every move. She reminded Brienne of a hawk sharp, alert, waiting to see if the world would betray her.

Brienne offered her bread, a small strip of dried meat. The girl accepted, though she ate slowly, as though measuring how much to trust even food.

“You’ve been alone a long time,” Brienne said quietly. It was not a question.

The girl’s eyes flicked up, gray and unblinking. “I can take care of myself.” Brienne studied her. The words were too quick, too practiced. A shield, not an answer. “I don’t doubt that,” Brienne replied, tearing a piece of bread for herself. “But no one should have to.” The girl didn’t answer. She stared into the fire, jaw set.

Brienne let silence settle. She had learned that pressing too hard often did more harm than good. The girl would speak when she was ready.

Still, she couldn’t help but think of Arya Stark. The little she knew painted a picture much like this one—wild, sharp, stubborn as iron. Brienne had once imagined a lost girl, frightened and helpless, desperate for saving. But now, she wondered if Arya would even allow herself to be saved at all.

The fire cracked. The girl’s face glowed orange in the flickering light, shadows carving hollows beneath her eyes. Something in her expression struck Brienne like a sword-edge something that tugged at memory. A look she had glimpsed once before, in the haunted eyes of Lady Catelyn, speaking of daughters stolen away.

The rain eased at dawn, leaving the forest dripping, its branches jeweled with water. Mist curled low across the earth, veiling the road ahead. Brienne rose first, shaking damp from her cloak and stamping out the fire’s embers. The girl stirred only when Brienne nudged her shoulder.

“Up. We’ve ground to cover.”

Arya blinked awake, groggy, her gray eyes sharpening the moment she remembered where she was. She pushed herself upright, quick as a blade snapping free. “I was awake,” she muttered. Brienne almost smiled. “Of course you were.”

They broke their fast with the last of the bread. Brienne gave the larger share to the girl. She tried to press it back, but Brienne’s steady hand refused. “Eat,” she said. “You’ll need the strength.” The girl obeyed, though reluctantly, chewing in silence.

When they set off, the world was quiet save for the clop of hooves and the drip of trees shedding rain. Brienne kept her eyes on the road, but her thoughts wandered. Lina. She told herself she should not think on it, should not cling to shadows. Yet each time she glanced at the girl before her, she saw Stark eyes staring back.

By midday they reached the next village, a scattering of sodden cottages clinging to the roadside. Chickens pecked in the mud, and a bent-backed woman hauled water from a well. When she caught sight of Brienne, she crossed herself quickly, muttering.

The sight was familiar. Brienne was used to stares, to whispers. Too tall. Too ugly. Not fit for armor. Once, it had bitten deep. Now, she bore it like a scar just another weight she carried.

She led the horse to the tavern, such as it was a sagging timber hall that smelled of wet straw. Inside, smoke hung thick. A handful of men drank stale ale, their gazes turning as Brienne entered, Oathkeeper slung at her hip, the girl close behind.

The room grew quieter.

“We’ll need food,” Brienne told the innkeep. “And hay for the horse.” The man eyed her, then the girl, then her sword. “Coin first.” Brienne laid down enough silver to silence him. He snatched it up without further word.

They took a corner table. Brienne kept her back to the wall, watching the room. The girl mimicked her posture without even knowing it, eyes sharp, weighing each man with suspicion.

“You notice everything,” Brienne said quietly. The girl shrugged. “That’s how you stay alive.” Brienne studied her. It was not the answer of a child. When food came stew and a heel of bread the girl tore into it hungrily. Brienne ate more slowly, though her eyes never left the room. Men drifted glances their way, but none dared more than that. Not with Oathkeeper gleaming in plain sight.

When the meal was done, Brienne leaned forward. “Tell me truthfully, Lina. Where will you go, when I leave you?” The girl stilled. Her fingers curled around the table’s edge.

“I don’t know,” she said flatly.

Brienne saw through it. The lie was thin, frayed at the edges. But she didn’t press. Not yet. “You are strong,” Brienne said instead. “But strength does not mean you must be alone.” They rode again by late afternoon. The sky had cleared to a pale wash, sunlight bleeding weakly through. The road bent north, and Brienne’s heart pulled with it. Northward toward Winterfell, toward the promise she had sworn.

The girl rode in silence for a long while, until at last she spoke, so low Brienne almost missed it. “ You talk like someone who’s lost.” Brienne’s grip on the reins faltered. She swallowed. “I’ve lost many things. But I still have my word. That remains.”

That night, as they camped on the edge of the wood, Brienne lay awake long after the girl had curled against the fire. The fire crackled low, throwing long, jagged shadows against the trees. Brienne sat sharpening Oathkeeper, each stroke slow and careful, though her eyes often drifted to the girl across the flames. Lina, she called herself. Lina, with the wolf-gray eyes and the iron in her voice.

The girl was restless tonight. She had been quiet all day, but now she paced the small ring of light, boots scuffing the damp earth. Her hand twitched toward a stick now and again, as though yearning for a sword that wasn’t there.

At last she stopped, staring at Brienne. “You keep looking at me like you know me,” she said bluntly. Brienne’s whetstone paused mid-stroke. She met the girl’s gaze, unflinching. “Perhaps I do.”

The girl frowned, jaw working. Her small shoulders rose and fell, as if she were deciding whether to leap or to hide. Then, in a voice flat but trembling at the edges, she said : “My name isn’t Lina.”

Brienne’s hand stilled completely. The fire hissed, spitting sparks into the dark. “I didn’t think so,” Brienne said softly. The girl lifted her chin, gray eyes burning. “It’s Arya. Arya Stark of Winterfell.”

The name struck like a hammer. Brienne felt it settle into her bones, heavy and certain, as though the whole world had gone still to bear witness. Brienne set Oathkeeper down gently, reverently, and bowed her head. “I am honored,” she said, voice hushed but fierce. “I swore an oath to your mother to find you and bring you home.”

Arya’s eyes narrowed. “Home?” The word cut sharp. “There is no home. My mother’s dead. My father’s dead. Winterfell burned.” Her voice rose with each word until it cracked. “Don’t talk to me about home.”Still, the vow burned in Brienne’s chest, heavier now than ever. She had found Arya Stark. She would not fail her.

“I swore to your mother,” Brienne said again, firm as steel. “And I will not break that oath. Whatever you choose to believe, I will keep you safe. Even if I must follow you into every shadow in the realm.”

Game of Thrones :

Arya Stark - The Girl with the Bow

Sandor - Held in the hound’s grip

Sandor & Sansa - The Hound and the Bird

Sandor & Arya - The Hound and the wolf

Brienne of Tarth - Oath in the Rain

Khal & Dany - A Khal without his Moon

The Vampire Diaries -

The Witcher : Gerald x Yennefer

Title - The Sorceress and the Witcher -

What surprised him was how stunning Yennefer looked. Not that he hadn’t seen her countless times before, not that he didn’t know her face by memory alone the sharpness of her cheekbones, the violet eyes that burned with secrets, the raven hair spilling like ink against pale skin.

No, what surprised him was that she still had the power to catch him off guard. He had thought himself immune by now, armored against the sight of her, against the chaos she always left in her wake.

And yet here he was, staring like a fool.

She entered the room with the same grace she always carried, the kind that bent the air around her, made lesser men shrink and lesser women glare. Her gown clung to her figure as if stitched from shadow and silk, her every step calculated but never stiff, like a predator choosing exactly when to show its teeth. The others in the hall noticed her, of course they did how could they not?—but it was Geralt whose chest tightened as though she had walked straight into him instead of across the floor.

Yennefer paused when she saw him. For a moment, he thought she would turn away, deliver a sharp word, remind him that whatever tether bound them had frayed too many times to matter. Instead, she arched one elegant brow and approached, her heels clicking softly against the stone floor.

“Geralt,” she said, her voice smooth, carrying that faint note of mockery he knew too well. “I didn’t expect to see you here.” He managed a grunt, low and rough. “Didn’t expect to be here.”

She smirked faintly. “That’s usually the way with you, isn’t it? Always stumbling into places you don’t belong.”

He didn’t answer, not immediately. He couldn’t. Because what he wanted to say was that she belonged everywhere, and he—he never belonged at all. But words had never come easily to him, not the ones that mattered.

Yennefer slid into the seat across from him, her perfume threading into the air between them. Lilac and gooseberries. It was a scent that could unmake him, one memory at a time. She studied him in silence for a moment, her violet eyes narrowing, dissecting him with the same precision she used on anyone foolish enough to stand in her way.

“You look tired,” she said at last, though there was no softness in the words. More like an accusation. Geralt huffed, reaching for the tankard before him. “That’s one way to put it.”

Yennefer’s gaze lingered. He wondered, not for the first time, if she saw through him in ways no spell could measure. She always had. And he hated her for it. And he loved her for it.

The hall around them was loud, alive with voices and clatter, but all he saw was her. The curve of her mouth as she sipped her wine, the tilt of her head when she regarded him as if weighing whether he was worth her time, the small, precise movements that turned sitting into a performance.

She was stunning. She was infuriating. She was Yennefer. “Why are you here?” she asked finally, her voice softer now, stripped of pretense.

Geralt’s jaw tightened. He could tell her it was a contract that had led him to the city, that he had followed rumor and coin, as he always did. He could tell her it was chance, nothing more. But the truth that he had hoped, perhaps without realizing, to see her again sat too heavily in his chest to name aloud.

“Work,” he said. “Always work.”

Her lips curved, but it wasn’t quite a smile. More a ghost of one. “And yet you sit here, staring at me as if I were the work you came for.” He met her gaze and didn’t look away. He couldn’t. “You’re more dangerous than most monsters.”

Her laugh was quiet, almost bitter, but it softened the edges of the moment. “And still you sit across from me.” Geralt felt the corners of his mouth twitch. Not quite a smile, but close. “Still.”

The silence between them stretched, heavy and charged, the kind that held history in its bones. Geralt thought of the times they had fought, the times they had kissed, the times they had torn each other apart only to find themselves drawn back again. A cycle as old as the first moment he had seen her.

Finally, Yennefer set her glass down, her fingers brushing the rim. “You’ll always be stubborn, won’t you?” Geralt tilted his head, the faintest hint of weariness in his voice. “Takes one to know one.”

Her eyes glimmered then, something unspoken moving behind them longing, perhaps, or regret, or a shard of both. And for a brief, fragile moment, Geralt allowed himself to believe that no matter how far apart they strayed, the world would always conspire to bring them back into the same orbit.

What surprised him was not that Yennefer was stunning. What surprised him was that after all this time, after all the blood and silence and distance, she could still undo him with nothing more than a glance.

And the worst of it the best of it was that he didn’t want that power taken away. Yennefer’s gaze lingered on him longer than he expected. For a woman so practiced at indifference, she seemed unwilling to let the silence collapse between them. Geralt knew better than to mistake it for weakness. If she stayed, it was because she wanted to.

“Do you ever grow tired of it?” she asked suddenly, her tone sharper than the softness of the question. “The Path. The killing. The endless wandering.” Geralt met her eyes. “It’s what I was made for.” “Not what I asked.”

He paused, the words weighing heavier than the tankard in his hand. He had no good answer. Witchers didn’t dwell on what-ifs; they survived, they moved forward. Yet with her, the questions always dug deeper, always left him exposed.

“Sometimes,” he admitted finally. His voice was rough, like gravel. “Sometimes I wish it ended differently.”

A flicker crossed her face something fragile, quickly buried beneath her usual control. She leaned back, as though distance would shield her. “Careful, witcher. Regret doesn’t suit you.”

He almost smiled at that. Almost. “Neither does pretending.”

For a heartbeat, it felt as though the years between them had collapsed, as though they were back in those rare, fleeting moments when the world allowed them to want more than survival.

Yennefer rose gracefully, her hand brushing the table’s edge. “You’ll always be stubborn,” she said again, her voice quieter now, touched by something he couldn’t name.

Geralt watched her, knowing he should let her walk away. But his chest ached with the truth he couldn’t voice: she would always be stunning, always be dangerous, and always be the one thing he could never truly leave behind.

And perhaps, he thought, she knew it too. Geralt rose as she turned, his hand hovering at his side as though reaching for something he’d never dare to grasp. Yennefer paused at the doorway, the lamplight tracing her silhouette, sharp and untouchable. She didn’t look back, but her voice carried, soft and deliberate.

“You always follow, Geralt. Even when you shouldn’t.”

He said nothing. The words struck deeper than any blade. And yet, when she stepped into the night, he found himself moving after her, boots echoing on stone. Because she was right he would always follow. No matter the cost, no matter the ending.

The Witcher : Gerald x Yennefer

Title - The Silence Between Blades :

The night was deep, the kind of silence that pressed down on the land until even the trees seemed to breathe slower. Geralt of Rivia sat by the dying fire, sharpening the edge of his silver sword with slow, measured strokes. Sparks flared briefly as steel kissed stone, but they died just as quickly, swallowed by the endless dark.

He preferred it that way. Silence. Darkness. They reminded him of the road, of the world as it truly was uncaring, indifferent, brutal in its honesty.

Still, the quiet was a dangerous thing. Too much of it and his mind began to wander. He thought of Kaer Morhen, its stones colder each winter, its halls emptier. He thought of Vesemir’s tired smile, Lambert’s bitter wit, Eskel’s steady patience. He thought of Yennefer, of violet eyes and the sharpness of her voice that lingered long after she had gone.

Geralt had never been one for dwelling, but tonight, with no monster to slay and no coin to chase, memories crept like wolves circling the edges of campfire light.

A rustle carried from the treeline. Instantly, his hand dropped the whetstone, fingers curling around the hilt of his blade. He didn’t rise didn’t need to. His witcher’s senses stretched outward, pulling threads from the night. Heartbeats. Too quick for deer. Too uneven for wolves. Not one creature, but several. He breathed through his nose, catching the faintest trace of sweat and steel.

Bandits, then. They thought themselves clever, circling him in the dark. He almost pitied them. Almost.

The first rushed him from behind, clumsy in his attempt to be silent. Geralt pivoted, drawing steel in a single, fluid motion. The blade whistled through the air and connected with a crunch. A scream tore through the night before it was cut short, body crumpling to the ground.

The others hesitated. Fear hung thick between the trees now, their courage rattled. But coin made desperate men foolish, and desperation drove them forward.

They came in pairs this time, steel flashing. Geralt met them without rising, sword arm a blur of precision. Parry, riposte, slash the rhythm was as familiar as breathing. One fell with his throat open, another with his ribs caved by the hilt. The firelight caught the blood as it sprayed, painting the grass in crimson arcs.

When the last man stood trembling before him, Geralt finally rose.

“Please,” the bandit stammered, sword shaking in his grip. “I—I don’t want to die.”

Geralt studied him, pale hair falling across his scarred face. The boy he was barely more than that had terror in his eyes, the kind of terror that stripped a man down to nothing but bone and regret.

“You should’ve thought of that before you drew steel,” Geralt said, voice low, flat as stone.

The boy dropped his weapon. Fell to his knees. “I’ve got a sister. Sick. No coin for the healer. I swear, I didn’t want this. They made me.”

Geralt’s jaw tightened. Lies were easy to hear. Desperation was easier. He could end it now quick, merciful. Or he could turn away, leave the boy to the weight of his choices. Both roads felt like the same cruelty.

For a long moment, silence stretched between them, broken only by the crackle of the dying fire. Finally, Geralt sheathed his sword.

“Go,” he said. “But don’t let me see you again.” The boy scrambled up, wide-eyed with relief, and vanished into the trees like a shadow too thin to hold its shape.

Geralt sat again, staring into the embers. He had killed men tonight, same as always. He had spared one, though he knew mercy often returned as a blade in the back. Still, something inside him something tired, heavy couldn’t bring itself to end another life that begged so loudly to keep breathing.

His hand reached for the flask at his belt. He drank, the burn of alcohol settling against the quiet ache inside his chest. The Path was long, endless, and lonely. Sometimes the monsters were human. Sometimes they were worse.

But tonight, Geralt sat beneath the stars, silver sword by his side, and let the silence press in once more. It was heavy, but it was his. And he bore it as only a witcher could.

The forest around him was quiet now, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant call of a night bird. The embers glowed weakly, casting flickering shadows that danced across his face, tracing every scar, every line that the Path had etched into him. He exhaled slowly, tasting smoke and cold air, feeling the ache in his shoulders that came from long years of carrying steel and the weight of choice.

Some nights, Geralt thought, it was easier to kill the monsters. They did not speak. They did not beg. They did not wear fear like a cloak around their hearts. But men… men carried guilt, love, desperation. They bled with it, and sometimes it stuck to you.

He glanced at the spot where the boy had vanished into the woods, still shaking, still alive. Geralt did not trust that mercy always stayed safe, but tonight he had made a choice. Perhaps it would matter. Perhaps it would not. He did not allow himself to hope either way. Hope was a luxury, one even a witcher could not afford.

Roach shifted nearby, snorting softly. The mare’s presence grounded him, reminded him that some things existed beyond death and bloodshed. He ran a hand along her neck, feeling the warmth beneath the coat, and for a brief moment, the Path seemed less endless, less solitary.

Rising, Geralt shouldered his pack and retrieved his swords. Steel for men, silver for monsters though tonight the line had blurred. The fire was nearly gone, the night pressing close, and he felt the familiar tug of the road ahead. There would be another village, another contract, another monster lurking in the shadows. And as always, he would go. He had no choice but to move forward.

Mounting Roach, he cast a last glance at the dying embers. The fire would die completely soon, leaving only ash. That was the way of things everything burned, everything passed, and only the Path remained.

He nudged Roach forward, the mare stepping lightly over roots and stones, the trail winding through the forest like a vein of shadow. Geralt’s medallion vibrated faintly, a reminder that the world was alive, watching, waiting. Somewhere out there, danger waited. Always. But he had faced it before, and he would again.

The night air was sharp, biting at his cheeks, and the first hints of dawn colored the horizon in pale gray. He welcomed it, as he welcomed every new day. The Path was long, and it would never end, but it was his alone to walk.

And he walked it, as he always had, alone but not broken, carrying the weight of his choices and the faint, stubborn ember of mercy that refused to die.

Game of Thrones : Sandor x Arya Stark

Title - The Girl with the Bow :

The snow muffled most things in the Wolfswood wind through pine, the distant crack of ice on the White Knife but not footsteps.

Never footsteps.

Arya had learned to listen for them when she was small, half-buried under her father’s cloak during hunts. She’d learned to listen harder after she’d run from King’s Landing, when every footfall might belong to someone who wanted her dead. Now, years later, she still heard them, long before she saw the shapes they belonged to.

She didn’t glance over her shoulder when the sound reached her light, but too careless to be a wild animal. Her fingers kept working the bowstring, her breath even. The old yew bow creaked softly in her grip.

“You’re going to have to learn to be a lot quieter than that if you want to sneak up on me,” she said, not turning. Her voice carried just enough wryness to mask the sharp edge beneath.

The footsteps paused. A shadow shifted between the trees.

She nocked the arrow, keeping her eyes fixed on the target she’d been aiming at before the interruption an old, frost-hardened knot in a pine trunk. She loosed. The arrow thunked deep into the wood, the shaft quivering.

“I wasn’t trying to sneak,” came the reply. Male. Rougher than a boy’s, but not old.

“That’s worse,” Arya said, finally lowering the bow. She turned her head enough to see him broad shoulders under a patched cloak, dark hair curling damp from the snow. He looked like he hadn’t slept much, though that was hardly unusual for anyone these days.

He stepped closer, boots crunching over the crusted snow. “Thought you might want to know there’s smoke rising east of here. Not far. Might be a village. Or what’s left of one.”

Arya’s grip on the bow tightened. “Or raiders,” she said. “Could be.”

They both knew the truth could be anything. Out here, people burned things for all sorts of reasons, and none of them were good.

She pulled the arrow from the pine with a sharp twist, slipping it back into her quiver. “I’ll take a look.”

“You don’t have to go alone.” Arya’s mouth quirked, though it wasn’t quite a smile. “I’m better alone.”

He didn’t argue, but his eyes followed her as she started toward the east. She moved light, her boots barely whispering over the snow, the way Syrio had taught her long ago. Behind her, his heavier steps began again.

She didn’t tell him to stop following.

The smoke grew thicker the closer they got, curling black against the pale sky. It smelled of burned wood, but there was something else underneath something she recognized from too many nights in the Riverlands. Charred meat.

When they broke through the treeline, the world opened to a hollow that had once been a hamlet. A dozen huts, roofs collapsed under flame. A cart half-tipped into a ditch, its wheels scorched. And bodies some curled as if still shielding their faces, others sprawled where they’d fallen.

Her bow stayed in her hand, arrow ready. She stepped forward slowly, her breath visible in the cold air.

“Wildlings?” he asked behind her.

“No.” Her eyes tracked the cuts, the blackened edges of wounds. “Steel. And horses.”

She moved among the bodies without flinching. She’d seen worse. She’d done worse. But still, her chest felt tight. There was a girl here no older than she’d been when she’d first fled home. Hair burned away, one hand still clutched around a splinter of wood as if it had been a weapon.

Arya crouched, prying the wood from the girl’s fingers. It was part of a broom handle, shaved to a crude point. Not much, but it meant she’d fought. Arya set it back beside her.

“They didn’t take anything,” the man said, scanning the wreckage. “Just killed and left.”

Arya straightened, eyes on the horizon. “They took something.”

“What?”

She didn’t answer. She could feel it the same way she’d always known when someone was hunting her. Whoever had done this was still moving, still close. And the silence in the air wasn’t the kind that came after a storm it was the kind that came before.

She strung her bow again, scanning the tree line. Her pulse was steady. “You should head back,” she told him. “And leave you here?”

She looked at him over her shoulder, her gaze flat and cold. “You heard me from far away before. What makes you think I can’t hear them?”

He frowned, as if he wanted to argue, but stopped. “You’re going after them.”

Arya didn’t bother answering. She stepped into the shadow of the woods again, every muscle coiled, senses stretched thin. The footsteps she’d heard earlier had been careless. The ones she would hear next wouldn’t be.

Somewhere ahead, there would be steel. There would be faces to match the smoke and the bodies. And when she found them, she would be quieter than the snow.

• Each summary has a clear emotional or thematic focus (vengeance, longing, seduction, family, power, regret).

• They’re short scene concepts that can be expanded into ~500-words : 1000 words.

• if you have any requests feel free to send me a message.

1. The Crown and the Coffin – Klaus reflects on his rule over New Orleans, realizing that power and fear have left him isolated, haunted by the people he’s lost and the blood he’s spilled.

2. Soft As the Storm – A woman’s unshaken warmth and laughter disarm Klaus, drawing out a rare, fleeting smile despite his instinct to keep others at a distance.

3. I Warned You – Klaus stands in a storm over a burning house, watching an enemy’s empire collapse, knowing he’s just destroyed another life in the name of family.

4. The Art of Patience – Sitting alone in an art studio, Klaus paints a portrait of a woman he hasn’t seen in decades, each brushstroke an act of longing and control.

5. A Lesson in Fear – Klaus traps a careless young vampire in a dimly lit alley, teaching him exactly why you never cross the Original Hybrid.

6. The Wolf at the Door – Klaus appears uninvited at a witch’s home, a smirk on his lips and a demand she can’t refuse.

7. Thorns and Promises – Klaus gives a rose to a woman he loves, the thorns pricking both their hands, a reminder that beauty always draws blood.

8. The Predator’s Pause – Klaus halts mid-hunt, savoring the heartbeat of his prey before the kill, relishing the anticipation as much as the act.

9. Unfinished Business – A letter sits unopened on Klaus’s desk, sent decades ago by someone he swore he’d forgotten. He hasn’t.

Game of Thrones : Sandor Clegane x Sansa Stark

Title - The hound and the bird :

Sansa Stark never saw the poison. It nestled inside sweetness, laced between crumbling sugar and zest like betrayal in silk. Lemon cakes, golden and warm her childhood favorite, sent up to her chambers in a delicate silver tray by a Lannister hand wearing a smile too polished to trust. She had not touched them yet.

The scent curled in the air, citrus and honey, almost enough to make her forget where she was. Almost.

She stood by the open window instead, hands clasped before her like a lady should, watching the Red Keep burn gold beneath the sunset. King's Landing shimmered in heat and cruelty, and she was beginning to understand that in this city, kindness was often the first mask of the blade.

Then came the knock. It wasn't a servant's tap, or a whisper of knuckles asking permission. It was a threat.

A warning.

The door creaked open, slow and cautious. She turned, heartbeat skipping, expecting a maid or another Lannister guard come to remind her she was still their pretty little bird in a golden cage.

But it was him. Sandor Clegane filled the doorframe like war itself broad, scarred, and grim, his eyes cutting through shadow and candlelight.

"Supper came late," he growled. "Too late." Sansa blinked, stepping back instinctively. "It was just lemon cakes" "I saw who brought them."

He crossed the room in two strides, faster than his bulk should've allowed. With a sweep of his arm, he knocked the tray from the table. The cakes scattered like coins, rolling across stone and spilling crumbs.

"You're mad!" she gasped. "Why"

"Lannister gold buys many things," Sandor snarled.

"But not silence. Not mine." He bent and plucked a crushed piece from the floor, holding it to his nose. The frown deepened.

"They didn't think l'd notice. Didn't think you'd be missed if you" "If I what?" she whispered. "If you dropped dead in your damn bed," he snapped. Silence coiled tight between them.

It should have felt like a threat. But it didn't. Not from him. He never called her sweet. Never lied. Never smiled. But he was always there. And now... he was shaking.

"They want me dead?" Her voice trembled despite her best efforts. Sandor looked at her then not like a lord to a lady, not like a dog to a leash but as a man who'd seen too much and still chose to stand in front of the fire for her.

"I saw Ser Meryn talking to one of the cooks. Too low to be chance. I made the bastard talk. A few teeth lighter now." Sansa felt the nausea rise, unbidden. Not from his violence. From the truth. It wasn't the first time someone wanted her dead. But it was the first time someone warned her. "I don't understand," she murmured. "They could've had me killed before. Why now?"

"Because you're more dangerous alive. You've got eyes. You've got memories. You've got a name.

Sandor's jaw clenched.

"And because your brother wins battles. Because your mother lives. Because even caged birds might sing the wrong song one day." Sansa shivered.

Her fingers brushed the edge of the table where the cakes once sat. The thought of how close she'd come sickened her more than the idea of poison ever could.

She hadn't trusted it, not really, not deep down. But she'd wanted to. She'd wanted something soft in her day, something that reminded her of Winterfell.

Of home. Sandor moved to the door, then paused.

"You can't stay here." Her breath caught. "Where would I go?"

He didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on the tray, then on her. "There are tunnels. Hidden ones. I know them."

"I can't just disappear," she whispered. "I'm watched.

I'm always". "I'm not asking," he interrupted, voice low, rough.

"Next time it won't be cakes." Something in her shifted.

He was rough. Coarse. Unkind in speech, unpredictable in presence. But he'd protected her before from Joffrey's cruelty, from the mob in Flea Bottom, from Meryn Trant's fists.

And now from death itself. Her voice was small when she finally asked, "Why do you care what happens to me?" Sandor stared at her. For a moment, she thought he might laugh. Or curse. But he only said:

"Because I remember the look in your eyes the day your father died. And I'm sick of seeing good people bleed in this city." He turned his back before she could answer, before her heart could fold inward on itself again.

"We leave tonight," he said. "Before the moon sets.

Bring nothing Lannister." And just like that, he was gone. When the hour came, and the torches outside her door grew still, Sansa moved.

She wore no jewels, carried no coin, and left the lemon cakes where they lay crumbled offerings to the gods of death that did not claim her.

Sandor waited in the darkened corridor, cloak pulled low, sword at his back. He said nothing when he saw her As his hand brushed her shoulder, guiding her down twisting halls and forgotten stairwells, through shadows and stone. She didn't ask how he knew the way. He'd lived in shadow his whole life. He was shadow.

The air grew damp as they descended. No one saw them leave. No guards. No gold cloaks. Not even a rat dared scurry past them.

Only when they reached the tunnel mouth a black maw beneath the city walls did Sandor pause.

"If you go back, you die."

"I know," Sansa said. He looked at her truly looked and something softened in his ruined face. The Hound's hand, calloused and brutal, twitched at his side like it wanted to reach for her but didn't know how.

In the low torchlight, the torch he'd stolen from some guard's post, his shadow stretched long behind him.

Hers, too. The two of them, misshapen and running together against the damp stone walls, already ghosts in this city.

"Stay close," he muttered. "These tunnels twist. One wrong step and you'll end up in the black cells... or worse."

She followed without a word, boots silent against the uneven floor. Her skirts brushed against puddles, the hem drinking filth, but she didn't care. Not anymore.

She had stopped carina about fine silk and clean hands the day they beheaded her father. Sandor knew it.

The silence between them grew thick, filled with unspoken things. Until finally, after too many minutes in the dark, she whispered: "Was it Joffrey?" Sandor didn't answer at first. Then, "Wouldn't be surprised."

They emerged into another passage, this one narrower, carved almost perfectly into the bedrock. The way out.

She could feel it in her lungs the air here was sharper, tinged with salt and distant wind. " I just want you to know I'm not a hero, And I'm not here to save your pretty skin for the sake of honor or any of that other fool's talk." Sansa nodded softly, as she agreed. " I know."

"Where does it lead?" she asked. "To the river," he said.

"Blackwater Rush. There's a boat waiting. Paid the man enough gold to sail to the Sisters and keep quiet about it."

Come with me" Don't let me go alone!" he pulled away.

"Go," he said. "Before I change my mind."