Konigofmyheart13 - Daisy

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!”

farmer!könig inspo video! <3

displaying this on this account too 🎀

kiss and tell 🎀

könig x reader fluffy drabble <3

warnings: none, unless embarrassment counts

it’s a tiny bit sad in the middle but then we get silly again :)

horangi makes an appearance too!

word count: ~1,400

turns out your husband, könig, isn’t that good at keeping you a secret…

you used to be a night owl, until you met könig. he kinda got you used to his soldier sleep schedule (up at 5 am, in bed by 10pm, when he wasn’t out in the field and forced to go days without sleeping). you were cursing your well adjusted sleep habits now, though, tugging your blanket around your shoulders as you see könig off at the door. it’s near 12 am, your neighborhood is quiet and still, but könig is as alert as ever.

you’d been out having a drawn out, romantic dinner when he’d been called on, but it was an urgent matter, so you two immediately went home so he could shower and pack. he always gets all focused and serious in times like these. he’s going on about the usual safety reminders-

“lock the door at all times, liebes” “don’t go out too late. invite your friends here instead.” “turn your scented candles off before you leave… on second thought, maybe just don’t use them at all? you’re a little forgetful sometimes”

-and you just smile sleepily at him, watching him adjust his bulletproof vest. of course to fully get into könig mindset, he’d gear up before leaving. your neighbors always turned in early, so he wasn’t worried about them seeing some scary soldier exiting your house, leaving them to wonder if that guy was friends with your tall as a tree, yet gentle husband. you’d already changed out of your favorite (and könig’s too) red dress, but you still hadn’t removed your makeup, opting to fuss over könig’s packing instead.

just as he taught you about bettering your sleep cycle, you taught him of accepting commodities and being cared for. now his pack has his usual stuff, plus on the go hygiene products, non perishable snacks (he has a weakness for these dark chocolate granola bars), and little mementos that are his guiding light through these trying missions. <3

now, huddled together at the doorway, you can’t help but tug him down by his vest for a kiss, pressing your lips over his through his mask. he makes a little noise of surprise, having been cut off mid safety rant, but he instead lifts his mask to kiss you “i’ll always come back to you, even if i have to crawl” (never “bye”) properly. the space between you warms as you kiss each other with all the love you have, damn near creating your own dimension where just the two of you exist. you know it only makes it harder for him to leave though, so you act as the rock, gently pulling back before wiping your lipgloss from his lips. “you’re gonna be late, love”, you whisper, discretely blinking away a tear when he glances at the clock on the entry table. “right as ever, königin”, he smiles as he straightens his mask picking up his duffel and helmet in one hand.

“redo of our date night?”, he asks, turning the door knob with his free hand and stepping over the threshold. you cross your arms over your chest, tugging your makeshift robe closed as the night chill from the open door sweeps in. “next weekend”, you declare confidently, full faith in your husband, secure in the knowledge that he’ll always make it back to you. the rest of his departure goes by in a blur, from the kiss he blows you before climbing in his car, to you locking the door after waving til his car turned the corner. a successful send off, you sigh as you head to shower and do your skincare before passing out for the night.

unfortunately, there was one little detail you both forgot…

könig strides into the base, heading straight to his office to grab some files needed for the mission briefing. he’d meant to get those documents signed and sent up the next rung of the kortac ladder, but no one had anticipated the turn of events that kickstarted this urgent mission. other soldiers were coming and going through the halls, some glancing (no one dared stare) at him in awe… or fear. either worked, in his opinion. könig couldn’t help but let it stroke his ego. he remembered how it felt to be a fresh faced rookie, only hoping to someday become one of the higher ups. he chuckled quietly to himself, even slowing his purposeful pace a little to give the newbies a nice colonel könig sighting.

when you got it, you got it, no?

he sauntered to his office, noting horangi was waiting outside his door. he also noted the way his friend’s eyebrows shot up in surprise as he took in his appearance. könig returned horangi’s strange look with a confused look himself. he’d checked he got everything right before leaving your house. his vest, the gear strapped to his vest, his mask, he even made sure to put his helmet on before entering the base… so why was horangi staring at him like he’d sprouted wings?

“you old dog!”, horangi gave könig an easy push on his shoulder. “you got a girl and you didn’t tell me?”

what???

könig had done all he could to keep you safe and untarnished by his work… obviously you knew what he did, but he’d never delve into details, and he sure as hell didn’t tell anyone at work about you. what purpose would they have knowing? he didn’t need them trying to cajole you into coming to stay here just to have könig be available on base full time! his engel didn’t have to step a single foot in this place. how on earth did horangi find out?

kortac did have their own…creative…ways to find out information, and it would be much easier looking into one of your own compared to an enemy. könig was racking his brain for any instance where he might have noticed surveillance being run on him, or any of his non agency issued electronics acting odd from possible hacking. the mailman had been acting a little shifty… (no, he hadn’t) and his personal phone had been displaying that odd pop up every time he opened his photos app! (again, false alarm. it was a “storage full notice”. he’d filled up his storage with pictures of you and your adventures together.)

horangi, meanwhile, crossed his arms, thinking könig was trying to think up a convincing lie against the obvious evidence.

aha! what if horangi was just making a wild guess, trying to catch könig off guard? könig wasn’t a fool. he’d been in the business long enough to not fall for such a elementary level interrogation technique. he just had to keep his cool. horangi definitely had nothing on him. könig allowed himself a casual, light scoff before setting his duffel on the floor and facing his office door, wanting horangi’s weak interrogation over with already. “where is this coming from? now’s not the time for jokes”, he huffed dismissively.

“you can’t be serious. you must have a girl…unless you’re going for a ‘confuse the enemy’ method now?”

okay, now könig was annoyed, which is saying a lot, because horangi was the one colleague he most liked. “cut to the chase, kim” könig fished his keys out from his duffel, flicking through them to find the one to his office

“könig, there’s a glittery lip print on your mask… right where your mouth would be”

shit

the only sound in the hall was könig’s keys clinking as he dropped them in shock.

how could he forget you’d kissed him through his mask, while you were still wearing your cursed (it was actually quite lovely, it tastes like strawberries to könig, he’s just mortified right now) shimmering lipgloss?

that’s why all the soldiers he passed in the hall looked at him funny. it wasn’t awe, it was confusion! basically all of kortac witnessed him making a fool of himself! of course könig is losing his mind, horangi’s cackling laugh serving as the background music, but rest assured, könig’s reputation is safe. those five (5, fünf, cinco) soldiers he passed didn’t get a long enough look as to notice the glittering spot on his mask. only horangi was brave enough-and dare i say lucky enough- to actually look at the revered and feared colonel. könig’s thanking all the forces of the universe when he remembers he always packs backup masks.

for what’s it’s worth, your husband sure learned his lesson. that’s how the only restriction regarding your kisses came to be

new rule: no kissing over the mask

. . . . . . . . . . . .

sorry, i just love making könig be silly 🫶🏼

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

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

cute little könig doodle based directly on this

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.

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.”

not now. mommys making a 0 note post

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

cat dad könig inspo video <3