And To You, My Favorite Middle Aged Male Character, I Bestow Upon Thee The Highest Of Honors: AGDAB (assigned

Ughhhh your Hound is always so delicious, makes me want to rewatch GoT just for him. Anyway...would you ever consider writing some fluffy domestic stuff with him spending time with his woman and their kids? 🥺🙏🏻 Pretty please with sprinkles on top? 🩷

you should definitely rewatch it! i actually have a oneshot for husband!sandor with his children in my drafts, but i thought this up on the spot specially for you, dear anon 🌷

table of contents; just fluff and strong language :)

the sweet smell of lamb over goose fat-fried potatoes sings to him as he approaches the front door to your house, joints groaning amongst the clinking of his armour. beyond the small square window to your kitchen he can hear the giggling of his children, and that firm little voice of yours telling them not to run when the stove is lit.

“what have i told you about running near hot pots?!” you scold.

“sorry, mama!” his two oldest respond.

the door groans like a maester on its hinges and he ducks his head to fit through the frame. “i hope you gremlins haven’t been too much trouble for mummy.” he says, unbuckling his sword and placing it out of a child’s reach.

your shoulders relax and you smile. “you’re home, finally.”

he chuckles and cranes your head back by the neck to kiss you. “something smells nice.” then he lets out a winded grunt when two tiny humans crash into his legs.

your daughter makes grabby hands and your husband rolls his eyes in jest, then bends down to pick her up. your son still clings to his leg as sandor walks to the table, still able to do so as if the boy weighs nothing.

“i made this for you!” your daughter chirps, pulling something from her pocket. she’s proud as she presents it to him and you watch on fondly from the stove.

sandor gasps and plucks it from her chubby little fingers. “for me?” he turns it in his hand, studying it. it’s a stick, with four smaller twigs tied to it and a piece of yellow string stuck to the top with mud. “it’s. . . what the fu—” he stops himself, just as you arch a brow. “—what on earth is it?”

“a princess!” she tells him, fidgeting excitedly in his arms. “someday, i’m going to be a princess, you’ll see!”

“fucking hope not!” your son chimes. sandor’s hair and eyes aren’t all he’s inherited.

for a moment your husband seems proud, until he catches a glimpse of your unimpressed expression. so he reaches down and smacks the boy lightly upside the head. “boy, watch your mouth. . . around your mother.”

you place your hands on your hips. “sandor.”

“what?” he smirks. “i fucking hope she doesn’t become a princess too.”

you sigh and turn back to your cooking, shaking your head as your children giggle.

“and i did this!” your son runs past you toward the stairs, his footsteps frantic as he hurries to his room. the ceiling creaks as he does, then you hear a loud thud followed by a groan. you look up at the spot where he fell and it’s quiet for a second, then you hear him get back up and sprint for the stairs.

“that is why i tell you not to run.” you chastise, eyeing him as he jogs back into the kitchen.

“what is it?” sandor squints at the piece of paper his son handed him.

“it’s us!” your son climbs onto his father lap, pointing at his painting. “that’s me, that’s « daughter’s name », that’s mummy, and that’s you!”

“why am i so bloody round?” sandor asks, glaring at the artwork. you chuckle to yourself as you plate up the food.

“because you are.” your son tells him, pointedly poking the man’s stomach through his chainmail.

“little shit.” you hear your husband mumble. “where’d you get this paint, anyway?”

“what paint?” you frown, turning to peer at the paper. “i thought you used all of your paint.”

your son falls silent, fiddling with his hands.

“he stole some from the stall in flea bottom!” your daughter dimes him out and he gasps, hitting her on the arm. “liar!”

“flea bottom? what in seven hells were you doing down there?!” you snap, leaning against the table to glare at him. “and don’t you hit your sister!”

“without expecting her to hit you back.” sandor adds, and motions for your daughter to hit him. she does, harder than he did her.

“sandor.” you hiss.

“did you get caught?” he asks your son, ignoring you.

your son pouts as he rubs where your daughter smacked him. “no, father.”

“good lad.”

“sandor!”

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.

farmer!könig inspo video! <3

reblog if you need a hug

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.)

I hope none of you disappear in the coming days. Seriously don't do anything that can't be undone.

i was determined to give as many as i could

blinking blearily at my phone

so real about the sandor thing. like i’m sure he wasn’t intended to be liked like that, but i can’t help it! one of my favourites honestly!

what about sandor escorting reader, as he did arya (but readers an adult obviously), and reader, being a lady or princess, is acting all spoiled/bratty? huffing at every inn (“it smells!”), whining about the food (“rabbit?? couldn’t you have caught a goose?”), until he finally has enough and puts reader in her place, talking back to her for once. he doesn’t miss the way reader blushes and shifts at his harsh tone, maybe all she needs is to be bent over a dusty inn bed to improve her mood?

him in the books is. . . questionable lmao. but his onscreen counterpart on the other hand? BARK BARK.

and honestly you read my mind, i was hoping someone would make a request like this *rubs hands together*

cw 18+; strong language, sexual language, mentions of violence, mentions of sa (not by sandor), sandor gets his own warning for saying cunt all the time, hostage situation, lightly implied stockholm syndrome, age gap, size diff, p in v sex, you’re a virgin, guys it’s fucking dirty i dunno what to tell ya. oh and black cat x golden lab cause i’m a sappy old shite.

your feet hurt. you’re not sure if it’s the dampness that’s soaked through your stockings, the bitter chill that nips through your footwear, or the uneven terrain you clumsily navigate.

the ground is loose and rocky, the air is unforgiving to your tangled hair and the way your stomach growls to be filled only casts a shadow on your already dim mood. the wind whistles in the silence, occasionally interrupted by the crunching of earth beneath your feet. you wince when a particularly sharp stone jabs the sole of your foot and you lift it up, checking it has not pierced the underside of your shoe.

“what the fuck’s the problem now?” a gruff voice carries through the breeze to your frost-bitten ears and you throw him a sidelong glance.

sandor clegane, better known as the hound. once king joffrey’s sworn shield and brother of the kingsguard, now a stray dog. he’d fled the red keep when faced with, in his words, ‘a swarm of aflame cunts’. he later claimed stannis’ men took their king’s flaming heart sigil too seriously. you wagered it was thanks to tyrion’s wildfire stunt.

and with him, you. you’d found him in your chambers after leaving queen cersei’s henhouse of flocked maidens. you couldn’t handle another prayer or hymn, nor a single drop more of that blood-red wine cersei kept offering you; though it did better than the harmonies and entreaties to calm your nerves.

« i’ll keep you safe, girl. they’re all afraid of me »

the wise words of a man who runs with his tail between his legs at the sight of fire.

when he offered to take you with him, you didn’t realise that meant you’d become his ransom. he was always kind to you. you saw the look on his face whenever joffrey would beat you — like he wanted to unsheath his sword and drive it straight through the cruel bastard’s cold little heart, if he even had one.

sandor clegane who hates everyone, perhaps hated you the least. now you laugh to yourself for wondering such a thing. he only protects you because of the sum you’re worth, so he surely hates you the most. if there’s anyone he hates more than himself, that is.

“i hurt my foot.” you tell him, staggering on one leg whilst you inspect your boot. the stone indeed lodged itself into the tatty sole and you yank it out with dramatic effort. you’ve half a mind to send it flying right into his face, but it’s seen enough damage. plus you’d probably miss anyway. you never had a strong throwing arm, even before you were starved and weak.

“is it hanging on by a fucking thread?” he asks you, one large hand on his sword’s hilt.

you frown at him and return to a two-legged stance. “no.”

“so fucking move your arse, then.”

your mouth opens and closes again, trying to find the words. your tongue has always been your greatest, if not only weapon, though cersei insisted it was what lived between your legs. her younger brother told you that the mind is the sharpest of them all. you hoped you could rely on the latter.

“i’m starting to really loathe you.”

your words stop him which surprises you. you had hoped he might not hear you, were certain he wouldn’t. only one of his ears possesses that ability anyway. he turns on his axis and saunters toward you.

“there’s far worse than me.” he’s told you that before, like he means to convince you of it. “rapers, plunderers, child beaters and fuckers, cults. i might’ve killed, hells i enjoy it, but out here it’s kill or be killed. being a killer is a far cry from what else i could choose to be. you think joffrey’s a menace? imagine a man unbound and unburdened by royal code. the only code out here is the moral one, and i might be the only sorry cunt that has a shred of it. you ought to be glad of me, girl.”

“so you’re above rape? oh, thank the gods.” you feign relief, even going so far as to wipe imaginary sweat from your forehead. “i must instead call you sandor the saint.”

he looks down at you with a glint you’ve not yet seen. his chocolate eyes are full of pain and sadness, you know that. anyone who has the courage to look him in the eye longer than a few seconds will notice the hurt that seeps from their dark pools like tears. but this is different. like your words have caused the pain that stares back at you, rather than the shackles of his past.

suddenly you find yourself regretting yourself, not that what you’d said was completely true in the first place. but it doesn’t matter now, he’s already walking away, head shaking as he does.

you limp after him, gaze down.

the sun hides behind the trees, blackening their outlines. the watercolour pastel of the skies above is possibly the prettiest thing you’ve seen since the gardens of kingslanding and you smile as you marvel. you’ve been unsure if you’ll ever smile again, but here you are.

“what’re you doing?” that gravelly voice makes you jump, he’s not uttered a word to you since your tantrum earlier today.

“the sunset.” you tell him, pointing at the ombré horizon as if he needs guidance on where to look. “is it not beautiful?”

he surprises you again when his gaze follows your finger, scarred face illuminated by the sky’s shades of pink and orange.

the sight of him warms you and you tilt your head, studying him. he must sense your eyes and averts his own to greet yours.

“i’m sorry.” you barely whisper. “i did not mean it.”

it occurs to you that yours may be the first apology he’s ever received.

his eyes narrow, the undamaged side of his face still highlighted by the sinking sun. you must be the only living thing in westeros that does not look at him like he’s the most dastardly creature you’ve ever encountered. the only person who does not cower in his presence or desperately avoid the hardship of looking at his half-burned face. you’ve yet to refer to him as ‘dog’ or treat him like such. you haven’t made a single remark about his appearance. the word ‘monster’ has not once left your mouth when referring to him.

you call him sandor. the last person who called him by his given name was his mother. . . probably. he does not remember her well. he thinks he was her favourite. he recalls her nice treatment of him. the last niceness he ever experienced. fleeting and not enough.

“we rest here.” he finally says, as soft as he can muster. “the riverlands should only be a few days walk from here.”

your feet ache at the thought. “i wish we had horses.”

he doesn’t respond, already making himself comfortable on the grass below.

your nose scrunches up. “it’s wet.”

“what?”

“the grass is wet.”

he rolls his head to the side, returning your unimpressed expression with his own exhausted one. “and what the fuck d’you want me to do about that? blow on it until it dries?”

you press your lips into a thin line. “no, but maybe we could light a fire?”

“no fire.” he snaps.

your hands find place on your hips and he arches his only brow. “my father will not pay you in full if you bring me to him sickly and ailing.”

“what the fuck’s ~ailing~.”

his mind immediately arrives at the beverage. oh, how he’s missing alcohol. you’re making his involuntary sobriety intolerable.

you fold your arms across your chest, leaning your weight onto one foot. “it means to be indisposed.”

he snorts at that, crass. “indisposed? sit down, will you.”

you huff in defeat and gingerly lower yourself onto your knees. the dew seeps through your skirt and you groan, pulling your cloak around yourself in the hopes that when you lay back, your back won’t get too wet.

he watches you fidget and shuffle, lips curled in disgust whenever your bare hands touch a blade of grass. he rolls his eyes, rather enjoying the coolness of the green blades against his irritant skin.

“worst day ever.” he hears you mumble as you continue to restlessly squirm and huff through your nostrils.

sick of your bellyaching, he bolts upright and leans over the narrow gap between you, clasping you by the upper arm to drag you toward him. you gasp at his iron grip and yelp when he situates you against him, your back to his front.

you squirm. “what in seven hells are you doing? unhand me!”

“stop that.” he grunts, flattening one large hand over your stomach to keep you still.

he becomes rigid and unsure, correcting his position against your smaller frame. you wonder if he’s ever been this close to someone before. you noticed during your time in the capital that he often dodged touch.

the heat from his body radiates through his armour and wraps you in a warm embrace. you realise his intention then and it thaws you. allowing yourself to relax, you let your gaze drift to the sky again, now a deep blue in colour. he tenses again, his fingertips refusing to make contact with you. only the heel of his palm rests on your front, almost covering it entirely like a weighted blanket. his company starts to soothe you, not that it really unnerved you to begin with.

“sandor.” his name travels to a deaf ear, despite coming from your mouth. he couldn’t possibly be asleep already, you suppose he’s ignoring you. it wouldn’t be the first time.

“i do not loathe you.” then sleep takes you.

the breeze isn’t so nippy and the rays of the rising sun warm your cheeks, rosy from last night’s cold. you trudge behind your captor though he’d rather label himself your saviour, which in a twisted way he is, grimacing at the way your toes feel as though they’ll snap like frozen twigs in the cramped pockets of your boots.

“can we take a break?” you plead, whining like a kicked dog when you tread in a puddle. you lift your skirts and your face wrinkles at the mud-sodden hem of it. your dress had the likeness of emerald when you departed, now it’s brownish and ripped in places, the delicate embroidery worn and frayed.

he doesn’t stop to wait for you this time. “we’ve been on the road an hour. . . if that.”

you take that as a no and trail after him, practically stomping although it hurts to do so. “we’ve been on the road for the better part of a month, actually.”

he scoffs. “hardly.”

now he graces you the courtesy to throw a brief glance at you over his broad shoulder. “keep up.”

you scowl. “you have a quicker stride.”

“jog then.”

“i’d rather not.”

he sighs and backtracks his steps, marching in your direction. you brace yourself for the confrontation that’s been brewing since the crownlands, straightening your back. “go on, then.”

he eyes you, searching your face for a sign that you’re surely not being serious. “is that what you think of me?” he spits, cursing the night he wandered into your chambers and invited you to accompany him from the stinking city he’s since wished he left you in.

you blink, bewildered when he spins and squats down on his haunches, arms outstretched behind him. “what are doing?”

“jump.” he simply says, fed-up.

you hesitate. “a piggyback?”

“aye, it’s a heroic piggyback.” he kids, impatiently wriggling the thick fingers that reach back for you. “it’s this or you walk.”

you’ll take anything over having to walk another metre and plant your hands on his steel-clad shoulders. his hands envelop the backs of your thighs and he hoists you onto his large back, adjusting you when you start to slide down the metal surface of his armour. he’s so wide that it actually hurts your center to wrap your legs around him. he hooks his elbows under the backs of your knees like chain-links and huffs. “better?”

“much.” you hum, revelling in the relief of your throbbing feet and perch your chin on his shoulder.

“other side.” he gruffs, jutting his head to the opposite shoulder. your body jolts with each of his heavy steps and you side-eye him. “pardon?”

“i’m not listening to your sniffling and mouth-breathing the whole way.” he drones. you roll your eyes and switch to his other shoulder before exhaling a deliberately loud sigh against what remains of his deaf ear. you’re certain you feel him chuckle beneath you. “brat.”

“i don’t mouth-breathe.” you banter, feeling the safest you have since leaving your homekeep of seagard after the announcement of sansa stark’s betrothal. a comfortable silence settles and you’re thankful for the civil atmosphere that replaces the previously frosty one. “how much will you demand from my father?”

“as much i make him cough up.” sandor grunts, pausing to hike you further up his back before resuming his brisk pace.

“you won’t hurt him?” you ask, lulling you head to peer at him.

“not if he pays me generously for my trouble.”

your fingers curl nervously into his breast plate. “i’m asking you not to hurt my father.”

“is lord mallister a compliant man?”

“yes, but i shouldn’t imagine he’ll be too impressed by you or your terms.” you warn.

sandor’s speed slows to a stop and you lift your head to peer beyond the woodland brush. smoke floats until its one with the canopy of clouds and the smell of bread tumbles from the same chimney. your stomach rumbles in tandem with the flare of your nostrils and your mouth waters greedily.

“hungry?” he prompts.

“famished.”

the inn is about as dismal as it is antiquate. cobwebs hang like chandeliers from the wooden ceiling which sandor has to hunch beneath to avoid head-butting it, and the room falls silent once his presence is noticed. sandor stares them down.

“find somewhere to sit.” he tells you, leaving to approach the bar. as soon as he’s absent from your side you feel the eyes of several drunks land on you and your guts twist.

spotting an empty booth in the far corner you scamper like a mouse afraid of its own shadow and slump yourself down with your back to the wall, hands poised neatly over your lap and head bowed. you fiddle with your fingers, picking at the cracked skin of your cuticles when the bench opposite you creaks.

sandor settles himself down, sliding you a bowl of something steaming-hot and muddy in colour. you catch a whiff of the aroma, meaty. “what’s in it?”

“dog.” he rasps through a mouthful and stuffs the spoon back into his mouth before swallowing the first bite.

you gawk at him and nudge your bowl away with a disapproving finger.

he glances at you, strings of sauce drooling from his beard. “it’s rabbit.”

you don’t find him funny, wanting nothing more than to jam your fork into his leg that squashes yours, too long not to encroach on your side of the table. picking up your spoon you cringe at the rust that tarnishes it and wonder if it was even cleaned since its last use, and attempt to polish it with your sleeve.

“eat it, or be in it.” sandor bellows having watched your fussing.

you slouch and dip your spoon into the stew, barely scooping up a substantial amount. with an agitated growl, he clasps your wrist and forces you to pile too much food onto the spoon for you to fit in your mouth and shovels it into your gob. you almost choke when he practically gags you with it and your eyes water when it burns your tongue.

the chunks of rabbit are dry and chewy, the toughness almost hurting your teeth as they try to mash it up. “gods.” you manage to say. “it’s like leather.”

“have much experience eating leather, do you?” he retorts, scraping every last speck of sauce from his bowl. you glare at him once you’ve finally swallowed, the rubbery meat dragging itself down to your stomach; you actually feel it hit the bottom of its empty pit. you’ve lost your appetite.

the barmaid places two cups of ale on your table and leans over to take sandor’s empty bowl from him. you clear your throat and pass her yours. “are you hungry? please, have mine.” you offer. she looks stunned and reaches to take your meal from you with a shy smile.

sandor snatches it back and slams it down in front of you. “i didn’t use my last coins to feed a kitchen wench. eat your fucking food.” his tone startles you and the poor girl scuttles back to the kitchen.

“sandor—”

“no.” he cuts you off. “you’ve been chewing my ears off about how starving you are, i got you food, so eat it.” he throws his head back with the cup to his mouth, gulping back his ale like a baby at its mother’s teat.

“it’s disgusting. i am no longer hungry.” you argue, and slouch back against the wall.

he leans toward you on his elbows, the amber stickiness of his drink sloshing onto the table’s oak. “eat.”

“you eat it if you’re so concerned about it going to waste.” you challenge, squinting at him. “you’re not losing out on any profit, you plan to sell me to my own father. soon, you’ll be richer than the lannisters ever made you. its a bowl of sludge and your way of life is doing little to influence my standards, hound.”

oh dear, you shouldn’t have said that.

he chews his lip for a second. maybe he plans on snuffing you out like a flame and gifting your father just your head instead. you wonder how much your head is worth.

sandor stands, swigging the dregs of his drink before allowing it to slip from his hand to the wooden floor. you watch his every move, preparing to kick and scream like your life depends on it. he walks around the table and ducks down, hoisting you onto his shoulder. you squeal and hammer your fists against his back. “put me down!”

the inn’s other guests do nothing to assist. some watch him carry you up the staircase, most don’t look up from their drinks. you see the maid from before watch you disappear to the upper floor with sorry eyes. you don’t expect her to step in, not after her encounter with him.

“you said you’re not a rapist.” you remind him tearfully, lip quivering when he unlocks one of the rooms and steps inside.

you’re then lowered to your feet and you make an immediate break for the window but he’s faster, grabbing your cloak and spinning you back to him. “that’s the first thing you think? really?”

you avoid his face, for the first time since you met you can’t bear to look at him.

then your back hits the door, a little blade that’s seen more death than the kingswood and claimed more men than a common whore finds itself at your neck. you gasp, not daring to move.

“carotid artery.” he says, barely kissing your skin with his blade.

he shifts it, expertly and practiced. the cold steel presses just under your chin where the skin stretches from your jaw to your throat. “lingual artery.”

your breathing is shallow, pupils trembling within your irises.

the knife grazes down your chest, stopping to the left of your sternum. “this is where the heart is. what was it they told you? that your cunt is your greatest weapon? no. . . your mind?”

he chuckles bitterly and draws the blade so it’s adjacent to your nose, forcing you to look at it. “this is a weapon. this will kill you. especially if someone sticks it here.”

he repositions it to your throat. “or here. . .”

under your chin.

“or here.” at your heart.

you’re struck by him, no longer scared. just utterly astonished.

then the sharp point pinches your thigh and you suck in a staggered breath. “femoral artery.” he’s looking down, almost predatorily. said artery starts to pulse under your flushed skin. “you’ll bleed out for hours if someone nicks that.”

you’re close, and you didn’t realise just how close until his hand coasts your naval on its way back up. “which you will, if you don’t have me.”

so it’s a lesson.

“you promised to keep me safe.” you whisper, eyes flitting between his. “i don’t want to be alone.”

“show some fucking gratitude for the fact you’d be dead ten times over if not for me. maybe then i won’t leave you to fend for yourself.” his hard features are betrayed by the softness in his stare. perhaps, his threat is empty.

“i don’t care that much about money.” he admits, propping himself up with a hand beside your head. “i can always get it through other means.”

you call his bluff. “i thought you weren’t a plunderer.”

“who said anything about plundering?” his voice barely succeeds a whisper.

your eyes fall to his parted lips. they’re thin but his mouth stretches wide. chapped, only a little. you think a portion of his upper lip is concealed by the thick bristle that grows above. you can smell the ale on his breath, feel the heat of it waft over your skin.

when you allow your eyes to part from them, you find his own eyes are drinking you in. from your lips, to your hair, to the skin that pads your collarbones and finally south. if it were any other man you’d slap him across the cheek for looking at you in such a way, but you don’t feel violated at all.

“i am grateful to you.”

your words regain his attention, his eyes snap up to burn into yours. an intense and animalistic stare that you’ve only seen on him after he’s taken a life.

“don’t seem it. you’re a snooty little bitch, aren’t you.”

you open your mouth to speak, only for him to swallow your dispute with his. your head bounces off the door with the force of his lips crashing against yours and you gasp, muffled by the kiss.

its classless. tongue, teeth and claw. you’ve never been kissed before, not even a peck. no amount of talks with your septa could’ve readied you for this.

you whimper into his mouth, hands flat against the silver of his chest plate. he grunts, manhandling you against him so he can lift you onto the bed. you hit the mattress, body bouncing with his aggression and he pins you there, knee bent between your legs.

he’s unbuckling his armour, hands moving too fast they’re almost blurry. you had no idea those massive paws of his could be so nimble. the various plates fall from his front and back, shoulders, elbows and forearms. you jump when they clash with the floor, and suddenly you’re embarrassed that the people downstairs may’ve heard.

his belt clinks, gauntlets and sword forgotten somewhere with it.

“i’ve never. . .” you trail off, cheeks blushing an unforgiving red. sandor looms over you, left in his undershirt, trousers and boots. his chest hair pokes above the neck of his cotton top, dirty skin glistening in the lowlight.

“been fucked.” he finishes on your behalf. it’s a statement, not even an assumption. he already knows.

you nod wearily, averting your eyes.

“good.” he simply says. “get rid of this.” he rips your dress from top to tail, exposing your underskirts and the corset that sinches your waist. you gasp when your cloak is torn out from underneath you next, leaving you almost bare.

not bare enough.

he lifts the white material of your skirts up past your hips, revealing the height of your stockings — they stop mid-thigh. a low rumble reverberates from him.

“here.” you offer your help, lifting your bottom up to unclasp your undergarments. you’re not sure he even noticed, eyes glued to what your mother referred to as ‘your flower’. freshly bloomed but not yet watered.

“i thought only whores walked bare.” he thought aloud, traipsing a finger up the inside of your thigh. you shiver and clamp them shut.

“i had to rid of them.” you grow nervous again. “i bled last week.” which is true, but wearing the same underwear for days on end wasn’t particularly comfortable either.

he forces a hand between your legs, wedging them open. your folds flourish for him, also glistening in the low light.

“heavens.” he shudders, cock pressing painfully against his trousers. “pretty cunt.”

the mere outline of his size aches your core and you huff.

“you really are teaching me a lesson.” you force out a nervous laugh.

“so you can keep up.” he jests, mattress dipping and bed frame groaning when he crawls over you.

you swallow. “i’ve head that it hurts.”

“it will.” his fingertips brush your hip, then slip to stroke your thigh. you’re bent awkwardly in half, your bottom angled against his crotch. “but not for long, and not once you’ve been broken in.”

“will i bleed?” you already know the answer, you’re not so naive to that extent.

“aye,” his thumb finds the throb of your artery. “but not as much as this would.”

the lesson continues.

he reaches between your bodies, the sleeve of his shirt grazing your slick. you feel it pucker in response, the heat returning to your cheeks. sandor frees himself from his trousers, the engorged head of his cock springing to slap your inner thigh.

you suspected a man of his build was probably well-hung but seven hells, he’s been blessed by the gods.

“does it scare you?”

“no.” you lie.

“it should.” he slides a long digit through your slit, circles the bundle of nerves at the top and drags it down toward your opening. knuckle-deep, he crooks it inside of you. your stomach caves in and your mouth falls agape.

he studies the subtle switches in your expression. hooded, glossy eyes and furrowed brows.

you don’t notice him retract his finger until the pressure of it is replaced by an insatiable fullness, driving through your loins and piercing the narrowness of your innocence.

you arch into him with a high-pitched cry, eyes squeezed shut and teeth gritted.

“catch them by surprise.” he grunts, the veins in his neck bulging and the muscles in his arms rippling. “remember that.”

surely he’s not still teaching. he stills for a second, revelling in your tightness whilst you try to accommodate his intrusion.

he twitches within you, desperate to fuck you silly. his lips confront yours again, furious and messy. you squeal like a wounded boar when he pulls his hips back, rocking into you again. the weight of his thighs hugging the curve of your ass tilt you up so you slot against him like a jigsaw, the juices that coat his dick in a crude sheen enticing a low growl.

he moves in, out, and in again. you start to adjust, focusing on the pleasure that rockets up your spine every time his cockhead jabs at your cervix. the sensation is alien and completely unpredictable.

your head rolls to the side, breaking the kiss. he pulls all the way out this time, then plunges back into your depths until all of him has disappeared within you. your mouth hangs open with a salacious mewl, you feel so stuffed. your fists twist to scrunch the bedsheets, breathless pants tumbling from your puffy lips.

a warm and callused palm closes around your neck, enough pressure in its hold to make you dizzy. you arch yourself into him through subconscious desire and his cock slides impossibly deeper inside of you.

he groans and that’s that. he slams into you, ripping a guttural moan from your chest. rising on his knees, he throws your legs over his shoulders, pinning your core to his crotch so only your head and shoulders remain on the mattress.

his rhythm is rough and steady, balls smacking against you with each poignant thrust. “fuck, that’s it.” his jaws are clenched, nails cutting into your skin. your feet curl into a cramp either side of his head and you whine, lightheaded. “gods. . .”

your enjoyment sings to him and it’s music to his ears. the sounds of your little virgin cunt slurping around him and the way you weep for more become his new favourite melody. you sound angelic and look the part too.

you swear you can feel him everywhere. in your stomach, in parts of you that you didn’t know existed. filling you, taking you, and ruining you for whom ever you may one day wed.

in this moment you don’t feel real. all you can do is whimper and clench around him, sore and swollen. used.

you try to speak, unable to find the power of speech. your toes curl into his hair, eyes rolling until you see darkness and stars.

“little lady wants something?” he punctuates each word with a harsh rut, humping into you clumsily but not caring for his sloppiness.

he fucks you deeply, and of all the women he’s laid with, all for a price and double the usual for the trouble of having to look at a face like his, never has he been taken so well. you swallow his entirety with every snap of his hips, the wiry bush that grows from his pubic bone kissing your clit every time.

and then you fall completely silent, body tensing like a plank of wood until it hits. its blinding and overwhelming, all you can do is spasm around him when finally you let out what one could describe as a howl. you’ve never made such a noise in your life. its the kind of noise you’d expect to hear from men charging into battle.

“fucking hells—” sandor curses, lurching forward when you gush around him. he fucks your climax back into you, adding to it with his own thick seed. you feel it surge through your spent little hole and your cunt gladly milks him of everything he gives you, sucking him dry.

he collapses onto you, your legs falling from the barrels of his shoulders. his cock coerces you through the aftershocks and you hum, now aware of the dull pain between your legs. you lift a shaky hand, almost too weak to do that, and pet his hair. surprisingly, its softer than yours. he purrs into the crook of your neck like a domesticated cat, the flip-side of the coin to the rabid dog you believed him to be mere hours ago.

you give his shoulder a pat and he groans, lifting his weight off of you. he withdraws his softening cock as he stands, you whine at the loss of him and the way your combined climaxes trickle from your fucked-out hole and pool beneath you. you feel a sting down below where you’re returning to your usual size, no longer speared by something to stretch it out. it’s rather a pleasant pain you feel and not as bad as you feared. that, or you’re still dazed by the afterglow.

once he’s tucked himself away, he offers you a rag from his pocket. “here, clean yourself.” he places it in your hand when you make no effort to move and you’re scarcely aware of him when he sits beside you, a little short of breath. “we stay here tonight.”

“we have no money to rent the room.” you manage to mumble, slurred.

“i already did.” he tells you. so that’s where the rest of his coins went. you hadn’t been convinced that a stew that terrible would cost so much. “you’ll need the rest.”

the revelation gladdened you. if you couldn’t walk before, you don’t fancy your chances now.

i know there’s more than this out there but it really is incredible that people will look at a fictional character someone else wrote and collectively say “I will write you a hundred happy endings.”