konigofmyheart13

Latest Posts by konigofmyheart13

I posted this stuff on my Twitter. It flopped so hard like shit

And to you, my favorite middle aged male character, I bestow upon thee the highest of honors: AGDAB (assigned girl dad at birth)

How about...

Sandor, or anyone of your choosing, enjoying his breakfast in bed; already warm and ready and right next to him. Of course, breakfast in bed really means a heavy arm across your stomach and his hot mouth on your sticky cunny, licking into your heat and forcing you to cum over and over- but he's as thankful that you're under him and squirming as he'd be if you'd made him a full course meal lmfao

As always,

-🐏non

oh i ate this UP. (pun intended)

table of contents; oral sex, face-sitting (i changed it cause i’m a slag), implied cum eating (he ate it all up).

it’s essential that a man of sandor’s magnitude breaks his fast before a days work. it takes a strong man to bear such armour all day every day. he needs a good, nourishing meal to last him until he returns home in the evenings.

“fuckin’ hells, woman.” he wrenches you back down onto his face. “stop movin’.”

his irritation is muffled by the weight of your thighs, his hands hooked around them. goosebumps ripple over your skin when his tongue lathers you again, knuckles whitening as you cling to the headboard. “gods, sandor— i’m going to suffocate you. . .”

“death by cunt.” he mutters against your engorged slit, ravishing you like a man starved. “guess i’m dying a happy man, then.”

he presses you against his face, inhaling like he’s coming up for air. hot embarrassment stains your skin, but arousal soon replaces the shame when the tip of his nose — crooked from so many breaks — bumps against your clit, his tongue swirling at your entrance.

your hips stammer, the fleshy hood of your mound catching his nose’s wide bridge. you both groan and his fingers curl into you tighter, tongue delving hungrily. then he retracts it, dragging the wet muscle backwards to slot between your swollen lips and toward your pearly bead of nerves.

his dark eyes flit up, wilted and languid. he’s been dining on you for some time; lapping at you and slurping from you and swallowing every drop. “look at me,” he orders, gruff and slightly slurred. you might be the only thing he drinks from more often than tankards.

with a breathless, barely-conscious moan, you cast your foggy gaze downward. your hands drop from the headboard to fist at his hair, his mouth pursing around your little bud as soon as your eyes meet.

you jolt against his face, the velcro roughness of his beard scratching at your slick. he alternates between suckling and pinching your clit to licking his way down the crevice of your folds and into your puckered little hole.

a man can soon grow sick of steak pie and venison casserole, but no man could ever sicken at the chance to eat cunt.

and to yours sandor clegane has certainly succumbed. maybe he’s running a little late, but no matter. a man can grow sick of the king, too. and as big a cunt the king may be, he doesn’t taste near as sweet as yours.

you mewl, rising on your knees when it all gets a little much.

“sit down.” he growls again, forcing you flush against his tongue. “and i didn’t tell you to look away.”

you didn’t realise your eyes had closed, too consumed by his mouth and its hunger. you drift in and out of a daze — eyes watering and stomach contracting. everything tingles, the room is stuffy, your limbs don’t feel like they’re part of you.

he’ll have you cum another four, maybe five times before he’s satisfied his appetite, leaving for work with your scent on his breath. and you’ll be just as he left you, ready to serve him supper.

tripped and fell, accidentally opened photoshop on the way down and somehow this came out...for no reason...

I have another sandor thought.....

ok this is kind of based off of your little lion fic—so you're a lannister reader with SUPER long silvery blonde hair and it's basically long enough to wrap around your fist twice (can you see where im going with this) and youve managed to convince your annoying twin joffrey to hand the hound over for a day to 'accompany' her instead of her regular guard

so ur being SUPER annoying and chatty and constantly asking questions so he HAS to answer and u start whining if he doesnt (double ended sword for him really) — so obviously he has to shut you up somehow.......

table of contents; age gap, very light knife play, implied knife kink, blood eating cause that’s a thing now.

“i won’t be in need of your service today, ser.” you say as you open your chamber door.

your bodyguard, who was waiting for you at his usual post, casts you a confused glance through the slit of his helm. “princess?”

“don’t worry, you can wait here and guard my door.” you smile and bat your wispy blonde lashes up at him, caressing the proud gold of his gauntlet with a dainty finger.

“but, princess, i’ve been sworn to protect you—!” he calls after your retreating frame.

“you can protect me by preventing any monsters from sneaking into my chambers and hiding beneath my bed!” you call back as you disappear down the hall and towards the winding stairway.

upon arriving at the throne room, you find yourself encroaching on what seems to be a rather important discussion between your brother, mother and grandfather. the ringing of your kitten heels against the marblestone floor draws their attention, and your brother groans as he sinks back into his cast iron chair.

“what do you want?” he asks, already peeved by your presence and you’ve been in the room barely a minute.

“and why are you alone?” your mother adds, taking note of your shield’s absence.

“my bodyguard has taken ill, darling brother.” you say, sweetly. at his left stands sandor clegane, his hand rested permanently over the hilt of his sword.

joffrey leans forward, fingers drumming impatiently. “ill? what do you mean ill?”

you huff and take to the three large steps until you’re standing before him. “i mean he’s not well. i don’t think i can make it much clearer.”

“why weren’t we made aware? i could have organised a member of the kingsguard to take his place in the meantime.” your grandfather eyes you suspiciously, regarding you with his usual dry, monotone voice.

“a member of my kingsguard? i think not.” joffrey scoffs and plops his chin into the cup of his palm. “i’m sure there are some men i can spare for the day, go on to the barracks and take your pick.” and he waves you off with a dismissive hand.

“absolutely not.” your mother interjects, glaring over at your twin who shoots her the same leering stare in return. “i will not have her wondering around down there unescorted.”

your brother scoffs and rolls his eyes. “oh please, she’s the king’s sister, they wouldn’t dare—”

“the queen regent is quite right, your grace.” tywin interrupts, his hands behind his back and head held high. “i’m sure you can bear to part from ser meryn until the princess’ guard has returned to full health.” your grandfather eyes you again, unconvinced, and you swallow. he’s always seen straight through you. he’s the only one you can’t fool.

joffrey chews at his lip for a moment, then flops back into a lazy, disinterested recline. “as you will. ser meryn, keep my sister in check, and as far away from me as you can.”

“no, i don’t want ser meryn.” you decline, folding your arms. “i’m a little insulted that you’d leave me alone with a man who takes pleasure in beating little girls, if i may say.”

“ser meryn, if you lay a hand on my sister, your head will be the latest addition to my collection.” then joffrey turns back to you. “happy?”

trant nods once, but looks to you with that same repulsive hunger. you shiver. “no.”

your brother looks as though he’s aged ten years since the debate began and he looks at you with a mixture of frustration and boredom. “oh, spare me. i don’t have time for your fretful protests today.”

“i want the hound.” you tell him, jutting your weight onto one leg as you tap your foot. “if you can survive without your dog for a few hours, that is.”

something shifts in his gaze. questioning his capabilities has always worked when it comes to getting what you want from him. a nice bruise to the ego, preferably with an audience, ought to do it.

your grandfather appears amused, maybe even proud, and watches his grandson carefully.

“fine,” your brother agrees after a beat of awkward silence. “but don’t come crying to me when his ugly face haunts your nightmares. dog, see to my bothersome sister and ensure she does not trouble me again today.”

sandor bows his head, then steps from his post without a word, following you as you make your leave.

“best behaviour, princess.” tywin tells you, knowingly.

“of course, dearest grandfather!” you grin at them over your shoulder, triumphant, and top-off your success with a victorious wave.

your brother mumbles something under his breath, earning a sharp word from your mother, and you chuckle to yourself as you approach the large doors.

“where to, princess?” sandor asks, low and unimpressed.

“the gardens,” you beam, twirling to face him. “let’s promenade.”

the sun is unforgiving to your skin as you walk, and you fan yourself with your hand, huffing out a disgruntled breath every so often. “gods, it’s roasting.”

sandor looks you up and down, unimpressed. at least you’re dressed weather-appropriately. he’s practically boiling alive within the confinements of his armour. “perhaps, we should go inside then, princess.”

“oh goodness, no. it’s far too nice outside!” you say with that pouty smile of yours.

“you were just whingeing about being too hot.” he grumbles as he trails behind you, death-staring any passerby who dares to glance in your general direction.

“it’s bearable.” you shrug, wafting your thin silk skirts so they float behind you, the subtle breeze airing them out.

“nothing about this is bearable.” he mutters, catching a glimpse of your bare legs, coated in a sheen of sweat and slightly bronzed. he stops as you pass a tree, and reaches up to snap off a low-hanging branch. “here,” he spins you by your shoulder and offers you a large palm leaf. “will be more effective in cooling you down.”

“oh, so thoughtful!” you take it gratefully and hum as it wafts its own cold current over your face. it blows your golden waves from your sticky flesh, revealing the flushed skin of your neck. he swallows.

“so, i have a question.” you chime once resuming your leisurely stroll. he groans, tugging at the collar of his undershirt. “why do you comb your hair over like that?”

he throws you a sidelong glance, then looks away. “just do.”

you turn around so you’re walking backwards, eyeing him curiously. “but why?”

“i just fuckin’ do,” he barks, catching the attention of a few onlookers. “and watch where you’re going. i can’t have you falling on your arse, or it’ll be my head on a spike.”

you smirk and do as he asks, but allow yourself to fall back so you’re side-by-side. “is it because of your scar?”

he groans, hand tightening around his sword’s hilt. “why would i bother hiding something that everybody knows is there? i don’t give a flying fuck what people think of me.”

“you won’t mind if i do this, then.” you reach up to fix his parting, attempting to brush the hair to the other side. but his hand catches your wrist and gives it a squeeze. “don’t.”

it alarms you slightly, and upon seeing the fear in your eyes, he drops your arm. “keep walking.”

so you do, begrudgingly. but the silence doesn’t settle for long when you think of something else to badger him with. “how did you actually get your scar? because i’ve heard the story, only, it doesn’t seem plausible. how does—”

“—i was licked by kittens.” he deadpans, trying to gauge by the sun’s position in the sky how much longer he must endure you.

you scoff. “nonsense!”

“what can i say, they have rough tongues.” he adds with a sigh, judging he has a fair few hours of your nattering to go.

“so they, what, licked your skin off? like sandpaper?” you challenge him, finding yourself able to behave like a normal person in his company. it’s rejuvenating.

“like sandpaper, princess.” he confirms, stone-faced. small wonder your guard ‘took ill’, he thinks to himself.

“do you miss your home?” you change the subject, marvelling at the various breeds of flower that bloom around you, and inhale their botanical aromas.

he glares daggers into the back of your pretty head. “don’t remember it much, so no.”

you hum, taking the time to lean down and sniff a red rose, not long flourished. you pick the petalled head from its stalk and yelp when a thorn nips your thumb. “ow!” you stuff it into your mouth and frown, your cheeks hollowing as you suckle it.

sandor has to look away when you do, stealing a deep breath through flared nostrils.

“it’s bleeding.” you whine, scrutinising your war wound.

“it’s a scratch,” he grumbles, unable to see what blood you’re even referring to. “a tiny one at that.” wish it was your tongue, he thinks.

you side-eye him. “are you making fun of me?”

“careful, don’t strain yourself.” he quips. “don’t want to upset your wound.”

you scowl at him and whack him with your palm leaf. it scrapes against the steel of his chest plate, scratching it. you remain wordless, placing the rose behind your ear.

his anger starts to slowly simmer, and if not for your status, he would’ve knocked you on your arse. “we should return to the keep before you grow weak from blood-loss.” he says, hoping his sarcasm irks you as much as he intends. “wouldn’t want it to drop off, since it’s attached by a mere thread.”

“i don’t appreciate your tone, ser.” you berate, knowing that addressing him as such would tempt a reaction.

“i’m not a knight.” he tells you, his temper shortening by the second.

“and yet your brother of all people is.” you continue, smirking when he visibly tenses. “oops, struck a nerve. why is that—?”

you squeal when he fists your hair, wrapping it twice around his clenched hand, and tugs you behind one of the hedge walls. “you ask too many questions.” he snarls, leaning down until barely a finger could fit between your faces. “ilyn payne talked too much, too. . .” he unsheathes the knife at his hip and lifts it to your mouth, pressing the point against the plump flesh of your lip. “and now he doesn’t have a tongue.”

the little blade glints in the sun, reflecting off your heaving chest. his eyes dart down to where your cleavage rapidly rises and falls, then back up to your startled eyes.

you look fucking beautiful like this.

“did you just threaten a royal princess?” you ask, the knife’s edge melting against the pillowy surface of your bottom lip.

“aye,” he speaks lowly, knee bending up to settle between your legs. “at knifepoint, no less.”

arousal begins to gather at your virgin cunt, slickening the outer flesh of your slit.

“and i think she likes it.” he whispers, feeling your warmth and wetness against the cloth of his trousers. you start to throb, and he feels that too, dark eyes glazing over as their lids become heavy.

you lift your head, pressing your mouth against the sharp steel. a slow red line trickles down its silver face when its edge breaks the skin, but you don’t wince like you had some moments ago, just hold his stare whilst you grow hotter; and this time it’s not the sun who’s at fault.

he lowers the knife, leaving the blood it drew free to roam down your chin. he catches it with his knuckle, diverting its path over his palm.

“my brother will be very interested to know who did this to me.” you warn him, the desirous aching in your loins muffling the dull twinge of the shallow cut.

with his fingers still tangled in your hair, he forces your face towards his, and you gasp when he licks his way up the red route to your split lip and sucks it between his teeth.

the saltiness of his saliva stings slightly and you moan when his tongue finds its way to yours, wrestling with it. you hitch atop his thigh when the metallic tang of blood spreads across your palate, then he pulls away.

“did what, princess?” he asks, releasing you. “i don’t see anything.”

you gulp down a staggered intake of air and touch your lip gently, then peer down to see that indeed no blood has transferred onto your fingertips.

“i wish to retire to my chambers.” you tell him, meek and still short of breath.

he grins, lopsided. “i bet you do.”

Ughhhh your Hound is always so delicious, makes me want to rewatch GoT just for him. Anyway...would you ever consider writing some fluffy domestic stuff with him spending time with his woman and their kids? 🥺🙏🏻 Pretty please with sprinkles on top? 🩷

you should definitely rewatch it! i actually have a oneshot for husband!sandor with his children in my drafts, but i thought this up on the spot specially for you, dear anon 🌷

table of contents; just fluff and strong language :)

the sweet smell of lamb over goose fat-fried potatoes sings to him as he approaches the front door to your house, joints groaning amongst the clinking of his armour. beyond the small square window to your kitchen he can hear the giggling of his children, and that firm little voice of yours telling them not to run when the stove is lit.

“what have i told you about running near hot pots?!” you scold.

“sorry, mama!” his two oldest respond.

the door groans like a maester on its hinges and he ducks his head to fit through the frame. “i hope you gremlins haven’t been too much trouble for mummy.” he says, unbuckling his sword and placing it out of a child’s reach.

your shoulders relax and you smile. “you’re home, finally.”

he chuckles and cranes your head back by the neck to kiss you. “something smells nice.” then he lets out a winded grunt when two tiny humans crash into his legs.

your daughter makes grabby hands and your husband rolls his eyes in jest, then bends down to pick her up. your son still clings to his leg as sandor walks to the table, still able to do so as if the boy weighs nothing.

“i made this for you!” your daughter chirps, pulling something from her pocket. she’s proud as she presents it to him and you watch on fondly from the stove.

sandor gasps and plucks it from her chubby little fingers. “for me?” he turns it in his hand, studying it. it’s a stick, with four smaller twigs tied to it and a piece of yellow string stuck to the top with mud. “it’s. . . what the fu—” he stops himself, just as you arch a brow. “—what on earth is it?”

“a princess!” she tells him, fidgeting excitedly in his arms. “someday, i’m going to be a princess, you’ll see!”

“fucking hope not!” your son chimes. sandor’s hair and eyes aren’t all he’s inherited.

for a moment your husband seems proud, until he catches a glimpse of your unimpressed expression. so he reaches down and smacks the boy lightly upside the head. “boy, watch your mouth. . . around your mother.”

you place your hands on your hips. “sandor.”

“what?” he smirks. “i fucking hope she doesn’t become a princess too.”

you sigh and turn back to your cooking, shaking your head as your children giggle.

“and i did this!” your son runs past you toward the stairs, his footsteps frantic as he hurries to his room. the ceiling creaks as he does, then you hear a loud thud followed by a groan. you look up at the spot where he fell and it’s quiet for a second, then you hear him get back up and sprint for the stairs.

“that is why i tell you not to run.” you chastise, eyeing him as he jogs back into the kitchen.

“what is it?” sandor squints at the piece of paper his son handed him.

“it’s us!” your son climbs onto his father lap, pointing at his painting. “that’s me, that’s « daughter’s name », that’s mummy, and that’s you!”

“why am i so bloody round?” sandor asks, glaring at the artwork. you chuckle to yourself as you plate up the food.

“because you are.” your son tells him, pointedly poking the man’s stomach through his chainmail.

“little shit.” you hear your husband mumble. “where’d you get this paint, anyway?”

“what paint?” you frown, turning to peer at the paper. “i thought you used all of your paint.”

your son falls silent, fiddling with his hands.

“he stole some from the stall in flea bottom!” your daughter dimes him out and he gasps, hitting her on the arm. “liar!”

“flea bottom? what in seven hells were you doing down there?!” you snap, leaning against the table to glare at him. “and don’t you hit your sister!”

“without expecting her to hit you back.” sandor adds, and motions for your daughter to hit him. she does, harder than he did her.

“sandor.” you hiss.

“did you get caught?” he asks your son, ignoring you.

your son pouts as he rubs where your daughter smacked him. “no, father.”

“good lad.”

“sandor!”

hi! I'm new to this blog as an anon but I lolololoLOVE your writing, like I've started watching game of thrones and the moment sandor was introduced I knew I needed to find fics for this broken man and I needed to fuck him HARD ❗️ I'm so happy bcus u write him so well and so vulgar, bcus nobody else counts in how he considers the women in his life and how he swears like a sailor and his stupid accent like ugh — but you're so good at portraying him. I think I swallowed all of ur fics in one sitting bcus why the hell not

can I maybe possibly request a blurb where sandor fucks you in a headlock? or maybe, where he takes you outdoors against a tree trunk?

thank you :-)

this ask made my day!! i do often rewatch my fav episodes that have him in them to refresh my memory on his demeanour (any excuse to watch him honestly) so i’m glad you think my portrayal is accurate 🫂

table of contents; you’re a baratheon/lannister, outdoor fucking, in public, age gap, brat-taming (kinda), degradation, he takes you roughly from behind what more could we want.

headlock ver

the forest is a peaceful place. your escape from reality. well, royalty. you often come here to let off steam and reconnect with nature — usually after an argument with your petulant twin brother or difficult mother who always takes his side.

it’s quiet here, except for the occasional caw of a crow or rustling of leaves. oh, and the delirious moans that surge from your mouth with each of his animalistic thrusts.

“those pretty little noises are nicer than those fucking songs, princess.” he punctuates the opinion with several harsh ruts against your backside, his heavy sack slapping against your slick with his vigour.

the force propels you forward and you almost smack your head off the trunk he’s got you braced against. your nails scrape at the bark, the rotting wood crumbling as you claw at it. “gods,” you whine, knees quaking. “don’t— mmf! don’t stop. . .”

he chuckles behind you, hooded eyes glued to your arse and the red handprints that stamp it. “won’t fuckin run again, will you?”

you let your forehead thud against the tree as you hug yourself to it, unable to hold your weight up on two feet. “n— ngh. . . no!”

but if this is the consequence for running, you just might.

he lifts you by the hips and you squeal when the ground disappears out from under you, hands grappling with the trunk for balance. “my back was turned for five fucking seconds,” he spits, large hand reaching around to support your middle. “didn’t know where the fuck you’d gone,” he continues, slamming into your behind at a relentless pace.

you mewl, tears brimming in your eyes as something inside of you starts to coil and tighten.

“had me chasing after you like the dog i am.” he doesn’t falter, pistoning his cock into your depths until there’s no portion of his length that isn’t pocketed within your soaking warmth. “that’s all i am to you, isn’t it, princess? your dog.”

you can’t form words, they’re beyond you. all you can do is whimper and gasp for breath as he jackhammers against your cervix, bruised and burning.

“you wanted this, didn’t you? that why you ran?” his rhythm starts to stutter as he teeters on release, but his ferocity doesn’t relent. “wanted me to fuck you bloody?”

you can’t say you’ve never pondered it, you think, since you can’t fathom speech; the pleasure has you by the throat.

“only had to ask, princess.”

HI I LOVE THE WAY YOU WRITE SANDOR there's not enough Hound love you are doing the seven's work

👉👈 can i humbly request something about Sandor thinking "fuck it" to protection and coming to the idea of pumping reader full of his pups? maybe with a little big cock/tight fit mention sprinkled in? obsessed w his size difference and his commanding presence and how he just takes what he wants i love u im kissing u on the lips xx

THANK YOU 🫂 and i agree !! i think i read every sandor fic on here in one sitting so i just HAD to rectify that at ONCE !! wait did they even have protection in those days? did they like put a sock on it or smth (smooch ilyt)

table of contents; tight fit, big dick, clit stim, size kink, breeding kink (but you’re both as bad as each other)

he’s never loved you as much as he does in this instance.

your hair splayed out over the pillow, your eyes lidded and desirous, lips parted into a pretty little o-shape. you’re a sight for sore eyes, spread beautifully beneath him as you prepare to take him so well.

“it’s been a little while,” he says, softer than his usual tone. he’s been away for some time, accompanying the king’s entourage north. you stayed home with your children. “might hurt a bit, love.”

“oh please, i’ve popped out three cleganes,” you assure him, hands stroking up and down the large expanse of his back. “one after the other, might i add. you planted some beastly babes in me, you know. i think i can manage this one. . .” you reach between your bodies to grip him gently in your palm, squeezing him at the base.

he closes his eyes, hips rutting against you. “woman,” when he opens them again you’re gazing up at him in that same way that dements him with ardor every fucking time. “if you keep that up, i might put another one in there.”

“won’t hear me complaining.” you whisper, lifting your head to close the gap between your faces. your lips scarcely coast over his, then you latch onto his bottom one, sucking it into your mouth before releasing it with a crude pop.

a noise that can only resemble that of a growl crawls from his throat and he bucks into you, the engorged head of his cock splitting you open for him. you both shudder, your back arching until your breasts press against the solid barrels of his chest.

“fuckin hells, woman,” he hisses, tensing above you. “wouldn’t think any babes of mine had come from this cunt.”

you feel so full already, it feels like he impaled you with all of him. “gods— sandor, please. . .”

“hold on— fuck.” he adjusts himself, cockhead throbbing within the puckered rim of your entrance. he peers down to where you’re connected, your pussy stretched like a wailing mouth to accommodate his bulbous tip.

your heels push impatiently against his lower back and he grunts, relying on every ounce of what little self-control he has to not pound you bloody. with a callused thumb, he manipulates your little cluster of nerves with circular motions and sharp flicks. you flutter around him and he feels your walls ease slightly, allowing him to sink a little deeper.

you mewl like a bitch in heat, hands roaming any part of him that you can reach. “i’ve missed you. . .”

“aye? which bit?” he quips, nipping at your neck as he submerges himself by the inch.

your loins burn as they spread for his intrusion, the sting of it increasing as he begins to bottom-out. “all of you.” you manage, slurred and wavering. he hums and lifts a hand to your moaning mouth. “spit for me, love.”

you do, the act of it a little filthy but not at all below you. he fists what remains unenveloped by you, twisting his wrist to coat himself. then with a thick finger he probes at your opening and you gasp, finally able to swallow the rest of him. when he bumps that gummy spot, familiar to both of you, the ache subsides and you melt together.

“fuck, you’re so tight.” he winces, as if pained by the way you cling to him.

“we’re not helped by your size.” you mumble clumsily, as if drunk.

“gonna take us a lot of fucking to fix it.” he tells you, commencing a slow pace. retracting only slightly, leaving most of his length within you, then gradually plunging back in.

you throw your arms around his neck, legs locked around his hips. “oh no. . .”

he smirks at your sarcasm. “might have to get you pregnant.”

you start to roll your hips in time with his, matching his gentle rhythm. “mhm, might be unavoidable.”

“gonna put a litter in here.” he massages your tummy where his cockhead bulges beneath the skin just below your belly button. “fill you with more of my pups. you’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

you tug him down by his hair. “i’d want nothing more.” and lick your way into his mouth, tasting yourself on his tongue from when he’d devoured you some hours ago. with a particularly tender thrust, he drives himself against your cervix just right, drawing a delicate yelp from your mouth and straight into his.

TIL DEATH DO US PART.

table of contents; flashbacks in italics, unlikely friends to lovers, light descriptions of smut, strong language, death, angst, stressy depressy, i’m super sorry in advance.

header art creds; dorota piotrowiak!

“what happened to your face?”

a teenage sandor turned at the voice, sweet like candied peaches, not that he knew how they tasted.

a girl his age, or maybe a moon younger. you were bedraggled just as he was, your rags muddied from the day. he looked you up and down, shorter than him and much prettier, despite the dirt.

“the fuck happened to yours?” he bit back, expecting you to run or cry or both. but you didn’t. you just stood there looking at him, quizzically.

“the wind changed.” you quipped, smirking as you took a step nearer. “careful, if it changes again, you’ll be stuck even uglier.”

he didn’t laugh like you hoped. “fuck off, i’m busy.”

“are you, though?” you closed the distance between you, peering around him. “what’re you hiding behind your back?”

“nothing.”

“show me.”

“fuck off.”

you squinted up at him, then lurched forward to snatch whatever it was that he was holding. he lunged to take it back but you were quicker, ducking away.

“bread?” you studied the small piece as it crumbled in your hands, it had been ripped from a bigger loaf. “why are you stealing food? you live in a castle.”

he tugged it back off you, tearing at the corner with his teeth. “i’m hungry,” he told you with his mouth full, spitting a crumb onto your cheek. you grimaced and wiped it with your sleeve. “anyway, why are you here?” he assumed you to be a villager, since he’d never seen you about the grounds of clegane keep before.

“same reason.” you shrugged, shoving past him to the baker’s stall. you leaned in, choosing the loaf with a portion missing. “i’m also hungry.”

sandor narrowed his eyes at you, still chewing. “who the fuck are you?”

“a girl without a castle full of cooks.” you grumbled, a glob of bread flying from your mouth onto his scarred cheek. he blinked, then scrubbed at it with a dirty knuckle, frowning. you did that on purpose.

“some advice, lanky. don’t take a piece of food only to leave the rest, that’s how you get caught.” you lifted the flap of your tattered satchel, showing him a bag stuffed to the brim with berries, spices, and cooked meat. you passed him a chicken leg, its succulent flesh almost falling from the bone. “you should eat more, that chicken had more meat on its bones than you.”

you spun away from him, untamed hair swishing behind you with your leave. he watched you go, baffled. “you’re one to talk!” he shouted after some time.

“i’d eat much more if i could — nobody’s a peasant by choice!” you flipped him the bird over your shoulder, trudging through the mud towards the small village behind the trees that housed your fellow commoners and lowborns.

a small smirk tugged at his lips and he called out, “never got your name!”

“never gave it to you!”

“quit movin’.” you nagged, tugging his face back to you by his jaw. you dabbed at the cut that split his lower lip, blotting it until its weeping stopped. you licked at the cloth, dampening it, then put it back to his lip.

he flinched away. “ew, fuck off.”

you dropped your arm and shot him a disgruntled glare. “i don’t have cooties, cheese-dick.”

“don’t know where your gob’s been.” he grumbled, huffing when you gripped him by the back of his head and resumed cleaning him up anyway.

“around every boy’s cock in the village.” you chirped, pocketing the rag once his cut had stopped bleeding.

he rolled his eyes, trying to ignore the hint of jealousy that nibbled away at his heart at the prospect. “slag.”

“twat.” you parroted back, punching him lightly in the arm.

“fuckface.”

“cunt.”

he accepted his defeat, reclining back on his elbows. you joined him in the grass, hair splayed like a halo around your head. you lulled your head to the side, he did the same. you smiled up at him, he scrunched his nose and pulled a face. you snorted, nudging him in the side. “gonna tell me how that happened now?”

he faced his front, looking out over the field from the ‘spot’ the two of you had claimed some years back, under a weeping willow tree where no one ever went and time seemed to stop. “just got into a fight is all.”

“another one?” you propped yourself up on your hands, shoulder bumping his.

“some fat cunt called my mother a whore.” he spat, his anger returning.

you nodded, giving him a moment before responding. “well, was she?”

sandor’s scowl deepened and he graced you with a sidelong glance. “what?”

“was she a whore?” you asked, your wild unkempt hair blowing in his face with the breeze.

he brushed it from his eyes and gathered it in his hands, alternating between messily braiding it and interlacing your matted locks within his fingers. you let him. he loved your hair, it calmed him. “‘course she wasn’t.”

“exactly,” you said softly, watching the tension in his shoulders gradually dissolve. “so why bleed for such daftness? it would be the same if they’d called me a whore. i’m not, so it doesn’t matter. you shouldn’t let meaningless words that hold no truth to them rile you.”

“it wouldn’t be the same if he’d said it about you,” he turned back to look at you, releasing your hair from his fingers to tuck it behind your ear. “i would’ve given him more than a bloody lip. i would’ve strangled him with his own cock and balls.”

you stifled a laugh and jabbed his leg with your boot. “in all the time i’ve known you, which has been a while now, that’s probably the nicest thing you’ve said to me”

“four years.” he told you, turning back to the view. “we met four years ago. i remember ‘cause it was the day of my first kill.”

“so. . . we were twelve.” you calculated. “you killed your first man at twelve?”

“aye, it was hungry work.” he joked, reminiscing on the day you crossed paths.

“oh, poor little knightling! just put the steel to someone for the first time and it got his tummy rumbling!” you gasped, collapsing onto him as you draped yourself over his legs with your hand to your forehead. “oh, how my heart aches for you, sandor clegane! had you not eaten since your afternoon tea and gooseberry compote over scones?”

he tried not to smile at your antics but failed, grinning down at you as you feigned illness across his lap. “not my fucking fault you’re a little pauper.”

“that might just make me a damsel in distress!” you leaped to your feet, clutching at your imaginary pearls. “oh, ser, i feel my poorness may be ailing me. you must have me nursed back to health at once, for i can feel life slipping from my grasp! if only i wasn’t so weak and starved. . .” you fell back down and he caught you, holding you in his arms.

“put a sock in it.” he chuckled, rocking you once, then twice. “better?”

“much.” you beamed, booping the tip of his nose.

he smiled down at you, the only person who he let see his capability of doing so. his eyes danced over your features, appreciating every freckle and blemish. they lingered at your lips and you let out a laugh, breaking his daze. “are you thinking about snogging me, clegane?”

“already got a split lip, don’t want a cold sore too.” he said, jestingly. you stuck out your tongue. “now, what the fuck’s gooseberry compote?”

you bolted upright and shifted to straddle him, grabbing him harshly by his shoulders. “don’t tell me you’ve never had it.” he was silent, hands moving to grip your waist as you shook him. “gods, you haven’t!” then you twisted to settle between his legs, thudding your head against his chest. “unacceptable, m’lord! i must make some for you.”

“i’m no lord.” he grumbled, pinching at your sides. you smacked his hands away and rolled your head back to glare at him. “you live in a pretty castle with a flag that adorns your sigil — very lordish.”

“don’t mean anything, we’re a knightly house not a noble one. and anyway, it’s not a castle, it’s a tower house.” he griped, choosing to tickle you that time. you yelped, then let out a nasally laugh. “why’s it called ‘clegane keep’, then?”

“i didn’t name the fucker, did i.” he mocked you then, though it instead sounded like he was impersonating a pig. you gaped with feigned offence and shoved him back against the ground. he tried to pull you down with him but you were faster, scrambling to your feet, where your skirts rode up your legs to reveal grass-stained knees.

“last one down the hill has to eat a worm!” you dared, already pinning your dress down as you prepared to roll.

sandor groaned. “fuck off, we’re not kids anymore.”

“we’re not adults yet.” you countered, then disappeared over the hillside.

he didn’t roll, but he did walk down it.

“you have to eat the worm.” you told him once he’d joined you at the bottom. you’d already dug one up, dangling it between your thumb and forefinger as it wriggled.

he arched his brow at you. “i’d rather shit in my hands and clap.”

you smirked. “that could work.”

he slapped the grub from your hand. “fuck off.”

you pouted, jogging after him as he made his way. “well winners shouldn’t have to walk home.” you told him, doing a running-jump onto his back. as if expecting you to do it, he immediately locked his arms around the backs of your knees without complaint.

you planted your chin on his shoulder, arms linked around his neck. “worms taste quite nice, you know.”

“strange girl.” he huffed, hoisting you further up his back.

“they’re nice with home-grown vegetables. i pretend it’s spaghetti.”

“you could just eat the vegetables.”

“we ration them. and i have to bulk out my one meal a day somehow.” you reasoned, wondering if he’d caught onto your blatant tattle yet. “besides, they’re a good source of protein.”

“so eat the chickens.” he argued.

“you eat all the chickens.” you retorted.

“what about pepper? your hen?”

“she gives us eggs!”

“eggs are protein.”

“no, i’m certain eggs are dairy.”

“don’t make me drop you.”

you huffed, catching the lobe of his good ear between your teeth. he jerked his head away and dug his nails into your legs, jolting you.

“first kill at twelve. . . what else haven’t you told me?” you pondered, drumming your fingers against his chest.

“many things.” he mumbled.

“i tell you everything.” you said, a little sadly.

“and who’s problem is that?” he snapped.

you took no notice, well-accustomed to his short fuse. it was never personal, the boy just had a fierce temper. typical clegane. but he took note of your silence and sighed, lowering his tone. “my bed didn’t actually catch fire.”

you looked at him, a little surprised. you’d been waiting a long time to hear the truth behind his facial burns. you hadn’t asked since the day you met whereby it was the first thing you spoke to him. but you’d heard the rumours, everybody had.

“i didn’t think so,” you softly mused. “what bed fire only burns the side of one’s face? unless it was only the pillow that had caught alight. and even then, how? so what really happened, sandor?”

he hesitated, walking a bit slower. “promise me you’ll never tell.”

“i swear it, on my life. which means you’ll have to kill me if i tell anyone!” he snorted at that which made you smile. that was your favourite thing to do — making him smile. he lifted out his pinky and you locked it with yours, sealing the deal.

so he let you down and you sat together in the grass.

“i always wanted to be a knight.” he began, which you knew. “my brother had this toy. . . a wooden stallion, and atop it sat a knight with a helm and a shield and a sword. it was the prettiest thing i’d ever seen—”

“—until you met me.” you butted in with a smirk.

“aye, until i met you. then i thought it was even prettier.” he kidded, then put a finger to his mouth, shushing you.

you sat back, hands raised in mock surrender.

“back then i was still too young to spar. gregor had his own sword by then and he was in the courtyard all day everyday practicing with the other boys. i was stuck inside with my own toys but they weren’t knights, they were wooden animals. hounds, mostly.” he paused to look at you and you nodded, wanting him to continue.

“so one day i decided, if i couldn’t train to be one, i could at least play with a pretend one. see, i’d already begged gregor to swap his knight for one of my animals but he said no, as i would’ve had the roles been reversed. and his room was next door to mine, so i let myself in and headed straight for his toy chest. i opened it and there it was, right at the top. so i went back to my room, sat in front of the fire, and trotted that knight across the cold stone. his shadow looked so real and i wondered if i’d ever be as cool as him when i grew up.”

a sense of dread came over you as you saw what was coming, hand cupping your mouth. sandor glanced up to check you were still listening and you were. intently.

“i must’ve been playing with it for hours ‘cause when i heard his door open it was dark outside. then i heard him open his chest.” he began to pick at the blades of grass, feeling the dew against his skin. “he barged in. i looked up and i was happy so i smiled, but he must’ve thought i found him funny. but he didn’t say anything, just marched right over to me and picked me up by my scruff, tucked me under his arm, and pressed me to the burning coals.”

his voice wavered and your heart shattered for him. you scooted closer and took his fiddling fingers, latticing them with yours.

“i still had the knight in my hand, he burned with me.” he said, refusing to meet your eyes. “my father covered for him, told people my bedding caught fire when a candle fell from my bedside. my mother insisted i moved rooms, far away from gregor’s. he’s a knight now.”

“and some day, you will be too.” you squeezed his hand, rubbing your thumb over the back of it.

“nah,” he gruffed, pulling away from you. “i don’t care for knighthood, not anymore. i won’t be associated with that cunt if i can help it.” he stood, holding a hand out to you. “i’m going to king’s landing soon to take service with the lannisters, and i want you to come with me.”

“and the hound has abandoned his men.”

you stood at lancel’s words. “what do you mean he ‘abandoned’ them? he’d never do that!”

“i believe his words were ‘fuck the king’.” the queen’s cousin told you.

you squinted at the skinny man. “he’d never say such a thing.” at least not to the king’s face, you then thought.

“silence.” cersei hissed, then turned to lancel. “where is my son?”

you flopped down onto the queen’s ottoman, biting at your nails. the commotions of warfare crawled through the windows of the tower and it made the other maidens fuss and panic. sansa stark started singing to them and for a moment it calmed you, then you wondered, had he left you? no. no, surely he hadn’t.

“more wine.” the queen asked her squire as she sunk back into the cushions beside you. “and one for my handmaid.” her squire fetched her another cup, filling it all the way.

you drank generously, hoping it would take effect punctually. “you’re going to have his head, aren’t you?”

cersei tilted her head, cup permanently risen to her mouth where it would not leave until it was empty. “if i can find someone with the minerals to capture him first. it will take some coin, the kind of coin i’m not willing to part with.”

you nodded and took another swig. “i must beg pardon, your grace.” you handed the cup to her squire then made haste for the doors, pushing past ilyn payne and the two guards at their post.

once making it to your chambers, you stumbled inside, out of breath. “fuck.” you breathed, jumping when the ramming of the city gates echoed through the walls. “that prick,” you grumbled, feeling for your oil lantern. “leaving me here in this stinking city.”

you twisted it and the flame appeared, dancing within its confinements. then you saw him, slumped against your bedpost. “so it’s true.” you whispered, approaching him. “you did abandon your men.”

“the blackwater is burning.” he slurred, voice uneasy. “water burns. . . how the fuck can water burn. . .”

you crossed the room to the window, peering down over the steep rock that held the red keep. green and orange engulfed the bay, boats and men ablaze. then you realised and turned to look at him. his head was down, wineskin poised limply between his fingers.

“wildfire,” you said. “it can’t be extinguished.” no wonder he tucked tail. you placed the lantern down, not too close to him, and stepped between his legs. he let you cup his jaw and lift his face, the illuminations of the battle below highlighting it for you. his beard was thick with blood, splatters of it painting the canvas of his skin.

you bundled your skirt, hooking the material over your pointer and dabbed it on your tongue. he leaned into your palm, watching you. a devastating sight.

then you pressed the fabric to his mouth with a childish smirk. “we’re practically kissing, you know.”

his nose wrinkled up, and for a second it was like you were looking at that sixteen year old boy again. “cooties.”

“cutie? who, me?” you did a twirl. “you flatter me so!”

finally he cracked a smile and your heart swelled. “c’mere,” he beckoned, yanking you back to him. you grinned, placing your hands atop his pauldrons. “you’re leaving, aren’t you?”

“have to.” he told you, large hands stationed at your hips. “somewhere that isn’t burning.”

“there’s that, and i hear you told the king to fuck off,” you raised an accusatory brow, but your eyes flashed with amusement.

his broad shoulders shrugged beneath your palms. “aye, he’s a little cunt.”

you pursed your lips, trying not to laugh. “i certainly wouldn’t invite him for supper.”

“do you like it here?” he asked you, tilting the wineskin to your lips. you allowed him to pour it into your mouth, enjoying the bitterness of the grape. “no,” you deadpanned. “i wish you’d never brought me here. we should’ve stayed under that willow tree.”

“we can’t go west,” he shook his head. “only north.” you lowered your head at that, disappointed. a bloodied finger hooked your chin, guiding your face toward his. “you miss home. i’ll build you house; in a village, if you like. or where there aren’t any other houses for miles. with a chimney, but only for cooking. no fires.”

your insides thawed and you perched on his knee, slinging your arms around his thick neck. “you’ll build me a house?”

“aye, i’ll build us a house.” his arms enveloped your middle, fingers grazing the undersides of your breasts. “come with me.”

you suckled your lip between your teeth, completely struck by him. “will you plant me a willow tree?”

“plant your own fucking tree, woman.” he grouched into his wineskin.

you snatched it off him, gulping down the dregs. “i want gooseberry bushes, too.”

“you and your fucking gooseberries.” he huffed, sliding you off his thigh when he stood. “c’mon, then. best to get some distance between us and this place before sunrise.”

“sandor, wait.”

he turned just as you launched at him, wrenching him by the buckles of his breastplate to crash your lips against his. he was rigid for a moment, then his hands found your arse and lifted you from the ground.

“no one will look for you here.” you spoke against his lips, fingers tangled in his sweat-damp hair. “and this might be our last chance.”

he made love to you right then and there, fucking you slowly and thoroughly. it wasn’t desperate or rigorous like the last time he took you, or clumsy and sloppy like the first time — when neither of you had taken anyone before and had no idea what you were really doing.

it was just about the two of you, and your loins burned hotter than the blackwater when it was done, aching for the days to come.

it’s been some time since his search for you began. he’d asked you to take refuge in the crypts with sansa and the other women, but of course you refused. spouting some nonsense about being a strong and independent woman. he knew better than to argue with that.

so his voice carries in the bleakness again, your name rolling over the corpses of the fallen. he steps over them, accidentally standing on some. he calls for you again, voice booming.

but nothing.

then the distant sound of coughing travels to a welcoming ear and his head snaps in its direction. he shouts for you, hopeful, and charges through the motionless lumps of bodies and guts, almost tripping in his haste.

then he sees what looks like hair, long and wild like yours. it blows aimlessly against the breeze, dyed red by blood.

“no. . .” he drops his weapon. “no, no, no.” he falls to his knees, tentative hand gripping the arm of the fallen. it’s slim like yours. his stomach churns and he grits his teeth as he turns the body over, and a pair of dead eyes stare up at him. but they’re not yours.

he heaves out a hefty sigh, hands braced on the ground. “fuck.” his heart hammers in his chest, the bile he’d been holding slowly sinking back down his throat.

then that same cough is carried by the wind again and he struggles to his feet, eyes darting desperately over his surroundings.

a little hand waves him over, floppy and shaky. then it drops.

he trips over his own feet, no longer caring how many corpses he stampedes in his scramble.

hot tears start to well at your eyes when he reaches you and you groan. “sandor. . .”

“i’m here,” he sinks to the ground and immediately attempts to scoop you up. you cry out in pain, hands scrunching at his leathers. “no, no! it hurts—”

“okay, okay.” he lowers you again, gently, like you might disintegrate in his hands. “we can sit here, it’s okay.” he bundles you into his lap, supporting the back of your head in his palm.

you grunt, eyes squeezing shut. “it hurts.”

“i know, i know.” his voice starts to break. “just keep those pretty eyes open.”

he notices the blood soaking through your clothes onto his, but there’s so much of it, he can’t tell from where you’re actually bleeding.

“who was that bitch you went to first, eh?” you peel your eyes back open, smirking up at him. “don’t tell me there’s someone else.”

he snorts. “thought she was you. gave me a fright, woman.”

“silly twat.” you chuckle, then splutter into a fit of coughs. you wince when they jerk your body, then relax back into his embrace.

“at least i never thought eggs were dairy.” he smiles, but it doesn’t stretch to his eyes.

you scoff. “oh, forgive me. i never had a formal education, you see!”

“shush, now.” he starts to rock you slightly, like he did under that tree, and strokes your hair. oh, how he loves your hair.

it does little to ease your pain, but you’ve not the heart to tell him. “you should’ve built me that house.”

“i know.” he clears his throat, shifting you in his arms so he can press his hand to where he thinks your life’s blood drains.

you groan as he applies pressure to your side and place your smaller hand over his. “you can cry, you know. i am dying after all.”

“no, you’re not—”

“you’ve always said you’d die for me. . .” you pause to suck in a long breath. it’s staggered and it rattles. “if you want to trade places, that would be grand.”

he laughs, genuine. “i would if i could.”

“i always thought dying would be quite peaceful, but then again, i always pictured you and i growing old together. . . and dying together, in our sleep or something.” you let out another wheezy breath, shorter this time. “it turns out, dying isn’t peaceful at all. it fucking sucks.”

“let me take you inside. if thoros can bring beric back six fucking times—”

“—i’m not dead yet.” you rasp, becoming lighter in his grip, like the gods are pulling you from him.

“woman, i’m not going to watch you die—”

“—yes, you are.” you dry heave, and blood splatters from your mouth. sandor swallows, wiping at the corners of your lips with his thumb. “being brought back to life must be the most embarrassing thing that can happen to someone. if not, then getting stabbed most definitely is.” not that you can remember if it was a stab that landed you here.

he bows his head, but you manage to lift your hand, cupping his cheek. he turns his face and kisses your palm. “you never made a wife out of me.” you whisper.

“i planned to.” he speaks against your skin, so cold and waxy against his lips.

“you’re going soft.” you say, barely audible as you grow weaker. “you made a lucky escape, clegane. if you think i’m an annoying friend, fancy being my husband.”

“stop that.” he shakes you, carefully. you scarcely feel it anyway.

you hum as you start to drift, but part your lips to say lastly, “sandor, i. . .”

he lifts you to his ear, but you never finish your piece. he holds your face in his hands, eyes searching yours, but they’re empty and their light has snuffed out. the world around him seems to slow to a stop and he utters your name, voice cracking.

“we should’ve stayed under that willow tree.”

your words bounce off the four corners of his mind and he allows himself to weep, clutching you to his front as his body racks with sobs. his tears seem to freeze as they roll down the cold surface of your skin, and even in death your hair comforts him, enveloping him in a ghostly hug.

but even death couldn’t keep him from you. with nothing else to live for, he rode for king’s landing that very next day. ultimately it was revenge that claimed him, the one thing that had consumed him since childhood. the only thing he yearned for more than killing, and even you.

and when he fell towards the flames below he saw you beneath that willow tree, nattering nonsensically as you always did, wild hair pursuing you as you frolicked and laughed in your disorderly way.

## LITTLE PUP.

enjoy this little piece while cherry’s next chapter is still in editing 💌

table of contents; time jumps (s1, 4 + 8), reader is iconic after the time skip, sexual tension, mentions of rape but literally just the word, possibly triggering language, use of a pet name, age gap (but your age isn’t specified), you’re a snow but not physically described, eventual p in v, hate-fucking, sub(ish) sandor, cum-dumping, brief mentions of bleeding, honestly i can’t be arsed to list everything so mdni please.

a/n; idk what trope this is. i think i invented a new one cause you literally hate each other.

the halls of the red keep are like mazes to you. they like to go on forever, curling back on themselves but still somehow taking you in opposite directions. it seems to you that the targaryens were spindlers of bricks; weaving and spinning a cobweb of pillars and towers that seem to pierce the sun and cast shadows on the sky.

the north is so simple and you miss that. but here, you are lost.

you stumble upon a dead end. you swear your chambers are on this floor, they certainly were yesterday. or did you take a wrong turn? the winding stairs, the long stroll through a high-rising courtyard, then more stairs, then another long stroll. . . where on earth have you ended up? this corridor looks familiar, or do they all look the same? you don’t recall.

“lost again are we, pup?”

you swivel at the voice, almost knocking over a rather expensive looking vase. the queen’s dog. he always appears when you least need for it, like he tracks you when you’re at your most vulnerable. sniffing for your confounded scent.

“no,” you tell him, gasping when your back hits the wall. “and stop calling me that.”

he sniggers, sauntering closer. “i think the little pup has lost her way.”

you take a ponderous swallow, the weight of it dragging down your throat. “i am not lost.” he half expects you to stamp your feet. “go away, leave me alone.”

his smirk doesn’t waver, and his large frame continues to draw closer. his size casts a shadow that stretches ahead of him, carpeting the hallway with a dreadful umbra. it shades you, engulfing you in its darkness. you swallow again, harder this time, and you hear a grim chuckle which tells you he must’ve heard it.

“the queen sent for you.”

you stand a little straighter, hoping he cannot see the way you shudder in his presence. he’s almost reached you now, heavy boots ringing against the floor.

“i will make my own way.”

a low, gravelly laugh booms from his steel-plated chest and you cave in at the husk of it. “you don’t know where she is.”

“is she in the throne room?” you implore, meek.

you can smell his musk now. sweat, ale and flesh. “do you know how to get there from here?”

you falter and peer out of the window with a desperate sidelong glance. all you see is sky. “how did you find me?” you interrogate, snapping your gaze back to his encroaching soma. he’s nearing you. the hall seemed longer when you were alone but somehow his imposing stride has claimed it in short succession.

“i was waiting for you,” he rasps, his dark eyes more hooded than usual. “in your chambers.”

you frown, yelping when your back hits the wall again. you hadn’t even realised you were backing away.

“but you never came.” he’s in front of you now, large hand finding purchase at the bricks beside your head. “i thought maybe you’d taken a wrong turn.” he pushes himself from the wall slightly so his view of your body is a little clearer. his eyes rake it from top to toe, hovering at your chest before returning to your face. he smiles, crooked. “i caught up to you a few wrong turns ago.”

“why didn’t you stop me?” you find your voice again, and the question comes out sharper than intended. his expression hardens and you shrink into yourself.

“the little pup forgets herself.” he drawls, trapping the thin flesh of his lower lip between two teeth.

“i can talk to you how i like. you’re not a ser, you’ve said so yourself.” your tone shocks you — you’re not sure from where you’re finding such confidence.

a gritty chuckle slips through the lopsided crook of his smirk, eyes seemingly darker than before. “pup is relying too much on my forbearance.”

“i’m not a pup,” you tell him, tilting your head high. “i’m a lady.”

“you’re a bastard.” he spits, almost hatefully. “your mother was a wench or a common whore or both, no doubt with an arse full of custard and tits like saucers.”

you do well to handle his words, allowing them to bounce right off you with stoic ease. “would you rather the term woman?”

“aye,” he shifts on his feet, intense stare sinking below the realms of your comfort. “you’ve bled, then?”

suddenly a sickening befalls you. “. . . no.”

he adjusts his stance again, but this time his eyes remain focused on yours. “that so?”

you opt for silence. it’s thick and deafening.

he takes note of your pause, nodding. “late bloomer?”

“i suppose.” you lie, shuffling awkwardly as you lower your head.

he hums, bowing his head again to soak you in. “but these have bloomed.” his armour clinks when he raises an arm, finger pointed to your cleavage.

you berate yourself, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “they haven’t, not entirely. it is just the corset.”

the hand that previously gestured to your chest travels to your middle where it pinches, cupping your side. you jump, the cool kiss of his gauntlet shocking you through your silk. “you’re not wearing a corset.” he squeezes your waist once, then lets his hand drop.

hot tears start to well in your eyes and you become weak at the knees, leaning back against the wall for balance. “please—”

“they’re well-rounded for a girl who hasn’t yet bloomed,” he speaks lowly, leaning down. “tell me, pup. what babe do these intend to feed if you have not bled?”

“i don’t know,” you mumble, trying not to cry. “the body can work in mysterious ways.”

he lets out a crass, dry chuckle. it’s vicious and forced. “i thought you were a woman.”

you sigh deeply, expelling it from your nose. he’s laid down the foundations of a trap and you stumble straight upon it. “i am. i’m a woman who does not wish to be raped.”

then something in his face shifts, like a switch has been flipped. you heave out a breath, anchoring yourself to the wall.

but he does nothing, only looks down at your cowering figure with pitiful disgust. “i’m not a raper.”

“of course, you are. that’s just your kind.” you spit, regaining your confidence. “it’s in your nature.”

“my kind? i’m no knight, pup. meryn trant beats helpless girls so i’d wager he’s raped his fair share, too. but i only take pleasure from drawing blood with steel.” he talks through his teeth, his shoulder-length hair falling between the two of you like curtains.

“you’re still a man,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you’re all the same. my mother always told me to assume every man means to hurt me, because most of them will.”

a sort of sadness or something similar dashes across his features and for a second you believe the hound, one of westeros’ most feared men, might actually be capable of empathy. then his eyes turn back to their usual sourness and your face stares back at you in their reflection.

“if you live by that rule, you will get hurt, pup.” he returns to his full height, taking one step back. “to assume the worst is no way to survive.”

“you’re a hateful man,” you tell him. “that’s why you’re so at home here.”

“you’ll be thankful for my hate when a time comes that trant or worse gets their hands on you, and believe me, there is far worse than trant.” he leans close again. “but he’s no man, and he’s less of a knight than me.”

you fidget under his stare, cringing when his hot breath licks at your neck.

“and here’s another token of wisdom, don’t ever fight back, cause then you’re showing him how strong you are.” he retracts from you, still smirking. “and they’ll always be stronger than you.”

you consider him for a fleeting moment, your apprehension beginning to dwindle. “the queen will be wondering where i am.”

you push past him. he does not follow you this time.

“you’re dying.” you speak the words monotonously, dead-faced and bleak.

he grunts, dragging himself up the cliff side. his weight slips down again and he growls, clutching at his leg where a spur of bone spears through its skin. “aye, unless there’s a maester hiding behind that rock, i’m done.”

you ought to swish your skirts and do a pirouette, this is the best thing that’s happened to you for some time. “killed by a woman,” you smirk, watching him struggle. “you’ve no idea the joy that brings me.”

“i’m not dead yet.” he groans, clenching his teeth as blood continues to seep from his wounds. “but if you’d like to hurry things along, i won’t stop you.”

“i’d rather you went slowly.” you deadpan, kneeling beside him. his injuries are grisly, and if they don’t take him soon, mountain lions or vultures will.

“you’re a bitter little bitch aren’t you, pup?” even now he can still muster irritancy. “all these months, i’ve kept you fed and watered, and this is the thanks i get.”

“i didn’t ask you to do any of it.” you remind him, making yourself comfortable whilst he moans in agony. “i’m only here cause you wanted a woman to keep you in warm company.”

“and you’ve not even been good for that.” he rasps, glancing over at you. “i should’ve had you the night of the blackwater. yeah. . . i should’ve fucked you bloody.”

before, a statement like that would’ve rocked you. now you feel nothing. “not a raper, he says.”

“i should’ve fucking raped you.” he spits, then lets out a throaty groan when the soil beneath him shifts, causing his leg to move.

“i know what you’re trying to get me to do,” you stand, looking down at him. he lets out a whimperish sound and it delights you. “i’m not going to end your suffering. killing you would be a mercy.”

“you know you want to.” he taunts, big brown eyes gazing up at you. he almost looks soft. “how many times have you thought about it?”

“oh, i want nothing more.” you crouch down and reach for his belt, plucking the bag of silver that was fastened to it. he goes for you out of instinct, trying to swipe the bag. “you won’t be needing this.”

and you step over him, gravel crunching beneath your feet as you make haste to catch up to the tall woman.

“kill me.” he pleads, armour chinking against the ground. “kill me!”

you leave him there, leaving his fate to the gods. or the mountain lions. it doesn’t make a difference to you.

last night was long but the north prevailed. arya stark killed the night king, and with him, his army of fallen soldiers finally fell again.

you stand next to sansa stark, a dear childhood friend. around you, people celebrate the victory over mead, stew and women. theon greyjoy and lyanna mormont were lost to the battle, amongst many others. their losses weigh heavy, and it’s obvious that people are finding comfort at the bottom of an alehorn.

a little ways ahead, at an empty table, sits the man you left for dead; a jug to himself, and two empty bowls. “i left him to die.”

from your peripheral you see her head turn rather sharply. “who?”

“sandor clegane.” you tell her, his name leaving an aftertaste worse than the strongest wine in your mouth. it almost feels like vulgarity to speak it. “he begged me to kill him, i didn’t.”

“sandor clegane begged you to kill him? you lost me at the word ‘begged’.” she snorts, sipping from her cup.

you smile. it would sound pretty alien to somebody who wasn’t there. “he was already dying, he just wanted me to end it quickly.”

sansa nods. “why didn’t you?”

you finally tear your eyes from the man, blind to your gaze. “do you remember how much you loathed joffrey?”

she nods a yes.

“when he was dying, had he asked you to finish him and spare him the misery of death, would you have?”

she’s silent, then shakes her head no.

you turn back to him, and a pair of brown eyes glare back at you. your heart lurches and you harden your stare, lifting your cup to take a drink.

“he’s seen you.” sansa murmurs, hiding her mouth behind her cup. “i assume you have not spoken.”

“no,” you swig generously from your wine, then pass her your empty cup. “i intend to remedy that.”

he watches you approach, not blinking and unmoving. you settle down opposite him and take his alehorn from his grip, helping yourself to the jug. you pour what remains of it, then take a greedy slurp, deliberate and loud.

“i have a question.” you clear your throat and slide the empty alehorn back toward him. he catches it, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “are you immortal?”

“fucking hope not.” he gruffs, waving down a serving girl.

you smirk. “it’s just, i’m pretty certain i left you for imminent death.”

“aye, i hadn’t forgotten.” he grumbles, snatching a jug from the girl.

“and you survived the army of the dead.” you rest your chin in your palm. “it seems to me that you’re hard to rid of.”

“does that sadden you?” he asks, rhetorical.

“a little.” you humour.

he offers you another drink, you decline. “i hope you made use of that silver.”

“i made more use of it than you would have.”

he looks up at you and chuckles. “you’ve changed, little pup. it used to be you couldn’t look at me — out of fear, out of hatred.”

“i still hate you.” you smile, tilting your head. his gaze flits to follow yours. “but i’ve seen worse since you.”

he straightens in his seat, chewing at his lip. “been bedded yet?”

“as it so happens, i have.” you fold your arms. you knew he’d bring it up eventually.

“broken in rough, were you?”

you squint at him, jaw ticking. “does it matter?”

he holds your hard stare for a second. “no.”

what you don’t tell him, is that it was him who you dreamt of the night you were taken.

when you knocked on his door, which took courage and much of it, you didn’t wait long enough for it to open and started to take your leave.

“little pup,” he leaned against the doorframe. “come to finally finish me?”

“something like that.”

what a sight, you twitching and writhing above him in the low candlelight. his massive palms curve around your rolling hips where they squeeze, anchoring you to his crotch.

he’s gained weight since you last saw him, his stomach soft with pudge. his thighs make for thick cushioning under your hind and you mewl, fingers nipping at his belly as he drags your clit against the salt and pepper curls at his cock’s base.

a man of his size would be well-endowed, wouldn’t he? the guy is hung like a horse, and the moment you speared yourself onto him it felt as though you were being ruined for the first time again.

you like him like this. for one, this is the longest he’s gone without imprecating you. but mostly, you’re in control for once.

and he looks devastating beneath you. a crude sheen coats his cheeks and forehead, glistening against the uneven surface of his scar. his brows are furrowed, pupils blown to the point his eyes look black, and his nostrils flare with each staggered gasp for breath.

a groan rips from his throat, raw and croaky. the wiry hairs of his chest seem to stand to attention, soaking the cotton of his undershirt. sweat catches in the stubble of his thick neck, teeth gritted in a snarl.

your hips stutter at the sight of him, snapping wildly. his hands alternate between bouncing and grinding you down onto him, skin slapping skin and the stench of sex filling the room.

the gape of your cunt as she stretches to accommodate him is immense and it aches beautifully, clinging to him like a sheath would a sword. every so often he knocks against your cervix, jolting you above him. you allow a moan to escape you, nails cutting into his chub.

with ease he’s able to reach around your waist with two large hands, guiding you along every ridge and vein. he flexes inside of you as you fuck yourself on his cock, pulsating around him.

nothing about it is loving or caressive or attentive. he won’t rock his hips or make effort to please you. he hasn’t kissed you or asked how you like it and only touches you when your pace slows. he seldom even makes a noise.

all it is, is two people chasing the same thing. a good fuck.

and gods, is it good. raw and ravenous and filthy. tooth and claw.

a frantic pant bursts from your lungs and you rut against him like something animalistic has taken you. intense pleasure starts to blossom in your stomach and your back arches, then a warm hand cups the back of your neck where it tilts your head down, forcing you to look where you’re connected.

“you’re fucking falling apart.” he drawls, slurred. you jerk away from his grip, shoving him away so he falls back into the pillows with a lazy grin.

all those years of pent up hatred, brewing and festering, igniting ever fibre of your beings, finally erupts when you both go rigid. you stiffen atop him, mouth falling open into a silent scream. a low growl reverberates through him and you feel it in your core, his fingers biting into your thighs as he dumps his load within you.

he twitches and you groan, lifting yourself off him and collapsing onto the mattress. your pussy aches at the sudden loss, your loins sore and burning. you peer down at the stickiness between your thighs and the red that curdles with the cream.

a grating chuckle irks you then and you sit up, scanning the room for something to clean yourself with.

“so i got to fuck you bloody after all.”

“i fucked myself bloody,” you grumble, rising on quivering legs. “you just laid there.”

“aye,” he watches you, amused. “and still you struggle to walk.”

“it’s been a while.” you parrot back, wincing as you wipe yourself with a spare sheet.

“no wonder you didn’t kill me,” he carries on, eyes closed and arms crossed. “i knew you wanted it as much as me.”

you scoff at that. “don’t flatter yourself.”

“i don’t need flattery when it’s my seed that drips from your cunt, little pup.”

“i’m no pup.”

“no, of course not. you’re a little bitch.”

“you’re learning.”

erm sandor clegane spits on it

hiiii! I love EVERYTHING you write, it's so amazing! I was just wondering if I could request a fic with sandor clegane (ofc) where the reader is the one to pursue him? at first he doesn't want a bar of it but he slowly starts to come around to the idea. maybe a bit of angst and smut? idk up to you darling, you're the master here hehe 😉

(can I flirt with you..??)

ooo i love this !! and ofc you can, everyone else does lmao

you don’t know what attracts you to him. he’s mean, he’s violent, he reeks of wine and sweat and steel, and he’s practically missing half of his face.

it could be perhaps, because he does not seem to want for you.

as joffrey’s twin, you’re a spit of your mother. hair like molten gold and eyes like pools of liquid malachite. a dozen men a day flock to the red keep to ask for your hand, and so a dozen heads a day decorate the city gates.

but the man won’t so much as look your way. and you’ve tried it all, you really have.

“sandor,” you cooed, voice like candied fruits. “would you help me with my necklace?”

“i’m your bodyguard, princess, not your handmaiden.”

he watched you struggle with the dainty chain for some time, only for your brother to grow tired of your huffing and fussing. “dog, see to my stupid sister and her hapless attempts.”

“oops!” of course it slipped from your hands. silly you, always so clumsy. it was just so delicate and flimsy! you’d no choice but to bend over and pick it up, just as sandor stepped behind you.

oh, then you felt a little dizzy. it was such a hot day, you see. you swayed on your feet, teetering forwards. then a pair of strong hands steadied you by your hips and pulled you upright.

“oh, thank you,” you turned to caress his chest plate. “my hero. . . you’re so strong!”

he only stared down at you, stoic and deadpan.

“here,” you scraped your long hair over one shoulder to grant access to your neck, showing off your bust.

he twisted you by your shoulders and quickly fastened the chain in one swift motion. his fingers barely grazed you.

you’ve been known to have him sent to your chambers whilst bathing or dressing. or barely dressed.

“well? what do you think?” you asked, spinning slowly on the spot. red silks draped over your front, gold straps securing it at the shoulders. your skin was exposed at the sides, revealing your legs and hips, and your back had no garment to conceal it at all except for what clung to your bottom, though the dimples at the small of your back peaked above it.

“one day you’ll really need me, and i won’t come.” he told you, making his way to the door. “remember that, little lion.”

out of embarrassment, you had your brother put him on door duty. of course you made sure it was your door he was assigned to guard. and so for the entire week that he stood guard outside your chambers, you took yourself with your fingers, moaning just loud enough for him to hear from his post.

he stood there every night, listening to your sweet voice whilst he swelled within his briefs. but he never gave you the satisfaction of charging in and taking you like you’d hoped. he’d take himself in his fist when his shift was over, thinking of you in that slutty red silk.

but for all you knew, he never heard a thing.

so you resorted to throwing yourself at other men. you didn’t care who.

it started with complimenting them, to stopping to ask them if you had something in your teeth, angling your face in front of theirs so it would look from a distance as though you were kissing them.

but eventually you grew bored of them. they just weren’t sandor. they weren’t dark and brooding and grumpy. they weren’t mysterious and rude and formidable.

they didn’t smell like blood or horseflesh or musk.

and you were beginning to feel rather pathetic. he didn’t seem to care. in fact, he didn’t even appear to notice.

what would it take? must you beg him to fuck you? even you aren’t above begging sandor clegane to fuck you.

and here you are, preparing to beg. you fix your hair, correct your dress - you’re wearing your best one - and knock softly at his door.

there’s some rustling and a thud on the other side, then what feels like an eternity although only a few seconds later, it opens. he’s stripped down to his undershirt and trousers, a wineskin in his hand. from the hoods of his eyes and the blush to his unscarred cheek, you wager he’s guzzled at least two already.

“princess,” he greets, slurping from the skin. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “it’s after hours.”

“am i so repulsive?” you cut to the chase, heart racing.

until now you’ve been so confident in your attempts to seduce him, but you’ve never seen him in anything but his armour. you’ve envisioned a thousand times what he looks like beneath it, but never did you imagine the thick burls of muscle. he’s built like an ox and his chest hair grows up his broad neck to bcome one with his beard. you suspected that perhaps his armour padded him out, but now you know that he’s just that big. if anything his armour does his size an injustice.

“wouldn’t kick you out of bed.” he grunts, watching you.

you’re astonished, eyes widening. “that can’t be so,” you step closer. has he always been this tall? “i’ve been trying to get you into mine, to no avail.”

“i know.” he grunts, leaning against his doorframe.

you only stare up at him. “you are not a man of honour, sandor clegane. i know you are not one to concern yourself with a lady’s last name before you have your way with her.”

“i’m not.” he grumbles through a swig of wine. “you’ve not been broken in.”

“i have.” you blurt, blinking once the lie has left you.

he narrows his eyes, studying you. he calls your bluff. “fuck off.”

you smirk. “fuck me, and when i don’t bleed, you’ll see.”

“you’ll still bleed.” he spits back, pushing himself from the wall to loom over you.

“you think highly of yourself,” you step closer, able to smell the odor of his labours, the heat of his body radiating onto you. “prove it.”

he says nothing, but you notice his chest rising and falling a little faster than before.

“you don’t believe me, i don’t believe you—”

“and give you what you want?” he barks, slicing at his words with a volatile tongue.

“i may be the only woman who’ll ever want you, sandor.” he falters and you grin. “and i do believe that refusing me, the king’s sister, is a crime punishable by death.”

“as is fucking the king’s sister.” he retorts.

you tilt your head and pout, twisting a finger in the matted curls that sprout from his chest. “what? afraid i’ll tell on you?”

then a low growl rumbles deeply from him, reverberating onto your hand. you’re whisked into his quarters where he beds you late into the night. you indeed bleed from your loins which cause you great discomfort well into the following weeks.

and you should not have worn your best dress.

cat dad könig inspo video <3

so real about the sandor thing. like i’m sure he wasn’t intended to be liked like that, but i can’t help it! one of my favourites honestly!

what about sandor escorting reader, as he did arya (but readers an adult obviously), and reader, being a lady or princess, is acting all spoiled/bratty? huffing at every inn (“it smells!”), whining about the food (“rabbit?? couldn’t you have caught a goose?”), until he finally has enough and puts reader in her place, talking back to her for once. he doesn’t miss the way reader blushes and shifts at his harsh tone, maybe all she needs is to be bent over a dusty inn bed to improve her mood?

him in the books is. . . questionable lmao. but his onscreen counterpart on the other hand? BARK BARK.

and honestly you read my mind, i was hoping someone would make a request like this *rubs hands together*

cw 18+; strong language, sexual language, mentions of violence, mentions of sa (not by sandor), sandor gets his own warning for saying cunt all the time, hostage situation, lightly implied stockholm syndrome, age gap, size diff, p in v sex, you’re a virgin, guys it’s fucking dirty i dunno what to tell ya. oh and black cat x golden lab cause i’m a sappy old shite.

your feet hurt. you’re not sure if it’s the dampness that’s soaked through your stockings, the bitter chill that nips through your footwear, or the uneven terrain you clumsily navigate.

the ground is loose and rocky, the air is unforgiving to your tangled hair and the way your stomach growls to be filled only casts a shadow on your already dim mood. the wind whistles in the silence, occasionally interrupted by the crunching of earth beneath your feet. you wince when a particularly sharp stone jabs the sole of your foot and you lift it up, checking it has not pierced the underside of your shoe.

“what the fuck’s the problem now?” a gruff voice carries through the breeze to your frost-bitten ears and you throw him a sidelong glance.

sandor clegane, better known as the hound. once king joffrey’s sworn shield and brother of the kingsguard, now a stray dog. he’d fled the red keep when faced with, in his words, ‘a swarm of aflame cunts’. he later claimed stannis’ men took their king’s flaming heart sigil too seriously. you wagered it was thanks to tyrion’s wildfire stunt.

and with him, you. you’d found him in your chambers after leaving queen cersei’s henhouse of flocked maidens. you couldn’t handle another prayer or hymn, nor a single drop more of that blood-red wine cersei kept offering you; though it did better than the harmonies and entreaties to calm your nerves.

« i’ll keep you safe, girl. they’re all afraid of me »

the wise words of a man who runs with his tail between his legs at the sight of fire.

when he offered to take you with him, you didn’t realise that meant you’d become his ransom. he was always kind to you. you saw the look on his face whenever joffrey would beat you — like he wanted to unsheath his sword and drive it straight through the cruel bastard’s cold little heart, if he even had one.

sandor clegane who hates everyone, perhaps hated you the least. now you laugh to yourself for wondering such a thing. he only protects you because of the sum you’re worth, so he surely hates you the most. if there’s anyone he hates more than himself, that is.

“i hurt my foot.” you tell him, staggering on one leg whilst you inspect your boot. the stone indeed lodged itself into the tatty sole and you yank it out with dramatic effort. you’ve half a mind to send it flying right into his face, but it’s seen enough damage. plus you’d probably miss anyway. you never had a strong throwing arm, even before you were starved and weak.

“is it hanging on by a fucking thread?” he asks you, one large hand on his sword’s hilt.

you frown at him and return to a two-legged stance. “no.”

“so fucking move your arse, then.”

your mouth opens and closes again, trying to find the words. your tongue has always been your greatest, if not only weapon, though cersei insisted it was what lived between your legs. her younger brother told you that the mind is the sharpest of them all. you hoped you could rely on the latter.

“i’m starting to really loathe you.”

your words stop him which surprises you. you had hoped he might not hear you, were certain he wouldn’t. only one of his ears possesses that ability anyway. he turns on his axis and saunters toward you.

“there’s far worse than me.” he’s told you that before, like he means to convince you of it. “rapers, plunderers, child beaters and fuckers, cults. i might’ve killed, hells i enjoy it, but out here it’s kill or be killed. being a killer is a far cry from what else i could choose to be. you think joffrey’s a menace? imagine a man unbound and unburdened by royal code. the only code out here is the moral one, and i might be the only sorry cunt that has a shred of it. you ought to be glad of me, girl.”

“so you’re above rape? oh, thank the gods.” you feign relief, even going so far as to wipe imaginary sweat from your forehead. “i must instead call you sandor the saint.”

he looks down at you with a glint you’ve not yet seen. his chocolate eyes are full of pain and sadness, you know that. anyone who has the courage to look him in the eye longer than a few seconds will notice the hurt that seeps from their dark pools like tears. but this is different. like your words have caused the pain that stares back at you, rather than the shackles of his past.

suddenly you find yourself regretting yourself, not that what you’d said was completely true in the first place. but it doesn’t matter now, he’s already walking away, head shaking as he does.

you limp after him, gaze down.

the sun hides behind the trees, blackening their outlines. the watercolour pastel of the skies above is possibly the prettiest thing you’ve seen since the gardens of kingslanding and you smile as you marvel. you’ve been unsure if you’ll ever smile again, but here you are.

“what’re you doing?” that gravelly voice makes you jump, he’s not uttered a word to you since your tantrum earlier today.

“the sunset.” you tell him, pointing at the ombré horizon as if he needs guidance on where to look. “is it not beautiful?”

he surprises you again when his gaze follows your finger, scarred face illuminated by the sky’s shades of pink and orange.

the sight of him warms you and you tilt your head, studying him. he must sense your eyes and averts his own to greet yours.

“i’m sorry.” you barely whisper. “i did not mean it.”

it occurs to you that yours may be the first apology he’s ever received.

his eyes narrow, the undamaged side of his face still highlighted by the sinking sun. you must be the only living thing in westeros that does not look at him like he’s the most dastardly creature you’ve ever encountered. the only person who does not cower in his presence or desperately avoid the hardship of looking at his half-burned face. you’ve yet to refer to him as ‘dog’ or treat him like such. you haven’t made a single remark about his appearance. the word ‘monster’ has not once left your mouth when referring to him.

you call him sandor. the last person who called him by his given name was his mother. . . probably. he does not remember her well. he thinks he was her favourite. he recalls her nice treatment of him. the last niceness he ever experienced. fleeting and not enough.

“we rest here.” he finally says, as soft as he can muster. “the riverlands should only be a few days walk from here.”

your feet ache at the thought. “i wish we had horses.”

he doesn’t respond, already making himself comfortable on the grass below.

your nose scrunches up. “it’s wet.”

“what?”

“the grass is wet.”

he rolls his head to the side, returning your unimpressed expression with his own exhausted one. “and what the fuck d’you want me to do about that? blow on it until it dries?”

you press your lips into a thin line. “no, but maybe we could light a fire?”

“no fire.” he snaps.

your hands find place on your hips and he arches his only brow. “my father will not pay you in full if you bring me to him sickly and ailing.”

“what the fuck’s ~ailing~.”

his mind immediately arrives at the beverage. oh, how he’s missing alcohol. you’re making his involuntary sobriety intolerable.

you fold your arms across your chest, leaning your weight onto one foot. “it means to be indisposed.”

he snorts at that, crass. “indisposed? sit down, will you.”

you huff in defeat and gingerly lower yourself onto your knees. the dew seeps through your skirt and you groan, pulling your cloak around yourself in the hopes that when you lay back, your back won’t get too wet.

he watches you fidget and shuffle, lips curled in disgust whenever your bare hands touch a blade of grass. he rolls his eyes, rather enjoying the coolness of the green blades against his irritant skin.

“worst day ever.” he hears you mumble as you continue to restlessly squirm and huff through your nostrils.

sick of your bellyaching, he bolts upright and leans over the narrow gap between you, clasping you by the upper arm to drag you toward him. you gasp at his iron grip and yelp when he situates you against him, your back to his front.

you squirm. “what in seven hells are you doing? unhand me!”

“stop that.” he grunts, flattening one large hand over your stomach to keep you still.

he becomes rigid and unsure, correcting his position against your smaller frame. you wonder if he’s ever been this close to someone before. you noticed during your time in the capital that he often dodged touch.

the heat from his body radiates through his armour and wraps you in a warm embrace. you realise his intention then and it thaws you. allowing yourself to relax, you let your gaze drift to the sky again, now a deep blue in colour. he tenses again, his fingertips refusing to make contact with you. only the heel of his palm rests on your front, almost covering it entirely like a weighted blanket. his company starts to soothe you, not that it really unnerved you to begin with.

“sandor.” his name travels to a deaf ear, despite coming from your mouth. he couldn’t possibly be asleep already, you suppose he’s ignoring you. it wouldn’t be the first time.

“i do not loathe you.” then sleep takes you.

the breeze isn’t so nippy and the rays of the rising sun warm your cheeks, rosy from last night’s cold. you trudge behind your captor though he’d rather label himself your saviour, which in a twisted way he is, grimacing at the way your toes feel as though they’ll snap like frozen twigs in the cramped pockets of your boots.

“can we take a break?” you plead, whining like a kicked dog when you tread in a puddle. you lift your skirts and your face wrinkles at the mud-sodden hem of it. your dress had the likeness of emerald when you departed, now it’s brownish and ripped in places, the delicate embroidery worn and frayed.

he doesn’t stop to wait for you this time. “we’ve been on the road an hour. . . if that.”

you take that as a no and trail after him, practically stomping although it hurts to do so. “we’ve been on the road for the better part of a month, actually.”

he scoffs. “hardly.”

now he graces you the courtesy to throw a brief glance at you over his broad shoulder. “keep up.”

you scowl. “you have a quicker stride.”

“jog then.”

“i’d rather not.”

he sighs and backtracks his steps, marching in your direction. you brace yourself for the confrontation that’s been brewing since the crownlands, straightening your back. “go on, then.”

he eyes you, searching your face for a sign that you’re surely not being serious. “is that what you think of me?” he spits, cursing the night he wandered into your chambers and invited you to accompany him from the stinking city he’s since wished he left you in.

you blink, bewildered when he spins and squats down on his haunches, arms outstretched behind him. “what are doing?”

“jump.” he simply says, fed-up.

you hesitate. “a piggyback?”

“aye, it’s a heroic piggyback.” he kids, impatiently wriggling the thick fingers that reach back for you. “it’s this or you walk.”

you’ll take anything over having to walk another metre and plant your hands on his steel-clad shoulders. his hands envelop the backs of your thighs and he hoists you onto his large back, adjusting you when you start to slide down the metal surface of his armour. he’s so wide that it actually hurts your center to wrap your legs around him. he hooks his elbows under the backs of your knees like chain-links and huffs. “better?”

“much.” you hum, revelling in the relief of your throbbing feet and perch your chin on his shoulder.

“other side.” he gruffs, jutting his head to the opposite shoulder. your body jolts with each of his heavy steps and you side-eye him. “pardon?”

“i’m not listening to your sniffling and mouth-breathing the whole way.” he drones. you roll your eyes and switch to his other shoulder before exhaling a deliberately loud sigh against what remains of his deaf ear. you’re certain you feel him chuckle beneath you. “brat.”

“i don’t mouth-breathe.” you banter, feeling the safest you have since leaving your homekeep of seagard after the announcement of sansa stark’s betrothal. a comfortable silence settles and you’re thankful for the civil atmosphere that replaces the previously frosty one. “how much will you demand from my father?”

“as much i make him cough up.” sandor grunts, pausing to hike you further up his back before resuming his brisk pace.

“you won’t hurt him?” you ask, lulling you head to peer at him.

“not if he pays me generously for my trouble.”

your fingers curl nervously into his breast plate. “i’m asking you not to hurt my father.”

“is lord mallister a compliant man?”

“yes, but i shouldn’t imagine he’ll be too impressed by you or your terms.” you warn.

sandor’s speed slows to a stop and you lift your head to peer beyond the woodland brush. smoke floats until its one with the canopy of clouds and the smell of bread tumbles from the same chimney. your stomach rumbles in tandem with the flare of your nostrils and your mouth waters greedily.

“hungry?” he prompts.

“famished.”

the inn is about as dismal as it is antiquate. cobwebs hang like chandeliers from the wooden ceiling which sandor has to hunch beneath to avoid head-butting it, and the room falls silent once his presence is noticed. sandor stares them down.

“find somewhere to sit.” he tells you, leaving to approach the bar. as soon as he’s absent from your side you feel the eyes of several drunks land on you and your guts twist.

spotting an empty booth in the far corner you scamper like a mouse afraid of its own shadow and slump yourself down with your back to the wall, hands poised neatly over your lap and head bowed. you fiddle with your fingers, picking at the cracked skin of your cuticles when the bench opposite you creaks.

sandor settles himself down, sliding you a bowl of something steaming-hot and muddy in colour. you catch a whiff of the aroma, meaty. “what’s in it?”

“dog.” he rasps through a mouthful and stuffs the spoon back into his mouth before swallowing the first bite.

you gawk at him and nudge your bowl away with a disapproving finger.

he glances at you, strings of sauce drooling from his beard. “it’s rabbit.”

you don’t find him funny, wanting nothing more than to jam your fork into his leg that squashes yours, too long not to encroach on your side of the table. picking up your spoon you cringe at the rust that tarnishes it and wonder if it was even cleaned since its last use, and attempt to polish it with your sleeve.

“eat it, or be in it.” sandor bellows having watched your fussing.

you slouch and dip your spoon into the stew, barely scooping up a substantial amount. with an agitated growl, he clasps your wrist and forces you to pile too much food onto the spoon for you to fit in your mouth and shovels it into your gob. you almost choke when he practically gags you with it and your eyes water when it burns your tongue.

the chunks of rabbit are dry and chewy, the toughness almost hurting your teeth as they try to mash it up. “gods.” you manage to say. “it’s like leather.”

“have much experience eating leather, do you?” he retorts, scraping every last speck of sauce from his bowl. you glare at him once you’ve finally swallowed, the rubbery meat dragging itself down to your stomach; you actually feel it hit the bottom of its empty pit. you’ve lost your appetite.

the barmaid places two cups of ale on your table and leans over to take sandor’s empty bowl from him. you clear your throat and pass her yours. “are you hungry? please, have mine.” you offer. she looks stunned and reaches to take your meal from you with a shy smile.

sandor snatches it back and slams it down in front of you. “i didn’t use my last coins to feed a kitchen wench. eat your fucking food.” his tone startles you and the poor girl scuttles back to the kitchen.

“sandor—”

“no.” he cuts you off. “you’ve been chewing my ears off about how starving you are, i got you food, so eat it.” he throws his head back with the cup to his mouth, gulping back his ale like a baby at its mother’s teat.

“it’s disgusting. i am no longer hungry.” you argue, and slouch back against the wall.

he leans toward you on his elbows, the amber stickiness of his drink sloshing onto the table’s oak. “eat.”

“you eat it if you’re so concerned about it going to waste.” you challenge, squinting at him. “you’re not losing out on any profit, you plan to sell me to my own father. soon, you’ll be richer than the lannisters ever made you. its a bowl of sludge and your way of life is doing little to influence my standards, hound.”

oh dear, you shouldn’t have said that.

he chews his lip for a second. maybe he plans on snuffing you out like a flame and gifting your father just your head instead. you wonder how much your head is worth.

sandor stands, swigging the dregs of his drink before allowing it to slip from his hand to the wooden floor. you watch his every move, preparing to kick and scream like your life depends on it. he walks around the table and ducks down, hoisting you onto his shoulder. you squeal and hammer your fists against his back. “put me down!”

the inn’s other guests do nothing to assist. some watch him carry you up the staircase, most don’t look up from their drinks. you see the maid from before watch you disappear to the upper floor with sorry eyes. you don’t expect her to step in, not after her encounter with him.

“you said you’re not a rapist.” you remind him tearfully, lip quivering when he unlocks one of the rooms and steps inside.

you’re then lowered to your feet and you make an immediate break for the window but he’s faster, grabbing your cloak and spinning you back to him. “that’s the first thing you think? really?”

you avoid his face, for the first time since you met you can’t bear to look at him.

then your back hits the door, a little blade that’s seen more death than the kingswood and claimed more men than a common whore finds itself at your neck. you gasp, not daring to move.

“carotid artery.” he says, barely kissing your skin with his blade.

he shifts it, expertly and practiced. the cold steel presses just under your chin where the skin stretches from your jaw to your throat. “lingual artery.”

your breathing is shallow, pupils trembling within your irises.

the knife grazes down your chest, stopping to the left of your sternum. “this is where the heart is. what was it they told you? that your cunt is your greatest weapon? no. . . your mind?”

he chuckles bitterly and draws the blade so it’s adjacent to your nose, forcing you to look at it. “this is a weapon. this will kill you. especially if someone sticks it here.”

he repositions it to your throat. “or here. . .”

under your chin.

“or here.” at your heart.

you’re struck by him, no longer scared. just utterly astonished.

then the sharp point pinches your thigh and you suck in a staggered breath. “femoral artery.” he’s looking down, almost predatorily. said artery starts to pulse under your flushed skin. “you’ll bleed out for hours if someone nicks that.”

you’re close, and you didn’t realise just how close until his hand coasts your naval on its way back up. “which you will, if you don’t have me.”

so it’s a lesson.

“you promised to keep me safe.” you whisper, eyes flitting between his. “i don’t want to be alone.”

“show some fucking gratitude for the fact you’d be dead ten times over if not for me. maybe then i won’t leave you to fend for yourself.” his hard features are betrayed by the softness in his stare. perhaps, his threat is empty.

“i don’t care that much about money.” he admits, propping himself up with a hand beside your head. “i can always get it through other means.”

you call his bluff. “i thought you weren’t a plunderer.”

“who said anything about plundering?” his voice barely succeeds a whisper.

your eyes fall to his parted lips. they’re thin but his mouth stretches wide. chapped, only a little. you think a portion of his upper lip is concealed by the thick bristle that grows above. you can smell the ale on his breath, feel the heat of it waft over your skin.

when you allow your eyes to part from them, you find his own eyes are drinking you in. from your lips, to your hair, to the skin that pads your collarbones and finally south. if it were any other man you’d slap him across the cheek for looking at you in such a way, but you don’t feel violated at all.

“i am grateful to you.”

your words regain his attention, his eyes snap up to burn into yours. an intense and animalistic stare that you’ve only seen on him after he’s taken a life.

“don’t seem it. you’re a snooty little bitch, aren’t you.”

you open your mouth to speak, only for him to swallow your dispute with his. your head bounces off the door with the force of his lips crashing against yours and you gasp, muffled by the kiss.

its classless. tongue, teeth and claw. you’ve never been kissed before, not even a peck. no amount of talks with your septa could’ve readied you for this.

you whimper into his mouth, hands flat against the silver of his chest plate. he grunts, manhandling you against him so he can lift you onto the bed. you hit the mattress, body bouncing with his aggression and he pins you there, knee bent between your legs.

he’s unbuckling his armour, hands moving too fast they’re almost blurry. you had no idea those massive paws of his could be so nimble. the various plates fall from his front and back, shoulders, elbows and forearms. you jump when they clash with the floor, and suddenly you’re embarrassed that the people downstairs may’ve heard.

his belt clinks, gauntlets and sword forgotten somewhere with it.

“i’ve never. . .” you trail off, cheeks blushing an unforgiving red. sandor looms over you, left in his undershirt, trousers and boots. his chest hair pokes above the neck of his cotton top, dirty skin glistening in the lowlight.

“been fucked.” he finishes on your behalf. it’s a statement, not even an assumption. he already knows.

you nod wearily, averting your eyes.

“good.” he simply says. “get rid of this.” he rips your dress from top to tail, exposing your underskirts and the corset that sinches your waist. you gasp when your cloak is torn out from underneath you next, leaving you almost bare.

not bare enough.

he lifts the white material of your skirts up past your hips, revealing the height of your stockings — they stop mid-thigh. a low rumble reverberates from him.

“here.” you offer your help, lifting your bottom up to unclasp your undergarments. you’re not sure he even noticed, eyes glued to what your mother referred to as ‘your flower’. freshly bloomed but not yet watered.

“i thought only whores walked bare.” he thought aloud, traipsing a finger up the inside of your thigh. you shiver and clamp them shut.

“i had to rid of them.” you grow nervous again. “i bled last week.” which is true, but wearing the same underwear for days on end wasn’t particularly comfortable either.

he forces a hand between your legs, wedging them open. your folds flourish for him, also glistening in the low light.

“heavens.” he shudders, cock pressing painfully against his trousers. “pretty cunt.”

the mere outline of his size aches your core and you huff.

“you really are teaching me a lesson.” you force out a nervous laugh.

“so you can keep up.” he jests, mattress dipping and bed frame groaning when he crawls over you.

you swallow. “i’ve head that it hurts.”

“it will.” his fingertips brush your hip, then slip to stroke your thigh. you’re bent awkwardly in half, your bottom angled against his crotch. “but not for long, and not once you’ve been broken in.”

“will i bleed?” you already know the answer, you’re not so naive to that extent.

“aye,” his thumb finds the throb of your artery. “but not as much as this would.”

the lesson continues.

he reaches between your bodies, the sleeve of his shirt grazing your slick. you feel it pucker in response, the heat returning to your cheeks. sandor frees himself from his trousers, the engorged head of his cock springing to slap your inner thigh.

you suspected a man of his build was probably well-hung but seven hells, he’s been blessed by the gods.

“does it scare you?”

“no.” you lie.

“it should.” he slides a long digit through your slit, circles the bundle of nerves at the top and drags it down toward your opening. knuckle-deep, he crooks it inside of you. your stomach caves in and your mouth falls agape.

he studies the subtle switches in your expression. hooded, glossy eyes and furrowed brows.

you don’t notice him retract his finger until the pressure of it is replaced by an insatiable fullness, driving through your loins and piercing the narrowness of your innocence.

you arch into him with a high-pitched cry, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted.

“catch them by surprise.” he grunts, the veins in his neck bulging and the muscles in his arms rippling. “remember that.”

surely he’s not still teaching. he stills for a second, revelling in your tightness whilst you try to accommodate his intrusion.

he twitches within you, desperate to fuck you silly. his lips confront yours again, furious and messy. you squeal like a wounded boar when he pulls his hips back, rocking into you again. the weight of his thighs hugging the curve of your ass tilt you up so you slot against him like a jigsaw, the juices that coat his dick in a crude sheen enticing a low growl.

he moves in, out, and in again. you start to adjust, focusing on the pleasure that rockets up your spine every time his cockhead jabs at your cervix. the sensation is alien and completely unpredictable.

your head rolls to the side, breaking the kiss. he pulls all the way out this time, then plunges back into your depths until all of him has disappeared within you. your mouth hangs open with a salacious mewl, you feel so stuffed. your fists twist to scrunch the bedsheets, breathless pants tumbling from your puffy lips.

a warm and callused palm closes around your neck, enough pressure in its hold to make you dizzy. you arch yourself into him through subconscious desire and his cock slides impossibly deeper inside of you.

he groans and that’s that. he slams into you, ripping a guttural moan from your chest. rising on his knees, he throws your legs over his shoulders, pinning your core to his crotch so only your head and shoulders remain on the mattress.

his rhythm is rough and steady, balls smacking against you with each poignant thrust. “fuck, that’s it.” his jaws are clenched, nails cutting into your skin. your feet curl into a cramp either side of his head and you whine, lightheaded. “gods. . .”

your enjoyment sings to him and it’s music to his ears. the sounds of your little virgin cunt slurping around him and the way you weep for more become his new favourite melody. you sound angelic and look the part too.

you swear you can feel him everywhere. in your stomach, in parts of you that you didn’t know existed. filling you, taking you, and ruining you for whom ever you may one day wed.

in this moment you don’t feel real. all you can do is whimper and clench around him, sore and swollen. used.

you try to speak, unable to find the power of speech. your toes curl into his hair, eyes rolling until you see darkness and stars.

“little lady wants something?” he punctuates each word with a harsh rut, humping into you clumsily but not caring for his sloppiness.

he fucks you deeply, and of all the women he’s laid with, all for a price and double the usual for the trouble of having to look at a face like his, never has he been taken so well. you swallow his entirety with every snap of his hips, the wiry bush that grows from his pubic bone kissing your clit every time.

and then you fall completely silent, body tensing like a plank of wood until it hits. its blinding and overwhelming, all you can do is spasm around him when finally you let out what one could describe as a howl. you’ve never made such a noise in your life. its the kind of noise you’d expect to hear from men charging into battle.

“fucking hells—” sandor curses, lurching forward when you gush around him. he fucks your climax back into you, adding to it with his own thick seed. you feel it surge through your spent little hole and your cunt gladly milks him of everything he gives you, sucking him dry.

he collapses onto you, your legs falling from the barrels of his shoulders. his cock coerces you through the aftershocks and you hum, now aware of the dull pain between your legs. you lift a shaky hand, almost too weak to do that, and pet his hair. surprisingly, its softer than yours. he purrs into the crook of your neck like a domesticated cat, the flip-side of the coin to the rabid dog you believed him to be mere hours ago.

you give his shoulder a pat and he groans, lifting his weight off of you. he withdraws his softening cock as he stands, you whine at the loss of him and the way your combined climaxes trickle from your fucked-out hole and pool beneath you. you feel a sting down below where you’re returning to your usual size, no longer speared by something to stretch it out. it’s rather a pleasant pain you feel and not as bad as you feared. that, or you’re still dazed by the afterglow.

once he’s tucked himself away, he offers you a rag from his pocket. “here, clean yourself.” he places it in your hand when you make no effort to move and you’re scarcely aware of him when he sits beside you, a little short of breath. “we stay here tonight.”

“we have no money to rent the room.” you manage to mumble, slurred.

“i already did.” he tells you. so that’s where the rest of his coins went. you hadn’t been convinced that a stew that terrible would cost so much. “you’ll need the rest.”

the revelation gladdened you. if you couldn’t walk before, you don’t fancy your chances now.

farmer!könig inspo video! <3

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

Look buddy, i’m just trying to make it to Friday.

everyone should tag their 16 and 34 on Spotify wrapped for good luck

i know there’s more than this out there but it really is incredible that people will look at a fictional character someone else wrote and collectively say “I will write you a hundred happy endings.”

You show up for your first day at Copyright-Free Magic School. As you're going through orientation, you're informed that all new students get a school-assigned familiar that they are responsible for housing and maintaining. The staff member assures you that your assigned familiar is appropriately chosen and reflects you in some way.

Spin this to find out yours. (Remember, you are responsible for maintaining this familiar in your dorm room.)

I hope none of you disappear in the coming days. Seriously don't do anything that can't be undone.

reblog if you need a hug

they are back

not now. mommys making a 0 note post

translation

pink~ gunshots and explosions: 🗿

vaccines: 😰

green~ ironically, that’s how majority of us military people are like

blue ~ true, my uncle is military and he’s terrified of vaccines

Like to charge, reblog to cast

"you should be at the club" I should be working on my fanfic

It's my 1 year anniversary on Tumblr 🥳

cute little könig doodle based directly on this

all credit to the original artist! i tried finding them (using that username) on all socials to tag them, and i couldn’t 😭