I Hope None Of You Disappear In The Coming Days. Seriously Don't Do Anything That Can't Be Undone.

I have another sandor thought.....

ok this is kind of based off of your little lion fic—so you're a lannister reader with SUPER long silvery blonde hair and it's basically long enough to wrap around your fist twice (can you see where im going with this) and youve managed to convince your annoying twin joffrey to hand the hound over for a day to 'accompany' her instead of her regular guard

so ur being SUPER annoying and chatty and constantly asking questions so he HAS to answer and u start whining if he doesnt (double ended sword for him really) — so obviously he has to shut you up somehow.......

table of contents; age gap, very light knife play, implied knife kink, blood eating cause that’s a thing now.

“i won’t be in need of your service today, ser.” you say as you open your chamber door.

your bodyguard, who was waiting for you at his usual post, casts you a confused glance through the slit of his helm. “princess?”

“don’t worry, you can wait here and guard my door.” you smile and bat your wispy blonde lashes up at him, caressing the proud gold of his gauntlet with a dainty finger.

“but, princess, i’ve been sworn to protect you—!” he calls after your retreating frame.

“you can protect me by preventing any monsters from sneaking into my chambers and hiding beneath my bed!” you call back as you disappear down the hall and towards the winding stairway.

upon arriving at the throne room, you find yourself encroaching on what seems to be a rather important discussion between your brother, mother and grandfather. the ringing of your kitten heels against the marblestone floor draws their attention, and your brother groans as he sinks back into his cast iron chair.

“what do you want?” he asks, already peeved by your presence and you’ve been in the room barely a minute.

“and why are you alone?” your mother adds, taking note of your shield’s absence.

“my bodyguard has taken ill, darling brother.” you say, sweetly. at his left stands sandor clegane, his hand rested permanently over the hilt of his sword.

joffrey leans forward, fingers drumming impatiently. “ill? what do you mean ill?”

you huff and take to the three large steps until you’re standing before him. “i mean he’s not well. i don’t think i can make it much clearer.”

“why weren’t we made aware? i could have organised a member of the kingsguard to take his place in the meantime.” your grandfather eyes you suspiciously, regarding you with his usual dry, monotone voice.

“a member of my kingsguard? i think not.” joffrey scoffs and plops his chin into the cup of his palm. “i’m sure there are some men i can spare for the day, go on to the barracks and take your pick.” and he waves you off with a dismissive hand.

“absolutely not.” your mother interjects, glaring over at your twin who shoots her the same leering stare in return. “i will not have her wondering around down there unescorted.”

your brother scoffs and rolls his eyes. “oh please, she’s the king’s sister, they wouldn’t dare—”

“the queen regent is quite right, your grace.” tywin interrupts, his hands behind his back and head held high. “i’m sure you can bear to part from ser meryn until the princess’ guard has returned to full health.” your grandfather eyes you again, unconvinced, and you swallow. he’s always seen straight through you. he’s the only one you can’t fool.

joffrey chews at his lip for a moment, then flops back into a lazy, disinterested recline. “as you will. ser meryn, keep my sister in check, and as far away from me as you can.”

“no, i don’t want ser meryn.” you decline, folding your arms. “i’m a little insulted that you’d leave me alone with a man who takes pleasure in beating little girls, if i may say.”

“ser meryn, if you lay a hand on my sister, your head will be the latest addition to my collection.” then joffrey turns back to you. “happy?”

trant nods once, but looks to you with that same repulsive hunger. you shiver. “no.”

your brother looks as though he’s aged ten years since the debate began and he looks at you with a mixture of frustration and boredom. “oh, spare me. i don’t have time for your fretful protests today.”

“i want the hound.” you tell him, jutting your weight onto one leg as you tap your foot. “if you can survive without your dog for a few hours, that is.”

something shifts in his gaze. questioning his capabilities has always worked when it comes to getting what you want from him. a nice bruise to the ego, preferably with an audience, ought to do it.

your grandfather appears amused, maybe even proud, and watches his grandson carefully.

“fine,” your brother agrees after a beat of awkward silence. “but don’t come crying to me when his ugly face haunts your nightmares. dog, see to my bothersome sister and ensure she does not trouble me again today.”

sandor bows his head, then steps from his post without a word, following you as you make your leave.

“best behaviour, princess.” tywin tells you, knowingly.

“of course, dearest grandfather!” you grin at them over your shoulder, triumphant, and top-off your success with a victorious wave.

your brother mumbles something under his breath, earning a sharp word from your mother, and you chuckle to yourself as you approach the large doors.

“where to, princess?” sandor asks, low and unimpressed.

“the gardens,” you beam, twirling to face him. “let’s promenade.”

the sun is unforgiving to your skin as you walk, and you fan yourself with your hand, huffing out a disgruntled breath every so often. “gods, it’s roasting.”

sandor looks you up and down, unimpressed. at least you’re dressed weather-appropriately. he’s practically boiling alive within the confinements of his armour. “perhaps, we should go inside then, princess.”

“oh goodness, no. it’s far too nice outside!” you say with that pouty smile of yours.

“you were just whingeing about being too hot.” he grumbles as he trails behind you, death-staring any passerby who dares to glance in your general direction.

“it’s bearable.” you shrug, wafting your thin silk skirts so they float behind you, the subtle breeze airing them out.

“nothing about this is bearable.” he mutters, catching a glimpse of your bare legs, coated in a sheen of sweat and slightly bronzed. he stops as you pass a tree, and reaches up to snap off a low-hanging branch. “here,” he spins you by your shoulder and offers you a large palm leaf. “will be more effective in cooling you down.”

“oh, so thoughtful!” you take it gratefully and hum as it wafts its own cold current over your face. it blows your golden waves from your sticky flesh, revealing the flushed skin of your neck. he swallows.

“so, i have a question.” you chime once resuming your leisurely stroll. he groans, tugging at the collar of his undershirt. “why do you comb your hair over like that?”

he throws you a sidelong glance, then looks away. “just do.”

you turn around so you’re walking backwards, eyeing him curiously. “but why?”

“i just fuckin’ do,” he barks, catching the attention of a few onlookers. “and watch where you’re going. i can’t have you falling on your arse, or it’ll be my head on a spike.”

you smirk and do as he asks, but allow yourself to fall back so you’re side-by-side. “is it because of your scar?”

he groans, hand tightening around his sword’s hilt. “why would i bother hiding something that everybody knows is there? i don’t give a flying fuck what people think of me.”

“you won’t mind if i do this, then.” you reach up to fix his parting, attempting to brush the hair to the other side. but his hand catches your wrist and gives it a squeeze. “don’t.”

it alarms you slightly, and upon seeing the fear in your eyes, he drops your arm. “keep walking.”

so you do, begrudgingly. but the silence doesn’t settle for long when you think of something else to badger him with. “how did you actually get your scar? because i’ve heard the story, only, it doesn’t seem plausible. how does—”

“—i was licked by kittens.” he deadpans, trying to gauge by the sun’s position in the sky how much longer he must endure you.

you scoff. “nonsense!”

“what can i say, they have rough tongues.” he adds with a sigh, judging he has a fair few hours of your nattering to go.

“so they, what, licked your skin off? like sandpaper?” you challenge him, finding yourself able to behave like a normal person in his company. it’s rejuvenating.

“like sandpaper, princess.” he confirms, stone-faced. small wonder your guard ‘took ill’, he thinks to himself.

“do you miss your home?” you change the subject, marvelling at the various breeds of flower that bloom around you, and inhale their botanical aromas.

he glares daggers into the back of your pretty head. “don’t remember it much, so no.”

you hum, taking the time to lean down and sniff a red rose, not long flourished. you pick the petalled head from its stalk and yelp when a thorn nips your thumb. “ow!” you stuff it into your mouth and frown, your cheeks hollowing as you suckle it.

sandor has to look away when you do, stealing a deep breath through flared nostrils.

“it’s bleeding.” you whine, scrutinising your war wound.

“it’s a scratch,” he grumbles, unable to see what blood you’re even referring to. “a tiny one at that.” wish it was your tongue, he thinks.

you side-eye him. “are you making fun of me?”

“careful, don’t strain yourself.” he quips. “don’t want to upset your wound.”

you scowl at him and whack him with your palm leaf. it scrapes against the steel of his chest plate, scratching it. you remain wordless, placing the rose behind your ear.

his anger starts to slowly simmer, and if not for your status, he would’ve knocked you on your arse. “we should return to the keep before you grow weak from blood-loss.” he says, hoping his sarcasm irks you as much as he intends. “wouldn’t want it to drop off, since it’s attached by a mere thread.”

“i don’t appreciate your tone, ser.” you berate, knowing that addressing him as such would tempt a reaction.

“i’m not a knight.” he tells you, his temper shortening by the second.

“and yet your brother of all people is.” you continue, smirking when he visibly tenses. “oops, struck a nerve. why is that—?”

you squeal when he fists your hair, wrapping it twice around his clenched hand, and tugs you behind one of the hedge walls. “you ask too many questions.” he snarls, leaning down until barely a finger could fit between your faces. “ilyn payne talked too much, too. . .” he unsheathes the knife at his hip and lifts it to your mouth, pressing the point against the plump flesh of your lip. “and now he doesn’t have a tongue.”

the little blade glints in the sun, reflecting off your heaving chest. his eyes dart down to where your cleavage rapidly rises and falls, then back up to your startled eyes.

you look fucking beautiful like this.

“did you just threaten a royal princess?” you ask, the knife’s edge melting against the pillowy surface of your bottom lip.

“aye,” he speaks lowly, knee bending up to settle between your legs. “at knifepoint, no less.”

arousal begins to gather at your virgin cunt, slickening the outer flesh of your slit.

“and i think she likes it.” he whispers, feeling your warmth and wetness against the cloth of his trousers. you start to throb, and he feels that too, dark eyes glazing over as their lids become heavy.

you lift your head, pressing your mouth against the sharp steel. a slow red line trickles down its silver face when its edge breaks the skin, but you don’t wince like you had some moments ago, just hold his stare whilst you grow hotter; and this time it’s not the sun who’s at fault.

he lowers the knife, leaving the blood it drew free to roam down your chin. he catches it with his knuckle, diverting its path over his palm.

“my brother will be very interested to know who did this to me.” you warn him, the desirous aching in your loins muffling the dull twinge of the shallow cut.

with his fingers still tangled in your hair, he forces your face towards his, and you gasp when he licks his way up the red route to your split lip and sucks it between his teeth.

the saltiness of his saliva stings slightly and you moan when his tongue finds its way to yours, wrestling with it. you hitch atop his thigh when the metallic tang of blood spreads across your palate, then he pulls away.

“did what, princess?” he asks, releasing you. “i don’t see anything.”

you gulp down a staggered intake of air and touch your lip gently, then peer down to see that indeed no blood has transferred onto your fingertips.

“i wish to retire to my chambers.” you tell him, meek and still short of breath.

he grins, lopsided. “i bet you do.”

everyone should tag their 16 and 34 on Spotify wrapped for good luck

next a bite button PLEASE

You show up for your first day at Copyright-Free Magic School. As you're going through orientation, you're informed that all new students get a school-assigned familiar that they are responsible for housing and maintaining. The staff member assures you that your assigned familiar is appropriately chosen and reflects you in some way.

Spin this to find out yours. (Remember, you are responsible for maintaining this familiar in your dorm room.)

hi! I'm new to this blog as an anon but I lolololoLOVE your writing, like I've started watching game of thrones and the moment sandor was introduced I knew I needed to find fics for this broken man and I needed to fuck him HARD ❗️ I'm so happy bcus u write him so well and so vulgar, bcus nobody else counts in how he considers the women in his life and how he swears like a sailor and his stupid accent like ugh — but you're so good at portraying him. I think I swallowed all of ur fics in one sitting bcus why the hell not

can I maybe possibly request a blurb where sandor fucks you in a headlock? or maybe, where he takes you outdoors against a tree trunk?

thank you :-)

this ask made my day!! i do often rewatch my fav episodes that have him in them to refresh my memory on his demeanour (any excuse to watch him honestly) so i’m glad you think my portrayal is accurate 🫂

table of contents; you’re a baratheon/lannister, outdoor fucking, in public, age gap, brat-taming (kinda), degradation, he takes you roughly from behind what more could we want.

headlock ver

the forest is a peaceful place. your escape from reality. well, royalty. you often come here to let off steam and reconnect with nature — usually after an argument with your petulant twin brother or difficult mother who always takes his side.

it’s quiet here, except for the occasional caw of a crow or rustling of leaves. oh, and the delirious moans that surge from your mouth with each of his animalistic thrusts.

“those pretty little noises are nicer than those fucking songs, princess.” he punctuates the opinion with several harsh ruts against your backside, his heavy sack slapping against your slick with his vigour.

the force propels you forward and you almost smack your head off the trunk he’s got you braced against. your nails scrape at the bark, the rotting wood crumbling as you claw at it. “gods,” you whine, knees quaking. “don’t— mmf! don’t stop. . .”

he chuckles behind you, hooded eyes glued to your arse and the red handprints that stamp it. “won’t fuckin run again, will you?”

you let your forehead thud against the tree as you hug yourself to it, unable to hold your weight up on two feet. “n— ngh. . . no!”

but if this is the consequence for running, you just might.

he lifts you by the hips and you squeal when the ground disappears out from under you, hands grappling with the trunk for balance. “my back was turned for five fucking seconds,” he spits, large hand reaching around to support your middle. “didn’t know where the fuck you’d gone,” he continues, slamming into your behind at a relentless pace.

you mewl, tears brimming in your eyes as something inside of you starts to coil and tighten.

“had me chasing after you like the dog i am.” he doesn’t falter, pistoning his cock into your depths until there’s no portion of his length that isn’t pocketed within your soaking warmth. “that’s all i am to you, isn’t it, princess? your dog.”

you can’t form words, they’re beyond you. all you can do is whimper and gasp for breath as he jackhammers against your cervix, bruised and burning.

“you wanted this, didn’t you? that why you ran?” his rhythm starts to stutter as he teeters on release, but his ferocity doesn’t relent. “wanted me to fuck you bloody?”

you can’t say you’ve never pondered it, you think, since you can’t fathom speech; the pleasure has you by the throat.

“only had to ask, princess.”

they are back

erm sandor clegane spits on it

cute little könig doodle based directly on this

the loyal as a dog trope but the person they’re loyal to never wanted a dog

‘i gave you everything’ ‘no one asked you to’

they liked you better when you weren’t their’s to have. they don’t like the person you are around them.