This Rewired My Brain - Blog Posts
## LITTLE PUP.
enjoy this little piece while cherry’s next chapter is still in editing 💌
table of contents; time jumps (s1, 4 + 8), reader is iconic after the time skip, sexual tension, mentions of rape but literally just the word, possibly triggering language, use of a pet name, age gap (but your age isn’t specified), you’re a snow but not physically described, eventual p in v, hate-fucking, sub(ish) sandor, cum-dumping, brief mentions of bleeding, honestly i can’t be arsed to list everything so mdni please.
a/n; idk what trope this is. i think i invented a new one cause you literally hate each other.
the halls of the red keep are like mazes to you. they like to go on forever, curling back on themselves but still somehow taking you in opposite directions. it seems to you that the targaryens were spindlers of bricks; weaving and spinning a cobweb of pillars and towers that seem to pierce the sun and cast shadows on the sky.
the north is so simple and you miss that. but here, you are lost.
you stumble upon a dead end. you swear your chambers are on this floor, they certainly were yesterday. or did you take a wrong turn? the winding stairs, the long stroll through a high-rising courtyard, then more stairs, then another long stroll. . . where on earth have you ended up? this corridor looks familiar, or do they all look the same? you don’t recall.
“lost again are we, pup?”
you swivel at the voice, almost knocking over a rather expensive looking vase. the queen’s dog. he always appears when you least need for it, like he tracks you when you’re at your most vulnerable. sniffing for your confounded scent.
“no,” you tell him, gasping when your back hits the wall. “and stop calling me that.”
he sniggers, sauntering closer. “i think the little pup has lost her way.”
you take a ponderous swallow, the weight of it dragging down your throat. “i am not lost.” he half expects you to stamp your feet. “go away, leave me alone.”
his smirk doesn’t waver, and his large frame continues to draw closer. his size casts a shadow that stretches ahead of him, carpeting the hallway with a dreadful umbra. it shades you, engulfing you in its darkness. you swallow again, harder this time, and you hear a grim chuckle which tells you he must’ve heard it.
“the queen sent for you.”
you stand a little straighter, hoping he cannot see the way you shudder in his presence. he’s almost reached you now, heavy boots ringing against the floor.
“i will make my own way.”
a low, gravelly laugh booms from his steel-plated chest and you cave in at the husk of it. “you don’t know where she is.”
“is she in the throne room?” you implore, meek.
you can smell his musk now. sweat, ale and flesh. “do you know how to get there from here?”
you falter and peer out of the window with a desperate sidelong glance. all you see is sky. “how did you find me?” you interrogate, snapping your gaze back to his encroaching soma. he’s nearing you. the hall seemed longer when you were alone but somehow his imposing stride has claimed it in short succession.
“i was waiting for you,” he rasps, his dark eyes more hooded than usual. “in your chambers.”
you frown, yelping when your back hits the wall again. you hadn’t even realised you were backing away.
“but you never came.” he’s in front of you now, large hand finding purchase at the bricks beside your head. “i thought maybe you’d taken a wrong turn.” he pushes himself from the wall slightly so his view of your body is a little clearer. his eyes rake it from top to toe, hovering at your chest before returning to your face. he smiles, crooked. “i caught up to you a few wrong turns ago.”
“why didn’t you stop me?” you find your voice again, and the question comes out sharper than intended. his expression hardens and you shrink into yourself.
“the little pup forgets herself.” he drawls, trapping the thin flesh of his lower lip between two teeth.
“i can talk to you how i like. you’re not a ser, you’ve said so yourself.” your tone shocks you — you’re not sure from where you’re finding such confidence.
a gritty chuckle slips through the lopsided crook of his smirk, eyes seemingly darker than before. “pup is relying too much on my forbearance.”
“i’m not a pup,” you tell him, tilting your head high. “i’m a lady.”
“you’re a bastard.” he spits, almost hatefully. “your mother was a wench or a common whore or both, no doubt with an arse full of custard and tits like saucers.”
you do well to handle his words, allowing them to bounce right off you with stoic ease. “would you rather the term woman?”
“aye,” he shifts on his feet, intense stare sinking below the realms of your comfort. “you’ve bled, then?”
suddenly a sickening befalls you. “. . . no.”
he adjusts his stance again, but this time his eyes remain focused on yours. “that so?”
you opt for silence. it’s thick and deafening.
he takes note of your pause, nodding. “late bloomer?”
“i suppose.” you lie, shuffling awkwardly as you lower your head.
he hums, bowing his head again to soak you in. “but these have bloomed.” his armour clinks when he raises an arm, finger pointed to your cleavage.
you berate yourself, eyes squeezing shut for a moment. “they haven’t, not entirely. it is just the corset.”
the hand that previously gestured to your chest travels to your middle where it pinches, cupping your side. you jump, the cool kiss of his gauntlet shocking you through your silk. “you’re not wearing a corset.” he squeezes your waist once, then lets his hand drop.
hot tears start to well in your eyes and you become weak at the knees, leaning back against the wall for balance. “please—”
“they’re well-rounded for a girl who hasn’t yet bloomed,” he speaks lowly, leaning down. “tell me, pup. what babe do these intend to feed if you have not bled?”
“i don’t know,” you mumble, trying not to cry. “the body can work in mysterious ways.”
he lets out a crass, dry chuckle. it’s vicious and forced. “i thought you were a woman.”
you sigh deeply, expelling it from your nose. he’s laid down the foundations of a trap and you stumble straight upon it. “i am. i’m a woman who does not wish to be raped.”
then something in his face shifts, like a switch has been flipped. you heave out a breath, anchoring yourself to the wall.
but he does nothing, only looks down at your cowering figure with pitiful disgust. “i’m not a raper.”
“of course, you are. that’s just your kind.” you spit, regaining your confidence. “it’s in your nature.”
“my kind? i’m no knight, pup. meryn trant beats helpless girls so i’d wager he’s raped his fair share, too. but i only take pleasure from drawing blood with steel.” he talks through his teeth, his shoulder-length hair falling between the two of you like curtains.
“you’re still a man,” you say, barely above a whisper. “you’re all the same. my mother always told me to assume every man means to hurt me, because most of them will.”
a sort of sadness or something similar dashes across his features and for a second you believe the hound, one of westeros’ most feared men, might actually be capable of empathy. then his eyes turn back to their usual sourness and your face stares back at you in their reflection.
“if you live by that rule, you will get hurt, pup.” he returns to his full height, taking one step back. “to assume the worst is no way to survive.”
“you’re a hateful man,” you tell him. “that’s why you’re so at home here.”
“you’ll be thankful for my hate when a time comes that trant or worse gets their hands on you, and believe me, there is far worse than trant.” he leans close again. “but he’s no man, and he’s less of a knight than me.”
you fidget under his stare, cringing when his hot breath licks at your neck.
“and here’s another token of wisdom, don’t ever fight back, cause then you’re showing him how strong you are.” he retracts from you, still smirking. “and they’ll always be stronger than you.”
you consider him for a fleeting moment, your apprehension beginning to dwindle. “the queen will be wondering where i am.”
you push past him. he does not follow you this time.
“you’re dying.” you speak the words monotonously, dead-faced and bleak.
he grunts, dragging himself up the cliff side. his weight slips down again and he growls, clutching at his leg where a spur of bone spears through its skin. “aye, unless there’s a maester hiding behind that rock, i’m done.”
you ought to swish your skirts and do a pirouette, this is the best thing that’s happened to you for some time. “killed by a woman,” you smirk, watching him struggle. “you’ve no idea the joy that brings me.”
“i’m not dead yet.” he groans, clenching his teeth as blood continues to seep from his wounds. “but if you’d like to hurry things along, i won’t stop you.”
“i’d rather you went slowly.” you deadpan, kneeling beside him. his injuries are grisly, and if they don’t take him soon, mountain lions or vultures will.
“you’re a bitter little bitch aren’t you, pup?” even now he can still muster irritancy. “all these months, i’ve kept you fed and watered, and this is the thanks i get.”
“i didn’t ask you to do any of it.” you remind him, making yourself comfortable whilst he moans in agony. “i’m only here cause you wanted a woman to keep you in warm company.”
“and you’ve not even been good for that.” he rasps, glancing over at you. “i should’ve had you the night of the blackwater. yeah. . . i should’ve fucked you bloody.”
before, a statement like that would’ve rocked you. now you feel nothing. “not a raper, he says.”
“i should’ve fucking raped you.” he spits, then lets out a throaty groan when the soil beneath him shifts, causing his leg to move.
“i know what you’re trying to get me to do,” you stand, looking down at him. he lets out a whimperish sound and it delights you. “i’m not going to end your suffering. killing you would be a mercy.”
“you know you want to.” he taunts, big brown eyes gazing up at you. he almost looks soft. “how many times have you thought about it?”
“oh, i want nothing more.” you crouch down and reach for his belt, plucking the bag of silver that was fastened to it. he goes for you out of instinct, trying to swipe the bag. “you won’t be needing this.”
and you step over him, gravel crunching beneath your feet as you make haste to catch up to the tall woman.
“kill me.” he pleads, armour chinking against the ground. “kill me!”
you leave him there, leaving his fate to the gods. or the mountain lions. it doesn’t make a difference to you.
last night was long but the north prevailed. arya stark killed the night king, and with him, his army of fallen soldiers finally fell again.
you stand next to sansa stark, a dear childhood friend. around you, people celebrate the victory over mead, stew and women. theon greyjoy and lyanna mormont were lost to the battle, amongst many others. their losses weigh heavy, and it’s obvious that people are finding comfort at the bottom of an alehorn.
a little ways ahead, at an empty table, sits the man you left for dead; a jug to himself, and two empty bowls. “i left him to die.”
from your peripheral you see her head turn rather sharply. “who?”
“sandor clegane.” you tell her, his name leaving an aftertaste worse than the strongest wine in your mouth. it almost feels like vulgarity to speak it. “he begged me to kill him, i didn’t.”
“sandor clegane begged you to kill him? you lost me at the word ‘begged’.” she snorts, sipping from her cup.
you smile. it would sound pretty alien to somebody who wasn’t there. “he was already dying, he just wanted me to end it quickly.”
sansa nods. “why didn’t you?”
you finally tear your eyes from the man, blind to your gaze. “do you remember how much you loathed joffrey?”
she nods a yes.
“when he was dying, had he asked you to finish him and spare him the misery of death, would you have?”
she’s silent, then shakes her head no.
you turn back to him, and a pair of brown eyes glare back at you. your heart lurches and you harden your stare, lifting your cup to take a drink.
“he’s seen you.” sansa murmurs, hiding her mouth behind her cup. “i assume you have not spoken.”
“no,” you swig generously from your wine, then pass her your empty cup. “i intend to remedy that.”
he watches you approach, not blinking and unmoving. you settle down opposite him and take his alehorn from his grip, helping yourself to the jug. you pour what remains of it, then take a greedy slurp, deliberate and loud.
“i have a question.” you clear your throat and slide the empty alehorn back toward him. he catches it, eyeing you with an unreadable expression. “are you immortal?”
“fucking hope not.” he gruffs, waving down a serving girl.
you smirk. “it’s just, i’m pretty certain i left you for imminent death.”
“aye, i hadn’t forgotten.” he grumbles, snatching a jug from the girl.
“and you survived the army of the dead.” you rest your chin in your palm. “it seems to me that you’re hard to rid of.”
“does that sadden you?” he asks, rhetorical.
“a little.” you humour.
he offers you another drink, you decline. “i hope you made use of that silver.”
“i made more use of it than you would have.”
he looks up at you and chuckles. “you’ve changed, little pup. it used to be you couldn’t look at me — out of fear, out of hatred.”
“i still hate you.” you smile, tilting your head. his gaze flits to follow yours. “but i’ve seen worse since you.”
he straightens in his seat, chewing at his lip. “been bedded yet?”
“as it so happens, i have.” you fold your arms. you knew he’d bring it up eventually.
“broken in rough, were you?”
you squint at him, jaw ticking. “does it matter?”
he holds your hard stare for a second. “no.”
what you don’t tell him, is that it was him who you dreamt of the night you were taken.
when you knocked on his door, which took courage and much of it, you didn’t wait long enough for it to open and started to take your leave.
“little pup,” he leaned against the doorframe. “come to finally finish me?”
“something like that.”
what a sight, you twitching and writhing above him in the low candlelight. his massive palms curve around your rolling hips where they squeeze, anchoring you to his crotch.
he’s gained weight since you last saw him, his stomach soft with pudge. his thighs make for thick cushioning under your hind and you mewl, fingers nipping at his belly as he drags your clit against the salt and pepper curls at his cock’s base.
a man of his size would be well-endowed, wouldn’t he? the guy is hung like a horse, and the moment you speared yourself onto him it felt as though you were being ruined for the first time again.
you like him like this. for one, this is the longest he’s gone without imprecating you. but mostly, you’re in control for once.
and he looks devastating beneath you. a crude sheen coats his cheeks and forehead, glistening against the uneven surface of his scar. his brows are furrowed, pupils blown to the point his eyes look black, and his nostrils flare with each staggered gasp for breath.
a groan rips from his throat, raw and croaky. the wiry hairs of his chest seem to stand to attention, soaking the cotton of his undershirt. sweat catches in the stubble of his thick neck, teeth gritted in a snarl.
your hips stutter at the sight of him, snapping wildly. his hands alternate between bouncing and grinding you down onto him, skin slapping skin and the stench of sex filling the room.
the gape of your cunt as she stretches to accommodate him is immense and it aches beautifully, clinging to him like a sheath would a sword. every so often he knocks against your cervix, jolting you above him. you allow a moan to escape you, nails cutting into his chub.
with ease he’s able to reach around your waist with two large hands, guiding you along every ridge and vein. he flexes inside of you as you fuck yourself on his cock, pulsating around him.
nothing about it is loving or caressive or attentive. he won’t rock his hips or make effort to please you. he hasn’t kissed you or asked how you like it and only touches you when your pace slows. he seldom even makes a noise.
all it is, is two people chasing the same thing. a good fuck.
and gods, is it good. raw and ravenous and filthy. tooth and claw.
a frantic pant bursts from your lungs and you rut against him like something animalistic has taken you. intense pleasure starts to blossom in your stomach and your back arches, then a warm hand cups the back of your neck where it tilts your head down, forcing you to look where you’re connected.
“you’re fucking falling apart.” he drawls, slurred. you jerk away from his grip, shoving him away so he falls back into the pillows with a lazy grin.
all those years of pent up hatred, brewing and festering, igniting ever fibre of your beings, finally erupts when you both go rigid. you stiffen atop him, mouth falling open into a silent scream. a low growl reverberates through him and you feel it in your core, his fingers biting into your thighs as he dumps his load within you.
he twitches and you groan, lifting yourself off him and collapsing onto the mattress. your pussy aches at the sudden loss, your loins sore and burning. you peer down at the stickiness between your thighs and the red that curdles with the cream.
a grating chuckle irks you then and you sit up, scanning the room for something to clean yourself with.
“so i got to fuck you bloody after all.”
“i fucked myself bloody,” you grumble, rising on quivering legs. “you just laid there.”
“aye,” he watches you, amused. “and still you struggle to walk.”
“it’s been a while.” you parrot back, wincing as you wipe yourself with a spare sheet.
“no wonder you didn’t kill me,” he carries on, eyes closed and arms crossed. “i knew you wanted it as much as me.”
you scoff at that. “don’t flatter yourself.”
“i don’t need flattery when it’s my seed that drips from your cunt, little pup.”
“i’m no pup.”
“no, of course not. you’re a little bitch.”
“you’re learning.”