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skriveting

me after writing out the scene I imagined in my head:

ess-evo

😂😅😭

bbyviolakayworks

No… seriously. This how it be fr. It's so scrumptious in my brain but typed out is a whole different scenario bruh 😭

punk-in-boots

Like a rotten dog: pt I

The Hound x Handmaiden reader

pt I - pt II - ptIII - ptIV - ptV - ptVI - ptVII - ptVIII - part IX -

Summary: You’re a new maid to the Red Keep. Tasked to deliver food to the dangerous, miserly Hound. You’ll soon discover his bite is worse than his bark. That and plenty more besides.

Please come chat to me or my inbox with any sandor reqs. I’m very thirsty. Reblogs or comments are very welcome my lords, ladies, they’s and gays-

You’d been scrubbing dresses for hours. Hands pruned. Eyes stinging with salt of your sweat, and soaps. Nearly chafed your knuckles raw.

You fell into a trance of it. Your work. Watching the pretty red, gold and peachy skirts billow out in the cloudy water. Before you’d peg them out to dry in the searing sun, then start on another. The embroidery so fine on them. One dress cost more than you’d ever earn in two years. Twined with pink flowers or rose vines, intricate gold beads that formed stars.

You’ll never get stars or flowers. You worked as a handmaiden. All you got was leftover scraps, dirt and toil.

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!

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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.

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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.

Loyal But Not Royal PT. 1

Summary: Married to a monster. Yearning for his hound. Sent to King's Landing to marry Joffrey Baratheon, you soon learn that the crown is a cage lined with gold. Your only unlikely comfort comes from Sandor Clegane, the King's vicious and tormented protector. Soon, forbidden glances become stolen moments as a dangerous and aching bond forms between you.

Tags: cis fem!reader, nsfw, 18+, Tyrell reader, arranged marriage, jealousy, angst, yearning, eventual smut.

Dividers: @uzmacchiato

Let me know if I should make this into a series!!!

The corset under your dress was entirely too snug, its fabric chafing and the ribbons cinching tighter with each step. It was as if the garment was strangling you–warning you–like it was holding you back from your fate. You were drowning in its lace and trim. Your lungs filled with air over and over, and you knew you were alive, but you couldn’t shake the feeling that you were suffocating.

Your eyes followed along each passing pew, each one decorated in Tyrell roses, your family’s crest. The boy at the altar–Joffrey Baratheon–awaited you in his blood red doublet and cape. His golden crown and head of curls shined, both gleaming as he stood tall. His eyes trailed over you, catching your stare swiftly before averting his gaze.

You felt the air hitch in your lungs, his icy stare sending shivers through your body.

You were nearly there, the steps lay only a few feet ahead.

Your fathers’ grip tightened around your arm.

“Nothing to fear, my dear.” He whispered softly, patting your gloved hand. “I have faith that the King will take great care of you.”

You glanced at him. His skin glistened faintly in the light, and though his eyes remained fixed ahead, something wavered beneath the surface.

“Father-”

“Please welcome the Lord Tyrell and his Lady Daughter of Highgarden!"

And then he was gone, replaced by that of the Lannister King now helping you up the altar.

“My lady.” He said, bowing as he held your hand in a soft grasp. He raised your knuckles to his lips, pressing a soft kiss against the satin of your glove.

You curtsied, using the moment to steal one last look at your father. His gaze was still weary, and his posture was rigid. Shoulders drawn tight with a tension you knew was for you.

You stood, your body trembling as Joffrey took your hands in his. Now that you were face to face with him, you couldn’t bear to look him in the eyes. Something in his stare unsettled you so deeply, so you decided to focus on the knight just behind him.

His dog.

Sandor Clegane–The Hound–was a large man, and strong too you knew. His broad shoulders spanned the width of a man and half, and his arms looked big enough to take down a horse in one swing of his broad sword. It was said he stood taller than any man in all the seven kingdoms, and when you watched him tilt for the first time you’d known the tales were true. He towered over the helms of knights and squires alike, and no lady risked giving him her favor. He frightened them–frightened most–with his face half charred, but you never minded.

He wasn’t a kind man. No–he was vicious. He was every bit as ruthless and brutal as they said. With countless battles and tourneys under his belt, he was a man to behold. One that no ordinary knight dare challenge.

But you’d never known him to be cruel.

***

Joffrey’s gaze devoured you as you stepped from your litter.

The journey from Highgarden had taken weeks, and you were in desperate need of a bath and a real bed, but the King insisted he tour the castle with you.

“My lady.” He greeted with practiced ease.

His icy stare cut through you.

You bowed, remembering your courtesies.

“Your Grace.”

He took your arm in his and began towards the Keep, already boasting about his latest hunt. Behind you, the castle guards slowly lowered the portcullis, and its gears and pulleys screamed in anguish. Almost as if a warning for the pain you would soon face yourself.

Arm and arm with the Boy King, you strolled lazily through the castle halls, as he bored you half to death with his retellings of castle history and Lannister war victories.

When you reached the Throne room, a group of Kingsguard were waiting to receive you, and among them was Sandor.

He’d caught your eye immediately, as he stood out from the rest. His pitch black armor was riddled with scrapes and dents, though his cape was stark white and gold, a sharp contrast from the darkness that flowed from him.

A bald knight with a white beard approached,

“My lady.” He said, kneeling before you.

“As knights of the Kingsguard we serve not only His Grace the King, but his betrothed as well. We are at your service.”

You gave the man a small smile, “Thank you Ser.”

The knight nodded and stood, resuming his place in the fold.

Joffrey smiled brightly, almost sadistically. “My men will gladly lay down their lives for you, My Lady, especially since you are soon to be their Queen.”

Queen.

You’d never been called that before, and you weren’t sure you were even ready to hold that title yet.

“Of course–”

A sudden yawn erupted from your lungs before you could stop it. Heat rushed to your cheeks, fear and embarrassment tangling in your chest.

“My apologies, Your Grace.” You stammered quickly. “It was… a very long ride.”

Joffrey only held you in place, his eyes creasing as he forced himself to smile, his unnerving gaze never leaving your face.

“Oh no My Lady, you must forgive me.” he said tightly. “I’m sure you’re in need of some rest from your journey.”

He snapped incessantly towards his Kingsguard. “Dog! Escort the Lady to her chambers!”

In the blink of an eye Sandor was there, eyes facing forward as he awaited your permission to move.

You swallowed hard as unease settled deep in your stomach.

“Thank you, Your Grace.”

Joffrey pressed a kiss to your hand quickly–carelessly–and turned on his heel to the door.

“I look forward to seeing you on the morrow.”

His voice carried, filling up the expanse of empty space in the throne room hall.

You shivered as you felt his presence surround you.

You drew in a deep breath, and turned your attention to his dog.

“Shall we go Ser?”

He looked down at you briefly, his eyes lingering over your face a moment longer than they should’ve.

He offered you his plated arm, “Aye.”

***

Now, Sandor met your gaze. His chocolate eyes weighted with something more than brutality, something deeper than the savagery you’d heard whisper of–something aching, almost..sorrowful.

He held your stare until he couldn’t anymore, his jaw tightening as he watched the priest begin to wrap your hands in ribbon.

It was finally time for your vows to be spoken.

In tandem, you and Joffrey began to recite the ancient promise.

“Father, Smith, Warrior,”

Sandor’s gaze flicked to yours once more.

“Mother, Maiden, Crone & Stranger,”

His eyes blazed with fire and steel, his jaw clenched so hard you thought it might crack.

“I am his and he is mine,”

“I am hers and she is mine,”

He dropped his stare, opting to study his boots instead.

You felt disappointment rack through you.

“From this day, until the end of my days.”

***

“What do they really call you?” You asked Joffrey’s dog, the both of you now out of earshot.

Sandor looked down at you, his stare unrelenting.

You all but shrunk under his gaze. “I-I’m sorry, Ser I-”

“I’m no Ser.” He rasped, his deep voice sending shivers down your spine. “And they call me The Hound.”

You swallowed, relaxing as he stared ahead.

“You haven’t got a real name?”

He chuckled, “Not one that you can use m’lady.”

You smiled, tilting your head to study the unscarred half of his face.

And then–before you even realized your foot had missed the step–you were slipping, and time slowed. Your grip on Sandor’s arm faltered as you made to soften the fall, but before you could, he was there. His steel arms caught your waist in a hard, instinctive grip, hauling you against him before the fall could claim you. Your body crashed against the solid wall of his chestplate. The armor cold against the soft skin above the curve of your bodice, drawing a startled breath from your lungs.

His arms were wrapped around you fully now–protective, possessive almost, like the Dog he’d been trained to be.

The scent of wine and smoke clung to him, warm and intoxicating, overtaking your senses until your heart was pounding in your ears. You felt the steady rise and fall of his chest, the heat of him bleeding through the steel, the sheer size of him enveloping you.

You swallowed hard, trembling in his hold.

He was so-

“Alright m’lady?” He asked, voice gravelly as he released his grip.

You cleared your throat, cheeks still flushed as you felt the warmth of his hands leave you.

“Yes, thank you-”

“Sandor.” He gruffed, tugging you down the remaining steps. “Call me Sandor.”

@punk-in-docs @ultraviolenceinheartshapedbox @v4lofthevalley

#sandor clegane #the hound #sandor the hound clegane #asoiaf #sandor x you #sandor clegane x you #game of thrones #GOT #sandor clegane x reader #sandor x reader #sandor x femreader #fem reader #sandor clegane smut #sandor clegane fanfic #joffrey baratheon #house tyrell

wallsofparadis

how i feel opening up tumblr to read x reader ffs at my big age

Soft Lips, Sharp Thorns (Sandor Clegane x Reader)

Summary: You and Sandor "accidentally" meet in the gardens of the Red Keep. ;)

Warnings: femreader. NSFW, 18+, No Minors Allowed!! Kissing, mentions of s3x, heavy angst, groping? Not sure what else to put here.

A/N: Hello! This is my first time posting a fic like ever so I apologize if it's a little rough. I just had to write something about my big hairy dog Sandy. :) This takes place around season 1-2 Hope you enjoy! I might also make this into a larger story as well! Thank you!

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The walls of the Red Keep’s garden were made of continuous strings of hedges that enveloped the space entirely, broken only by one or two narrow exits. The hedges doubled as partitions, separating the grounds into smaller plots. Some with row upon row of flowers, others filled with spices and herbs. Some had more exotic plants, like the ones that were carefully transplanted from Dorne. Sandor found himself there tonight, searching for something he couldn’t yet name.

He followed the same worn path he usually took when escorting Joffrey and Lady Sansa on their afternoon strolls. He walked lazily, the soft clink of his scaled armor keeping rhythm as he moved. His hand rested on the pommel of his sword, while the other brushed past long grasses and flower heads. Moonlight danced across the steel plates covering him, casting faint flashes of silver over the plants as he walked. He checked every plot as he passed by, eyes scanning the shadows for you. He searched the rose garden, the marigolds, the daisies and even the bloody hydrangeas—each one empty and silent. Only the thistle patch remained, forgotten in its corner. It was a wild amalgamation of starter flowers, planted by Princess Myrcella who’d taken a brief interest in gardening when she was only a girl of 4. Queen Cersei had dismissed the thistles as ugly and overgrown. Too unruly, the wildflowers far too out of place in her carefully curated garden. But you'd seen them differently. You found beauty in the jagged plants. They were hard, thorned, lacking in scent or softness—but they were your favorite. Or so he thought. You'd mentioned it once before when he was on guard during a needlework session. The other girls had laughed and laughed, and he watched your face turn red in silent embarrassment.

Maybe that’s why he’d come tonight. Maybe he’d hoped to find you. Had you wanted to see him too? Sandor’s heart stuttered at the thought. He wasn’t used to this feeling, this heat in his chest. Like there was a fire burning in his belly that couldn’t be snuffed out with even the finest aged wine. A fantasy. The voice in his head told him as he neared the back corner. You wouldn’t even be here tonight, and you definitely wouldn’t be waiting for him. He scoffed at himself, shaking his head. Foolish. He turned on his heel, planning to go back to his chambers for the night. No one would want to be alone with a mangled monster like him. But just as he stepped away he froze, a faint rustling coming from the garden on his right.

The thistle patch.

He turned slowly, breath hitching in his throat. He stood at the entrance to the patch, the dull ache of hope in his chest beginning to stir again. A figure lay nestled in the grass, elbows propped up, and a book in hand. Only a few candles flickered nearby, illuminating the pages and the soft features of your face. You were beautiful. Though Sandor wouldn’t admit it—not to himself, not to anyone— you were the first person who’d ever truly caught his eye, who’d made him feel like this. Your hair was unbound, like perfect waves that cascaded over the back of your night-gown. He shifted, taking a step forward when the gravel crunched under his boot, alerting you of his presence.

You startled, lifting your head sharply. “Ser Clegane—heavens you startled me.” You closed your book, creasing the page where you’d left off. “Apologies, my lady.” He rasped. You stood and brushed your hands over the front of her dress, then crossed them over your chest. “Thought your watch would be over by now.” You said, looking at the large man accusingly. “Aye.” Sandor muttered, settling his hands upon his belt. “But it seems the lady has a taste for running away.” You smirked. “Hmm. Seems neither of us got what we wanted tonight.” Your smile faded as the silence settled between you. “You didn’t have to follow me,” you said softly, your arms still crossed, but your voice lacking the bite. “Didn’t mean to,” Sandor muttered, pawing at the back of his neck as embarrassment spread over him. He took a step forward, your features becoming more clear as he closed the distance. "Didn't mean not to either." You looked at him for a long moment—really looked. “You keep showing up.” You twisted your fingers in your hands, your breaths becoming uneven. “Aye,” he said. "Don't know how to stop." You stepped closer then, the candles flickering between you. “Ser–” You bit your lip, eyes flickering to the earth below. “I’m no Ser.” He said abruptly. The words gruff but not unkind, and the distance between you both shrinking with every breath. You hesitated, still nervously twisting your fingers. “What should I call you then?” His gaze held yours—steady and unflinching. “You can call me whatever you’d like,” He said, voice low and gravelly. “I serve you. But I’m no knight.”

Soon, the space between your bodies had almost closed, and you could feel the cold of his chest plate—see the heavy rise and fall of his chest with every breath. He was looking down at you, his eyes dark with something you couldn’t quite decipher. You trembled. You’d never stood this close to him before, never felt so small. “Do I frighten you my lady?” Sandor asked, rough but unsure. You shook your head, your answer a whisper. “No, Sandor.” You reached your hand up slowly, hovering for a moment before the pads of your fingers brushed against the scarred flesh of his face. He flinched—habit, instinct—but then, after a pause, leaned into your touch. Lowered his cheek into your palm like it was a down pillow. You touched him gently, reverently. Sandor stood frozen, caught between fear and something dangerously close to hope. No one had ever touched him like this. Like he wasn’t something to fear. Like he wasn’t broken. Your thumb brushed the line of his bearded jaw and his breath hitched. “Gods, woman.” He whispered, flushed and restrained. You looked up at him, your eyes wide and searching. “They’re beautiful.” Your whispered. That was all it took. He leaned in, slowly. Giving you every chance to pull away. Still not believing, not truly, that you might actually want him. Your foreheads met, and his arms slipped around your waist. Your hands rested intently on his breast plate. Your breaths tangled, warm and heavy, as his lips hovered over yours. “Kiss me, Sandor,” You breathed, impatient. “Please.” The sound of his name on your lips did things to him he didn’t know were possible. He pressed his mouth to yours, finally, and nothing had ever felt this good. Nothing had ever tasted so sweet. You were softer than he’d imagined, sweeter than summer wine, your lips wet and pliant against the rough scrape of his moustache. Your hands slid up to the back of his neck, pulling him down closer, needing more. Sandor grunted, licking at your lower lip for permission. You whimpered, parting your lips as he invaded you hungrily. He was staking his claim now, gripping your hips firmly and pulling you against the steel of his black armor. He kissed you deeply, firmly, like a starving man finally allowed a taste of something forbidden. Yet even in his hunger he was careful, making sure not to hurt you. You melted into him, your fingers tangling in his hair as you allowed him to take the brunt of your weight against him. “Sandor…” you whispered again, your voice shaky and full of need. He kissed you harder—deeper, more desperate. One hand cradled the back of your head, the other slipped lower, palming your arse as he pulled you flush against him. The press of your body, the heat of your skin through the thin fabric of your gown—it was all he could do to not take you right then and there. You could feel your heartbeat through your chest, rapid and wanting. You weren't pulling away. Gods help him, you wanted him. Your hands roamed over his armor for latches and clips, trying to find where the man began beneath the steel. “If we don’t stop,” you murmured breathlessly against his mouth, “I’m not going to want to.”

“Then don’t,” he rasped. He was about to ravish you, lift you into his arms and fuck you right here in the middle of the Queens royal garden. He’d worship you, give you everything you never dared ask for. Just as he bent to gather you in his arms, the castle bells sounded. You broke away, your heads snapping toward the castle walls. “The bells,” you said, breathless. “What do you think it is?”

Sandor grunted, “Fuck me.” His forehead fell to yours as he caught his breath. “I don’t know, but it’s one hell of a cock-block.” Begrudgingly, he let go the soft plushness of your hips and took your hand in his. “Come on. Let's get back to your room.” He said “I’ll come find you—soon as I figure out what these bloody cunts are after.”

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As you closed the door to your chambers behind you, you giggled and touched your lips with the pad of your fingers. The skin still tingling from the scratch of his beard. You tumbled into bed, pulling the covers high under your chin and falling asleep to the thought of his arms around you. Dreaming of the next time you could see him again.

#sandor clegane #the hound #asoiaf #sandor clegane x you #game of thrones #sandor clegane x reader #sandor the hound clegane #sandor x reader #s1 game of thrones #fem reader #sandor x femreader #sandor clegane x femreader #sandor clegane smut #sandor clegane fanfic

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you’re right police chief jim hopper would never treat me this way

nagumoanarchive-deactivated2025

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midnightepiphany

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double trouble | frank castle x f!reader x matt murdock | drabble

masterlist

summary: it's always a bit of fun when you get on your knees for the both of them

warnings: dom!matt, soft!frank, m receiving oral, threesome, throat bulge, fratt gay touching????!, MEAN matthew, mean WHORE matthew, facial/cum, light impact play (yes matt is real mean here)

a/n: dedicated to mindi who said i should 'make my magic happen' and well.. here it is! it was not supposed to be that long but... alas, i got carried away. lost in the fantasy if you will 🤭

cerebraljopper

how did they kiss like actually

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jopper bandaging scene excerpt from the 4x08 script!

“he’s surprisingly CALM” joyce’s presence makes him feel calm, she is his safe space THEY ARE IN LOVE YOUR HONOR

also! they use the same “sense of calm” to describe hopper looking at joyce in melvad’s in 3x01 🥺

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Unshakeable pt. 3

Jim Hopper x fem!Reader

A/N: Thank youuuuuuu so much to everyone who has kept up with this story and commented / reblogged, you're the MVPs and I can't wait to hear what you think of this next installment. This got quite lengthy (almost 7K 😝) but I personally think it's some of my favorite writing to date so, enjoy!!

Warnings: 18+ ONLY please & thank you, very explicit. Language & mentions of firearms / breaking & entering. In post-Roe America, my breeding kink must stay within the confines of my writing so you bet your ass I'm gonna write it in every time ;)

pt 1. | pt 2.

As promised, Hop drove you back to your house that afternoon to help you pack a suitcase and get your car. He followed closely behind as you made your way back through the woods, partly to make sure you remembered how to get back to his little property, partly to make sure your sedan didn't get stuck somewhere on the path.

To your surprise, you made it back in one piece and Hopper helped you inside, giving you the last of the property highlights and showing you where he kept his extra off-duty firearm, just in case. You tried not to imagine a scenario where that might be necessary, deflecting with a joke that you'd probably be more comfortable just whacking someone in the head with the cast iron. Hopper humored you with a laugh, but still insisted on walking you through basic firearm safety before he left you for the night. When your lesson was complete to his liking, he walked the perimeter of the house one last time to make sure nothing seemed out of place and trudged back inside to report business as usual.

loveberrie-deactivated20240206

taken by you - jim hopper (part 1).

pairing: Jim Hopper x female reader

warnings: Fluff, ooc!jim hopper, neighbour!jim hopper, implied smut (teasing coming from y/n undressing in front of the window knowing Jim was watching, male masturbation from jim when he couldn’t resist the sight of your body and female masturbation from you teasing Jim).

synopsis: In which y/n is Jim’s neighbour and he can’t resist the urge to indulge in her.

words: 1.9k.

minors/ageless blogs dni.

gay-jewish-bucky

Nat: So how's fatherhood treating you two?

Bucky: Incredible, exhausting, wouldn't change it for the world. I didn't expect this much crying, though.

Sam: Don't worry, that's normal for babies.

Bucky: What? Sarah is perfect. I was talking about us.

Steve, sobbing from the nursery: I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!

imamotherfuckingstar-lord

Imagine Hopper driving you home

flamehairedwritings

Do Not Touch

Characters: Jim Hopper x Female Reader

Rating: E, 18+ ONLY

Words: 10k

A/N: My take on your friend and mine: sex-pollen! I started writing this two years ago, isn’t that wild.

Tags: s3 Hop’, dub-con because of sex-pollen, fuck or die situation, Hopper being a huge dick at first, swearing, masturbation, dirty talk, thigh-riding, oral sex (F receiving), fingering, unprotected sex, doggy-style, creampies, hand on neck/throat but no choking, gentle-mdom Hop’, more submissive reader, slight praise kink, slight cum play.

Summary: A visit to Murray’s house of wonders provides a lot more than you bargained for.

Please don’t copy or steal my work, and please don’t post it on any other sites.

—

“… fuck are you talkin’ about?”

“They’re tapping your phones, Jim, how can you not see it?”

“‘cause it’s not fuckin’ true.”

“Oh, right, so…”

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