I Like The Strange Man And I’m Not Ashamed About It! - Blog Posts

hiiii! I love EVERYTHING you write, it's so amazing! I was just wondering if I could request a fic with sandor clegane (ofc) where the reader is the one to pursue him? at first he doesn't want a bar of it but he slowly starts to come around to the idea. maybe a bit of angst and smut? idk up to you darling, you're the master here hehe 😉

(can I flirt with you..??)

ooo i love this !! and ofc you can, everyone else does lmao

you don’t know what attracts you to him. he’s mean, he’s violent, he reeks of wine and sweat and steel, and he’s practically missing half of his face.

it could be perhaps, because he does not seem to want for you.

as joffrey’s twin, you’re a spit of your mother. hair like molten gold and eyes like pools of liquid malachite. a dozen men a day flock to the red keep to ask for your hand, and so a dozen heads a day decorate the city gates.

but the man won’t so much as look your way. and you’ve tried it all, you really have.

“sandor,” you cooed, voice like candied fruits. “would you help me with my necklace?”

“i’m your bodyguard, princess, not your handmaiden.”

he watched you struggle with the dainty chain for some time, only for your brother to grow tired of your huffing and fussing. “dog, see to my stupid sister and her hapless attempts.”

“oops!” of course it slipped from your hands. silly you, always so clumsy. it was just so delicate and flimsy! you’d no choice but to bend over and pick it up, just as sandor stepped behind you.

oh, then you felt a little dizzy. it was such a hot day, you see. you swayed on your feet, teetering forwards. then a pair of strong hands steadied you by your hips and pulled you upright.

“oh, thank you,” you turned to caress his chest plate. “my hero. . . you’re so strong!”

he only stared down at you, stoic and deadpan.

“here,” you scraped your long hair over one shoulder to grant access to your neck, showing off your bust.

he twisted you by your shoulders and quickly fastened the chain in one swift motion. his fingers barely grazed you.

you’ve been known to have him sent to your chambers whilst bathing or dressing. or barely dressed.

“well? what do you think?” you asked, spinning slowly on the spot. red silks draped over your front, gold straps securing it at the shoulders. your skin was exposed at the sides, revealing your legs and hips, and your back had no garment to conceal it at all except for what clung to your bottom, though the dimples at the small of your back peaked above it.

“one day you’ll really need me, and i won’t come.” he told you, making his way to the door. “remember that, little lion.”

out of embarrassment, you had your brother put him on door duty. of course you made sure it was your door he was assigned to guard. and so for the entire week that he stood guard outside your chambers, you took yourself with your fingers, moaning just loud enough for him to hear from his post.

he stood there every night, listening to your sweet voice whilst he swelled within his briefs. but he never gave you the satisfaction of charging in and taking you like you’d hoped. he’d take himself in his fist when his shift was over, thinking of you in that slutty red silk.

but for all you knew, he never heard a thing.

so you resorted to throwing yourself at other men. you didn’t care who.

it started with complimenting them, to stopping to ask them if you had something in your teeth, angling your face in front of theirs so it would look from a distance as though you were kissing them.

but eventually you grew bored of them. they just weren’t sandor. they weren’t dark and brooding and grumpy. they weren’t mysterious and rude and formidable.

they didn’t smell like blood or horseflesh or musk.

and you were beginning to feel rather pathetic. he didn’t seem to care. in fact, he didn’t even appear to notice.

what would it take? must you beg him to fuck you? even you aren’t above begging sandor clegane to fuck you.

and here you are, preparing to beg. you fix your hair, correct your dress - you’re wearing your best one - and knock softly at his door.

there’s some rustling and a thud on the other side, then what feels like an eternity although only a few seconds later, it opens. he’s stripped down to his undershirt and trousers, a wineskin in his hand. from the hoods of his eyes and the blush to his unscarred cheek, you wager he’s guzzled at least two already.

“princess,” he greets, slurping from the skin. he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “it’s after hours.”

“am i so repulsive?” you cut to the chase, heart racing.

until now you’ve been so confident in your attempts to seduce him, but you’ve never seen him in anything but his armour. you’ve envisioned a thousand times what he looks like beneath it, but never did you imagine the thick burls of muscle. he’s built like an ox and his chest hair grows up his broad neck to bcome one with his beard. you suspected that perhaps his armour padded him out, but now you know that he’s just that big. if anything his armour does his size an injustice.

“wouldn’t kick you out of bed.” he grunts, watching you.

you’re astonished, eyes widening. “that can’t be so,” you step closer. has he always been this tall? “i’ve been trying to get you into mine, to no avail.”

“i know.” he grunts, leaning against his doorframe.

you only stare up at him. “you are not a man of honour, sandor clegane. i know you are not one to concern yourself with a lady’s last name before you have your way with her.”

“i’m not.” he grumbles through a swig of wine. “you’ve not been broken in.”

“i have.” you blurt, blinking once the lie has left you.

he narrows his eyes, studying you. he calls your bluff. “fuck off.”

you smirk. “fuck me, and when i don’t bleed, you’ll see.”

“you’ll still bleed.” he spits back, pushing himself from the wall to loom over you.

“you think highly of yourself,” you step closer, able to smell the odor of his labours, the heat of his body radiating onto you. “prove it.”

he says nothing, but you notice his chest rising and falling a little faster than before.

“you don’t believe me, i don’t believe you—”

“and give you what you want?” he barks, slicing at his words with a volatile tongue.

“i may be the only woman who’ll ever want you, sandor.” he falters and you grin. “and i do believe that refusing me, the king’s sister, is a crime punishable by death.”

“as is fucking the king’s sister.” he retorts.

you tilt your head and pout, twisting a finger in the matted curls that sprout from his chest. “what? afraid i’ll tell on you?”

then a low growl rumbles deeply from him, reverberating onto your hand. you’re whisked into his quarters where he beds you late into the night. you indeed bleed from your loins which cause you great discomfort well into the following weeks.

and you should not have worn your best dress.