Elle Woods

satanic panic, but modernized

[ellssbellss]

Lavender Roses - Masterlist

-> summary: "Now I could be wrong, but I think we may be witnessing the beginnings of love here." You met his eyes, and realized how true those words really were.

or, you're an honor student who just happens to fall in love with your best friend, kyo.

-> updates: once a month! see schedule

- - - - Starting Today, You are a Host! (pt. 1, pt. 2, pt.3, pt.4,)

- - - - The Job of a High School Host! (pt. 5, pt. 6)

- - - - Beware The Physical Exam! (pt. 7, pt.8)

- - - - Attack of the Lady Manager! (pt. 9)

- - - - The Twins Fight! (pt. 10, pt.11)

- - - - The Grade School Host is the Naughty Type! (pt. 12, pt. 13)

- - - - Jungle Pool SOS! (pt. 14)

- - - - BONUS! Weekend Movie Night (here)

- - - - The Sun, The Sea, and The Host Club! (pt. 15, pt. 16)

- - - - A Challenge from Lobelia Girl’s Academy! (pt. 17, pt. 18)

- - - - A Day In The Life of the Fujioka Family! (pt. 19)

[cherryblossompink303]

Patience chapter navigation

➼ kyoya ootori x fem!reader ➼ last updated: 1.2.26 ➼ genre: fluff, angst, eventual smut maybe

Season one!

Prologue Part one: Starting today you are a host! Part two: The job of a highschool host Part three: Beware the physical exam! Part four: Attack of the lady manager! Part five: The twins fight! Part six: The Gradeschool host is the naughty type! Part seven: Jungle pool SOS! Part eight: The sun, the Sea, and the Host club! *Bonus chapter*: Last night at the beach house Part nine: A Challenge from Lobelia Girl's Academy! Part ten: A day in the life of the L/N family! Part eleven: Big brother is a prince! Part twelve: Honey's three bitter days! Part Thirteen: Y/n in wonderland! Part Fourteen: Covering the famous host club! Part Fifteen: The refreshing battle in Karuizawa! Part Sixteen: Operation double date! *Bonus Chapter*: Degrees of separation Part Seventeen: Kyoya's reluctant day out! Part Eighteen: Chika's 'down with Honey' declaration! Part Nineteen: Lobelia girl's academy strikes back! Part Twenty: Until the day it becomes a pumpkin! Part Twenty one: Mori-Senpai has an apprentice candidate! Part Twenty two: Tamaki's unwitting depression! Part Twenty three: And so Kyoya met her! Part Twenty four: The host club declares dissolution! Part Twenty five: This is our ouran fair!

Season Two

Part One: The Ouran host club is back in business! Part Two: How to melt a frozen heart! Part Three: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 1! Part Four: Kyoya's rival conundrum part 2! Part Five: The Lobelia Girls academy meets their match! Part six: Join the black magic club! Part seven: Operation: Misuzu's reconciliation! Part Eight: the twins take the runway! Part Nine: Strike three for Tamaki and Kyoya! Part ten: Kyoya's big choice! Part eleven: The cold war of the host club! *Bonus chapter*: Tranquility Part Twelve: Hikaru and Kaoru the great detectives! Part Thirteen: Hikaru's mega conundrum! Part Fourteen: The responsibility of a host club heir! *Christmas special*: How Kyoya stole christmas part 1! How Kyoya stole christmas part 2! How Kyoya stole christmas part 3! *Bonus chapter*: silent dance Chapter Fifteen: The host club takes paris! Chapter sixteen: the great paris search! Chapter Seventeen: The casting call! Chapter Eighteen: The host club takes the stage! (coming soon)

[ghetto-omega]

‎❀‎✿❀Vocalizations❀✿❀

𑁍 Remember, this is my post. You don't have to agree with me, and your verse doesn't have to have the same subvocal usage as mine !

𑁍 I might reblog with more later idk

𑁍 Feel free to share your own or add on ฅ⁠^⁠•⁠ﻌ⁠•⁠^⁠ฅ

‧₊˚✿ Omega ✿˚₊‧

𑁍 Chirping - a happy or appealing noise. Used to calm pups and endear themselves to packmates, but can sometimes be used to fawn if in a dangerous situation

𑁍 Bleating - a startled sound. A sound of surprise made to draw eyes in case of danger

𑁍 Trilling - a step above purring. More than content. A key sign that an omega is scent or heat drunk.

‧₊˚✿ Beta ✿˚₊‧

𑁍 Clicking - a happy or appealing noise. Used to calm other pack mates and pups

𑁍 Howling - a searching sound used to call their pups, but sparingly used with general pack as well if particularly distressed

𑁍 Hissing/spitting - a territorial sound. Used when they feel like their pack is threatened

‧₊˚✿ Alpha ✿˚₊‧

𑁍 Snapping (of teeth) - a clicking sound made by snapping teeth together. This sound could be aggressive, in response to rut or heat, or made repeatedly right before a bonding bite

𑁍 Howling - a searching sound used to call their pups, but sparingly used with general pack as well if particularly distressed

𑁍 Barking - a more adult version of yipping. It's a playful sound, especially with pups

‧₊˚✿ Pup ✿˚₊‧

𑁍 Mewing(🤫🧏‍♂️)/mewling - a sound of distress used to call packmates for assistance

𑁍 Chirping - a general call for pack assistance or to search for their pack

𑁍 Yipping/squeaking - a sound of play, especially between more rowdy pups

𑁍 Spitting - a sound of irritation

‎‧₊˚✿General✿˚₊‧

𑁍 Chuffing - a sound used to get the attention of pups or appeal to packmates

𑁍 Purring - a sound of general happiness and content

𑁍 Chittering - a playful or displeased noise. Mostly used to cull obnoxious pups or to initiate play with packmates

𑁍 Growling - an aggressive sound. Used as a warning or to force someone to submit

Feel free to add what these sounds mean for you, or add some more to the list U⁠ ⁠´⁠꓃⁠ ⁠`⁠ ⁠U

Not super in depth but it's all I had the energy for

I saw someone already did almost this exact same thing when I had almost finished my post but whtevr, just know I started working on mine before I saw that one pleewasseeee !! I didn't even read it ! To make sure I wasn't accidentally stealing (⁠〒⁠﹏⁠〒⁠)

Askbox open !!!

[tumblweeds-omegaverse]

a thought:

omegaverse where alphas are not, in fact domineering or agressive towards others.

what they are?

protective.

alphas who are driven, on the gut level, to create a world where their loved ones feel secure. where their priorty is to see them safe, happy, at ease.

young alphas might bare teeth or growl at one another, but that's them figuring out where they stand among each other. it isn't "stay away from what's mine!" it's more "hey! slow down, i gotta know if they're safe with you!"

little sibling alphas, freshly presented, who peek around the doorframe and glare daggers at their older sibling's date. why? because this person had better uphold the sibling's trust. eventually softening when they see how happy their older siblings are... or not, if the date turns out to be a jerk.

little kid alphas who stand up against bullies, even if those bullies acted like friends, because they're not gonna let their peers hurt others.

alpha best friends who support each other through thick and thin. whether that means holding hair while the other pukes, giving a hug at an ill parent's bedside, or standing up to bad behavior. alphas who are constantly pushing each other to be better people inside and out.

alphas who are crushing on someone going all out to make them feel at ease when they come over to visit. alphas who learn all their date's favorites - not because they doubt anyone's ability to provide for themselves, but because it warms their hearts to share what they have with the people that matter.

and yeah, alphas who go full papa wolf / mama bear on anybody who hurts their loved ones. but who also are fierce protectors of things like bodily autonomy, free will, and human rights. what good is closeness that's stolen instead of given freely?

alphas who are leaders in social settings because they earned the trust and loyalty that others give them. who know they have their role not because instincts demand it of anyone, but because they were chosen.

alphas who are followers in social settings because they feel safe and secure in their position, instead of feeling like it's something to be ashamed of. alphas who have respect for and pride in both the leader and the led, and also know that if things change for the worst, there's no shame in leaving.

alphas who think that alphas always being the dominant leader top person is a silly concept. alphas who bottom or switch because they enjoy it. alphas who speak up if the expert in the room is being overlooked. alphas who are confident in themselves and have nothing to prove to anybody.

just... alphas who believe that "might makes right" is outdated - or it was never true in the first place (and who check those who get it mixed up)

(...perhaps combined with "alphas will beat you up if you do wrong, omegas and betas will make you wish you hadn't been born" vibes? alphas who are the visible threat but not the worst possible option?)

(alphas: visual deterrents work, fight fair, if they flee that's fine / betas: de-escalate, and if that doesn't work, fight dirty and to win / omegas: if you're too stupid to leave after the first warning, you're too stubborn to deserve mercy)

[theotherwolfinsideyou]

ABO Headcanons: Locking

Knotting is a staple of the omegaverse genre. I love it, you love it, we all love it. However, as it stands, knotting has a bit of a flaw; a lack of reciprocal biology in omegas.

In canines, it's not the knot itself that ties mating partners together. While it plays a large role, what actually causes the locking is a circle of muscles within the female's vagina, which constrict once the male's knot has expanded. This stops the male from being able to withdraw. The muscles also contract intermittently, which stimulates sperm production and prolongs the tie. These muscles are an intrinsic part of the knotting process; without them, knotting would not work. Vaginas are very elastic; if you can fit something in, it can come right out.

In my interpretation of the omegaverse, omegas have this biological capacity, which is colloquially called locking. An omega locks around an alpha when they feel their knot expand, completing the knotting process. To follow canine biology, this would happen automatically no matter what, but I like to imagine an omega will only lock if they've been sexually stimulated enough. Ergo if you haven't pleasured your partner enough, then tough luck! You're not getting a lock. Ideally, omegas would also be able to stop themselves from locking if they wanted to avoid a tie, making it easier to escape from unwanted situations. This would grant omegas a bit more agency in sexual encounters.

The non-automatic response of locking would also create a plethora of social standards. Alphas who are good in bed would brag about being able to make their omegas lock "every time." Omegas with unskilled partners might feel pressured to fake a lock. Taunts would abound, ex. "I bet you can't even make your omega lock" to target sexual skill or "Your omega probably doesn't even lock you" to target relationship strength.

Locking would also add a biological distinction between beta female and omega females. I have always felt that, in most omegaverse imaginings, those two sexes were too similar, especially compared to every other combination of sexes. Omegas being able to lock while beta females can't provides that biological distinction, in the same way alpha males being able to knot and beta males being unable to distinguishes them. The experience of having sex with a beta female would be different to omegas in that way. This could either lead to insecurity in beta female/alpha relationships as beta females think they are not "good" enough for alphas (as is a common trope for beta males being unable to knot) or because some alphas would see them as more suitable for casual sex as the lack of a lock would make it easier to leave and avoid pregnancy.

[discoinf3rno]

please consider. an alternarive version of omegaverse where the physical attributes stay the same, but the roles are kinda flipped.

alphas are natural providers and caretakers. their main instinct is to make sure their omega is comfortable, happy, fed and has everything they need. it serves to show they can take care of their partner and kids. they have a very strong "be useful, make my mate happy" instinct.

they're kind of gentle giants. like those big dogs that will come to you, rest their giant, heavy head on your lap and let out the most pathetic sigh while looking you in the eyes.

omegas are actually the protectors and more dominant partners. nesting is more of a "build a fortress" thing than a "make a cute fluffy pillow fort" thing. they're also the more possessive and territorial partners; being marked is kind of a "I am building a life with someone, this is your warning to mind your place" thing. their instincts are more centered around something like showing they can build a strong home, strong family and have strong pups.

also, they often have kind of unpleasant heats, often dealing with cramps and/or fevers, which paired with a strong nesting instinct (and the nest has to be *perfect* and *strong*) can make them very snappy! they're kind of PMSing.

and the thing everyone is into omegaverse for, the sex, is basically like

alpha: please please please let me knot you please I'll make it so nice and good for you please see how good I am? see how useful I am? please reward me please :((

omega: if I don't get that dick RIGHT NOW and EXACTLY HOW I WANT IT I will NOT BE NICE

I hope this makes sense cause I have so many thoughts about this. and it's the literal only way I enjoy omegaverse..

[tumblweeds-omegaverse]

omegaverse thought:

even in settings where alphas are dominant, it could be well known that there are certain scenarios where omegas are not to be crossed. not if you value your peace of mind. or various pieces of your body.

force your way into an omega's nest? you fool. you absolute nugget. that omega will turn from happy purring to a whirlwind of deadly claws and rending teeth faster than you can say "oh f-"

put a hand on a nursing omega's pup without knowing it's fine? "there are no alphas around, its fine." lol. lmao even. as if the alpha can save you from an omega that's protecting their pup. you should know better, idiot.

"how dare that omega not cater to my request specifically! i'm the most important person in the room!" do you want rumors spread about you? are you doing a "never get a date again" speedrun? cause that's where you're headed.

just...omegaverse settings where you ignore the power of omegas at your own peril. including settings where "you fight like an omega" says something about focus or determination.

(used omegas for the example here, but I'm very in support of this applying to betas as well! regardless to if you give your betas unique traits or not, they're still people. still members of a species whose greatest abilities include creativity, endurance, and social bonds.

a single asshole alpha can and should have their life ruined by a group of driven betas with the desire to do so. the less likely it looks, the more interesting it gets!)

[potatoplace]

God I love nesting. Specifically love:

When omegas steal things from their alphas, typically "without them knowing" (generally they catch on, but stay silent cause they think it's so cute 🤭)

Blankets and pillows piled high the entire way around the bed (or wherever they happen to go into heat), high enough they have to sit up to see outside of the nest

Blankets and pillows as the outer shell, with lightly worn clothes from their alpha as the interior of their nest

Taking all of the blankets and pillows from the house, including any throws and pillows on the couches and in closets, with the softest and most used ones kept close

Making their alpha(s) wait until their omega declares the nest perfect to enter, usually hovering inches away as they wait for permission - sometimes this can take daaays (swoon)

Alphas happily providing their clothes, sometimes purposefully wearing 2-3 outfits a day when their omega begins going into heat

Yeah I'll prolly. Add onto this later. Cause. I'm unwell. 😮‍💨

[klaus-littlestwolf]

Nesting for Omegas

•A Nest is a space an Omega keeps for their heats especially but also for a calming, comfortable space all their own

•No one is to enter that space without express permission from the Omega in question-permission is needed every time you enter unless you’re the Omegas Alpha and you know you’re wanted there-permission will still be needed for an Alpha if the Omega is upset with them

•When an Omega builds a nest they zone out and focus on their task, it is nearly impossible to get their attention and if you do you’ll wish you hadn’t, Omegas don’t take kindly to being distracted while building their nest {Disrupt at your own Risk}

•Do Not wear your shoes into an Omegas nest!

•Young Omegas will always have a nest of their own but when with friends or family outside their home, like at a sleep over, they will often make a nest for them and their friends to sleep in. Alphas and Betas are taught not to intrude on a nest that’s not their Omegas but in this case it’s a community nest, though the Omega will still be particular about how it’s built, often changing little things about how they buid their own nest so it’s not too similar, not wanting people to know what their nest looks like

•Many Betas and Alphas try to build nests when they’re children, wanting the comfort, especially once they’ve experienced a friends nest or been into their parents if they have an Omega parent, though it’s a behavior that doesn’t stick around long very often-only the occasional Beta will continue this practice and it will be different than that of an Omegas

(——However when an Alpha has been put on suppressants too young (usually before presenting) they will often display Omega-like behaviors and one of those is nesting. This action becomes just as if not more important to the Alpha as they grow-especially depending on their situation)

•An Omega will usually build their nest in a small space with surrounding walls, like a nook. Many young Omegas will build their nests in their closet when they’re new to it and instinctually try to hide it from people

•Many Omegas hang curtains around their nests to make them feel safer and less exposed, another reason younger Omegas nest in their closets so often. It makes them feel less vulnerable

•Typical nesting materials include

Comforters. Pillows. Body pillows. Sheets. Fleece throws. Stuffed animals. Mates clothes, or clothes of an Alpha they like that they’ve stolen to make their nest smell like them. -Young Omegas will quite often steal shirts from their Alpha fathers to put in their nest as in their youth it has only ever been a safe and wonderful/comforting smell that often helps them relax and sleep (to the small Omega ‘Alpha Scent’ just smells like Daddy and Daddy is safe-this wears off around puberty and sometimes even earlier) Many use faux fur as part of their nest, the feel of animal fur being instinctually comforting to an Omega as it was one of the only things Omegas had to use hundreds of years ago

•Candles will typically be placed around a nest or incense holders as well as lights, fairy lights often being things Omegas like hanging over their nests as they’re not overly bright and blinding, they offer a dim light that’s just enough without being too much, just enough to be comforting so Christmas lights are often perfect

•Nearly all Omegas will have a cache of snacks. Some have a mini fridge near by with things in it but most will have a box hidden in a corner of their nest containing water bottles/Powerade/gatorade since their heats cause intense thirst, it will also contain snacks. Mostly things that are filling and replace their energy during heats such as Trail mix, jerky, gold fish crackers, peanut butter crackers, granola bars, peanuts, pretzels, but they will also have other treats that they enjoy most for when they need them like fruit snacks, cookies, favorite candy bars, chips, pop corn, Rice Krispie treats

•Every single nest is different, because every single Omega is different. Some are extremely neat, some are hectic and messy, some are all matching and beautiful, some are mismatched colors and complex, made on a mattress, layered on a hundred pillows. No 2 nests are the same but they are all comfortable and perfect to each individual Omega

•A quick way to an Omegas heart is a compliment on their nest, they all work very hard to make it perfect and are more self conscious about it than you would expect since it is so personal to them

•If you are lucky enough to be allowed into an Omegas nest count your lucky stars, it is an honor and a privilege and you should never treat it as anything less

Omegaverse Beliefs

[omegaverse-daily]

Deaf puppies please?

Yessssss 😍

-Deaf omega puppies are the loudest things ever. They squeal and squeak and yip constantly and they don’t know how loud they’re being so it’s pretty loud. Whatever gets the parents’ attention

-Deaf alpha puppies roughhousing a little too hard because they can’t express themselves with words and they don’t hear when their opponent yips out in pain, so the adult has to separate them for a little while and explain that it’s no one’s faults but we can’t play like that

-Deaf newborns latching onto as many scents as they can come into contact with. They’re the ones most likely to bite on other people’s scent glands (especially adult betas) so they can understand their emotions a little better

-Most people don’t mind their little gummy mouths nomming on them, it’s when they grow teeth is the problem. A little beta puppy latching onto their daddy’s scent gland because they don’t have as much contact as them as they did their mom while they were in the womb and the little beta attempting to purr as best as they can because daddy smells and tastes like home and safety

-An omega puppy wailing at the top of their lungs because they don’t know where Mama went and they’re scared and they can’t smell them or hear them (not like they could anyways) and Dada coming in and trying to explain that Mama is at work

-Puppies getting cochlear implants and hearing their parents for the first time and the pacifier falls out of their mouth and they give big gummy smiles and laughs

Aaaaaa these were so cute to write I hope you like them!

-OM

[poisonousrain222]

just one glance

sandor clegane x fem!reader

context. you and sandor are traveling together. in a moment you think he doesn’t notice, you take a closer look at his hands. your thoughts are everything but appropriate.

warnings. sexual & explicit thoughts. mentions of violence

a/n. i have an obsession with hands. not sorry

1.1k words

After another tiring day of riding through the Riverlands on horseback, the Hound and you settled down for the night. Fucking finally. If it were up to you, you would’ve stopped hours ago, which was why it weren’t up to you. Your whole body was aching and sore. But what could be expected after weeks of sitting stiffly in one position? Exactly.

The only other option would be to walk, which wasn’t much better. And also, slower. Too slow, as word of the Hound’s treason against King Joffrey traveled quickly across the Seven Kingdoms. He wasn’t exactly easy to hide either. A six-foot-eight-tall man in full armor with a scar across half his face. Perfect conditions for staying low.

As you kneeled down in front of a small stream, you splashed some water into your face and immediately shuddered at the cold.

“Are you done?” His rough voice reached your ears and your immediate response was an eye-roll. The question wasn’t one of simple interest, but more of an urging rudeness. He was always on edge, which created a constant uneasiness in your stomach as well.

You walked back towards the ‘camp’ he has already prepared and sat down onto the grass. When you felt an uncomfortable cold seep through your dress, you shrieked out and shot up.

“It’s wet!” you complained.

Without answering, he flung a bedroll into your chest and almost knocked you down with it. Jerk. Normally you would’ve thanked him, but from your lips came only an annoyed huff.

The journey had worn you both out, but he was constantly acting like he never even heard of kindness or courtesy before, which made your mood sourer than it already was. You were hungry, thirsty, cold and… literally everything else that could be wrong as of right now.

Now you were sitting across from him on your bedroll, with your legs crossed and your head in your hands. In silence, of course. He was either dead silent or yelling, no in between.

You sighed out dramatically. There was nothing else to do. Just… sitting. You could sleep, but you didn’t feel tired just yet.

As your gaze wandered around, it eventually settled on the huge man a few feet away from you. You noticed how he never took his armor off, not even for sleeping. Couldn’t be very comfortable, but that wouldn’t be your concern.

He was leaning against a tree with his back, sword in his lap. With a dirty cloth — which looked like it would fall apart at any moment — he wiped down the blade. It surprised you how careful and mindful he was handling his weapon in contrast to his usual brash and aggressive movements.

His hands were weathered and rough and coarse, calloused from years of wielding weapons and surviving harsh battles. The skin was marked with countless tiny scars and nicks. Dark, wiry hair was peppered across his wrist and the back of his hands, disappearing beneath his armor cuffs and his veins stood prominent against his skin. And they were so big — enormous hands that could easily wrap around your entire forearm and pull you away from danger without any struggle. His fingers were long and thick, the joints slightly swollen from countless impacts and knuckles split open and red with dried blood from punching some thief earlier. The nails were short but uneven, dirt permanently lodged beneath them despite his occasional attempts to clean them. Everyone knew they were hands made for violence, for gripping swords with unwavering strength, and still you found a strange interest in them.

You noticed you were already staring, more like ogling, but you couldn’t help it. The way he handled his blade with such dexterity intrigued you, despite the way you had seen him bash people’s faces in with a single fist or drive his sword into men’s guts with one powerful stab, spilling their life blood from their bodies.

In a way, you were disappointed in yourself for letting your mind wander about this man. The man who snarled and growled at you like you were some stupid girl he could treat like someone beneath him. And yet there was something about those hands that made your stomach flutter with a sensation that had nothing to do with fear.

You found yourself wondering what those rough, calloused hands would feel like against your skin. Would they be gentle despite their appearance and his reputation? Or would they maintain that same roughness, gripping you with a possessiveness that made your breath catch? Would they tremble as he restrained himself? Or would he allow them to be forceful and unyielding? Would they rip your clothes off in desperate impatience or would he take his time, teasing you throughout? Heat rose to your cheeks at the inappropriate turn of your thoughts.

Unbidden, your mind conjured up images of those large hands sliding up your arms, your shoulders, tangling in your hair, tilting your head back to expose your neck. You imagined his thumb brushing across your bottom lip, dipping into your mouth.

Gods, what was wrong with you? This was the Hound, feared throughout the Seven Kingdoms for his brutality. And here you were, having shameful, wanton thoughts about him while he sat mere feet away, oblivious to your inner turmoil.

Perhaps exhaustion was finally making you delirious. That had to be it. There was simply no other explanation.

New images filled your mind, of his hands slithering up your hips, your waist and gripping you until blue and purple bruises formed on the sensitive skin. His thumbs would find your nipples, teasing and playing and pinching, maybe. His strong fingers would dig into your thighs and rip them apart before taking what all men want. Perhaps he would thrust himself into you without any warning, without any preparation and make your cunt have no other option than to stretch painfully around his, probably very impressive, girth.

Or maybe he would be gentle, be nice only this once in his life. Then he would spread your legs apart and tease your folds, drive his fingers over them and find the most sensitive spot before drawing firm circles around it, eliciting tingles and waves of pleasure throughout your entire body. Make you gasp and moan and whine, before pushing one thick finger inside your tight walls, burying it to the knuckle and curling it upwards to hit that sweet spot inside. Add a second finger to spread you open, to really stretch you so his cock would fit, later. Not before making you come on his skillful fingers, but then—

You flinched when his voice came, low and gravelly, “You done starin’?”

don’t bite the hand that fingers you or whatever the saying

likes, reblogs and comments are always appreciated! support content creators <3

sandor clegane masterlist

[konigslittleliebling]

How about...

Sandor, or anyone of your choosing, enjoying his breakfast in bed; already warm and ready and right next to him. Of course, breakfast in bed really means a heavy arm across your stomach and his hot mouth on your sticky cunny, licking into your heat and forcing you to cum over and over- but he's as thankful that you're under him and squirming as he'd be if you'd made him a full course meal lmfao

As always,

-🐏non

oh i ate this UP. (pun intended)

table of contents; oral sex, face-sitting (i changed it cause i’m a slag), implied cum eating (he ate it all up).

it’s essential that a man of sandor’s magnitude breaks his fast before a days work. it takes a strong man to bear such armour all day every day. he needs a good, nourishing meal to last him until he returns home in the evenings.

“fuckin’ hells, woman.” he wrenches you back down onto his face. “stop movin’.”

his irritation is muffled by the weight of your thighs, his hands hooked around them. goosebumps ripple over your skin when his tongue lathers you again, knuckles whitening as you cling to the headboard. “gods, sandor— i’m going to suffocate you. . .”

“death by cunt.” he mutters against your engorged slit, ravishing you like a man starved. “guess i’m dying a happy man, then.”

he presses you against his face, inhaling like he’s coming up for air. hot embarrassment stains your skin, but arousal soon replaces the shame when the tip of his nose — crooked from so many breaks — bumps against your clit, his tongue swirling at your entrance.

your hips stammer, the fleshy hood of your mound catching his nose’s wide bridge. you both groan and his fingers curl into you tighter, tongue delving hungrily. then he retracts it, dragging the wet muscle backwards to slot between your swollen lips and toward your pearly bead of nerves.

his dark eyes flit up, wilted and languid. he’s been dining on you for some time; lapping at you and slurping from you and swallowing every drop. “look at me,” he orders, gruff and slightly slurred. you might be the only thing he drinks from more often than tankards.

with a breathless, barely-conscious moan, you cast your foggy gaze downward. your hands drop from the headboard to fist at his hair, his mouth pursing around your little bud as soon as your eyes meet.

you jolt against his face, the velcro roughness of his beard scratching at your slick. he alternates between suckling and pinching your clit to licking his way down the crevice of your folds and into your puckered little hole.

a man can soon grow sick of steak pie and venison casserole, but no man could ever sicken at the chance to eat cunt.

and to yours sandor clegane has certainly succumbed. maybe he’s running a little late, but no matter. a man can grow sick of the king, too. and as big a cunt the king may be, he doesn’t taste near as sweet as yours.

you mewl, rising on your knees when it all gets a little much.

“sit down.” he growls again, forcing you flush against his tongue. “and i didn’t tell you to look away.”

you didn’t realise your eyes had closed, too consumed by his mouth and its hunger. you drift in and out of a daze — eyes watering and stomach contracting. everything tingles, the room is stuffy, your limbs don’t feel like they’re part of you.

he’ll have you cum another four, maybe five times before he’s satisfied his appetite, leaving for work with your scent on his breath. and you’ll be just as he left you, ready to serve him supper.

[witchthewriter]

𝐒𝐦𝐮𝐭/𝐍𝐒𝐅𝐖 𝐀𝐥𝐩𝐡𝐚𝐛𝐞𝐭 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐒𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐂𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐞

⤷ gender neutral, ambiguous race, and any size reader. Requests are open, thank you for reading!

Also this is 18+ ... we acting like grown ups.

ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ | ᴹᵃˢᵗᵉʳˡᶤˢᵗ ᴵᴵ

𝑨 = 𝑨𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒆 (𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚’𝒓𝒆 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙)

Sandor isn’t the softest man, but he does take care of you afterward, even if it’s in his own grumpy way.

If he sees you’re exhausted or sore, he’ll grunt, roll over, and pull you against him. "Tired, are ya? Hmph. Should’ve thought about that before beggin’ me for more." (Yet his rough fingers are already rubbing soothing circles on your back.)

He always stays, even if he doesn’t say much. His way of comforting you is holding you close, resting a heavy arm over you like a shield.

𝑩 = 𝑩𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 (𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒇𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒃𝒐𝒅𝒚 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒂𝒍𝒔𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓’𝒔)

𝑂𝑛 ℎ𝑖𝑚𝑠𝑒𝑙𝑓: Sandor doesn't exactly...like his body. Well, that's not completely true. He does like how big and strong he is - he takes pride in it. But what he likes the most is his voice and its affect on you. With a few words, he can make you shiver.

𝑂𝑛 𝑦𝑜𝑢: He adores your thighs. Doesn’t matter if they’re thick, thin, or somewhere in between. He grips them possessively and worships them when he’s between them. ("These legs? Mine.")

𝑪 = 𝑪𝒖𝒎 (𝑨𝒏𝒚𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉 𝒄𝒖𝒎 𝒃𝒂𝒔𝒊𝒄𝒂𝒍𝒍𝒚)

He loves finishing in you; it’s primal. Watching it drip out of you? He nearly loses his mind. If you’re on your knees? He grabs your jaw and makes you look at him as he finishes. His voice is low, husky; "Fuck, just like that. Gods, you’re perfect."

𝑫 = 𝑫𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝑺𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 (𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒕𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒇-𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒏𝒂𝒕𝒐𝒓𝒚, 𝒂 𝒅𝒊𝒓𝒕𝒚 𝒔𝒆𝒄𝒓𝒆𝒕 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓𝒔)

Clegane does like to command you. Snarling in his heat, grabbing at your body, telling you what to do.

𝑬 = 𝑬𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚? 𝑫𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒌𝒏𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚'𝒓𝒆 𝒅𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈)

He’s somewhat experienced. Most of his encounters have been rough, quick, and impersonal. But with you? He learns patience. He learns what you like. And gods, when you whimper his name, he learns that he enjoys worshipping you.

𝑭 = 𝑭𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝑷𝒐𝒔𝒊𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝑻𝒉𝒊𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒆𝒔 𝒘𝒊𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒖𝒕 𝒔𝒂𝒚𝒊𝒏𝒈. 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒍 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒃𝒂𝒃𝒍𝒚 𝒊𝒏𝒄𝒍𝒖𝒅𝒆 𝒂 𝒗𝒊𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍)

Doggy style, always. He loves gripping your hips, watching your back arch as he fucks into you. But he also loves taking you against a wall, pinning you there, making you feel just how strong he is.

𝑮 = 𝑮𝒐𝒐𝒇𝒚 (𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒔𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒐𝒖𝒔 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒐𝒓 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒉𝒖𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒔, 𝒆𝒕𝒄)

Sandor is not a smooth talker. He’s gruff, sometimes awkward, but his dry humor sneaks in. "Yer gonna be the death of me," he mutters, staring at you sprawled out beneath him, breathless.

𝑯 = 𝑯𝒂𝒊𝒓 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒘𝒆𝒍𝒍-𝒈𝒓𝒐𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒅 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚)

Very hairy; chest, arms, legs. Doesn’t care to shave much and he doesn't touch his pubic hair either.

𝑰 = 𝑰𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒄𝒚 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒅𝒖𝒓𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒎𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒓𝒐𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒊𝒄 𝒂𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒄𝒕…)

Not great with words, but his actions say everything. He grips your hand in the middle of it, presses his forehead to yours, and when he’s feeling particularly soft, he kisses the crown of your head after.

𝑱 = 𝑱𝒂𝒄𝒌 𝑶𝒇𝒇 (𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒃𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏)

If you aren't around ... he obviously does. But he does have patience.

𝑲 = 𝑲𝒊𝒏𝒌 (𝑶𝒏𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒎𝒐𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒇 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒌𝒊𝒏𝒌𝒔)

Breeding; he wants to hear you say it. How much you want his pups. That one sentence makes him go completely and utterly feral.

𝑳 = 𝑳𝒐𝒄𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝑭𝒂𝒗𝒐𝒓𝒊𝒕𝒆 𝒑𝒍𝒂𝒄𝒆𝒔 𝒕𝒐 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒅𝒐)

Anywhere secluded—he’s not big on risks, but he loves the thrill of taking you somewhere unexpected.

𝑴 = 𝑴𝒐𝒕𝒊𝒗𝒂𝒕𝒊𝒐𝒏 (𝑾𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒐𝒏, 𝒈𝒆𝒕𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈)

Watching you submit to him, knowing you trust him. That makes him hunger for you like nothing else.

Grabbing him by the belt, and tugging him closer to you? Mhmm...mhmm

𝑵 = 𝑵𝑶 (𝑺𝒐𝒎𝒆𝒕𝒉𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒘𝒐𝒖𝒍𝒅𝒏’𝒕 𝒅𝒐, 𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒏 𝒐𝒇𝒇𝒔)

He would never hurt you. He may be rough, but he’s not cruel. Not to you. Never to you. And he will not share. The thought of another man touching you? He’d rather burn the whole kingdom down.

𝑶 = 𝑶𝒓𝒂𝒍 (𝑷𝒓𝒆𝒇𝒆𝒓𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆 𝒊𝒏 𝒈𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒄𝒆𝒊𝒗𝒊𝒏𝒈, 𝒔𝒌𝒊𝒍𝒍, 𝒆𝒕𝒄)

Loves receiving; seeing you on your knees, eyes pleading for his fat cock. But gods does he fucking love giving even more. He pins you down and devours you until you’re a trembling mess.

𝑷 = 𝑷𝒂𝒄𝒆 (𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒈𝒉? 𝑺𝒍𝒐𝒘 𝒂𝒏𝒅 𝒔𝒆𝒏𝒔𝒖𝒂𝒍? 𝒆𝒕𝒄.)

Fast and rough most times. He loses himself in the moment, grips your hips, pounds into you like a man possessed. But when he’s feeling softer? Slow, deep thrusts while he watches every expression cross your face.

𝑸 = 𝑸𝒖𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒆 (𝑻𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒐𝒑𝒊𝒏𝒊𝒐𝒏𝒔 𝒐𝒏 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒊𝒆𝒔 𝒓𝒂𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒂𝒏 𝒑𝒓𝒐𝒑𝒆𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙, 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒐𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒏, 𝒆𝒕𝒄.)

Not his favorite, but if he’s starving for you? He’ll fuck you up against a tree, growling in your ear, making you keep quiet.

𝑹 = 𝑹𝒊𝒔𝒌 (𝑨𝒓𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒈𝒂𝒎𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒆𝒙𝒑𝒆𝒓𝒊𝒎𝒆𝒏𝒕, 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒕𝒂𝒌𝒆 𝒓𝒊𝒔𝒌𝒔, 𝒆𝒕𝒄.)

Sandor wouldn't mind tying you up, especially when you've been a brat all day. He'd enjoy takng you to the edge, and then leave you there, left crying for more.

He might let you take control; if you can catch him completely off guard.

𝑺 = 𝑺𝒕𝒂𝒎𝒊𝒏𝒂 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒂𝒏𝒚 𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒄𝒂𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒈𝒐 𝒇𝒐𝒓, 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒐𝒏𝒈 𝒅𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒂𝒔𝒕…)

Insane stamina. He can go for hours if he wants, especially when he’s desperate for you. One round? Never enough.

𝑻 = 𝑻𝒐𝒚 (𝑫𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒐𝒘𝒏 𝒕𝒐𝒚𝒔? 𝑫𝒐 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒖𝒔𝒆 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎? 𝑶𝒏 𝒂 𝒑𝒂𝒓𝒕𝒏𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒎𝒔𝒆𝒍𝒗𝒆𝒔?)

No, no experience with toys... I mean lets be real here - Westeros doesn't have them? But he wouldn't mind using them if they were created.

𝑼 = 𝑼𝒏𝒇𝒂𝒊𝒓 (𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒎𝒖𝒄𝒉 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒍𝒊𝒌𝒆 𝒕𝒐 𝒕𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒆)

Smirks when you beg, because he knows no matter how much you tease him; he can physically control every move you make. He's that much bigger, taller, stronger.

He wants you near pleading. But as soon as you whimper, he's undone.

𝑽 = 𝑽𝒐𝒍𝒖𝒎𝒆 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒍𝒐𝒖𝒅 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒂𝒓𝒆, 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕 𝒔𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒎𝒂𝒌𝒆)

The noises he makes are fucking filthy. Deep groans, growls, low grunts. And the first time you moaned his name? He growled so deep it made your legs weak.

𝑾 = 𝑾𝒊𝒍𝒅 𝑪𝒂𝒓𝒅 (𝑮𝒆𝒕 𝒂 𝒓𝒂𝒏𝒅𝒐𝒎 𝒉𝒆𝒂𝒅𝒄𝒂𝒏𝒐𝒏 𝒇𝒐𝒓 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝒄𝒉𝒂𝒓𝒂𝒄𝒕𝒆𝒓 𝒐𝒇 𝒚𝒐𝒖𝒓 𝒄𝒉𝒐𝒊𝒄𝒆)

Loves watching you sleep after. He’ll never admit it, but his eyes soften, his fingers trace your bare skin, he presses his lips to your forehead and takes in your scent.

𝑿 = 𝑿-𝑹𝒂𝒚 (𝑳𝒆𝒕’𝒔 𝒔𝒆𝒆 𝒘𝒉𝒂𝒕’𝒔 𝒈𝒐𝒊𝒏𝒈 𝒐𝒏 𝒊𝒏 𝒕𝒉𝒐𝒔𝒆 𝒑𝒂𝒏𝒕𝒔, 𝒑𝒊𝒄𝒕𝒖𝒓𝒆 𝒐𝒓 𝒘𝒐𝒓𝒅𝒔)

Big. Thick. Heavy. Enough to stretch you open, make you feel every inch. And when you think he can't be any bigger, surely he's fully inside you, he pushes further.

𝒀 = 𝒀𝒆𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈 (𝑯𝒐𝒘 𝒉𝒊𝒈𝒉 𝒊𝒔 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒊𝒓 𝒔𝒆𝒙 𝒅𝒓𝒊𝒗𝒆?)

Sandor would never verbally say it but he is constantly yearning for you. He daydreams about your smell, the way you squirm beneath him, grabbing his arms, sucking on his fingers...he basically makes himself hard.

𝒁 = 𝒁𝒁𝒁 (… 𝒉𝒐𝒘 𝒒𝒖𝒊𝒄𝒌𝒍𝒚 𝒕𝒉𝒆𝒚 𝒇𝒂𝒍𝒍 𝒂𝒔𝒍𝒆𝒆𝒑 𝒂𝒇𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒅𝒔)

He stays awake long enough to make sure you're okay, then falls asleep until sunrise.

[pamurpamur]

ohhhh your sandor stuff is so good and true to character

could we please have some smut where reader is pretty inexperienced and quite sensitive but stubborn as hell and insists on some proper, rough sex, even if they always end up a drunk mess at the end? and of course mean sandor that makes fun of them for it

Did Me In

———————————————————————————-

Pairing: Sandor × Fem!Reader

Tags: PURE SMUT, Drabble, drunk sex, raw, sweaty, dirty, rough sex, fingering, size difference, size kink if you will, short and nasty, Sandor being a meanie, I wrote this while ovulating, degradation but just a bit, Not beta read

Warnings: adult content ahead OF COURZE, also I think Sandor could have been even meaner but—- I had the flu when I wrote this. Hihihihihi

———————————————————————————-

“Look at these mmh—“ Sandor takes her wrist and shakes it so her hand flops around. She whines, half drunk and unfocused. The night smells of sweet wine.

Sandor is being a bloody bastard.

“Thin— wouldn’t last one minute” he says and lets her arm flop, it falls next to her head on the pillow, her face flushes violently, not for his words but because he is caging her into the mattress and pressing a leg between hers. It’s not like they didn’t do it before but— gods be damned this is particularly stifling.

“That is unfair! I said I want it!” She complains. Sandor shakes his head, his hands running up her sides and his face searching for her pulse point on her neck.

“You’ll break” it gets him a hit upside the head.

“Nonsense! You are so mean” is her answer, he pulls a kiss out of her pout, her chest stutters pushing up against him. “Please Sandor? Pretty please?”

She had been asking for rougher tossing in bed for a while. And he always refused her. He fucks her, they share a bed and it’s only fair he is on her every night and most mornings. He is a man with needs. But he doesn’t let these needs get in the way of his senses. He was the one to take her maidenhead, and before he filled her head with cotton-thick horniness she barely knew about kissing with tongue.

“Oh lord” she murmurs as he nips at her neck, where it makes her shiver.

“What makes you think that pretty little you can take fucking fit a whore?” He asks into her skin. She shakes her head.

“It doesn’t— it’s not—“ she is cut off by his hands, her body quivers, her tummy squeezes on itself.

She is too sensitive, her body is like one huge nerve ending making her squirm on the sheets like a worm. He laughs and she frowns at him.

“Sandor!” She squeaks, he pulls her down until he is straddling her properly and she goes crimson, her hands covering her face and her eyes peeking out of her fingers.

“See? You can’t handle me, girl, not unless I’m careful.” He says, he strokes a finger to her skin until her hands leave her face.

Her skin is as thin and butterfly wings, and too rough a touch can do her in. Her eyes are glass, peering at him, big, rimmed by an elegant row of eyelashes, like a painted picture where the painter took his time with each stroke of his brush.

“Just let me try, if it hurts I will tell you. But I’d like to try” she turns to lay on her side when he gets out of bed to refill his cup of wine. Her eyes trace his neck when he drinks it down, his Adam apple bobs and a trickle of red slips down the side of his neck. She thinks about licking it up.

Sweat pools in the divots of her back and she squirms in discomfort at the feeling of her nightgown sticking to her skin.

Her hands are not cool enough to soothe her face, but she tries. Sometimes she wonders what a man like him sees in her. He is rough, shaped in edges and angles, he is a giant of metal, a great bear hiding behind a dog shaped helm. His hands are so big they may just be pans, and she had never thought a rod could be so big and heavy until she saw his for the first time.

It was red then, like fine wine, and she had to gather her senses before he could put it in her.

He is close to being double her size, when he folds atop her while fucking her soft in the morning, she feels as if someone shut her in a wine barrel. His mouth always finds her neck where he trails wet lips where the hair grows soft and sparse at the back of her head.

Those are the times that make her stomach twist the most. She tingles the whole day afterwards, and thoughts she had never even imagined as a maiden haunt her through each daily chore.

She wants him to do more. Even if he is so adamant about allowing her, she wants to take. She wants to know, what that body can do at full force, she wants to spur him as if he was some great warhorse to go faster and faster still. She wants to be a knight in his hands, to be wrestled to the ground, be it love or war, what is the difference?

She wants, she wants so much. And she asks, but she is yet to receive.

Sandor looks at her, her cheeks flush and her chest heaving where she lies in bed.

“You want it? Truly?” He asks, reading her thoughts in the lines of her irises.

“Aye” she breathes and he laughs.

Suddenly he pulls at her ankle and in a moment her nightgown is rolled to her stomach. He gives a mean pinch to the fat on her belly and she squirms.

“San—“ she almost whines but shuts up once she realizes this is her chance of getting him on her side. If she complains he will surely stop. He can’t stop now. Her body whirrs with need, Sandor stands still for a moment and when no more complaints come he smirks.

“Just like I thought, Woman” he groans. His fingers find her center immediately. Her neck stretches in surprise and she starts panting right off the bat.

His fingers spread and dig, further and further, as if he was loosening the leather of a belt. It draws sounds out of her, her folds open, sticky and red, as he pumps his fingers to find the depths of her.

“You like that? Huh? Or are you too soft a lady to handle this?” He puffs near her ear. She shakes her head, growing so red she feels on fire. Her body pushes down on his fingers.

His arm starts slowing down only then, to leave space for his teeth as they graze her body. He nips at the skin of her ribs and makes a sound like an animal.

“The little lady wants to be fucked like a whore in a brothel, why’s that?” He asks, then laugh when she protests.

“Sandor!” She whines, somewhere between complaining and asking for more. He shushes her, incredibly patronizing, but she barely cares. Her body is on fire.

He is about to pick up the pace again and spit more loving jeer her way when he feels her stiffen and suddenly gush right over his palm.

He looks down where strings of white slick are connecting his tan skin to the pink folds of her cunt.

“You came?” He groans, so lost in his pleasure the words almost do not reach her. His dirty hand goes to squeeze his cock over his breeches, drawing spiderwebs of drying slick over the linen.

She whimpers “It— you were going too fast!” She mewls and he groans like a dying animal.

“You really ain’t built for it, coming from two fingers” bee grumbles, his hands unlacing his breeches to ignore her going back to nagging.

“No! I did good! It didn’t hurt me or anything!” She says. Her legs rub together to soothe herself, her body still buzzing with pleasure. She can’t deny she is a bit oversensitive, in all aspects but twice more in bed, but she is proud of herself for even managing with so quick a pace.

“Let us do it more, sandor!” She asks and he nods, his hands fold the top of her breeches down to reveal his cock where it juts out his hips in all his glory. She squirms happily, and goes to touch it as he taught her to do.

Sandor slips in but with none of that graduality she has come to expect. He bullies the tip inside her and thrusts forwards like a ram. She calls out, high and whiny, her tummy is on fire and her heart fights against her ribs for freedom.

Her eyes slip closed anyways, lulled by the sudden ecstatic crash of their flesh joining.

He is rough, of course, they both smell of wine but there is nothing as sweet as the movement. His hips slap against hers, hard, deep, wet.

Her tits bounce, her body moved by the contact between their hips alone. The previous orgasm has softened her up significantly, making it impossibly sweet to take him so deeply.

“Fuck” he bites out, his arm coming to push her hips down on the bed. One of his legs draws forwards to brace himself atop her, his chest dripping sweat right at eye level as he mounts her like a bull.

“Fuck me—“ he repeats. She closes her eyes again, it’s impossible to see and feel at the same time. Her feet wiggle against the sheets and her hands grab his powerful arms to keep steady.

“Ever told you you got perfect tits? Huh? Perfect.” he groans and continues pistoning his hips.

She nods quickly, agreeing to anything he says as long as he continues on. She comes shortly but he is far from stopping.

Even when her body bears down and sputters slick over his cock he keeps on moving, slowing just enough so that her face stops looking pained before going back to thrusting.

“Oh, gods sandor!” She squeaks. He laughs.

“Are you going to take it back?” He asks, taunting just enough between big swipes of his palms over her body that convey nothing if not sweet affection.

She shakes her head, opening her legs more to make a point, his body goes back to draping over her torso, and he pistons fast in and out her hole.

“Take it— take it woman, take it” he says, hands slapping down on her hips to pull her in faster.

“I’m going to ruin you, little lady, that is what” he grumbles. She shakes her head, then on better thought, nods in agreement.

“M gonna come!” She stutters and comes for the third time just as he empties himself, pumping spurt after spurt of come inside her.

He groans like an animal, each jet of cum making him rumble like a satisfied bear, his hips pump slowly, measured to empty himself completely.

When he pulls out she sighs, almost dreamy and blushes again, her hands going to her cheeks.

“Are you drunk to stupid woman?” He laughs and she shakes her head.

“That was wonderful sandor”

“You are weird, girl” he says, his arms go to bracket her head and he kisses her more properly, even if he is no good at that at all. She smiles up at him, sweaty and red, hair messy.

“Maybe a bit drunk too” she whispers into his ear and he laughs, his chest rumbling above her. “Can we do it again?”

“No” is his answer and she starts whining like a child, begging and pleading her case. He lets her, shaking his head to rile her up more. Only when she is proper angry does he reach behind her and gives a mean slap right over her cunt. She jumps in her skin and goes red.

“How dare you?!” She squeaks and launches herself at him to claw like an angry kitten. He laughs and laughs, allowing her whatever she wants and needs.

“Next time, I’m doing you from behind” he tells her once she calmed down enough to listen. She smiles, wobbly and gushing.

“Promise?”

“Promise.” He concedes.

[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.”

[pamurpamur]

Hii, I'm on a Sandor drought rn so I'm once again requesting👉👈

This one is a bit more of a short idea but what about a Sandor who's easily aroused by small actions? Like Reader scratching his beard or touching the scarred side of his face at one point

maybe he's not aroused simply by the physicality of it but more about the intimacy

I just picture him as heavily touch starved!! You could make it smut with fluff, pleaseee

Misery! But oh so Sweet!

--------------------------------------------------------------

Pairing: Sandor x fem!Reader

Tags: SMUT, pretty explicit overall, fantasizing, masturbation, dirty thoughts, very sweet, nameless reader, no use of y/n, reader is silly :P, comedy, courting, crass language, fluff, half drabble, not beta read, may contain mistakes (i was impatient to get it out oops), i dont feel like tagging it as puppy play bc they are honestly too unserious about it

Summary:  Sandor has too dirty a mind for an unmarried man. Unfortunately he doesn't care as much as he should, and, again, can it really be his fault when his lady cannot keep her hands to herself?

Warnings: I MADE HIM A PERVERT, I am sorry.... it is my masculine mind acting up once again. ALSO i made it into a comedy porn piece, sadly i love funny smut and i cannot be kept away from it.

--------------------------------------------------------------

Sandor Clegane is not a lustful man. He is a man, he is hot blooded, he is of a certain size of course, in and outside the breeches, perhaps he needs a wank more than the average boy, but he is not stupid with lust like so many slobbering men. He doesn’t stir at the sight of the ladies’ breasts pushed up to their collars by their stays and shifts, he doesn’t follow with his eyes the sight of servants’ plump arses, he doesn't sniff around the nice legs of the noble women when they lift their gowns so that they do not trail in the mud. He cares not for these things, he scoffs at the sweaty lords who chase ruin the same way they chase women, foaming at the mouth to sink into heat and falling into degeneracy head first. 

Sandor doesn’t chase and simper. Unless blood is calling. That is the only gushing he cares about, the breaking of bones, the cloying smell of fear. That is what he likes. He stands impassible and silent in the corners of the room, aroused by nothing, as all evil things, impossible to move. 

Sandor’s cock is not volatile. 

Yet, something must have changed. In the wine, or in the water, in the textile of his bed, in the air of his chambers, in the cloying heat of the south. He is not sure what, but something made him mad, made him warm, made him blaze aflame with a possessive sort of lust.

Maybe it is simply the anger of the engagement to Lady Cafferen. Or maybe she is some sort of witch. He often tells her as much  and she starts whining and complaining about him being mean, so that he has to shut his mouth and let her drag him around her gardens on a promenade. 

He hates promenades, they seem to make her stupid love magic work even better than usual. She often pauses to smell flowers, and in between her movements turns her head so, with her eyes looking at him so, and her mouth pressing to his bicep so that his dick hardens in instants. 

She is unbearably mushy, his Lady Cafferen. Some romantic sap, with more books about poetry and love than anyone should ever own. Maybe that is why her hands are so soft, her palms so smooth. 

Sandor is mean, old and grumpy, not fit for any of that romantic idiocy, but he has enough sense not to treat her badly, and in thanks she gives him the softest of touches with her ivory smooth hands, soft like velvet, cold like marble. It is unbearable. 

She opens and closes her fan nervously now, they are in the gardens, the ones overlooking the godswoods, and she cannot keep still, as is usual of her. He notices as much in their time together, she always fidgets,and as an extension of that touches him more than he is used to be touched. Always pulling on his tunic, or rubbing his skin, or nudging his fingers. Always making his cock hard in his pants.

He grunts and leans over the halfwall to peer at the people praying below in the greenery. There are some people below, kneeling or sitting still as statues and praying to their deaf gods for deliverance. Mostly women, with gowns fanning the soil like the tails of colorful birds. Sandor scoffs in amusement. Nothing's stupider than religion. 

That is when two hands grab onto his elbow and pull. She is just like some helpless puppy, it feels like, always needing him to react to this and that, nudging him here and there, demanding attention a man his size should probably refuse to give so freely. Gods damn whoever forgets to look at her for five minutes, or answer her queries, or compliment her shoes and her hair and her stupid golden earrings. If only she knew how his dick reacts to her maybe she would stop nagging him.

“I do not want to go rowing like the others” she bellyaches. She means the other couples, the other lovesick, limp dicked lordlings of the Keep always take their ladies rowing near the edge of the sea. Stupid shit for bored nobles.

“I’ll lose my stomach,” She says.

“Wasn’t planning on taking ye” He scoffs and she makes a thrilling little sound, then one of her hands slips higher and higher on his forearm until her fingers are pressed to his palm. She rests them there, he wishes he had worn his gloves for once, and rubs his palm in slow circles.

Some may call him a brute, a pervert, a gross degenerate with a face to match, but he cannot help but think of her doing the same to the red head of his cock, making it turn purple. 

Despicable as he is he has been jerking off to memories of her touches for more than a week and a half.

 Every night after his service he shuts himself in his rooms with his chamber-pot between his knees and fists his dick until it goes limp. He has been shooting load after load at the thought of putting his mouth on her, his lips on her, on her breasts, on her stomach, on her buttocks, in the hole between her legs, sucking whatever fluid off of her, eating off of her, drinking off of her.

 She must all look great under the silks she wears, she must be cute down there too, her maidenhair, probably the same colour as her  actual hair. He cannot help but think of it.

 The handmaidens that empty his pot have started looking at him weird even. If only they knew what rolls about in his head, they would grow pale.  

His mind rolls with ideas even now, out in the open, he will teach her, make her take it in her mouth, he would be sweet, granted, but he would have her suck it, look down at her, pat her hair, feel the softness–

“Are you listening?” She peeps from his side. He turns to her, his one good eyebrow raised in question. He hopes she cannot see his crotch with the way he is leaning, or else she would surely screech and rush off. He is of a scary size after all. Especially to a little lady.

“I said– If we are to go back to Fawnton I’ll surely feel sick during the travels” She explains and then goes on tittering and peeping. He barely listens, in favor of looking at her palm over his, her hand relaxed and soft into his. It is not everyday he gets such a pliant little fawn in his fangs. 

He was surprised at first, when she barely flinched at his face, at his reputation and his size. He thought she was simple, but now he understands she is just a hard character to work with, maybe a bit too fiery and too fervent for a future wife. Maybe it will make him suffer during their marriage, as for now, it only makes his dick ache. 

“I am hungry” She adds then, as if he ought to  just pull a steak out of his pockets and serve it to her.  

“Do I look like a kitchen wench, My Lady?” He grumbles, shifting so his cock can be less visible. Her hand is still interlaced with his. He cannot help it, he doesn’t get touched often, maybe something in his rotten brain went so bad that he  cannot distinguish some sweet little thing holding his hand from plowing her into a feather bed. 

He should feel bad, but he is not the type to feel bad. Tough luck, Lady Cafferen. 

“Then I want to have an early supper,” She says. 

I want, I want, I want, that’s what all the noble girls are about. If she only knew what he wanted. Gods help him.

He sighs and concedes, standing up, adjusting his codpiece when she is turned away, he follows her like the good dog he is towards the nearest servant. The hunger he feels, cannot be satiated with early fucking supper. 

But whatever promises more of her hands on him he has to take his fill of.

—-----------

“You look like you haven’t bothered to fix yourself up” She complains. 

“Because I did not” He bites out. He just came back from escorting the king and prince Joff on a hunting session. It is arguably the worst part of his job, especially when Joffrey gets annoyed at the mosquitoes, the sweat and the heat and starts taking it out on the servants. He had to talk him out of beating a wine bearer bloody just yesterday. 

He himself is sweaty, his hair sticks to his scars, the collar of his armour chafes annoyingly to the cloth he tied to his neck, it absorbed so much sweat he is sure it must be soaked. And now his fiancè decided to come meet him at the door like he is some prince coming home from war. The romantic idiot she is. 

He is irritated. He surely doesn’t need to get hard on top of the general discomfort of existing right now. But of course she is wearing a tight dress, one of those from the Stormlands, with the starched bodices and the puff sleeves. Fuck him, he should have let the stag impale him when he had the chance. 

He walks forwards, craning his neck to fight the stiffness of it, she follows him on quick steps. 

“Was the trip good? Did the king score a good game?” she asks behind him, he uncorks a wine skin with his teeth and drinks two long mouthfuls. He stops to let her catch up and grunts. 

“No, it was pure shite, miserable fucking trip” He mutters, she immediately links her arm in his and one of her hands goes to smooth his comb over, dutifully tucking it behind his ear. 

He gives her an unimpressed look and she seems to not care. God those hands, those hands will be the end of him. The feeling of them carding through his hair, the touch of her manicured nails, the softness of the pads of her fingers scratching where his hair is sparse. He groans like some dying animal. 

“Careful with what you do, little dove” he grunts in her direction, his eyes mad and angry. She smiles, as if taken by some trepidation. She blushes and goes to tuck her own hair behind one ear, he groans at the loss of contact. One of his hands scoops her about her middle and brings her into himself. 

“Didn’t they teach you not to pet bad dogs?” He scoffs, she shakes her head.

“You are my fiancè” is her rebuttal, he almost pushes her away. He gives a look around the hallways and, once he makes sure the coast is clear, he buries his face into her neck, sniffing a hot breath that stinks of wine into her cleavage, just under his lips. 

“Gods.” He groans. She has the nerve to laugh, all heady and excited as if it was some fun game they were playing and not him about to double over because of blue balls.

“You tickle me” She mutters, that thing she does where she acts as if he was some cute blonde boy, he barely cares, glad she is not squirming away and rubs his limp lips down her neck until he can suck where her throat dips before her collarbones.  He licks her there, her wicked hands go to the back of his neck, honest to the gods guiding his face. Sandor is unsure if he is very lucky or in deep shit with the wedding coming up. 

Her hands have grown warm now, like tiny pokers, like heated sheep bladders pressed to the back of his neck. It is only fitting, since he does feel feverish and genuinely ill in some strange way. Her tits almost push into his neck when she stutters. He curses whoever invented stays and low cut bodices. 

Steps echo in the distance and Sandor straightens up, leaving Lady Cafferen red in the face and giddy when he turns to survey the space around them. She slips her fingers into his beard and he almost bucks his hips. 

Deciding he is not to wet himself like a green boy in the middle of a hallway he detangles her from his torso and settles her at a good foot of a distance from him. She attempts to hook her arms to him again and he has to keep her away with his whole arm. 

“Do you really wish me to spoil your virtue in the middle of a corridor, daft lass” He barks and she gushes, the surprise almost softens his dick,

“We are to be married anyways” she says. He shakes his head. 

“Are you simple? What if the maester is sent to check your virtue huh? Idiot.” 

“He would not be sent! I am not a princess, but do not worry I kept myself pure” 

Sandor is not sure if he should be elated or simply irritated. He grunts in annoyance and gives her another tiny shove when she pushes too much of her weight on his arm in the attempt to get close. If she touches him more, he will not be able to stop himself. 

“Go back to your room girl” He groans “and I will take a bath”. She smiles, acting all timid now and nods. 

“May I have a kiss?” she adds “I waited so long to greet you at the door”.

Sandor would want to tell her off but his cock seems to have taken the place of his brain. He pulls her back to himself and kisses her. roughly, wetly, with way too much spit and way too little grace. He gives a rub of his hips to her stomach and she almost yelps into his mouth. 

He trails his lips to the mid of her neck and one of his hands sneaks to her arse. If she wants to play with the hound she will get what is coming for her. She smiles, all heady into their kisses and barely complains when he pats her bottom to get a feel for it. 

Then, those damn hands go to comb between his dirty hair and he moans into her mouth before he dives in again. His hips stutter against her and his hand pinches her ass so that she jumps up a bit. It is enough to give him the clarity to rip her away again. 

“Soon–” He pants “Not today, and stop– act more proper.” He grumbles. She barely seems to care, if she doesn’t answer to her father and all the rules of propriety why would she answer to him after all. He gets further confirmation when she stares openly when he adjusts his cock in his breeches. 

He gestures for her to walk off. 

“Will you visit me again?” she asks, gone is that lust, and what remains is some sort of tenderness typical of his little lady, one so unexpected to someone his size, someone ugly like him, that he almost pities her. He goes to rub her flank. 

“Yes… now scram” he spits out and ignores her smile before she gathers her skirts and rushes off. 

Fuck a bath, he needs to pump his cock. 

It doesn't take long for him to rush to his apartments and put his fist to himself. In a few bucks of his hips, fucking into his hand and thinking of Lady Cafferen gushing about the size of him, he spends into his chamber pot. 

After coming he rubs the underside of his cockhead to torture himself enough to forget the feeling of her hands on him, when his rod is tender enough that he knows he won’t get hard again for a bit he calls for a servant ot fill his bathtub. . 

Sandor misses the days he was mean and scary and his dick had no thoughts to attend to.

—---------------

It is no wonder he pulls her hands to his face when he sinks into her.

 After the wedding they didn’t consummate immediately, he had hoped so, but she had fallen asleep as soon as she hit the sheets, and he simply laid with her and did the same, even if his cock was crying sweet mercy. 

He is ravenous now, each thrust of his hips gets a glad little hiccup out of her. She mewls when he pulls her arms from his shoulders, plucking them finger by finger, and guides them to his face. She pets him dutifully, making him her own nice dog.

His hips stutter and he bites hard on his tongue when her hands caress his cheeks, even the scarred one, without fear or disgust or sick fascination. She treats both sides equally, despite his obvious lack of sensibility on his right. 

“Ah-AH ngggh- Sandor!” She lets out, his hips tremble under the force of his own muscle, his asscheeks clench and she, sweet little thing, so new at this,  grabs onto his hair to keep a hold of herself. He is fucked. When he hands tug minimally to keep herself in check he moans. 

Sweet hands, like those of the Mother, he bets, but real, not made of light or clouds, real flesh, warm, tiny. He licks her neck and she giggles, as if he is tickling her skin. 

His body continues pushing into her, settling in a trot-like pace. 

Her hands rub his scalp and he almost weeps, it is good, so good, he almost forgets to get a hold of himself. How long since he felt hands so soft? They were not part of his life for so long, and now, somehow, they skim all over his skin, his hair, his back, without coercion, coin or any stupid sense of wifely duty between them. Between them there is only hot air, smiles, and her lips opening and closing in surprise every time his cock does something nice. 

“You are so hairy!” She stutters, as if out of breath, he reminds himself not to crush her chest too much with his bulk and repositions. She smiles. She really is all over the place, no wonder they married her off to him. 

“I am a man.” He points out. She moans when he aims his cock towards her stomach, her legs jump at his sides and fold up towards her chest, knees closing together. Sweet. 

He continues plunging into her, her hands start slipping from his shoulders to his chest, over his heart, he blocks them there with one huge palm. His skin shivers like that of a stallion, and his heartbeat matches his monstrosity. She looks at his chest with a gaze full of sweet things he cannot put a name to. 

She goes to kiss his chest, near his heart, with lips so soft. His cock whirrs. He thinks back at all the times he had wished for this very skin, soft and fresh and plump under his hands. He places her mouth to his nipple and he frowns down at her. 

“Girl” He warns her and she gives a breath right over his heart, then lays back down. Her hands go to rub at it still. He almost laughs. 

“Not all that works on you works on me” he groans. She blushes and moans when his cock changes pace. 

Her hands go back to stroking his head, one thumb behind his ear draws tight little circles, and it may as well be his rod, for he comes immediately inside her. His dick shivers and then pumps forwards until he is spending it all into her. He groans, almost wheezing, unable to stop his hips form fucking the wetness back into her, as if they were a creature on their own. She takes it gladly. 

His hips stutter one last time, until the heat becomes overwhelming over the raw head of his cock. When he pulls out his seed follows. He cares not for the sheets or for the seed, not when her hands have kept on rubbing, her fingers still into his hair. Her little finger resting on his burn, where the skin is so ruined it is almost a game trying to understand if it is really there or not. 

When he dives back to kiss her she gives his hair a tiny tug that almost awakens his dick again. 

“You witch” He groans into her neck and kisses her there. Her nose wrinkles into a smile that edges on annoyance. 

“If you want me to pet you, I will.” She offers and he groans. 

“Piss off” He tells her, which prompts her to pet him atop his head as if he was some silly lap dog. He snaps his teeth at her and she falls into a fit of giggles and flops on her stomach to crawl away. 

It is easy to grab her around her stomach and pull her back into him, her tiny body pressed to the bulk of his front. She giggles again, so uncaring for her nudity she may just be some nymph from a fairytale. When he lets her flop again on the bed she reaches her hand back and rubs it over his beard. 

“There, there, good doggie” She says, barely containing her laughter. He gives a bite to her ass cheek and she squirms. 

“Bad! Bad! Down!” she complains, it is his turn to laugh and bury his face into her hair from behind, his hips go to rest on the perfect round of her ass.  He sniffs her hair and his lips find her neck between the tresses.

“Your dog is horny girl.” He mumbles, his cock once again awakens. She makes a noise of disgust that he forgives because she slips her fingers into his once he ensnares her chest into his elbow.

“Okay- I want to do it again” She concedes. His laugh sends her hair puffing up and flying about. 

“Of course you do, you really are some pixie.” He groans into her neck.

“Then you are a dog!”  She complains, unhappy to be compared to an ugly little creature from the forests instead of some princess of belle from one of her damn stories.

He leaves it at that, he cares not what she calls him as long as there is a promise of her hands on his skin for the rest of her life. 

He does not care at all. 

[honeyroots]

instagram | JACK ABBOT

you’re jack’s controversially younger girlfriend.

When you and Jack finally go public, this is what both of your instagram accounts begin to look like. Sharing photos of each other, commenting back and forth… You two have the entire PMTC in your comment sections.