Well Yes - Blog Posts
best friend touya finding out you don't watch porn because you've never found anything you liked.
he asks if he can send you links, show you what's out there from a trusted source. you've always low-key had a thing for him, so you agree, even though a part of you knows there's no coming back to normal friendship after this.
the links start out tame, almost sweet. you've seen porn like it before, the basic shit that looks like a couple made a home movie. it’s not that you find it unappealing; you simply feel nothing watching two strangers fuck like they’re in love.
you send a thumbs-down reaction to the messages.
touya texts back: well shit
a flurry of links blow up your phone and you don’t get the strategy until you find one, buried in the middle, that reads: fucking my best friend so hard he cries
with your heart in your throat, you thumbs-up the message.
touya replies immediately.
omw
Sub bully gojo like he was planning on fucking and bullying reader when the opposite went way? Like reader had enough of his bullshit and makes him cry and overstimulates him?
Loser | sub!gojo satoru
wc: 2.9k+ words | masterlist
dom!gn!reader, mean!reader -> soft!reader, bully!gojo kinda but he’s more annoying then actually bullying, crying, footjob except he’s clothed, cumming in pants, college au, edging, comparing gojo to a puppy, degradation, praise, exhibitionism, overstimulation, knocking Gojo down a peg, teasing, cursing, mention of reader being shorter than gojo but not important, ooc gojo(?)
note : the writing may be weird… its been a while 😬
"Well well well, look who it is!" You grimace at the all too familiar voice and try to quickly turn the corner but a hand grabs your hand and turns you around, causing you to stumble back slightly but you catch yourself in time.
Furrowing your eyebrows and frowning in annoyance, you eye the person who stopped you: Gojo fucking Satoru. He’s the guy who’s been making your college life a living hell ever since he found out you two went to the same high school. Even though there were several other students here who also went to the same high school, he decided to annoy you for some reason.
The other students in the hallway quickly shuffle to their next classes or to lunch, too afraid to say something that’ll result in Gojo picking on them instead. Of course, they're scared, Gojo is known as a bully who somehow has good relationships with the teachers, an advantage he uses daily. The hallway is deserted now with only you two standing in. You hear the bell ring loudly throughout and your eyes dart to the clock on the wall. Damn it, you’re late to class now.
“Hey! Look at me, bitch.” You scowl deeply as your attention turns back to Gojo. You wonder if he’s aware of his childish personality or not. You assume he doesn’t by the way he continues to act like a toddler.
“What the hell do you want?” You reply, annoyance clear as day on your face. A grin spreads across his face when he sees your attention back on him. God, he loves the way you look at him like that. He quickly shoves the thought to the back of his head.
“In a bad mood today, huh?” He teases, that annoying grin still prominent on his face and you clench your fist into a ball, wanting to punch that grin off his stupid face though you know you can’t. He would just go running to the teachers and higher-ups and get you in trouble somehow.
You let out a small scoff and continue to glare at him before he talks again.
“What? You really think I’m gonna annoy you today?” He smirks and slowly walks closer to you but you grimace. He leans his head down slightly and you frown deeper. You’re already annoying me with your presence, you want to say.
“You should smile more, it’ll make you more pleasant to look at for once, [name]-” He could barely finish his sentence before your anger got the best of you. How dare he act like nothing’s happened?
“What is your fucking problem, you bastard?” You sneer at him as you shove his chest hard, causing him to widen his eyes at your sudden action and stumble backwards before tripping over his feet and falling to the ground on his bottom, his feet on the floor with his knees bent towards the ceiling and his hands behind him to stabilize himself. His legs are spread out slightly and he winces at the sudden impact.
If your mind wasn’t so flooded with anger right now, you would think that Gojo looks rather hot on the ground staring up at you with a flushed face and widened eyes.
Shit, he didn’t mean for you to get this pissed off. He was planning to ask you to come over to his house later or something. Usually you just ignore him and walk off quietly, he didn’t expect this at all. Why are you getting mad? Haven’t you gotten the hint that he bullies you cause he likes you?
You step a foot down awfully near his crotch and he flinches, staring at it with a red face but you don’t notice. You see his Adam's apple bob in his throat as he swallows harshly. He looks back up at you but quickly looks away when he sees you staring at him so intensely and you’re surprised just how easily he shut up from a simple shove to the ground. Maybe he’s more simple than you thought.
You see his chest rise up and down quickly. The silence is thick and heavy in the air with the sound of his breathing and your own heart beating rapidly in your chest the only noises you hear. The way he refuses to look at you, how red he is, and the way his legs slightly tremble gives you the wrong idea.
Does… seeing you towering over him and staring down at him turn him on somehow? No way, you think.
But when your eyes trail down from his still flushed face down his body and to the place between his spread legs, your idea is confirmed.
“Who said you could get fucking hard right now?” Gojo flinches and his eyes widen, quickly looking down at the rather large bulge in his pants. He tries to cover it with his hands but you quickly kick them away, resulting in his legs spreading even further apart.
Good thing that you’re at one of the more secluded and quiet areas of the school and that not many students nor teachers have classes here.
It’s odd. It’s really odd. How although he could easily get up and run away or even shove you back and say some mean things to you again, he’s not. He’s not doing any of that, just sitting on the ground in front of you like he enjoys it. And a part of you is starting to enjoy the situation as well.
You suddenly remember how although there’s no one in the hallway, there are still some students and teachers in the classrooms near you guys. It seems you two haven’t been loud enough to attract their attention but you know that at any moment, someone could step out into the hallway and spot you two. Though the thought just spurs you on even more.
He hesitates before glancing up at you and swallows again before glancing back at your shoe and it gives you an idea. Without thinking, you lift your foot and press it down on his crotch. The action immediately makes Gojo let out a deep groan and cover his mouth with his hand, his eyes squeezing shut in pleasure. The sight makes something in your stomach stir although you are still annoyed by his past actions.
Slowly, he opens his eyes back and stares at you, his eyes more soft than before. He puts his hand down and opens his mouth to talk but you notice how he hesitates.
“C-Could we ngh do this in a classroom-“
You quickly cut him off with a scoff. “Really? Do you really think I’m gonna take pity on you after you annoyed me everyday of my college life? It’s not my fault you got hard from just a shove.” You sneer in disgust, making Gojo shiver. “Maybe I should return the favor somehow.” Gojo’s breath hitches in his throat when he sees the anger in your eyes and the way you’re glaring down at him like he’s some sort of useless piece of trash. He feels something throb in his pants.
You suddenly smirk and Gojo has to hold back a whine from the way you look so scary but so hot at the same time.
“I wonder what everyone would think if they were to see you right now, pitifully on the floor like a fucking puppy,” you spit out.
Gojo squeezes his eyes shut, not wanting to imagine the sheer shock on everyone’s faces if they were to stumble across him like this in the hallway. But oh God, the way you compare him to a puppy has his stomach fluttering and something else throbbing again.
He opens his eyes again and lets out the most pitiful whine you’ve ever heard and oh does it sound heavenly coming from someone you despise.
“Please?” You contemplate it. As much as you would rather stay in the hallway and ruin him here, you know that if you two were to be caught, you would face suspension and it would ruin your reputation even more. With a sigh and frown, you glance around and spot a dark classroom. Bingo.
You point to it and Gojo’s eyes dart to the empty room, his breathing still fast. He quickly understands it and slowly gets up from the floor.
“Go inside.” It wasn’t a statement, it was an order. He nods and he walks in, glancing behind him to make sure you’re following him inside. As you go into the room, you close the door and lock it, turning back to see Gojo already on the floor on his knees and it makes your heart quicken.
Walking up to him, you before him and immediately return your foot back on his crotch and press down. Gojo lets out a breathy curse from his lips and gasps, his hands obediently at his sides, clenching into fists tightly.
He’s embarrassed at himself for being so easy for you, already at your knees after his plan backfired on him but he’s not complaining. Not when your foot presses down harder which forces a moan out from him and makes his mind foggy. He’s close already. He tells you that and he blushes when you laugh.
“Already? How pathetic,” you tease. “And I thought I would at least get to see you naked first.” The idea of him being fully naked and you fully clothed makes him whimper and he’s quick to open his mouth to beg to get naked for you but you cut him off.
“But I don't think you deserve it after everything you’ve done. You’ll cum from my foot and without taking a piece of clothing off, understood?” He nods before he understands what you said and widens his eyes when he processes it.
“But-” “But?” You raise an eyebrow, daring him to disagree which shuts him right up. You smile and grind your shoe back down on his bulge. “Good, now go on. I know you’re just aching to get some friction, yeah?”
He nods again and doesn’t hesitate for a moment before bucking his hips up against your foot, letting out a soft cry as the pleasure shoots through his body. You keep your foot still and let him do all the work and he lets out a loud moan when a particular thrust has his precum leaking out and dampening his pants.
You feel him twitch underneath your foot and smirk in amusement. “Quiet now, it's still school time, remember?” The reminder has him whimpering, wanting to let out loud noises for you but understanding the environment. You can tell he’s close from the way he’s practically begging with those puppy eyes of his.
“P-Please?” “Please what, Gojo?” He lets out another soft cry, the pleasure being too much. His mind is so foggy from the fact that you two are in an empty classroom and can get caught at any moment and how he can’t let out loud noises like he wants and the feeling of his dick being so hard, it hurts.
And now you’re teasing him. How mean, he wants to say to you. But the chances that you get mad again and leave him here in the classroom by himself with a hard dick is too high. So he begs.
“Please let me cum? Please? I-I’ve been good-” You laugh again. He hasn’t been good at all to you but he has been good at not touching you and keeping quiet. So maybe you’ll take pity on him. Maybe.
“Hm should I?” You pretend to think and Gojo moans, his pace quickening against your foot and he nods frantically. “I don’t think I should.” The second you take your foot off him, Gojo swears he’s close to crying right then and there. His hands subconsciously dart out from his sides to reach for your ankle but your sharp glare stops him.
So instead, he whimpers as tears prickle the corner of his eyes, his dick aching for release. You smirk at the sight.
“Beg for it, Gojo. Unless you want me to leave.” He obeys yet again, almost too eagerly this time that it almost makes you laugh. Geez, knocking Gojo down his high horse is way more fun than you thought it would be.
“[Name] please? Please please please i'll be such a good boy for you i promise!” It’s cute, seeing his glossy eyes and parted lips as he pants like a puppy for you. You swear you see a glimpse of a tail behind him wagging eagerly.
“Do whatever you want to me! Just let me cum, please!” With a smile, you place your foot back on his bulge and press down hard.
He throws his head back with a whimper and he swears he sees stars as his eyes roll to the back of his head.
“Ah!- T-Thank you ngh” He goes back to his previous quick pace again and it’s not long till he’s close again. He squeezes his eyes shut, not trusting himself to not have them roll back and he hesitantly places his hands around your ankle to keep it there, refusing for you to pull away again. You click your tongue in disapproval but don’t say anything about it which he is grateful about.
“I’m gonna cum im gonna cum-” He babbles out as he continues to rut against your foot like a dog in heat. “Such a good boy for me, telling me that you’re close and not cuming without permission.,” you praise and you swear his hips stutters at that. A sucker for praise, it seems.
His eyes shoot open and it's clear what he’s begging for. “Go on, cum.”
And he does almost immediately. One of his hands shoots up to cover his mouth as he muffles his choked moans and whimpers and your eyes look down to see the spot where his crotch is quickly dampening as he cums.
But you don’t stop, you actually speed up. Gojo feels your foot continuing to grind down on his now damp crotch and he can barely hold on, his hand dropping from his mouth back to hastily hold onto your leg. His eyes widen and curses sputter out of his mouth in stutters.
“S-Shit wait! I’m ngh not ready-” You grab a handful of his hair and yank on it hard, forcing him to look directly at you and let out a rather loud whine. He stares at you with tears ready to fall down his face and oh does he look good like this. He’s on his knees, his hips bucking up to your foot as if he didn’t just say he’s not ready, face flushed such a pretty pink as he stares up at you like you own him. The tight grip you have on his hair has his scalp prickling in pain in such a good way that he almost begs for you to yank harder but another moan escapes him before he can.
“Come on, you were begging so nicely earlier,” you say mockingly, a feign pout on your face as you stare down at the once confident man. “Don’t you want to cum again? I think you got some more in you, yeah?”
He immediately nods and lets out a cry when you step down even harder on his clothed dick and pull on his hair harder. Shit, he’s already close again, the overstimulation getting to him and making it feel all so much better. He can barely even talk or speak full sentences anymore, only letting out mainly whines and whimpers and a few babbles here and there.
Each tug of your hand, grind of your shoe, and praise or degradation you graciously give to him has him soon crying out of pure pleasure. Tears streak down his face slowly as he gets closer to cumming again. You’re almost jealous of how pretty he still is while crying.
“Cum.” That’s all he needs to hear before his hips stutter again and he lets out a quiet sob, cumming for the second time and staining his pants even more.
His pace slows down before stopping, his breath slowing down. He slowly leans forward to lean his cheek against your leg and your breath hitches at the sight. You can feel his hot breath against your leg as he stares up at you with hooded eyes and flushed cheeks. He’s mumbling under his breath and you swear you hear “thank you’s” coming out quietly.
You can’t help but lean down slightly and run your hand through his hair, hearing a soft hum coming from him as he sighs when your hand moves down to caress his damp cheek, nuzzling against it.
The sudden sound of the school bell ringing snaps you two out of the trance. Right, you two are still at school in an empty classroom. You hear the other students rush out of the nearby classes to leave and return home and you’re glad that you two aren’t in view of the door window.
You hear a sigh coming from Gojo and you look back at him and see him smile up at you.
“I… enjoyed that,” he murmurs shyly and you can't help but smile. “You did so good for me.” He whines and blushes and you swear you feel another twitch from his crotch.
Let's just say that you two continued to meet at that spot many times after that.
ty for reading to the end! ❤ - chaepink
╰┈➤ masterlist | rules
Despite me being Cronus Ampora's No 1. hater, I will say this... His design is actually pretty good. Unironically. Speaking of which, here's me ranking the Alpha Trolls based on how much I like their design
i'm one of the delusional sicko who firmly believe that if sledge and snafu reunite the relationship would work out and they'd be together till they die.
I don’t know how many of you listened to the new doctor who short story from big finish (war stories, the Paul spragg 2024 winner) but I was driving while listening to it and there’s a part where bill potts sees the 9th doctor and says he looks like a lesbian she had a crush on, and I laughed so hard I almost crashed.
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.
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.
reblog if you like art donaldson! or would like to hear him whimper in your ears for 5 hours straight
"kill them with kindness" WRONG boop
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