Sltfor_sandor

[oopsiebo]

omg is it sandor kinktober yet?? UUUUGGGHHHH

[hoesinmysocks]

Fight For Us ⋆˚꩜｡

Sandor Clegane x wife!Reader 🫧⭐️🪷

Context: Fights with Sandor aren't pretty at all ... And it takes more than a couple grunts to make a marriage work.

a/n: My first non-smut Sandor work 🥹 #bekind

Masterlist link

⋆.ೃ࿔*:･

For better or for worse, Sandor Clegane was not a gentle person. His temper had propelled his career as a guard, no doubt, but there were times when he wished he hadn’t been born such a hothead. Since taking you as a wife, Sandor had been getting much better at handling and regulating his anger. With many hours poured into helping him open up, Sandor was slowly starting to learn how to communicate first and sulk later. But sometimes, when your fights got heated, his anger would slip through the cracks. 

In the early days of your relationship, the topic of your fights were always about his line of work. As much as you tried to hide it from him, Sandor always knew that you despised his service to the boy-king. Because of this, Sandor often chose to lie to you about certain parts of his job, and that just infuriated you even more, fuelling your disdain for the kingsgaurd. When the pent up frustration and agitation came bubbling to the surface, you and Sandor never held back; profanities were exchanged, dishes were hurled across the room, doors were slammed… It always got messy.

Sandor would come home with blood stains on his armour and linens, and brush it off as if it were no worry. “It’s not my blood, if that’ll stop you from harping on,” he’d say gruffly as he shrugged off his soiled clothes. “Gods Sandor. How can you do this? And for the Lannisters of all people!” you’d reply, a harrowing sense of shame rising in your chest as the idea of your husband hurting another human being — deserved or not — crept into your mind. Sandor would bark back and the rest of the week would be spent in an endless back-and-forth war.

Although lately, your fights have slowly started to center around Sandor’s jealousy. You and Sandor had married young, and you were once hailed for your beauty as a bride. You possessed an astounding charm and elegance that men, including and especially Sandor, could not help but be captivated by. And he loved you for your beauty. But you would be a fool to say that your marriage had not been the talk of the town for a cruelly long time. Who could have imagined a girl so young and so enamouring as yourself would bed a man so horrifying and grotesque as The Hound? 

At first, Sandor had barely paid those whispering rumours any mind. He was one of the most feared guards in the realm, why should he pay any attention to the gossip of lesser handmaidens and old housewives? Sandor was assured enough by the ferociousness of your love and devotion as a wife that no one could sway his opinion of your loyalty. But with age came change; the stumble in his gait, the softening of his jaw, the scars and flaking skin from his wounds. And while you seemed to stay as radiant as you were on the day of your wedding, Sandor had slowly become lost in his own insecurities. And so now, the whispers of doubt and creeping looks from other men felt like a living threat; a threat that Sandor could do little to fend off. 

“You’re acting a fool, Sandor,” you said with gritted teeth, hands on your hips, too angry to sit beside your husband at the dining table. Sandor only scoffed and shoved another piece of chicken into his mouth. 

“I’m only a fool because you’ve fucking made me one. To think my wife is going around town laughing with the butcher’s son like some common fucking wench while I work to put food on the table like a fucking cuck.” 

You threw your hands up in disbelief, outraged that Sandor would ever throw these accusations at you. “Right. And my husband is such a fucking saint is he? Just doing the Lannisters bidding like a right fucking—” 

“Like what?” Sandor growled, rising from his seat. A beat of silence passed between the two of you, only the sounds of your heavy breathing and the crack of the fireplace could be heard. Sandor towered over you, and for a split second, you were almost afraid that he would strike you. But he only grunted and brushed past you to the front door. 

“Ungrateful whore,” he muttered, almost to himself, but loud enough for you to hear. 

You snapped your head towards him. Your eyes burned with anger and betrayal. “Say that again and you will never hear from me again, Sandor Clegane,” you spat. Sandor looked at you then, just as furious as before, but he would not repeat his words. With a slam of the door behind him, he had left the house. You would go to bed alone that night, sobbing into your straw pillow until your lungs hurt and you felt like heaving. 

Reconciling after a fight was almost always the hardest part. Sandor’s first instinct after every fight was to ignore the immeasurable tension and agony that passed between you two. Deny, deny, deny. You would wake up the next morning, eyes swollen, nose congested, and stumble into the common area only to find Sandor donning his guardsmen clothes ready for the day. When you fail to greet him with a lover’s embrace, Sandor would upturn his lips and shrug. “What’s with the mood huh?” 

You only glance at him with eyes like daggers. “You called me an ungrateful whore last night, Sandor. Don’t be daft.” 

Sandor shifted uncomfortably where he stood. “I would never say something like that. Not to you,” he said, almost like it was one big joke to him. But you didn't laugh, and your silence was somehow more piercing than if you had lashed out at him. 

You could see the gears in Sandor’s head turning as he scrambled for the right words to say. “Seven Hells woman, you're killing me here. So what, you're just gonna ignore me the rest of our lives? Am I to live out my days as if I took the Black and never married?” His voice got louder with every word. Desperate. But not desperate enough to apologise. You knew his pride would never allow it. Was this the man I truly married?

“Is that what you want?” You asked in the softest voice. 

Sandor was at a loss for words. You knew your question had crossed a line. Fight for me, you pleaded in your mind, tears welling up in your eyes once more. Fight for us. But Sandor’s pride would not allow him to apologise. At least not yet. Alas, the brave and valiant Hound could do no more than mumble something incoherent before disappearing out the front door, leaving you alone in a miserable silence. Your chest was heavy with exhaustion and it took every ounce of strength in you not to break down. 

For the rest of the day, you busied yourself with menial tasks in an attempt to distract yourself. But you could not think of anything other than your husband. Oh, how you missed him. When things were good, Sandor could be the most devoted and loving husband in all the Seven Kingdoms. You often pitied the old housewives in the village who lamented about their burdensome husbands. Sandor had never demanded anything of you, never laid a hand on you, never took you for granted. So then how was it that it had come to this? That he had walked out of the house with no hesitation when you challenged the foundation of your marriage? Was his silence his twisted way of giving up? All these wretched thoughts raced through your mind from dawn till dusk.

You thought Sandor would not come home that evening. He did that sometimes — after a big fight he’d disappear for a day or two, Gods knew where he went — but tonight he returned to you. Your back was against the front door as you stirred a skinned chicken inside a pot of boiling broth for dinner. The familiar jingle of wind chimes outside your front door stirred your attention as Sandor entered. As he crouched slightly to fit through the door of your cottage, you spotted the bundle of wildflowers in his hand. They were crooked from too tight a grip on its stems, but they were beautiful nonetheless. Blue and yellow and white like the colours of a noble house’s banner. 

Sandor didn't say a word as he crossed the room and placed the flowers on the dining table. There was a pause. You reached out to touch the flowers. They were as fresh as plucked flowers could be, still damp from the night’s drizzle. 

“They’re beautiful,” you mumbled, breaking the silence and offering a tired smile to him. 

Sandor inhaled deeply and clasped his two hands in front of him before he began to speak. “From the day I met you, the last thing I have ever wanted was to leave you. That is a thought that has simply never crossed my mind. I would call you ridiculous for ever suggesting so this morning, but perhaps… Perhaps I have ridiculed myself.” He took another deep breath before continuing. “You are my everything. My light, my life, I mean, fuck, you drive me insane, woman. I don’t even know why you married me; Sometimes I think the Gods have only allowed me one fortune in life and that’s you.” He began wringing his hands together, but his eyes had never left yours from the beginning. “So when some poor fucker comes whispering in my ear that you’ve warmed up to some other man, I think to myself; What if that’s it? What if she’s finally seeing her worth and realising that I’m just some sick fuck clinging onto her like dead meat? I just… I can’t… I can’t lose you…”

Your eyes stung with tears. But they were not tears of sorrow any longer. 

“Sandor…” You rushed to throw your arms around him, embracing his warm body like you had a million times before. Sandor’s body immediately relaxed as he wrapped his big strong arms around your torso, lifting you off the ground with ease. The weight on his chest had disappeared as soon as he felt the warmth of your cheek to his. 

With Sandor carrying you in his arms, you cupped his face with your hands, both thumbs soothing the rough skin on his cheeks. “Sandor Clegane, you stupid, stupid man. How could I ever love anyone else but you? I would die before I let you leave me, and you would have to pry the name Clegane from my cold, rotting corpse before I part from what is mine. I love you.” 

The most genuine, endearing smile flashed across Sandor’s face and your heart that had been racing all day with anxiety was suddenly calm. And in that moment, with you in his arms, staring into each other’s eyes like they were the starry sky, you swore that you had never loved him more intensely than ever before. 

[wetpussyju1ce]

But baby, I want you.

+18 mdni

Jack Mercer x fem!reader w curly hair (aka "Curly")

2.2k words

summary: Jack misses his girlfriend, he wants her, bad.

tags: Fluff, Oral Sex, Hand Jobs, Making Out, Dry Humping, Heavy Petting, AU - Canon Divergence, Dom/sub Undertones, Sub/Switch Jack Mercer, Nipple Sucking, Cockblock Angel Mercer, Canon-Typical Behavior, Praise Kink, Manhandling, Come Swallowing

a/n: teehee my first ever Jack mercer smut! yay!!!

"Hey, music boyfriend," Curly greeted as she stepped inside Jack's childhood bedroom, slowly closing the door behind her. Jack was laying on his bed, his guitar resting on his chest, strumming the strings as he hummed, a notebook open near his feet, a pencil resting on it. He was wearing a black tank top with his ripped, washed out jeans.

He looked up, smiling, "Hey, music girlfriend,"

Jack put his guitar down, resting it against the bed, on the floor. Curly sat down next to him, squeezing his thigh, "Whatcha doing?"

Jack bit his lower lip, looking at his girlfriend over. Today she was wearing a camisole with flowers on it, the colours of the sunset, the fabric soft and thin, letting her arms and her neck naked, showing the pretty tattoos etched on her skin. She was also wearing a jeans skirt, made out of one of Jack's old pairs of jeans. He was going to throw them out when she decided they'd make a great skirt, so he gave them to her. And boy was he glad, she managed to sew and make it fit like a glove, the thing sitting on her hips like sin, leaving her thighs and legs naked for his viewing pleasure. Well, it was hot too, but Jack likes to pretend she's wearing it for him, he was too shy to ask her to confirm his theory.

Her curls were held up by a little red scarf, secured by a knot at the front, her curls peeking out from the top, falling a little over her forehead. "That's pretty," He hummed, wrapping a curl around his finger and pulling a little, making her giggle, "Camille tied the scarf for me,"

"It looks really nice on you," He compliments with a smile, leaving her hair alone and dragging his hand to her neck, cupping the side of it and thumbing at the skin, then pulling her in, Curly letting herself be led, a smile to her lips as Jack gently kissed her. His lips were soft and plush, her eyes fluttered shut and her hands held onto his chest as he wrapped his other arm around her waist and pulled.

Curly ended up on top of him, chest to chest, as Jack gently nipped at her plump lips, tasting her sweet lip-balm on his tongue. "Did you miss me?" She asked, smiling and Jack grinned, kissing her one last time and pulling away, "Hm, yeah,"

"Oh, you baby," She cooed, cupping his cheeks and squeezing, he snorted, "Hey!"

She kept making silly noises at his face until he started laughing, trying to tell her to quit, voice naturally deep, all strong arms and long legs. He didn't look like a baby, he really doesn't, no matter how much she tells him he does. When he got enough of her making kissy faces at him, he grabbed her shoulders and turned them around, her back hitting his mattress with a gasp.

"You were hanging out with everyone except me; your boyfriend,"

"Are you jealous?" She raised a brow and instead of answering, he grunted and buried his face in the crook of her neck, resting half of his body weight on her, after all, he didn't want to squish her.

Curly sighed and wrapped her arms around his broad shoulders, scratching his back over his tank top. Jack made a satisfied noise, sighing in relief the more she scratched his back. With his face in the crook of her neck, he was able to smell her favourite perfume and lingering hints of her soap, flowery and clean. Her skin was so soft and warm that Jack couldn't help but part his lips, pressing his tongue flat on a patch of skin and sucking. His girlfriend gasped, "Jack!"

She grabbed his shoulders and tried prying him off her neck, while he nipped at her skin, trying to leave a mark as she squirmed under him, "Jack, stop it,"

"I'm not doing anything," He hummed, pulling away and kissing her chin, then the corner of her mouth. She looked flushed under him, her eyes a little glassy, just like how they get when she wants something from him, usually with as little clothes as possible.

Jack smirked a little, feeling her heart beat fast against his own chest. He was starting to get a little hot glued to her like this, especially with the door closed, but he would rather break his right hand than pull away. "Talk to me," Jack encouraged, pressing a kiss to the tip of her nose.

Curly looked a little shy under him, and way too pretty for her own good. She kept staring at him with big eyes, her breath coming out faster than usual, especially when Jack decided to drag his fingers down her leg, then back up, shoving his hand between her warm thighs, pushing her skirt up a little. She gasped, tongue finally untied, "Jackie, they'll hear—"

"Then make sure to be quiet," Jack bit his lower lip, thoroughly enjoying this as he grazed the soft fabric of her underwear with the tip of his index finger. She clamped a hand on his wrist, her legs trying to clamp shut on his hand, "I'm not— I'm not letting you touch me in a full house, especially with your family, Jack."

"Hm, but I miss you, baby," Jack pouted then grinned when he saw her gulp. "Here," He grabbed her hand and crawled further up the bed, on top of her, and pressed her hand right on the tent in his jeans. "You want it?" He taunted, his smile quickly fading when she squeezed the weight in her hand, and a moan tumbled out of his mouth without permission, catching himself on both arms, face flushing pink.

"Don't come in your pants now," She smirked, Jack glaring at her, no real heat behind it, "Shut up,"

Curly grabbed Jack's face in her hand, squishing his cheeks a little, "How about this; tomorrow you borrow Bobby or Evelyn's car and tell them you're taking me sightseeing, then we'll get a motel room for a day, and baby I'll you bend me over in every way you want,"

Jack's breath came out shaky, "Fuck—"

"And when we're done, we'll go have pizza, okay?" Curly smiled, Jack lightly humping her leg, trying to be discreet about it. His eyebrows were scrunched up, eyes closed, and jaw tense, and when he didn't answer her, she shook his face a little, "Okay, Jackie?"

"Uhuh—" He groaned, the rolls of hips getting more purposeful and precise.

Curly gulped, watching him slowly lose it on top of her. She stared at his devastatingly soft wet lips, and his tongue peeking out, heat high on his cheeks and his red ears. She then lifted her head, looking over his shoulder and looking at the doorknob, a keyhole right under it, with a key in it, yellow-ish and old.

"Get off," She made up her mind, pushing Jack off by his shoulder. He whined, looking at her with a mixture of confusion and frustration. When he finally lifted himself off her, she quickly got off the bed, going straight for the lock and slowly turned the key, turning the lock on with as little noise as possible. When she grabbed the doorknob and pushed it down, pulling and pushing at the door, the thing refusing to budge, she turned around.

"That's all you're getting, and the motel thing is still happening," She said and when Jack's mind finally caught on to what was going to happen, he cursed and fumbled with his jeans, unzipping it and pushing it down his hips, below his ass, his grey boxers following. He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet on the soft carpet, spreading his legs a little to accommodate his girlfriend by his feet, on her knees, her hands on his thighs.

"Spit," She stuck her hand out in front of him, Jack shuddered, his red cock giving a twitch against his happy trail. He held onto her wrist and spat in the middle of her palm.

"Be quiet," Was the only warning he got right before she grabbed his cock in her hand, slicking it up with his spit, then leaning forward and spitting right on his head. Jack's moan getting muffled by his fist in his mouth, trying very hard to be as quiet as possible as she jerked him off and sucked the head of his cock. He felt himself get too close too fast, and he soon lost all strength in his upper body, falling backwards on his bed and snatching his pillow to muffle his shout, coming hard inside her mouth.

When she got up, she placed both hands on the bed, leaning down to check up on her boyfriend. Jack threw the pillow on the floor and cracked one eye open, looking at her as he panted, a thin sheet of sweat covering his forehead. "You okay, baby?" She asked and Jack nodded, cracking a smile.

"You did well," Curly whispered, leaning down to kiss him on his cheek when Jack grabbed her face and pressed his mouth to hers, shamelessly coaxing her lips open and snaking his tongue inside. A breathy moan escaping her as he kissed her absolutely filthy, dick out and everything. Too much tongue and spit, like Jack was trying to suck the remains of his spend from her mouth, knowing she already swallowed. He wasn't letting up, and her arms were getting tired supporting her weight so she tried lowering her body slowly on shaky arms and Jack took the opportunity to gather her in his arms and lift her in his arms, hands under her ass.

"Oh shit—" She gasped against his hot mouth, her legs wrapped around his waist as he pressed her back against the wall, out of breath, not because of her weight in his arms, but because his dick was already chubbing up, all of his blood rushing south, leaving him stupid up there. "Baby, please, let me- I'll be quick, I swear," Jack panted against her mouth, taking one hand away from her ass and grabbing her camisole, lifting it over her chest with ease, Jack moaned and dived in, latching onto one of her nipples and sucking, making her eyes roll to the back of her head.

"Jack! Curly! Stop bumping uglies and come eat!" Angel shouts and bangs on the door, breaking the spell.

Jack pulls away from her nipple, a thin string of spit connection his lower lip to the nub and he looks beyond irritated at being interrupted. So he gently lowers his girl back on her feet as she fixes her top and he shoves himself back in his jeans, zipping himself back up and unlocking the door, swinging it open, "What's your problem?"

Angel's shiteating grin falls right then at Jack's glare, he glances behind Jack and sees Curly, who's picking up some clothes from the floor and folding them, face flushed, her little scarf on her head askew and trying not to pant. "Calm down, man, I didn't think you were actually getting into it," Angel raises his hands in the air and Jack runs a hand through his hair, pushing it away from his forehead, "We're coming down in a minute,"

"Oh, I'm sure you did," Angel smirks and ducks when Jack tries to punch him in the jaw. Jack tries again and Angel steps back, dodging the hits but his shoulder still gets hit and he hisses, tackling Jack and holding him in a headlock, "I'm sorry, man!" Angel grits.

Curly rolls her eyes and goes outside to see the two brothers on the ground, "Angel, let him go, please,"

"Should I let your punk ass go? Hm?" Angel taunts Jack, his legs wrapped around his, preventing him from kicking him. Jack doesn't say anything and instead taps Angel's arm three times, the man pushing him off himself, getting back on his feet.

Jack gets back up, a hand rubbing his neck as he glares at his brother.

"Angel," Curly says.

"What?" Angel looks at her, fixing his shirt.

"I know you won't go tattling, you're a good man so you'll keep this just between us," She says, stepping closer and looking at him with big honest eyes. Angel nodded, "Yeah, of course,"

"But just in case you get the urge; you know those muffins I made yesterday?" Curly asked and Jack wiped his nose with the back of his hand, going back in his room.

"Yeah?" Angel said.

"I won't make them again in this house, ever," She threatened and Angel's expression fell, "You can't do that!"

"Yes, I can!"

"I don't care, anyway, they're shit,"

"You had nine!!"

"Okay, I won't say shit to anyone! Jesus Christ!"

When they finally fix themselves up and go downstairs to eat lunch with everyone, Jack and Curly don't sit next to each other, instead, Curly sits next to Sofi and Jerry, and Jack sits next to Daniela and Bobby. Curly interacts throughout the lunch, acting as if nothing happened while Jack is much more quiet, he's not usually that talkative, but still, Evelyn noticed and kept looking at him throughout lunch.

When they're done, Evelyn follows Jack in the kitchen to check on him, but when she sees him hugging his girlfriend from the back while she's washing the dishes with Jerry, she smiles a little and leaves them be.

[konigslittleliebling]

request; Well, well, well, I wasn’t sure if your asks were open. It’s totally okay to dodge this, okay? But what about thiiiiis???Stranger is in heat. And like the fine stallion he is, Sandor has to take him to the stables to breed. After dropping him off—boom—awkward encounter with Reader, whom he secretly desires but would rather die than show any kind of vulnerability to. That night, after all the things about Stranger, heat, and stables… Sandor has the worst, sexiest, wettest dream about you. And the next morning? An even more awkward moment when he runs into you. XDD Love your work!!!!! <3<3<3<3 — @a-hound-will-die-for-you

it wouldn’t let me answer your request directly for some reason, but heyy !! this is lwk hilarious and so in-character for him 😭 and i love your work too !! :3

“fuckin’ hells, boy,” sandor rasps as he nears the royal stables, struggling to control stranger as the horse fusses and tugs at his reins. “hornier than me.”

he leads the stallion onwards, having to stop and start whenever the rambunctious mammal veers off or throws a fit. the horse makes a fool of him the entire way, and frankly sandor can’t wait to rid of him for the day.

he hands him off to the stable boy, then barks out a list of instructions. what to feed the horse, what not to feed the horse, and no fancy braiding of his mane or any of that shite. “he’s here to fuck a nice mare of yours, nothing else.”

i’d like to fuck a particular ‘mare’ of yours, he mulls.

the poor boy nods then pulls stranger towards an available stall for boarding.

sandor finds his eyes scanning his surroundings, seeking out the other reason for which he came here. you’re usually cleaning out the stalls or filing some hooves, but he’s yet to have seen you, which would make his trip down here all the more worth his time, of which he has little.

“having trouble?”

he turns at the familiarity of your voice, and upon seeing you it occurs to him that he ought to be in that stall instead of stranger. “no,” he grumbles. “just dropping off the boy.”

“he in heat again?” you ask, letting go of the barrow of hay you’ve been wheeling to dust off your hands. “that’s the second time this month. he needs a lady friend, that one.”

aye, he’s not the only one, sandor muses, admiring the way your undershirt clings to your sweat-soaked skin, the corset that fastens to your middle hoisting your cleavage perfectly into his view.

“sandor?” his name on your tongue brings him back and he’s not sure how long he was lost in your. . . “never seen a pair of tits before?”

ah yes, tits. that was it. would love to see yours.

then he remembers himself. “what?” he glares down at you, embarrassed. “shut up.”

you watch him charge through the stable’s bustle with an amused smile and you chuckle to yourself. “the brothel’s that way!” you call after him.

you keep him from sleep’s grasp that night. your willingness to get stuck-in, shovelling horse shit and taming the broncs, are all things that drive him mad. always getting your hands dirty, always hard at work. most women would turn their noses up at the idea of being a stablehand, but not you. you love your job, and it’s given you a nice arse to show for it too.

he wonders what else those hands can do, and before he knows it, he’s freeing himself from his trousers, stiff and angry. he takes himself in his fist, eyes closed so he can pretend his grip is that of your hollowed cheeks or tight little cunt.

whilst he pumps his cock, he wonders if you’ve been taken, or if he’d have to fuck you on his fingers first, maybe ease you open with his tongue.

he starts to stroke himself harder, then. needy and pathetic. do you like it rough? do you like to fuck, or be fucked? he hopes the latter.

and when he’s spilled his seed to the thought of you, it’s the latter that occurs in a filthy dream.

spreadeagled and devastating beneath him, you moan for his touch. hands tugging his hair, nails scratching against his scalp. “please, sandor,” you plead, whiny and desperate. “i need you inside me.”

he separates his lips from your cunt, dragging his tongue from your depths to peer up from between your thighs. “my little stable girl’s getting impatient.” he grins, lips glistening with your juices.

you mewl when he dips his face back down, drinking from you like you’re the most delectable of wines. one hand hooks around your hips to pin you down by your stomach, the other keeping your puffy little folds peeled apart for him, swollen from his mouth and the beard that grows around it.

he licks his way out of your hole and up your slit, the bumpy bridge of his crooked nose nudging your clit as he meanders his tongue toward it. he suctions to it like a babe at a breast, pursing his lips around the engorged little bundle. the undivided attention to that cluster of sensitive nerves overwhelms you and you jolt at the shock of it, only to go rigid when the length of a thick finger hooks into you, sinking to the knuckle.

“please, you’re torturing me!” you beg, pushing down at his head as you wriggle and writhe. he responds by adding a second finger, crooking them both in tandem. you groan, needing him in places his fingers can’t reach. “you’ve been at this for ages, please!”

“what do you need, girl?” he asks against your cunt, the vibrations of his voice almost unravelling your coil right there and then. he releases your clit, then starts to draw a slow stripe with the flattened underside of his tongue toward your opening, and stuffs it into the gap his fingers have left; the perfect size.

“your cock, fuck— i need your cock, please!” you stammer, legs clamping around either side of his head as they begin to quiver. your feet cramp when your toes curl inward, then your body relaxes as he withdraws from you.

“only had to use your big girl words and ask.” he crawls up your sprawled body, slowly like a predator, until his face aligns with yours, and settles his cock so it presses at your pulsating entrance.

it’s at that moment he stirs, jolted awake by the spewing of his seed over his thighs, his cock throbbing as it rids of his desire. he rips his blankets from his body, wiping at himself with a strange sense of shame — an emotion he seldom feels.

and when he returns to the stables the next morning, he hopes to the high seven that he doesn’t see you. he’s not one for prayer, but if he must take a knee and beg, he’ll do just that.

he makes quick work of retrieving stranger who had a far more successful night than his rider, and starts to lead him onto the courtyard when, “got it all out of the system, then?”

sandor stops dead in his tracks, heart leaping into his throat. you approach him, none the wiser, hips swaying as you walk, ‘cause of course they are.

“what?” he snaps, dodging the urge to look at you.

“stranger,” you clarify, innocently. “he seems to be less boisterous today. must’ve got it all out of his system.”

sure did. sandor clears his throat. “aye, the tank’s nice and empty.”

you give him a strange look, smile crooked and brows risen. “right. . . that’s good then.”

“it was.” he blurts. “. . . i’m sure it was.” he corrects, stoic.

you nod, an amused glint in your eyes. “well, when the tank’s filled up again, you know where to find me.” you say as you make leave of the conversation.

he does a double-take at your words, then glances at stranger who appears about as judgemental as a horse possibly can. “oh, fuck off, at least you got some.”

[konigslittleliebling]

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 fuckin’ 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’s 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!”

[hhhound]

[formedab]

Why's the video three hours long...

[crowgaunt]

When i’ve stayed up past sunrise reading ____ x reader fics

[imlamebro]

Hey! So if I look up GEORGE WEASLEY x reader, why am I seeing Fred x reader 😊 ????

STOP TAGGING FRED IN GEORGE FICS FOR THE LOVE OF GOD

[imlamebro]

How it feels trying to find smut that doesn’t involve cheating nowadays

[dolly-cherie]

I need y’all to PLEASE understand. If the character has a name, and features CHOSEN BY U. Bby pls for the love of God. That’s an oc, NOT a x reader. 🫩🫩

[perkqularkreashions]

Baby, I’m a Dog. I’m a Mutt [M]

Sandor Clegane X Velaryon Reader

Romance Trope - Fake Marriage (Happy Ending)

SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.

WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut

Romantic Trope Series

⸻

The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.

Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.

Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.

He didn’t drink.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t belong.

The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.

Nor would they tonight.

Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”

Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”

“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”

A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.

Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.

“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”

Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”

Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.

Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.

Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.

Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.

“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”

The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.

The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”

That silenced some.

But not Joffrey.

“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”

Sandor’s eye narrowed.

“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”

The word hung there. Grotesque.

No one defended him.

Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.

He was alone in it—as he always had been.

A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.

Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”

Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”

Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”

The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.

And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.

His boots struck stone, hard and fast.

But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.

With rage.

He had endured worse. He would endure more.

But tonight, something inside him cracked.

And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.

The night stank.

Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.

No. That was a lie.

He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.

Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.

And not a single one would touch him.

He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”

That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.

He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.

A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.

She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”

Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.

He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—

“Marry me.”

The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.

Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”

He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”

She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”

Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”

“Proposing?”

“Talking.”

She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”

“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”

Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”

“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”

“And if I say no?”

He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”

He did.

Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You may have my hand.”

Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.

She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”

He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.

Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”

He blinked again. “A lady.”

“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”

He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”

She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.

And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.

Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.

He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.

But she said yes.

And that was enough—for now.

It had been thirty agonizing minutes.

The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He had never felt smaller.

The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.

“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.

“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.

Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”

“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”

A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.

Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”

“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”

Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.

Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”

“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”

Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.

The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.

He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?

Then—

The great doors creaked open.

Every head turned.

Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.

A herald’s voice rang out:

“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”

There was a pause. Audible surprise.

The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.

Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.

“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”

No one answered. No one could.

Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.

Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.

And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.

The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.

But she commanded their silence all the same.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.

No one spoke.

Then she turned toward the shadows.

Toward him.

Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.

Instead, she smiled.

Soft, amused. Real.

She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.

When she reached him, she looked up.

And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”

The court gasped.

She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.

“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”

He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.

And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.

A laugh.

Rough and brief—but real.

He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.

“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”

The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”

Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.

But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.

“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”

He froze.

Gasps again. Whispers.

Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.

“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”

The room went dead still.

Cersei looked mildly intrigued.

Tyrion groaned under his breath.

But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

Gasps erupted.

Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”

But she wasn’t done.

“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”

The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.

But Sandor?

He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.

And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.

The chambers were smaller than hers at home.

That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.

She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.

At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.

Sandor.

His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.

“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.

“I prefer it,” she replied.

There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.

“You’re a stupid girl.”

She turned now.

He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”

She stepped toward him.

Elegant. Calm.

“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.

He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”

“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”

His lips parted.

His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.

When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Not softly.

She yanked him to her.

And he broke.

Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

But she didn’t.

She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.

They stood there, breathless.

He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.

“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”

She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.

And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.

He didn’t say good night.

But he watched the whole time.

And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.

The bell only rang once.

Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.

Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.

The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.

His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.

He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.

What he did not expect was honor.

The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.

At their head walked her father.

Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.

When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.

Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.

“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”

Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.

A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”

And then she arrived.

The entire Sept seemed to still.

She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.

Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.

She did not stop at Joffrey.

She did not bow.

Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.

He couldn’t breathe.

She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.

“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”

He felt the words in his bones.

The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.

“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”

But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.

“I do,” she said clearly.

Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”

Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.

It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.

“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.

Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”

They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.

But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.

The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.

He didn’t look at her

Not at first.

His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.

He didn’t want her to see.

When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.

He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.

“Stop.” Her voice was stern.

Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.

He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t there.

Only stillness. Power. Patience.

And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.

“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”

Something in him unraveled then.

Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.

She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”

She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.

He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”

Her smile curled into his mouth.

“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”

“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”

He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.

“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”

And he lost himself.

He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.

She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”

He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.

The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.

Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”

A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.

“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”

Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”

“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.

The room went still.

He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”

Silence.

Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.

Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.

Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.

The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.

The doors creaked open.

She walked in alone.

No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.

Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.

She was far too calm.

Far too lovely.

Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.

“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”

Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”

“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”

She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”

He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”

“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”

The throne room froze.

Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.

Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.

Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”

But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.

“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”

Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”

The words hung, suspended.

“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.

And they turned to leave.

Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.

Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.

The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.

The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.

His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.

“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”

Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.

She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.

She turned slowly.

The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”

“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”

Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.

Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.

Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.

Her eyes dropped to it.

“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”

His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.

“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.

Her chest ached.

She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.

Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.

She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.

“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.

“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”

His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely

She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.

“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”

He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.

Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

“You’re mine.”

[jasonsweetie]

I miss when wattpad wasn't just smaus and 200 word chapters

[ttulipwritezz]

Daryl doesn't think he's hot.

He never really found a reason to.

Between all the girls his brother brought home and his fathers constant barrage of insults. He finds it hard to believe that someone like him, a redneck with a loose accent, little-to-no dressing sense, living on the outskirts of the city would be considered someone...hot.

He didn't have a mother to call him handsome. No random aunt saying he was gonna 'break hearts one day'.

No girls fawning over him at the public school that he used to skip most days.

So when you sit on his lap, hands connected at the base of his neck, tickling him the littlest bit, and whisper in his ear "my pretty boy..."

He decides then and there that he is indeed not "hot".

He's pretty. Your pretty, pretty boy.

A/n: proud member of the daryl gets no bitches club. He's such a cutie i love him

Tysm for reading, as always, reblogs are the heart of tumblr, if you liked this drabble, a reblog would mean the world to me.

-tulip🌷

[natti-ice]

every time i remember my favorite person isn’t real

[orchidsgrowfromthesoul]

when y/n does something so outrageous but the fic uses second person pov

[rainedravens]

"holy shit they finally confessed, what comes next--"

[hellopinkkittycutie]

when i you call someone a disgusting pervert but that person kinda looks like you