I Posted This Stuff On My Twitter. It Flopped So Hard Like Shit

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.

Where do you see yourself in 5 years?

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

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

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

table of contents; just fluff and strong language :)

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

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

“sorry, mama!” his two oldest respond.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

your son falls silent, fiddling with his hands.

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

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

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

“sandor.” you hiss.

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

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

“good lad.”

“sandor!”

resisting the urge to boop everyone i see

not now. mommys making a 0 note post

next a bite button PLEASE

## LITTLE PUP.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“lost again are we, pup?”

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

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

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

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

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

“the queen sent for you.”

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

“i will make my own way.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

sansa nods. “why didn’t you?”

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

she nods a yes.

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

she’s silent, then shakes her head no.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“a little.” you humour.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“broken in rough, were you?”

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

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

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

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

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

“something like that.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

“i’m no pup.”

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

“you’re learning.”

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.

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