## LITTLE PUP.

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.

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.”

For Boop-Badges Collectors

Rough estimate: It's possible to reach 1000 boops in less than 2 hours (took me 1:30h), if you got some people to spam it to.

If you are a blog where people can spam boop's to, reblog this.

Like to charge, reblog to cast

i was determined to give as many as i could

blinking blearily at my phone

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.

cat dad könig inspo video <3

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.”

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

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 🫶🏼