Resisting The Urge To Boop Everyone I See

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.”

reblog if you need a hug

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.

not now. mommys making a 0 note post

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

Us in 50 years

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.

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.

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.)

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.