18+ blog most posts include some kind of sensitive detail. Some contain religious blasphemy, canon-typical incest , very dark themes and smut.
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Wattpad User: Sweetpianoxoxo
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Now, actually, about me!! You guys can call me Sweetpiano, Piano, or literally whatever u want!! I am Bisexual, I have a dog i love very much, and i smoke a lot of weed, so sometimes my ideas come when I'm high and my actual writing is a bit flawed lolll, bare with me.
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After winning the Hand's Tourney, Sandor gets back to his chambers stupidly drunk and horny. You, his maid, have to turn into his babysitter for the night.
Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Fem!Reader
Tags: mentions of violence and blood, no use of y/n
Word count: 1.5k
A/N: first time writing from sandors pov omg / not tagging anyone cuz it is really just a drabble, just thought itd be fun to write and maybe yall'd like to read it
Every once in a while, the gods smiled upon the miserable, doomed souls. Just to remind people of how little they had, and how cruel the cunts could be. Today was one of these days, a day where Sandor had it all: as much wine as he could drink, all the food he could eat, a big fat bag of gold.
The best part? He got it all by fighting his brother. And winning. Technically.
The feast and the wine and the food were meant for the king to celebrate a tournament made for nothing other than spilling blood just for the sake of it, but if king Robert raised his goblet and cheered for him, than everybody else joined, even if they were all holding their breath over Sandor and Gregor’s fight. Or The Hound and The Mountain’s fight, and all the history behind it. Sandor knew the whispers and the twisted stories people liked to tell.
None of it mattered now that he was so drunk he barely stood up on his own feet. Sandor had stayed on the feast just long enough for people to stop coming to congratulate him, just long enough for the king to get drunk enough to forget about him, which was conveniently long enough for him to get drunk himself. Pushing the servant boy aside, Sandor got a wineskin full of the good wine they were serving and exited the room. He half remembered someone putting a flower crown on him, or trying to. Were he in his right mind, he would’ve growled at them, but his head was so drowned in alcohol he just slapped the crown away. He might have stumbled on a wall or two before pushing open the door to his chambers, only to find you, a maid, inside it.
You were the same one from every other day, the one who swept his floor and cleaned the hearth. The one with the tight apron and the tits he wanted to suck on. Again.
Sandor closed the door by leaning on it, then took yet another large sip of wine. His body felt too light for his many pounds, and he lacked all the discipline a warrior ought to have. To hell with it, he had just faced his brother, and won. Technically.
“You’re early.”you said, not even turning to see him. You recognized his heavy steps. “Was the feast not to your liking?”
He grunted, letting his weight down on a chair. “Fucking feast…” He muttered, not even himself understanding half the words leaving his mouth or why he was saying them. The sound of the gold bag being put on the table did not startle you who kept on changing his bedsheets, bending down, your ass drawing all of his attention.
“What?” You smoothed the sheets with your hands, then turned around to face him, your eyes getting every detail of it: his dirty armor, the bag of gold, his heavy eyelids, the petals clinging to his neck. “You won? I thought you were not even fighting today.”
“I’m a rich fucker now.” He sighed, sounding almost sober, almost resentful of his own words. No matter how many gold dragons he had, it was implicitly clear that coin, when possessed by people like him, was only meant for spending with whores, ale, maybe a good piece of fabric or shoes. His money did not mean much.
“Yeah? And what are you doing with it?” You went on cleaning, too used to him. It was no news to see the Hound drunk or covered in someone else’s blood. “You could buy anything. Maybe hire another maid? This here is too much work for a woman alone.”
“I’ll buy you a gag… noisy wench.” He rested his head on his hand, enjoying the silence and the darkness when he closed his heavy eyelids, then he turned his head just a bit, opened his good eye, looked you up and down as you went on cleaning.
You chuckled, as if the Hound was telling you a joke. You knew the noises of the tourney and the feast were probably still ringing in his ears, so you let that pass. “You scowl harder when you’re drunk.” With a wet rag, you started cleaning the crumbs and dust out of the table, forcing Sandor to sit up straight to stay out of the way.
“So, who did you fight?”
“My big brotha’.” Sandor scratched his beard, took another sip of wine, another look at your ass, then scratched his balls over his pants, which was not near enough. “He was going to kill the Tyrell boy.”
“So you played the hero, mn?” You stopped, a hand on your hip, leaning against the table. “You’re a real knight, Clegane.” He narrowed his eyes at the small smile you dared give him, the simple allusion of him being a knight making him disgusted enough to be repulsed by his dirty armor.
“Piss off, woman.” He cussed you out as he started fumbling with the straps of his chestplate, paying no attention to what he was doing because his eyes were still on your mouth. Then on your figure, your hips, your tits again. “You should giv’ me yer favor.”
“Favors are for knights… from ladies. And it should happen before the tourney, should it not?” You left the wet cloth over the table to come help Sandor with his steel. He just let you, shoulders slumped.
Another sip of wine, another droop of his eyelids, another look at your hips, another throb of his cock, another grumble, another cuss, though he was not sure if he was grumbling and cussing out loud or on his mind.
“(...) shouldn’t have changed the sheets until you've had a bath first.” You sighed, one strap untied, a few left to go. “You’ll have to get up.” He did. You tell a dog to sit, he’ll sit. And he’ll wait for a treat, which in this case meant his hands went straight to your hips. He saw you looking up at him, smirked, squeezed your hips, brought you closer, so closer you could barely reach the straps of his armor.
“What would you want as a token or favor, anyway? You should ask from ladies who have stuff to give away.”
That seemed to get him out of his drunken bliss.
“I’d get your apron.” He steadied himself, his grip turning a bit rougher. You laughed, pushed him back a bit, getting some room. Sandor pulled you right back in. He wanted to hump your leg like a dog, lick you all over like a dog, sleep for fifteen hours like a dog, fuck you like a dog. “Tie you with it. Gag you with it.”
“You’re drunk out of your mind, Clegane.” You pulled away, hung a piece of his armor, came back to pull out his gauntlets. “So drunk you would probably pass out and crush me to death.”
He grumbled about not being drunk, and even though he did not remember closing his eyes, when they opened, he was sitting on his bed and you were kneeling in front of him. Your apron was still on, but his boots were coming off. He reached for your face, held your chin, pressed his thumb over your lips. He really just wanted his balls as empty as his mind was.
Eyes closed again. Just for a second. This time, he remained conscious as he said “Won’t crush you. I’ll fuck you against the wall.”
“You can barely stand up.” But he did, just to prove you wrong. “Well, you still stink.” You mirrored him, helping him out of his sweat-smelling shirt. “And you’re such a bad flirt.”
Sandor really needed some sleep. He wanted a warm bath first, and another sip of his wine, and the feel of you on top of him, and every time you worked another button of his shirt, he imagined your hands around his cock. Gods, he wanted to fuck you.
“‘M not flirting.” He only registered what he was saying seconds after he already did. But the moment he got a handful of your ass, he felt it then and there. He felt himself lean in, closer, he felt your smell, he felt your lips on his, he felt you pulling back and he cursed. Maybe out loud, maybe in his head again.
“Sit down, Clegane.” He obeyed, hoping to get a treat this time. Eyes closed, open again, and you were having a sip of his wine. “Lay down. Close your eyes.” He did, grumbling about wanting to smell your cunt on his beard.
Sandor let out a big, deep sigh. When he felt you kiss him, he lifted his hand to pull you closer. Or maybe he just thought of it, imagined it. Or dreamed of it. When he woke up the next day, his room was clean, his armor hung on a corner, bag of gold safely tucked away on his chest, shirt hanging on the chair, boots by the bed… Everything in place, and you were not there.
The cast of each and every Mikaelson soulmate story ive had planned is posted on Wattpad. Go check them out and add to your library if youre interested in updates!
The cast of each and every Mikaelson soulmate story ive had planned is posted on Wattpad. Go check them out and add to your library if youre interested in updates!
I posted the cast and description to my first novel on Wattpad!
Its called "Tale as Old as Time" and its a Rebekah Mikaelson x Soulmate Reader
Description: Rebekah mikaelson has always loved love.
Esther Mikaelson authored a book for her little angel, and spelled it to become true. She destined her daughter for a great love, but made her wait a millennium for it, and put them in the worst series of events to meet.
First chapter will be published soon! Add to your library so you dont miss it!
I posted the cast and description to my first novel on Wattpad!
Its called "Tale as Old as Time" and its a Rebekah Mikaelson x Soulmate Reader
Description: Rebekah mikaelson has always loved love.
Esther Mikaelson authored a book for her little angel, and spelled it to become true. She destined her daughter for a great love, but made her wait a millennium for it, and put them in the worst series of events to meet.
First chapter will be published soon! Add to your library so you dont miss it!
will the part 2 to executioner!simon be posted here or on wattpad or both??? i’ve been looking forward to it :)
It will be posted here!!
The wattpad will be used for long form content like novels. If the executioner!simon every became a fleshed out book I would use the parts written and posted along with new pieces of writing to create a cohesive and substantial book.
I will also keep my Tumblr updated with what's happening on my wattapad, especially if it applies to a current piece of wiring on here.
No one will ever do it like early seasons criminal minds spacing inbetween scenes with flashbang and short cuts and sound effects to fill you with the sense of dread and make believe someone's really dying.
Warning: Dark themes, blood, death, gore, medieval torture, war, shaming, classisim, actually witchcraft, medieval history × fantasy, war
I got so many people who wanted to be tagged, therefore I had to make this longer and have a second part...
An executioner's life was the life of an outcast. They were shunned by society, and often lived isolated lives. Many doomsmen never found wives or had children, and their bloodlines died with them.
Simon Riley was a soldier in battle. He fought until his last breath, or so he thought so. His brethren buried him in a shallow grave to keep the body out of the battle, and he was declared legally dead. So when he miraculously crawled out of that grave days later, and hauled his own body miles away to the closest military base he could find. And what happened for all his? He gets labelled as a deserter. Gets told he was lying and running from the war. That he was a coward.
It was treason, and he was sentenced to death. By his luck he was additionally given the option to live his life in shame, and become the next executioner, as the current one was getting pretty old (about 31).
He had been doing the job for a year when she came around. He knew about the law, the one 'perk' granted to executioner's: he could choose to marry any prisoner on deathrow, that is, if she didnt choose death over him. Simon had never even thought about doing it, saving a criminals life and being stuck with her forever. He was happy in his new routine, he thought he was happy atleast, as close to that as he could've been.
But when she came along, a maiden accused of witchcraft, sentenced to the scolds bridle, flogging, and finally burning. Easy enough for him, sure, but the minute she was led in, he was stopped in his tracks.
It had to be there illusion of a witch. That was his first thought. He had heard the tales of she-devils seducing men, but this maiden seemed so kind. Her face was enchanting, her eyes like a galaxy he could get lost in. She could not be human.
He had other prisoners to attend to before her. She wasn't scheduled for torture or execution for atleast five days. So he threw her in a cell, locked it, and tried to forget about her. The problem was, she was incredibly talkative.
"So, how much do you get paid to do this? You think they'd let me stay my execution and become your replacement?"
"No. They did that for Lady Betty in Ireland, haven't 'ad a maid since."
"Shame."
She made pleasant conversation, and actually quite amused Simon. It was the most talking he had ever experienced in the dungeon, most prisoners being reasonably terrified for their demise.
The next day, she was sleeping when he came in the dungeon. She looked peaceful, calm, and pure. This wasn't the face of a witch, it was the face of an angel. He tried to keep quiet while getting set up for the day, atleast quieter than usual. Sleep was a luxury in these cells.
She was only awoken when the forst prisoner of the day was getting racked up, and let out a blood curdling scream before he was fully even strapped in. Her eyes shot open, looking straight ahead and seemingly fully aware.
"Good Morn."
They continued bantering through the day, mostly joking around which both amused Simon, and made him extremely uncomfortable given her precarious position.
It was only half way through the day when he finally felt like he could ask her the question that had been eating away at him.
"So, what did ye really do?"
Her face hardened ans she fully turned her body to look at him.
"Im a witch."
"We all know maids get called serfs of the devil for all kinds of mishap. What did you really do?"
She was quiet for a second, looking down as if she was contemplating how to word it.
"I helped someone."
"Someone, who? Helped, how?"
"Full of questions now aren't you Simon."
Maybe she let it slip on purpose, or maybe an accident, but thats what clued Simon in. He thought back to that wretched night, when he pulled himself out of that shallow grave. He always wondered how he got out of there.
He had been dead, and he felt it too. Crawling out took hours, and his body ached with every movement; but when she said his name, his real name, memories came floating back to him.
Images of a woman, singing out his name, and like a moth to a flame he was awoken.
"You saved me?"
The woman paused for a moment, before humming and smiling softly.
"I did."
It kept him awake at night that evening. She didnt talk for the rest of the free time that day, hummed a bit to herself, and signaled that she was busy whenever he tried to make small talk. Busy with what? He didnt quite know.
She saved his life. Literally resurrected him. He wasnt sure how, but he did know he had never been a particularly religious man, and if succumbing to the devils charm meant he could keep her, then he was okay with that. He was already an outcast, lived on his own piece of land given to him by royal admission, had enough animals to keep him fed and the cycle going, and a quaint amount of money set aside.
He could marry her. It was better then death and he would repay his own debt. She wasn't completely terrible. She made good conversation, talked about how she was a good cook, mentioned she used to live on a farm, and seemed to like his company.
Yeah. He could marry her.
The next morning when he walked into the dungeon, she was awake, but didnt greet him. He was unsure how to approach the subject. He figured it was better to at least ask her, before he asked for royal pardon.
He stayed quiet and went amongst himself for about an hour, the only noise being the crying of one prisoner, and her, clicking her nails against the bars. When he finally spoke, he only realized it sounded strange after he said the words.
"Do you want to die here?"
He cursed himself for sounding stupid. Of course she didnt want to die here. She didnt want to die anywhere, let alone in this dirty dungeon. No one did.
"What?"
"No- I mean, if I could do something to save your life, would you do it?"
She almost perked up a little, and then deflated again. She was looking at him incredulously.
"This isn't a fun game. Its a bit rude to make jokes like that when my execution is set for two days from now."
"Its not a game."
She looked up, eyes harsher then he had seen them before.
"And how in fathers hell would that happen?"
He paused what he was doing, and turned his full body to look at her.
it's like you're an animal in heat. if you were a cat you'd have your tail in the air, yowling like you're in pain.
instead your lounging on that outside sofa, the one john had put together a few days ago. you hadn't left it since he put the cushions on.
"johnnyyyyyy," you call, putting your sunglasses on your head to pout at him, eyelashes fluttering.
johnny hasn't looked away from you yet. not since you sat down in that bikini, tits barely contained. and he's sure you know exactly what you're doing, legs parted to reveal bikini bottoms barely covering your pussy lips.
you have to call his name again for him to snap out of it. he finally looks at your face, in your eyes. "yeah, bonnie?" he manages, swallowing thickly.
"can you bring me a drink?" you ask, pout growing.
no response. johnny's eyes are fixed to your pussy again.
"please, johnjohn," you say, squeezing your thighs together. when you open them again, your bikini bottoms have shifted slightly. you pull them further to the side, like you're not wearing them at all. "if you bring me a drink, I'll let you suck my pussy," you offer.
johnny is in the kitchen before you can blink.
simon shakes his head. "y'need to lay off the poor bloke," he says. he's not at all taken in by your distraction attempts. yeah, he's rock hard, but he's not being taken in by you. not this time, at least.
you shrug your shoulders and undo the strings on your bikini top. even then, simon isn't looking down. ugh, you can't wait for kyle and john to get back. then you'll get all the attention you want.
rolling his eyes, simon stands up. he undoes his sweats (you don't understand how he's wearing them in this heat), frees his cock and starts towards you. "suck my cock," he says.
you open your mouth. simon holds his cock in front of your face and you take it into your mouth. you bob your head up and down, hands on his hips to hold him steady. "tha's it," he says and gropes your naked breast.
johnny might return with the drink, but you don't know. you feel a mouth on you, a tongue eating you out, and you know he's done it.
and john and kyle come back. they roll their eyes at the three of you, of course. and they both know this is all your doing. if they had been here, they would have fallen for it too.
there's something about barbecuing to the sound of you getting eaten out that's just music to their ears. they can't wait to get on you too, once they get some food (fuel) in you.
yeah, the neighbours hate all of you. but you just can't stop the summer garden sex.
Simon Riley’s never thought that before—until they’re barreling down his driveway, barking up a storm at you. A pretty thing in the neighborhood, pushing a stroller.
He follows after his stubborn German Shepherds, gruffly ordering them to heel. They won’t hurt you, of course, but you don’t know that. He braces himself for the screams when he rounds the mailbox. A terrified mother and her child, chased by three trained-to-kill dogs and a masked man—
Laughter stops him in his tracks.
Cap, Kilo, and Mac are planted on their asses, tails wagging, tongues hanging out. Your toddler’s giggling so hard she’s nearly tippin’ out of her seat as she yanks on Mac’s ear, earning a face full of slobber for it.
And you—you’re bent over, one hand holding Cap’s paw, the other scratching behind Kilo’s ears.
“Cute pups,” you say.
Cute...what?
You look up at him, past his mask and into his eyes. He freezes. But you just smile.
“You military?”
He ends up not replying, because the setting sun catches in your eyes and his brain is temporarily short-circuited. You’re not deterred, however, your chin tilting to the gun holstered at his hip.
“My husband was, too.” Your gaze drops to the paw in your hand. “He did an op down in Coal Ridge last year.”
You don’t have to say anything else. Everyone knows what went down in the ridge.
Ghost tries to find something—anything—to say. Condolences would be a start. But nothing he thinks of is good enough, or sounds right in his head. So he just stands there, looming over you, watching you pet his assassin dogs.
And then—it hits him in the chest like a bullet.
You’re all alone in that house at the end of the street with your little girl.
Something rears its head under his ribs. A protective urge so strong it’s almost staggering.
“Well,” you sigh, straightening and offering him a playful, cute little salute. “Have a good one.” Your eyes flick to the insignia on his sleeve. “Lieutenant.”
As you stroll away into the setting sun, Simon watches you go, and the ‘cute pups’ whine at his feet as you leave.
And suddenly, three guard dogs don't seem like enough after all.
He might just have to become one himself.
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