#trant is there a little too

[limestitches]

disco brain is still goin strong!!

[dolorianwolf]

I’ve made like 10 of these posts and I make all of them on the same procreate canvas. According to canvas statistics I’ve put six hours of my life into these. Anyway enjoy the fruits of my labor.

[krtri]

YOURE THE REALEST PERSON EVER FOR TRANTHARRY POSTING!!!!!! ive been saying this since day 1. You get me. Thank you. Cheering and screaming.

omg thank you so so so much 😳😭🫡 i almost felt bad for the spam at first but idk trantharry make me crazy!!! like it started with me like “i think they could kiss. for the laughs.” but then i gave it some thought and like… i think they could be really compatible! they have several common interests, they’re both SOOOOO divorced, trant would know how to help harry get and stay sober, harry could maybe become the father that stepped up (emphasis on maybe), i think they’d both be total total freaks, trant would actually be interested in how harry’s mind works, they could be so annoying together, etc etc etc. 🥰

[konigslittleliebling]

DEMOISELLE.

table of contents; distressing situation, violence, injury, attempted sa, hurt/comfort, fluff, soft!sandor, slightly suggestive. masterlist !

“tell me true, sansa.” you say as you catch up to her, linking your arms. “does my sweet brother make you happy?”

around you, the poor gather. leering stares, some hateful and bitter, others hungry and lustrous, bear down on you and your family like teeth.

sansa glances back to where your brother and his kingsguard follow, then looks ahead of her to where your mother leads the party with her men.

your sworn shield, sandor clegane, sword half-drawn, follows closely at your heel.

“of course, princess.” sansa finally answers you. shae, her handmaiden and a frequent bed warmer to your uncle, casts you a suspicious eye.

“he isn’t the nicest.” you carry on, twisting as low chants start to rumble from the crowd. “if you wish to go home, return to the north, there may be some strings i could pull.”

the tully-haired girl smiles sweetly. you’ve shown her a great kindness since her betrothal to your twin, and asides from perhaps your uncle tyrion, you’re the only friend she’s got.

“i am loyal to king joffrey.” she tells you, straight-faced and over-confident, like she’s rehearsed it in front of a mirror. “he is to be my husband and i his queen. my place is here.”

you glance back at your shield, but he’s too busy keeping a watchful eye on the men who stare at you like you’re the only woman ever.

“bastards!” comes a distant shout.

you feel the cool kiss of steel through your dress when sandor presses himself to you, hand still glued to his sword’s hilt.

“let them have their fun,” you tell him. “there’s small harm in feckless rumours.”

“it’s not the rumours that worry me, princess.” he grunts.

“who are they talking about?” sansa asks you, worried.

“me and joff.” you say, unfazed. “you’d think after what happened to your father—” you stop yourself and place a hand atop her arm. “gods, forgive me. . .”

“it’s fine.” she says, not so sure of herself this time. “he was a traitor.”

“brother-fucker!” comes another, and that remark makes your mother turn around. her eyes find you, then flit to your brother who pays his people little mind. they might as well not be there at all, for he appears to be forever trapped within his own self-centred mind.

“move faster, princess.” sandor urges you, nudging you along. you pull sansa with you, and she reaches for shae’s hand.

then you hear your brother make a contemptuous noise and he stumbles, hand risen to his cheek. you all turn just as he reels around, red-faced and furious, a cow pat smeared over his face, some of it stuck in his hair whilst most of it collects at his shoulder in a disgusting mass.

“who threw that?!” he shrieks, then yelps like a girl when meryn trant grabs him and pins him to his side.

“protect your king!” the red-cloaked phantoms of lannister men command.

“find who threw that and bring them to me!” joffrey screams again, shrill.

sandor wraps an arm around your waist, shielding you with his body. you lose sansa in the struggle, but shae keeps hold of her hand just as he whisks you away.

your mother calls your name somewhere ahead of you, but you hear your uncle tell her to keeping going just as an onslaught of chaos lays siege on your brother’s entourage.

“kill them!” you hear him order. “kill them all!”

it all happens so fast. the crowd break free from the shackles of their self-control, leaping out at you from places you didn’t realise they’d been lurking.

“hold onto me.” sandor shoves you behind him, then with an enraged roar, he cuts through any man or woman who dares to approach you like they’re chops of tender mutton.

he opens them up on his blade, spilling their blood like a girl spills tears, and they drop like sacks of potatoes. you cling to his cloak, navigating the bodies of those who got in his way. around you women squeal like boars as men pounce on them, and the men make similar noises when men better than them put the steel to them.

sandor reaches back for you and you hug yourself to his arm. “stay close.”

rioters jump out from all sides, herding you as though you’re the sheep and they’re the lions. “sandor, i’m scared.”

“they won’t hurt you, little lion.” he assures, slashing at anyone who attempts just that. “i won’t let them.”

then a stampede of particularly angry revolters charge at you, knocking him to the ground. you fall with him, but somewhere amongst trampling feet and tumbling corpses you lose sight of him. “sandor!” you wail, unable to regain your footing amid the hustle and panic.

the mob swarms you, suffocating you as they flock you and any man who adorns the lannister sigil or happens to be draped in red.

you had favoured silks of green today, though now they might as well be red themselves as the blood of dead pilgrims tarnish them, staining you with their scorn forever.

they stomp over you and you weep, cradling the hand that met the wrath of someone’s boot. your finger bends away from the rest, already swelling and turning purple. you look around you as a heavy droplet makes way down the side of your face, and you lift your good hand to dab at your forehead where a deep gash weeps with you.

“sandor!” you cry a little louder, and somewhere to your left you’re certain you hear him call back to you, followed by the screech of double-edged steel whistling through the air, singing once it slices bone.

then a pair of large hands scoop you by your underarms and heave you from the ground. when they place you back on your feet you spin into them, but your expression drops again when you’re met with the sharp twist of a stranger’s face.

his rotten, yellow-toothed grin cuts your heart out of your chest and you back away, gasping when your back hits another’s chest. you jump, turning to see a similar sour smile, only this one has less teeth, and it somehow smells fouler than the former.

to your side you spot an alleyway and make a break for it on terrified legs. your feet hammer against the concrete and you only now realise that you’ve lost a shoe when something sharp burrows into your foot’s sole. but it doesn’t stop you, if anything you flee faster, taking the odd sharp turn in the hopes there’ll lose your trail.

but you’ve left an easy one, the blood from your foot seeping a perfect print onto the ground, and it’s not long before you hear their boots thundering behind you.

a third assailant steps from the shadows, blocking your escape path and you skid to a stop, the skin of your foot peeling against the gravel. looking back, the two men draw nearer and you spring forward, bursting into what you hope is a house.

whatever it is, no one’s home, and you kick yourself when you see that you’re cornered.

three grim chuckles resonate in the doorway and dread soaks through you to the bone, seizing up in your joints. you stiffen and face your back to the wall, trying to muster the power of speech.

your mouth opens, but no words roll from your tongue, and the men chuckle darkly amongst themselves again.

one by one they prowl towards you, practically foaming at the mouths.

“ever been fucked, princess?” the first one asks, spit flying from his decaying mouth.

“yes.” you’re quick to answer, finding your voice. “i’ve already been broken-in, you can’t ruin me.” you tell them, hoping they’ll lose interest.

but if anything it makes them desire you more.

“if you do this, my brother will decorate the city gates with your heads!” you try to sound unafraid, but your voice betrays you, as does the fear in your eyes.

“your brother,” the other repeats, his stench almost bringing you to a fever. “is he who you laid with?”

your back hits the hard stone and your heart trips over itself, almost beating its way through your chest.

“are you a brother-fucker like your whore mother, girl?” the third one is the first to close in, claiming your personal space for his own.

due to either desperation or adrenaline or both, you strike him with your uninjured hand, feeling the sting of it against your palm. his head snaps to the side and the other two stop in their tracks.

he spits out a globule of blood, then sends a backhand cracking against your cheek. you’re sent flying onto your front, completely prone before them.

you hair cascades over your face, and your elbows catch in it when you try to crawl forwards, shooting a harsh ache through your scalp.

then the weight of an ill-boding man sinks atop your back, an unwelcome hardness lodging between your sprawled thighs.

a grubby hand tilts your head up by your neck, then a decomposed tooth scratches at the shell of your ear as he speaks. “we don’t get girls like you down in flea bottom.” you feel him reach between you, hand travelling towards his groin. “we’re gonna take our time with you, princess.”

the splattering of guts hitting concrete causes the pressure of his body against yours to ease, and you both peer up to see one of the other men dangling mid-air, his limbs twitching as he dies.

then the man’s body drops in a heap on the floor and relief washes over you when you see sandor, his eyes mad with rage and armour soiled with patches of maroon.

the second man tries to run, but he’s caught within the jaws of sandor’s grip, mighty enough to lift the man above his head with one hand. he splits the man’s torso from sternum to cock, his intestines almost as rotten as his soul when they decorate the ground.

sandor drops his shell of a body like it’s a pair of shoes, and you hear a couple of bones crunch from the impact when he does.

“we didn’t mean no harm, ser.” says the man who meant to harm you, his voice high and nerve-racked.

he slowly stands, and you hadn’t realised how crushing he was until he’s retreated. you feel as though you can breathe again, and you do, strangled and throaty.

you rise onto your hands and knees and crawl to the nearest corner, curling yourself into a timid ball as you watch on, arms hugging your legs to your front so you can rest your chin on your knee.

sandor watches his every move, face thunderous and sword trembling within his grasp. his brown eyes follow the man as he tries to sidle around him, but then he hears his name pass through your lips.

“sandor,” you say, broken. “i want his head.”

you needn’t say more.

sching.

the thud of the man’s head falling from his body bounces off the room’s four walls, then the empty thump of his flesh and bones follows promptly.

you stare at it, void of feeling.

“you’re alright now, little lion, you’re alright.” sandor offers his hand and you take it without hesitation, allowing him to sling you over his shoulder. on his way out he ducks down again, plucking your attacker’s head by the hair.

“put it in a box.” you tell him, nuzzling your face into his cloak. “mail it to my brother, let him learn what happens when he orders the massacre of his people.”

your gaze is hollow, even as your handmaiden, tiri, washes your wounds with a salty solvent. your bath water becomes grimy as your blood flows into it like red silk, and you don’t even blink when she pours warm water over your head, allowing its excess to trickle over your bloodshot eyes.

“do tell me if you’re in pain.” tiri says, massaging your favourite hair oils against the crown of your skull. hints of jasmine and vanilla and citrus fill the air but it does little to comfort you like it usually would. “maester pycelle will be here shortly, princess. to suture your wounds.”

“i don’t need stitches.” you say, and it’s the first time she’s heard you utter a word since sandor carried you to your chambers.

she rinses her hands off and wrings out the cloth, draping it over the basin to dry. “as you wish, princess. i shall send word to him at once.” she holds out her hand but you ignore it, wanting to sit a little longer. you feel safe inside the tub. “i’ll be back soon.” her hand gives your shoulder a gentle squeeze, then she makes haste for the door.

she gasps when she opens it, jumping as she comes face to face with sandor who was reaching for the handle.

“how is she?” you hear him ask, gravelly and low.

“not well.” tiri tells him. “i fear this will effect her for some time.”

“leave us.” he orders and she nods, feeling no need to tell him that she was on her way out anyway.

you don’t seem to compute his arrival until he’s at your side, crouched at the basin with features that hang wearily. as soon as you see him you erupt in tears and launch yourself onto him, tangling your arms around his neck without care for your nakedness.

his hands, rough and labour-torn, hover for a moment before they latch to your back, lifting you from the water in a hold that wants not to release you.

“i’m sorry.” he mutters against your damp hair, scarcely succeeding a whisper.

you pull back to look at him, hefty tears rolling down the length of your face. “stop that,” you cup his face in your hands. “you saved me.”

“you shouldn’t need saving.” he says, never so full of self-loathing as he is in this moment. “i swore to protect you—”

“—they were going to rape me.” you blurt, fierce and almost savagely. “but they didn’t, because you saved me.”

he lets you down, clearing his throat as he averts his gaze. “let’s get you dried.”

you hug your arms around your middle, not to conceal yourself, but to replicate his warmth. you wince when a sharp twinge crawls from your finger up your arm and he holds a cotton sheet up for you, fencing off his view of your nudity. “that finger still bothering you?”

“well it doesn’t tickle.” you mumble, stepping into the towel with raised arms so he can wrap it around you.

he chuckles, though it doesn’t stretch to his eyes, and scrapes a golden strand from your face. his expression darkens when met with the cuts and scrapes that pepper it, bruised and angry-looking; and he turns to leave.

“where are you going?” you ask, suddenly frightened of being alone.

“to take post at your door, princess.” he says flatly. outside your door is where he spends much of his time, if not glued to your side.

“i don’t need you to guard my chambers if you’re in here with me.” he turns at your words, face skeptical. “stay with me,” you plead. “i command it of you.”

so he remains on the same side of the door as you, only he doesn’t move from it. you frown, padding closer. “you don’t need to stand there. it locks, you know. and tiri will return later.”

“locks haven’t stopped people in the past.” he grunts, barricading a portion of it with his shoulder. “and tiri doesn’t have a sword.”

“if the door doesn’t, you will.” you take his hand. “hold me,” he doesn’t move, but he does allow himself to look at you. “please.”

he deliberates the matter in his head a few times, but ultimately, he’s never had the capacity to refuse you. your heart thaws when he removes his sword and allows you to lead him toward your bed. you get yourself comfortable, arranging your pillows how you like them, then motion for him to join you.

he chews at his lip, standing awkwardly at your bedside.

you tsk and pat the mattress impatiently. “sandor clegane, i refute the notion that you’ve never gotten into a lady’s bed before.”

“whores don’t have beds,” he retorts, placing his sword on the table next to him. “and they aren’t the king’s sister.”

you roll your eyes at the very mention of him. “spare me, my brother would’ve let those men have me if it meant saving his own skin. besides, he’ll never know of this unless you plan to tell him.”

sandor studies you for a beat, then the mattress dips beneath his weight, armour clinking as he settles. “this bed is no good for my back.”

you smirk and scooch closer, snuggling against him. his armour is cold against your flesh and he’s not yet polished flea bottom from its surface, but you don’t care. “did you send joffrey my gift?”

“if i had, he would’ve sent you my head in the same box stamped: return to sender.” he jokes, though it isn’t far-fetched, and tucks you into his side.

“well, we wouldn’t want that.” you giggle, throwing a lazy leg over his lap. “you keep it, then.”

“already mounted the fucker on my wall, princess.”

[author-morgan]

Title: A Dove and a Hound Rating: T Pairing: Sandor Clegane x fem!Reader Summary: A little dove with broken wings must save her wounded Hound. Or in which Sandor Clegane finds something sweeter than killing. Word count: ~3.7k Warnings: Injury/blood and typical Westerosi shenanigans.

ARYA STARK LOOKS at the bleak landscape around where they had made camp for the night in the northern Riverlands—almost in the Vale. It’s all craggy with sharp boulders, high patches of land, and hardly any trees. The names roll off her tongue as they do every night. The Mountain, The Hound, Cersei, Illyn Payne, Meryn Trant...she doesn’t make it to the next name after hearing the scraping of boots on rock nearby. Quiet as a shadow. Fear cuts deeper than swords. Quick as a snake. Calm as still water. Syrio Forel’s words are burnt into her memory. 

"What’re you going on about now, girl?" The rasp of the Hound's voice makes her jump, and she curses him, looking up at the night sky, watching for shadows when she hears the soft noise again.

“We’re being watched,” she tells him, turning on her bedroll to face the Hound, her hand resting on the hilt of Needle.

His laugh cuts through the air—a rough sound that hurts her ears in a strange way. A man like the Hound should never laugh. "Here, in the middle of fucking nowhere?" His scarred face looks all the more hideous with the light of the fire licking at his skin. "Finish your little list, girl, then go the fuck to sleep." Arya frowns and looks around again at the land but sees nothing but boulders and empty plains, but she knows someone is out there. 

Sandor Clegane won’t admit it, but the Stark girl’s warning is the reason he stays up for over half the night. Then, when he’s certain Arya is asleep, he rises from his bedroll and unsheathes his sword, setting off to search between boulders and in the shadows cast by their dwindling campfire. But there’s nothing there. The Hound moves to return to his bedroll, but that’s when he hears quiet cursing and soft crying. And then he finds a woman huddled between two rocks, trying to nurse an injured leg. 

You see the hulking shadow approach too late to muffle your grunts and groans of pain. “Come any closer and I’ll put a fucking arrow through your eye!” You shout. But Sandor Clegane can see the bow in your hand is broken, even if you try to hold the two wooden pieces together to make it seem whole. Then he sees the broken arrow shaft sticking out of your swollen calf, too—the reason for your caterwauling. 

“With a broken bow and the only arrow you got stuck in your leg?” The Hound asks, laughing. “Pay a couple of hundred silver stags to see that done.” Sandor drives his sword into the dirt and awkwardly kneels near you, looking over the wound. He can feel your eyes on him, gaze nigh burning. But the soft white light of the moon softens the sight of his half-burned face. He looks familiar. Like you’ve seen him in passing somewhere—or maybe on the parchments nailed outside taverns noting bounties and the enemies of the Crown. 

You swallow the knot in your throat and look up at him—you might not be able to place who he is, but you know he’s dangerous, a killer. “Well, go on,” you snap, tears stinging in your eyes. “Kill me and get it over with.”

The Hound recoils as though stung by the words—he knows he’s put a lot of people in the ground, but for some damn reason, he can’t stomach the thought of landing the mercy blow now. You close your eyes and wait—no longer fearing death or pain. But the cold bite of steel never comes. Instead, Sandor Clegane lifts you into his burly arms and heads back toward the dying campfire.

Arya’s surprised when the Hound returns and lets you down to rest against the boulder nearest the fire. The girl’s quick on her feet, bringing a half-filled skin of water, and you greedily drink. "Think I'll end up losing it?" You ask the girl—wiping your mouth with a torn sleeve—a glint of humor shining through as you pat your thigh, ignoring the sharp jolt of pain that shoots down to your calf and makes your toes curl. 

“If you’ve gone this long” —Sandor crouches down and looks closer at your injury— “it’ll take more than an arrow to kill you,” he says. It earns him a dry and humorless laugh with a surprising grimness. Given enough time, he thinks he could come to enjoy the company, but right now, he and Arya Stark are already pressed for time, luck, and coin. Neither of them needs the liability of an injured woman—another mouth to feed—on the path to the Eyrie. Be best to leave her come the morning, he thinks, but now that he’s brought you back here, he knows the Stark girl won’t let that happen.

“May I have your name, good ser?” You finally ask—it only seemed proper to know the name of your white knight.  

Sandor Clegane looks at you, and the firelight paints the tangled and twisted mass of scars on his face red—pocking the flesh with craters and cracks. “Not a fucking knight,” he bites back.

And then you can piece everything together—his brute size, the burned half of his face, the posters scattered around the Riverlands. The rumors people whispered are true then, you think. Joffrey’s dog tucked tail and ran while the Blackwater burned. “You’re The Hound.” He grunts. You glance at the girl staring down at you with wide ice-grey eyes. If he’s the Hound then... “You’re Arya Stark.” The girl nods.

The silence that grows between the three of you is heavy and tense. You shift and grimace again. Then your gaze flits back over to the Hound. “Well, are you going to help me get this arrow out my fucking leg or not?” You ask, not understanding why he hauled you back here if he didn’t mean to do something about your current state. “'Cause if you aren’t, I’d sooner you cut the damn thing off or put me out of my misery.”

Sandor moves to you after that and cuts away the fabric of your britches from the arrow, then calls Arya over to set his dagger in the flames—unwilling to go closer. She does as he says, pushing the blade into the hot coals, but then Arya Stark leaps to her feet when she sees Sandor’s hand grip the shaft of the arrow—like he means to tear it from flesh. She knocks his hand away then pushes back on his shoulder, almost hard enough to knock him off balance from where he sits on his haunches. 

“We can’t just pull it out!” She tells the Hound like it should be obvious. But he’s not the one who grew up with a maester in Winterfell or spent time reading any books.  

“Then how you gone get it out, girl?” He asks, gruff and impatient. You glance between the odd pair, wondering how they haven’t killed one another by now. Arya crouches down and prods the swollen and bloody flesh, then without warning, she grips the arrow shaft and breaks off the fletching. Seven hells, you think, biting down on the inside of your cheek to keep a wail of pain at bay, I am going to lose my leg. 

“Push it through,” Arya says, remembering the time she watched Maester Luwin remove an arrow from a hunter's shoulder. The Hound grunts and draws a second, smaller dagger, starting to whittle away at the splintered end of the broken arrow shaft. 

Arya goes to fetch more water and brings back a cloth with her before settling down to watch with wide, curious eyes. Blood starts to seep down your calf around the entry and exit of the arrow shaft from being handled so roughly. Satisfied with his woodwork, the Hound steadies your leg against his trunk and starts to pull on the iron-forged arrowhead. 

You grit your teeth together, fingers digging into the soft earth below, as he begins to ease the wooden shaft through gently and quickly as he can. Arya watches your face twist in pain, but somehow, you don’t cry out. It feels like an eternity. Sandor sets the arrow aside and takes the waterskin from the Stark girl, dumping the cool water over your leg to wash away the blood—there’s a cool but welcome sting.

Sandor tosses the empty skin back to Arya. "More water, girl,” he rasps. 

“Bring wine too,” you insist, and the Hound howls with laughter.

“Seven hells,” Arya remarks. You’re just like him. The girl heads off, then comes back with more water and looks at the open wound on your leg with a scrunched-up nose. 

“Needs to be sealed with fire,” Sandor says, sitting back on his haunches, that’s why he already had Arya put a dagger into the flames. They don’t have salves and ointments and teas and brews to keep infection at bay, and despite his fear and hatred of the fire, he knows it’s the best way to clean and seal a wound like this.

“I’ll do it,” Arya offers. Her hands are steady, and the fire and heat don’t bother her like it does the Hound. He nods, and the girl goes to fetch the hot knife. They give you a strip of leather to bite down on, and then the Hound looks away when the girl presses the flat of the blade against your flesh—you do scream then. He knows that pain—that scream—and the putrid scent of burning flesh that jumps into the air. Black dots and white stars dance around in your vision. It hurts worse the second time. But you fight through it. 

Your gaze settles on Arya after a while, struggling to stay awake. “Where are you taking her?” You ask, eyes flitting to Sandor Clegane. The two are an odd traveling party that much is certain—a Hound and a wolf—made even stranger by your sudden arrival. 

“The Vale,” he tells you, “she has an aunt there.” You hadn’t expected a man with his reputation to do something so kind, not even if heavy coin purses were offered as rewards. A hush falls over you, but then the Hound rises and picks up a threadbare blanket from his bedroll. He drapes it over your shoulders, not ungently. “Best get some rest,” he says. “It’ll hurt worse tomorrow.”

THE DAYS ARE both quick and slow to pass, and soon, you’ve lost track of the time since meeting Arya Stark and the Hound—it could have been a few weeks or maybe months. But since that fateful night, your wounds have healed cleanly, and the only reminders of them are a fading scar and the limp in your stride after long days or over strenuous terrain. You remember the first time you insisted on walking instead of riding Stranger—a great black, unruly destrier. When you slowed, Sandor Clegane slung you over his shoulder like a sack of flour before depositing you back on the horse and complaining about the slow pace. Arya Stark was particularly amused by it all. 

Disappointment is all that awaits you all at the Bloody Gate of the Vale. Lysa Arryn is dead, and her young son and named protector, Petyr Baelish, will not accept visitors—not even one of Lysa’s own kin. So at the point of arrowheads and tips of steel blades, the Hound turns back, and you and Arya follow, trekking through the Vale and back to the Riverlands, unsure of what to do and where to go. Arya says they should go north, to the Wall—she has a brother in the Night’s Watch—or across the Narrow Sea.

There’s a small village not far, and you take a handful of silver stags and copper stars in hopes of replenishing your stock of ointments and bandages—especially with the now festering wound on Sandor’s neck, a nasty bite from a rogue—and maybe a decent bottle of wine or ale too. But by the time the sun is beginning to set and you return to Sandor and Arya, they’re not to be found. 

The campsite is empty. The fire still burning. The bedrolls laid out for the coming evening. You look around the craggy landscape, feeling panic seize your heart and stomach—mind racing. “Arya!” You shout, but there is no response from the girl. “Sandor!” And again, there is nothing but silence.

If not for the fading evening sun glinting off tarnished pieces of silver armor, you think you might not have found him. You stumble over to him, kneeling at his side, fearing the worst. But his chest still rises and falls, and he starts when you touch his cheek, hand wrapping around your wrist, leaving a thick smearing of blood. 

There’s something in your eyes, not pity, but he’s not seen that look before —almost doesn’t want to think of what it could be, could mean. Sandor’s grip goes slack, and he grimaces, each breath a ragged rasp. You look over his mangled shoulder, the bruises and scrapes on his face, the muscle-deep cuts on his palm, and his lame leg. These wounds are beyond your skills, and there are not like to be any travelers on this path for days.

The Hound tugs free a dagger from his belt and places it in your hand. "Go on,” he rasps, nodding toward the knife, resigned to his new fate. “Get on with it." The Stark girl wouldn’t put him out of his misery for the hatred she still bore toward him, but maybe you would. 

Your fingers curl around the hilt of the blade, grip tightening, but frozen in place—unwilling and unable to move. "I can't," you breathe, fervidly shaking your head. I won’t. He curses you when you drive the blade into the hard earth and not his heart. Sandor Clegane saved you from certain death, and now you’ve a chance to return the favor.

You wet a strip of cloth and dab it over his bloodied face until he turns his head to look at you. "If you think I'm some wounded pup you can redeem, you're stupider than I thought, woman,” he snarls like an aggrieved dog. 

But you don’t pay any mind to his hateful words. “Be still,” you chide, gently, going to collect the pack of supplies from Stranger’s saddle. The Dornish strongwine eases the pain, and he lets you clean the rest of the cuts and bruises to the best of your abilities —his broken leg, though. You aren’t sure what to do, but you know if something isn’t done soon, Sandor Clegane won’t be using that leg again in this lifetime. You lose track of how many times you have to wander down to the nearby stream. All you know is the limp in your step has come back. By nightfall, the wine and pain claim him, and you’ve said your prayers to the Seven, asking them to spare your poor wounded Hound.

There’s a dim lantern on the dark horizon, steadily drawing nearer and brighter, and then you can hear the rattling of a cart and the braying of a mule. You rise from your post and go to intercept the rickety cart thumping along the winding trail. The mule comes to a halt—the path forward blocked. 

The driver has a kind face, rounded from smiles and wrinkled with wisdom, and eyes that are deep and thoughtful but speak of the horrors of the world. “A lady and her knight,” he muses, sparing a glance at the makeshift medicinal supplies illuminated by faint firelight and the state of the brutish man sleeping—half-dead more like.

“Can you help us?” You ask. “Please.” And the broken plea strikes something deep down in the man’s heart.  

He thinks on it for a moment. “Aye,” the man says, “I can try.” If he couldn’t, the others on the Quiet Isle could—especially the Elder Brother. His dusty brown robes dust across the rocky ground as he goes to the Hound’s side. It takes all your strength combined to lift Sandor Clegane into the cart—even with the weight of his armor gone. Then you clamber to the front of the cart next to Sandor, letting his head rest in your lap, and with a snap of the reins, the mule walks on again, heading south along the bumpy road—it would be a long night.

Weary and exhausted, you look between the Hound and the driver. “Who are you?” 

“You can call me Ray,” the kindly man says. “I’ll take you both to the Quiet Isle. The Elder Brother can help.” You’ve heard tales of the isle—where men go to atone for their sins and take vows of silence. Some even say those who reside in the Bay of Crabs live in a world unlike the one ravished by war and pain. Brother Ray can see the growing trepidation on your expression. It’s nigh common knowledge women are not allowed to dwell on the Quiet Isle. “Won’t force you and your knight to be parted,” he tells you. 

“He’s not a knight,” you murmur, eyes trailing from the road ahead to Sandor, knowing he doesn’t like being called a knight—and for good reason. 

“No, but it seems he’s your knight,” Ray says with a chuckle, sparing a wayward glance back at you and the Hound. You flush at the thought and turn your gaze to Sandor, his head resting on your thigh.

A FEW MONTHS pass and Sandor is as well as he’ll ever be. The damage done to his leg makes him limp after long distances or strenuous tasks, but no one would be able to say such injuries made the Hound a feeble man. Even now, you’ve never seen a man split firewood with so much power and anger. Sometimes, you wonder if he hates you for not ending it when he pleaded for the blade’s mercy. But on the day when the brothers let you see him again, he wore a fleeting smile, soft and weak—the first time you’d seen such a sight. 

Storms roll in for the night, and lightning flashes through the window—thunder rattling your featherbed. You pull the covers tighter, squeezing your eyes shut, praying for sleep to come. It feels childish to be afeared of a storm, but it’s a reminder of the night the Lannister men destroyed your home and family and put an arrow in your leg. Rousing from the uneasy rest, you pull on your dressing robe and wrap the wool and linen blanket around your shoulders before setting off in search of company. 

His bed is empty, and you frown. Disheartened, you turn back only to bump into a solid wall of flesh and muscle. No man his size had a right to move around so quietly. “What are you doing awake, little dove?” Sandor asks, and you’re unable to meet his gaze with your flushed cheeks as you search for a valid answer. “Can’t sleep?” He surmises, and grateful he spake first, you nod sheepishly. The hand that wraps around your wrist is warm and calloused, yet his touch is light—as though you’re some bird with a broken wing. But wordless, you climb onto the bed next to Sandor, still huddled under your blanket, but not alone, and even with the storm raging outside, within these walls with him, you’re safe. 

The morning light breaks through the small window—only glowing embers remain in the hearth, not enough to chase away the chill in the air. You wake to find yourself alone, and it sends a strange pang of sadness through your heart. Making your way back to your chambers, you change into a plane shift and stride from the cottage to find him—the wet grass tickling the soles of your feet as you head down a winding path toward the water’s edge.

Sandor is sitting down on the rocky shore of the island, his dusty brown cloak fluttering in the wind. You go to him and sit on the weathered rock next to him. The morning is cool, and the spray of waves breaking against rocks in the bay kisses your cheeks. Wordlessly, the Hound pulls his cloak free and drapes it around your shoulders. In comfortable silence, you pull the coarse material tight and rest your head against his arm, looking out over the water and the clear blue sky—as though the Old Gods had not unleashed their wrath upon the land last night.

After a long while, Sandor rises, knowing it’ll be time to head to the Sept and see what tasks the Brothers need help with today. You’re quick to follow after him, but before he can start up the rocky path again, you brush your hand against his with all the timidness of a mouse, daring to have a lingering touch as you gather the nerve to ask something that’s been festering in the pit of your stomach, in the darkest parts of your mind and the deepest parts of your heart. You take both his hands—rough and twice the size of your own—and look up at the Hound. "Sandor,” you breathe, his name like a birdsong in your voice, “will you kiss me?"

He laughs—thinking you are playing him for a fool. No sane woman would ever wish to have his touch or his kiss. “With this ruined mouth?” He mocks. But the next jape dies on the tip of his tongue when you fist your hand into his woolen tunic, hauling him down with all your strength to just the right height where if you stand on the tips of your toes, you can kiss him. And you do. Sandor is surprised at first, but his hard exterior fades, and then a strong arm curls around your middle, hoisting you up and then off the ground entirely. You pull back for only a quick second and smile for him.

“Little dove,” he rasps when you move your hands to hold his face, thumbs stroking over his cheeks—one marred by the flame—and down into his thick, wiry beard. He half expects to find a shred of fear or disgust in your eyes, but there isn’t any. There never had been. You kiss him again, softer and sweeter this time, and he returns it in full. 

Reluctant to part, he places you back on the ground but is quick to pull you into his side and hold you close in the golden hour of the morning. And for the first time since he can remember, Sandor Clegane has a handful of happy memories, and perhaps, in the end, he's found something even sweeter than killing.

[Game of Thrones taglist: @certifiedlittleshit / @erzsebetrosztoczy / @hereforreadandwrite / @hc-geralt-23 / @holysmokesblog / @Idkjj04 / @lady-stark-winter-rose / @mikariell95 / @misskatiewrites / @mrsragnarlodbrok / @nyotamalfoy / @rigshak / @savagemickey03 / @xinyourdreamsx ] if your name is italicized, tumblr would not let me tag you. if you’d like to be added to my Game of Thrones taglist, or any other taglist, just let me know with this Google Form!

[tricksh0t]

★ helping hand (Hamburger Helper)

☾ jaime lannister x m reader

𝘵𝘳𝘪𝘤𝘬𝘴𝘩0𝘵 ⛥ dw about the hamburger helper its a joke

𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘵𝘴 ⛥ 2.14k words

cw: handjob, frotting, spit, sub Jaime, dubcon, swearing

Jaime is stressed. Actually, Jaime Lannister is stressed, because all his troubles seem to stem from his house duties.

Jaime knew that his father, Tywin Lannister, Hand of the King, seasoned army commander, war winner, and expert at giving disappointed looks was likely to strip him of his titles and send him back to Casterly Rock to continue the family line if he so much as made a single mistake, even going as far as taking back his words of disowning him, now that his little brother, Tyrion, was a very persecuted criminal. A breeding mare, he would be, because as much as Jaime hates to think about it, he is a one-handed knight who lost his sword hand.

If there's something he has, it's his cock, and it works; but he can't say it stands proud anymore, because his secret sister-wife Cersei denies him so much as a hand and he is nothing but blisteringly loyal to her.

So here he is, sexually, emotionally and physically frustrated, without his usual duties to fulfill like flaunting his sword.

The only thing that's not Lannister about his troubles is actually Tyrell, or rather, the cocky knight his new to-be-in-laws have brought with them from Hightower to become part of the King's Guard, you.

Already, you think yourself a God not to be fucked with, the second coming of Ser Meryn Trant, not for the asshole's skill but for his arrogance and blatant discourtesy.

What you have over Ser Meryn is actual skill as a swordsman, something you are right to be proud of, if you weren't so arrogant about it. Then there's your looks.

The Tyrells and Hightower love to be pretty. Margaery is a good match for his son already, despite what Cersei says, she is pretty on the outside as well as the inside. Loras, the Knight of the Flowers, is a popular bachelor, even though he has apparent, different tastes, he knows how to use his looks to fool a girl for his house duty. Olenna, though old, still decorates herself with the finest dresses and jewelry, almost as if it is second nature to her.

Naturally, you must be pretty too. You're not a Hightower kind of pretty, though, you're handsome, more rugged, scarred. You wear the Tyrell colors, their embroidery, their style, and yet you remain in Jaime's eye different.

It's too bad you're an asshole. He might've been good friends with you.

Jaime doesn't know why he's thinking about you while he's doing this. Initially, he'd just screwed his eyes shut to try to empty his mind and think of better things.

He tries to drift his attention towards what he usually likes, another's soft hands he's proud to have kept soft; long, flowing, and wavy blonde hair, emerald green eyes; but then he finds himself thinking of you again.

Rough hands that might just feel good on him, short hair, narrowed, mocking eyes, and another mocking smile to accompany them. Then muscles beneath armor, then muscles beneath nothing, then sweat and that sword hand wrapped around your sword and then imaginatively, wrapped around his cock.

And it's getting him off.

Imagining the hand he's got around him is yours is a filthy, guilty pleasure he'll never admit to, but it only helps that it's his left hand, because it feels foreign.

"Need a hand?"

Jaime jumps. His eyes snap open and he flings his hand away, only to sloppily pull up the sheets of his bed to cover himself decently.

"Just what are you doing here?" He asks, because he knows you've heard of knocking.

Evidently, you spy on the fact he hasn't gone soft. You continue taking steps forward. "I asked you a question first."

Jaime steels his dignity to speak next, "Jerking off is a one-handed thing, I'm afraid."

"Not going to take my so very kind offer?" You only stop nearing when you get to the edge of his bed.

You look down on him like you're in some position of power over him, even though he has all levels of seniority on you, because that is how you are. Cocky and arrogant and self-entitled.

Jaime sits up, but you push him back down, placing a hand on the unlaced front of his sleeping tunic, on his chest. His weak flesh hand comes up to fight yours, clutching at your wrist. His gold-plated, heavy hand is useless, and thus though he may not surrender, he cannot push you away.

You suddenly place your other hand beside his head, making him jump pathetically, but he is unable to go elsewhere as you lean down to whisper, "Let's not pretend that you do not fancy me, Kingslayer."

Your hand plays the part of a seductress, pushing his tunic loose around the top to caress at his hairless, toned chest. A warm touch, and he was right: a rough one too, the pads of your fingers are calloused.

"You swore an oath when you joined the King's Guard."

"You did too."

Jaime clicks his tongue at your audacity, looking up at you with narrowed eyes. You only return a smirk, that damned smirk, audacious and playful.

And then the seductress trails a path down the line between his pecs, down his sternum and abdomen, slipping below the covers to do so.

Jaime doesn't fight this time, in fact he lets go of your hand, and you can tell it's because he wants it.

His narrowed eyes change expressions, from an angry glare into a look that tells you he's watching you.

They only narrow further when you lift his tunic to trail your fingers not around his cock like you know he wants it, but down his happy trail. You take your sweet time swirling the short, thick hairs around your fingers in circles, thumbing at the end of the trail and the beginning of the tactile, trimmed bush. You switch from your whole hand to two fingers, tracing down the messy, crooked trail until you're almost at the base of his length.

Jaime is about to complain about how you edge right around it, but then you're suddenly grasping the base in one full hand.

He gasps.

Rough, is his first thought. Rough because of how tough the palm of your hand is, calloused and worked, and rough because you spare him no mercy in how tight you grip him.

"Softer, ass–" Your eyes silence him, that smirk again, you're in control of his pleasure. Jaime sighs, "please."

The pleasure lighting up in your gaze brings him no pleasure, not until you move your hand and, "Shit."

He tries to keep stoic, biting his lip to keep his mouth closed. It's a fight in it of itself, one he can fight. Though he has lost his swordsmanship, he has not lost the discipline and endurance that come with it.

However, the simple motion of your hand makes him want to roll his eyes back, even though you're barely doing him any good.

Already an electric shock fires through his body. His left hand feels foreign, yes, but it is slow and the fog of pleasure forming in his mind would make it sloppy. Your hand is perfect; actually foreign, big and motivated.

Jaime hasn't been the best swordsman in Westeros in a long time, and so he finds that he is losing his patience. The sexual frustration and this very moment are evidence of it, because he finds pleasure in all of it.

When your face leaves his view, it makes his eyes refocus. He looks down at you as you lean over his cock and not take it in your mouth, but let your spit drool over it.

"Fuck."

It's a sight, the new asshole of the Red Keep pleasuring him willingly, eagerly at that.

You spread the drool over his length evenly, but then only pay attention to his tip, thumb pressing against the slit and swirling.

His hand finds the back of your neck, an outward, sudden thing through the fog of pleasure and unmediated strength. "Don't make this impersonal, at least."

"If you can sit a while, darling."

Jaime rolls his eyes, but sits back and waits.

He's seen your body before, your boundless muscles and scarce scars, but of course he hasn't seen your cock.

You don't make a show for it, but his anticipation only makes things feel slower as he watches you undress. Just the faulds and scale groin guard, and then your pants and underwear, and the wait is much too long.

He reaches out to help, but you push his hand back against the headboard roughly. Jaime scoffs, and you only laugh in turn.

"Asshole."

You take your time, and Jaime takes his to watch. He bites his lip at the sight of your V line, but he focuses more on your hairy happy trail, lets his eyes follow it down the more you expose.

Your cock slaps your abdomen when you finally free it, and Jaime has to bite back an exclamation when he sees it.

He hadn't noticed, but precum had been dripping down his length as he watched. You press the tip of your cock against it, against his, collecting and spreading the pre around the both of you.

Jaime groans.

"Is it personal now?"

"Uh-huh." Jaime huffs breathlessly, eyes glued to what you're doing to him.

You straddle his legs and slowly press your cocks together lengthwise. He has no time to dwell on the size difference, before you're wrapping your hand around the both of you at the same time.

Jaime's breaths grow to match the pace of your hand, slow for now. His eyes close.

"Jaime."

"Hm?" Lazily, they open once more, only to widen when you part his lips and keep them open with your thumb at the corner of his lip.

Drool gathers at the bottom of his mouth forcibly, and he can't do much about it, not until you tell him to spit into your hand.

With his mind truly lost now, he obeys, and you soon spit into the same hand and use the mix to continue jerking the two of you off.

It's disgusting, a mix of your spit and his that will soon be accompanied by both of your seeds.

There's a wet squelch each time your hand reaches the top again, and that's disgusting too.

It's disgusting, but a part of him feels like he's missed this. A foreign hand, a sexual partner, pleasure like he's never had before, and he could only ever want more.

It's disgusting, but it's so fucking good.

Jaime's hips buck into your hand, wanting more and only more.

You're not selfish, either. The attention you pay to his cock makes it swell all the harder. It's almost as if you're servicing him, and only him.

When you add more spit into the mess, right on the tip of his cock, he yelps. His hand reaches for your wrist, and yet it does nothing to stop you.

He can't stop the moans from spilling from his mouth anymore, a steady "uh uh uh".

The coil in the pit of his stomach turns and turns, coiling and making him clench his stomach. He's close, so very close.

More pre weeps from the tip of his cock, and you swirl your finger around the tip, spreading it around.

Jaime's eyes focus once more on the movement. He winces, "Please."

But you're an asshole and he's forgotten that.

You wrap your hand around the both of you weakly, languidly dragging it up and down your cocks. It's not enough for him, not after how mind-blowing you were, not while he knows how mind-blowing you could be.

In a spurt of determination, Jaime's hand wraps right around yours.

No longer weak, his left hand guides the movement again, rough and fast that has his reactive hips bucking in tandem too.

You're very clearly amused but he does nothing about it.

No, he's in control now, doesn't need you.

Jaime chases after his pleasure, as he deems he rightfully deserves. He uses your hand like a vessel, a puppet, just to get off.

Hips bucking, pre and spit squelching, tip swollen red; it's instinctual, animalistic, the way he chases to snap the coil in his stomach with no regard for his energy.

When Jaime finishes, it's his first in a long time, and it has his entire body going limp.

His cum washes over the both of your lengths, but he's already got his eyes closed when it does. He doesn't know when you finish, only that it's later.

"Do I get a thank you?"

Jaime opens his eyes and looks at your now clothed body, then at his cock. His spit, your spit, his cum, yours. His nose turns up.

"No."

[perkqularkreashions]

Baby, I’m a Dog. I’m a Mutt [M]

Sandor Clegane X Velaryon Reader

Romance Trope - Fake Marriage (Happy Ending)

SUMMARY: Clegane is tired of the constant torture and ridicule from Joffrey, so he lies, he says that he betrothed to a beautiful lady. Only problem is… he isn’t.

WARNINGS: Nonexplicit Smut

Romantic Trope Series

⸻

The Red Keep’s great hall shimmered under candlelight, but there was little warmth in the air.

Wine flowed like blood. The court was in good spirits, or so it seemed on the surface—laughter crackled like lightning across the tables, nobles and knights crowded together, picking at meats and gossip alike. The King, Joffrey Baratheon, sat perched on the Iron Throne as if born to it, his legs spread arrogantly, a goblet clutched lazily in one hand.

Sandor Clegane stood at the edge of the feast, not seated, not speaking. Always the outsider.

He didn’t drink.

He didn’t laugh.

He didn’t belong.

The firelight played across his maimed face—one side scarred and melted, twisted and raw. His good eye glared through the shadows beneath his brow. He stood in his armor, as always. Guard, dog, monster. They never let him forget.

Nor would they tonight.

Lord Lannister’s cousin, some minor lordling fat on inherited power and richer wines, wiped grease from his chin and smirked across the room. “Tell me, does the Hound sit or sleep, or just lean against stone walls like a beast on watch?”

Chuckles followed. Another chimed in—one of the Reachmen. “He’s too big for the chairs. Wouldn’t want him breaking one and bringing the whole court down with him.”

“And the smell,” said Ser Hobber Redwyne, fanning his face dramatically. “Gods, no wonder his horse has a temper.”

A louder laugh broke free. Even a few of the small council members smiled behind raised goblets. Ser Meryn Trant chuckled, lips red with wine.

Sandor didn’t move. But his fingers twitched at his side.

“I think the Hound needs a wife,” Joffrey said suddenly, his voice cutting through the laughter like a dagger coated in honey. “Every beast needs a handler, does he not?”

Cersei lifted an eyebrow, swirling her wine. “I doubt any lady in the realm is that desperate.”

Tyrion said nothing, eyes fixed on the table, jaw clenched.

Jaime sipped his wine slowly, expression unreadable.

Sansa looked up, startled, her pale eyes flitting from Sandor to the King.

Sandor Clegane stood still. But the hall could feel the simmer beneath his skin.

“I’ve made my decision,” Joffrey announced. “We’ll host a tourney. A grand one. The winner will receive the hand of the most fearsome creature in King’s Landing.” He grinned down at Sandor. “Assuming she’d have you.”

The laughter now was raw, unfiltered. The kind meant to wound.

The Hound’s voice came then, slow and dangerous: “Careful, boy.”

That silenced some.

But not Joffrey.

“Oh? Did the dog just growl?” He rose from his throne, steps echoing down the dais. “Do you bite now, Sandor? Or has someone finally trained you to heel?”

Sandor’s eye narrowed.

“I wonder,” Joffrey mused, circling now like a cat around a chained lion, “do you think yourself capable of love, Hound? Of being loved? Or are you simply too… grotesque for it?”

The word hung there. Grotesque.

No one defended him.

Not Jaime. Not Cersei. Not even Tyrion.

He was alone in it—as he always had been.

A few courtiers looked away in mild discomfort. But not enough. Not loud enough. Not brave enough.

Sandor’s mouth curled slightly—not into a smile, but a grimace that twisted his burned cheek further. His hands clenched, knuckles cracking.

Then, softly, “You think love is sweet, boy?” His voice was smoke and gravel, deep as a pit. “You’ve never known the taste of it.”

Joffrey tilted his head. “Oh? And you have?”

Sandor didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He turned from the King with a grunt and started to walk away.

“Oh, don’t sulk,” Joffrey called after him, delighted. “I’ll throw you a feast! You may even bring your beloved, if you ever find one. Just make sure she’s housebroken.”

The final round of laughter swelled again, vicious and echoing.

And Sandor kept walking. Past the flickering torches. Past the gold-draped sycophants. Past the courtiers who only knew how to laugh when the King laughed.

His boots struck stone, hard and fast.

But something in his chest ached. Not with shame. Not with fear.

With rage.

He had endured worse. He would endure more.

But tonight, something inside him cracked.

And tomorrow, they’d all see what happened when a dog stopped playing tame.

The night stank.

Flea Bottom was crawling with its usual sickness—wine, sweat, spoiled meat, cheap perfume. Sandor Clegane shoved through it like a bear through smoke, jaw clenched so tight his teeth ached. He didn’t know what he was looking for. A drink. A warm body. Something to get through the night.

No. That was a lie.

He was looking for a woman. Any woman. Someone willing to pretend—for a fee, a favor, a kindness he’d never earned.

Someone to be seen on his arm come morning. Someone to laugh and smile at him as if she meant it, if only for a few hours. To fool that golden little cunt on the throne, and the whole court with him.

And not a single one would touch him.

He’d tried. Quietly. Bluntly. With gold in hand. One had recoiled the second she saw his face, like his scars were contagious. Another told him flat out, “I’d rather fuck a corpse. At least they don’t smell like burnt leather.”

That one he nearly backhanded—but he didn’t. Not because he didn’t want to. Because her laugh reminded him of the court’s.

He stormed out of the brothel, steam rising from his breath. He didn’t look up. He didn’t see her until he slammed right into her.

A soft body. Perfumed. Warm.

She gasped and stumbled back half a step, steadying herself with elegant poise, not so much as a wrinkle in her silks. “Gods—my apologies.”

Her voice. Clear, soft, not like the others. A voice made for poems. She looked up at him, eyes wide, not with fear—but surprise. Curiosity.

He blinked. He opened his mouth, and—

“Marry me.”

The words tumbled out like they’d tripped over his teeth.

Her brows shot up. A breath of a laugh escaped her. “What?”

He was already regretting it. Already burning beneath his armor. But fuck it. “You heard me.”

She laughed again, this time fuller, richer. “Is this your usual approach, Ser? Should I feel flattered or alarmed?”

Sandor scratched the back of his neck, his massive hand nearly swallowing it whole. “I’m not good at this.”

“Proposing?”

“Talking.”

She studied him, amusement curling at her lips. “You’re serious.”

“I just—” He sighed. “I need someone. For a few days. A week. I don’t know. To stand next to me at court and pretend they don’t want to vomit when I breathe.”

Her smile faded slightly—not gone, just softer now. She tilted her head. “You barely know me.”

“I’m not asking for your maidenhood,” he growled. “Just your time. Maybe a laugh if you’ve got one to spare.”

“And if I say no?”

He looked away. “Then I’ll go back to begging whores who spit at me.”

A silence stretched between them.

Then, her voice—gentle again. “Look at me.”

He did.

Her eyes met his without flinching. “Fine.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You may have my hand.”

Sandor stared, blinking once, twice, like he’d misheard.

She extended it—palm up, elegant and self-assured. “But only if you give me your name first, Ser.”

He swallowed, clearing his throat. “Clegane. Sandor. Ser Sandor Clegane.”

Her brows lifted, amused. “The Hound?”

He waited for the sneer. For the wrinkle of the nose. It didn’t come.

Instead, she bowed slightly, graceful and proud. “Lady Velaryon. House Velaryon.”

He blinked again. “A lady.”

“You don’t say,” she teased, looking down at her silks. “Was it the embroidery that gave it away?”

He coughed. Might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a groan. “Meet me at the Red Keep tomorrow. You’ll know when.”

She tilted her head, watching him carefully. Then: “I look forward to it, Ser Clegane.”

She walked away into the darkness, the hem of her cloak whispering against stone.

And Sandor Clegane stood there, swaying just slightly, feeling like he’d just been hit in the gut and kissed on the cheek at the same time.

“Seven hells,” he muttered, touching his face like something might’ve changed.

Then he laughed. A dry, rough sound.

He’d either just met the cleverest woman in Westeros… or the cruelest.

But she said yes.

And that was enough—for now.

It had been thirty agonizing minutes.

The throne room was a furnace of tension and gilded cruelty. Sunlight spilled through the high stained-glass windows in soft shafts of color, but no warmth touched Sandor Clegane. He stood stiff as stone in the shadow of a pillar, half-shrouded in the folds of his dark cloak, arms crossed over his broad chest.

He had never felt smaller.

The Red Keep’s courtiers were already whispering, like insects buzzing too close. Their silks rustled, their jeweled fingers fluttered as they leaned in with rehearsed sympathy and barely veiled amusement.

“I suppose she drowned on the way here,” one lord quipped dryly.

“Or perhaps she changed her mind. I know I would have,” a lady replied with a titter, her bracelets clinking like bells.

Cersei sipped from her goblet and tilted her head toward the King, voice lazy and amused. “You must admit, Joffrey… if someone were to make up a lady-love, claiming she’s from a powerful house would be the way to do it.”

“She’s not coming,” Joffrey declared, loudly enough for all to hear. He lounged in the Iron Throne like a bored vulture, golden hair gleaming, fingers curled in irritation. “No woman in her right mind would willingly claim the Hound. Let alone kiss him.”

A low murmur rippled through the throne room. No one dared laugh—yet—but the tension begged for it.

Sansa looked stricken. “Please, Your Grace—”

“Please?” Joffrey mocked. “Please, your Grace, don’t be cruel? Shall I give him a doll to cuddle in her absence, little dove?”

Her face flushed red, but she said nothing else.

Tyrion, ever perched like a cat at the edge of danger, gave a sigh and stood from his seat. “Perhaps the lady is simply delayed, Your Grace. Seas do not always obey your schedule.”

“Delayed,” Joffrey scoffed. “Or invented. I say we give the dog a bone and send him back to his kennel.”

Tyrion’s brow twitched. He glanced toward Sandor.

The Hound didn’t move. Didn’t speak. But the weight behind his silence could flatten a castle wall.

He should have known better. Of course she wasn’t coming. Maybe it was a joke, or worse, a pity game. What had he expected? That a woman like her—a lady of elegance, sharpness, born of salt and silver—would really stand at his side before all of King’s Landing?

Then—

The great doors creaked open.

Every head turned.

Two knights pulled the towering iron doors aside, and warm sunlight spilled across the marble floor. A hush fell so quickly it was as though the entire room had been dunked underwater.

A herald’s voice rang out:

“Announcing—Lady Velaryon. Of House Velaryon.”

There was a pause. Audible surprise.

The name echoed, rippling through the nobles like a stone dropped in still water.

Cersei turned slightly, golden brows raised.

“Velaryon?” Joffrey repeated, frowning. “They said she was of House Velaryon?”

No one answered. No one could.

Because she stepped into the light like it belonged to her.

Her gown was sea-green and threaded in silver, the colors of the Driftmark coast. The silk clung to her body with practiced elegance, bell sleeves trailing behind her like mist over waves. She wore no crown, no heavy jewels. Just the ripple of wealth in her stitching and the way she carried herself—head high, shoulders regal, her walk deliberate and unhurried.

And her hair… it wasn’t braided in the old style. It fell loose, free down her back, with only a single pearl-pinned wave tucked behind one ear. A quiet rebellion.

The court murmured as she passed. No one seemed to know who she was.

But she commanded their silence all the same.

At the foot of the Iron Throne, she bowed deeply.

“Your Grace,” she said with a soft, velvet voice, eyes raised to Joffrey. She dipped her head again to Cersei, then offered Tyrion a gentle nod. The Queen Mother blinked. Sansa stared.

No one spoke.

Then she turned toward the shadows.

Toward him.

Sandor stiffened, suddenly aware of how large and dark and ugly he must seem compared to her elegance. He expected hesitation. Disgust. The reveal of the prank.

Instead, she smiled.

Soft, amused. Real.

She walked to him with grace that curled around every movement, her bell sleeves sweeping behind her, the scent of salt and sandalwood in her wake. The sound of her heels against stone echoed like a heartbeat.

When she reached him, she looked up.

And before he could say anything—before the doubt in him could open its mouth—she said brightly, “My dear, you look like a brute.”

The court gasped.

She reached up with calm hands and cupped his face, one palm resting against the burned side of his cheek like it was made of porcelain, not scarred ruin.

“Smile,” she added, her voice dropping. “Why don’t you?”

He blinked, stunned. Her hand was warm. Gentle. Real.

And for the first time since entering that gods-damned room, a low sound escaped his chest.

A laugh.

Rough and brief—but real.

He turned away, lips twitching against a grin, cheeks flushing beneath the scar. “You’re late,” he muttered.

“I know.” She smiled. “But I came.”

The King stood, face souring. “Kiss him,” Joffrey commanded. “Kiss your mutt. If this so real!”

Cersei said nothing. Tyrion narrowed his eyes.

“You don’t have to,” Sandor mumbled, pulling back slightly.

But she leaned in with a grin, loud and warm and confident.

“Well,” she said to him, voice lifted to the court, “kiss me, mutt.”

He froze.

Gasps again. Whispers.

Then she rose up on her toes and pressed her mouth to his—rough, sudden, heated. His lips parted, and it was awkward, but she didn’t shy away. Her hands braced against his chest like she meant to stay. When they broke apart, her thumb brushed over his chin.

“You don’t have to be so rough,” she whispered, eyes twinkling. “I’m not going anywhere.”

The court was in chaos now—half-shocked, half-horrified.

“This is a joke!” Joffrey barked. “I demand proof—bedding ceremony, this very night!”

The room went dead still.

Cersei looked mildly intrigued.

Tyrion groaned under his breath.

But she turned back to the throne, smiling sweetly. “If that’s what you desire, Your Grace,” she said without blinking. “It would be no hardship. Making love to my husband isn’t a problem.”

Her voice didn’t waver.

Gasps erupted.

Tyrion stepped forward quickly. “That’s quite enough.”

But she wasn’t done.

“We will wed tomorrow,” she said, smiling now. “If Your Grace would be so gracious as to host.”

The court didn’t know whether to bow or faint.

But Sandor?

He just stared at her, a thousand questions screaming in his chest.

And all of them quieted when she reached for his hand and laced her fingers with his.

The chambers were smaller than hers at home.

That was the first thing she thought when the door closed behind her with a soft thud. No open arches to the sea. No breeze to sweep through silk curtains. The walls here were heavy with tapestries, stone cold beneath her bare feet. A single window let in slanted light from the courtyard torches below. The fire was already lit in the hearth, but it did little to warm the quiet.

She walked slowly across the room, her bell sleeves dragging behind her, her sea-silver gown whispering secrets to the stones.

At home on Driftmark, her chambers were open and wide. Her bed had no curtains. The ocean could be heard in every breath. She missed it. The salt. The freedom. The space.

The door creaked open.

She didn’t turn, only smiled faintly at the window as the familiar heavy steps moved inside.

Sandor.

His presence always came before the sound — a weight in the air, a pull behind the ribs. He didn’t knock. Of course he didn’t. He never did things gently.

“You’re alone,” he said gruffly, like it offended him.

“I prefer it,” she replied.

There was a beat of silence behind her. She could hear his breath — short, sharp. Pacing. Boots scraping faintly against the stone.

“You’re a stupid girl.”

She turned now.

He was tense, jaw set, the torchlight throwing gold across his burn-scarred face. His hands were clenched at his sides. His voice shook with something like anger, but his eyes—gods, his eyes—they searched her like he needed an answer that could unmake him.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he muttered. “Why would you—this is just supposed to convince them.”

She stepped toward him.

Elegant. Calm.

“Relax, I said yes remember.” she said, as if reminding him.

He blinked, like he still couldn’t believe it.

“You’re playing some game ,” he said. “I’ve seen better men ruined by court women and their pretty lies.”

“Do I lie?” she asked gently, stopping in front of him. “You asked me to marry you. Now I am accused of playing games.”

He didn’t answer.

She tilted her head, one brow raised. Then, in a whisper, like she was teasing the sea, she added, “Kiss this stupid girl goodnight.”

His lips parted.

His eyes narrowed, searching her face. She wasn’t mocking him. Not playing. Just standing there, daring him, velvet and salt and moonlight.

When he didn’t move, she reached up and wrapped her arms around his shoulders.

Not softly.

She yanked him to her.

And he broke.

Sandor kissed her like he had waited his whole life for someone to choose him. It was not gentle. It was fire licking through storm, rough hands grasping her waist, mouth crushing hers, his breath hot and uneven. She gasped against him, and he took it, deepened it, hands sliding into her hair, holding her like she might vanish if he let go.

But she didn’t.

She held him right back. Firm. Certain. Her fingers gripped his tunic, her lips moved with his, slow and hungry and sure.

When he finally pulled away, his forehead fell to hers.

They stood there, breathless.

He hadn’t meant to lose control. But she didn’t seem to mind.

She smiled softly, still catching her breath. Her hands slid down his chest until they rested just over his heart.

“Good night, my dear,” she whispered, pressing one last kiss to the corner of his mouth. “Sleep well. For me.”

She turned and walked toward the bed, slowly beginning to unlace her sleeves, unhurried.

And Sandor Clegane, who had known fire, war, blood, and scorn—stood in the glow of the firelight, utterly wrecked by the way she had said my dear.

He didn’t say good night.

But he watched the whole time.

And he didn’t leave until the fire burned low.

The bell only rang once.

Not the high, rolling peal of a royal wedding, nor the trumpets and fanfare of noble procession. Just one solitary ring from the Sept tower—a sound more solemn than celebratory. It echoed over the courtyard like a final breath held in reverence, and drifted away like mist over Blackwater Bay.

Sandor stood alone near the altar, stone still, arms rigid at his sides.

The red of the Sept bled around him—candlelight flickering off tall marble columns, golden pools dancing on the polished floor. Above, the Stranger loomed down from painted glass, its expression unreadable. If Sandor noticed it at all, he gave no sign.

His leathers were brushed. His beard had been trimmed—poorly. A new surcoat had been thrown over his shoulders, black with the faintest sigil of House Lannister sewn into the hem, as was custom now, though he wore it like a man wrapped in old wounds. Sweat clung beneath the cloth. His hand opened and closed once, fingers flexing like he might rather have a sword than a wedding band.

He expected jeers. Or silence. Or worse—Joffrey’s laughter.

What he did not expect was honor.

The first to enter were the Velaryons. The banners of sea-green and silver unfurled behind them like ocean mist rolling in. They did not slink like defeated guests, nor storm like insulted nobles. They walked with the slow, regal confidence of people who belonged anywhere they stepped, salt-touched and sun-warmed, like they had brought the very sea with them.

At their head walked her father.

Tall, proud, and carved from the bones of ships. His cloak was pinned at the left shoulder, fastened over a neatly wrapped stump where his arm had once been. The stories had spread in whispers: a kraken, they said, rising from the depths during a storm when his daughter was just a girl. He had shielded her with his own body. His arm had not survived—but she had. And that, he always said, was the trade he’d make again.

When he reached Sandor, there was no scorn in his eyes. No fear. Just a long, steady look, as if weighing not the man’s title, nor face, but his spine.

Then the old sailor placed his hand firmly on Sandor’s shoulder.

“She laughs like her mother,” he said in a low, rough voice. “And she’s got my fire. Keep her laughing, and she’ll forget to set the world alight.”

Sandor couldn’t speak. Only nodded once, mouth slightly parted, startled by the warmth in the gesture.

A beat later, her ladies-in-waiting filtered in, all of them cloaked in the sea tones of her house—dusted jade, pale green, glistening silvers like salt crusting over pearls. One of them, younger than the rest, blushed furiously when Sandor glanced her way and whispered behind her palm, “He’s not as beastly as they say.”

And then she arrived.

The entire Sept seemed to still.

She didn’t just enter. She filled the room. Like light. Like tide. Like something ancient and elegant walking barefoot from the sea.

Her gown was soft seafoam green with long bell sleeves that whispered when she moved. The silk clung to her body as if the dress had been sewn straight to her skin. Her hair was not braided as tradition demanded. It fell freely in soft waves, the only decoration a pair of silver combs at her temples that caught the candlelight as she passed. Every inch of her was noble, but she carried herself like someone who had never once doubted her place in the world.

She did not stop at Joffrey.

She did not bow.

Her smile did not falter as she walked straight to Sandor.

He couldn’t breathe.

She was real. She hadn’t fled. She wasn’t some joke the gods were playing. She walked to him with a smile like moonlight over calm waters and placed a kiss—a real kiss—on the burned side of his cheek.

“Steady,” she whispered against his skin, her breath warm. “You’re not dreaming.”

He felt the words in his bones.

The ceremony moved on without pause. The septon droned about sacred unions and the joining of souls, while courtiers whispered behind hands, the Queen sneered from her seat, and Joffrey sat cross-legged, eyes rolling at every mention of duty. He sighed loudly, exaggerated and boyish.

“Let’s move it along, old man,” Joffrey muttered. “Before the dog chews his own leash.”

But the septon continued. And when it came time to speak, she did not hesitate.

“I do,” she said clearly.

Sandor’s voice was hoarse when it followed. “Aye.”

Then, soft-footed and without fanfare, the maester stepped forward.

It was the law, after all. The King had requested confirmation of her purity. And she, raised by the salt and waves, did not flinch at customs steeped in rot. Her maid followed her from the Sept with quiet dignity. And when she returned, her head held high, her cheeks a little warmer, she looked not like a woman humiliated—but like a queen who had simply walked through fire untouched.

“Untouched,” the maester said aloud to the gathered court.

Joffrey raised a brow, unimpressed. “Well then,” he said with a sneer, “go and make it true.”

They left to jeers. Laughter. Betting whispers from the back of the hall.

But none of it mattered once the doors closed behind them.

The room was heavy with candlelight, thick with the scent of fresh linens and rosewater, though neither masked the storm rising in Sandor’s chest. The door clicked shut behind them, muffling the last whispers of the court like a stone dropped into deep water. At last, they were alone.

He didn’t look at her

Not at first.

His boots thudded against the floor as he paced once, twice. Then, with a growl barely audible, he began unbuckling the leather strap across his shoulder, the motion sharp and practiced. He didn’t savor it. He wasn’t unwrapping a gift — he was bracing for the blow. The pity. The disgust.

He didn’t want her to see.

When he finally turned, she had already shed her veil, fingers toying gently with the combs in her hair, letting them fall one by one onto the low table. Sea-colored silk clung to her body like a second skin, the long bell sleeves dragging as she stepped out of her slippers and walked toward him without hesitation.

He avoided her gaze, hands moving too quickly now — to the belt at his waist, the buckle of his trousers. Get it done, he told himself. Get it done before she changed her mind.

“Stop.” Her voice was stern.

Sharp as the edge of a broken shell.

He froze, his fingers stiff above the leather. Slowly, his eyes flicked to hers — searching for mockery. For hesitation. For that look they all wore eventually: one glance at his face and the soft recoil, the twitch of revulsion, even when they tried to hide it.

But it wasn’t there.

Only stillness. Power. Patience.

And when she took a step forward, he took one back, his lips parted like he’d just taken a blow to the stomach. “I knew it,” he muttered hoarsely, the words slipping out of him before he could stop them. “Thought maybe you—maybe you looked at me like I wasn’t—” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to.

She chuckled.Softly. Slowly. Like it had bloomed in her throat and poured through the room like warm wine.

“My Hound,” she said, her voice no longer sharp, but velvet-wrapped and thick with promise. She stepped closer again, her bare feet silent against the stone. “Please. Be gentle. Be slow.” Her hands slid up his arms, her palms steadying him. “I want to feel every bit of you.”

Something in him unraveled then.

Something tight and wound and aching that had never loosened, not once in all his years.

She kissed him slowly, her lips brushing his like she’d waited her whole life to know his mouth. His first instinct was to take it — to devour — to grab her hips and shove her down, take her from behind like he was used to, like it was easier not to see. His fingers dug into her waist before she pulled back, whispering a quiet “No.”

She climbed into his lap, straddling him with gentle precision. Her thighs spread over his, her skirts pooling at their hips. She cupped his scarred face between her hands and guided his mouth back to hers. The kiss deepened — not rough, not wild, but aching and tender and full of every unsaid thing that had built since the moment they met.

He tried to speak, but it came out coarse, needy, unfiltered. “Fuck… you feel so warm.”

Her smile curled into his mouth.

“Tell me,” she whispered against his lips, “tell me what you want.”

“To give you my seed,” he rasped, breath ragged, “a son, if you allow me.”

“Yes,” she whispered, rolling her hips against him with sinful grace. “Yes, my love. Give me your heir.”

He groaned, head dropping into the crook of her neck, pressing kisses into her skin as she guided him in, inch by slow inch. Her breath caught, but she didn’t flinch. Instead, she cupped the back of his neck, holding him there, whispering praise as his hands trembled on her hips.

“You’re inside me,” she murmured, voice thick and heavy, “so deep, gods, I feel you in my bones. That’s it. My good, strong husband…”

And he lost himself.

He moved with desire now, each thrust slow, drawn out, his forehead pressed to hers as she rode him to completion. When she felt him start to shake, she kissed him harder.

“I love you,” he whispered hoarsely, the words rasping up from some deep, unused place inside him.

She pressed her lips to his ear. “I love you too.”

He held her until the candle guttered out, until sleep dragged him down with her body curled against his chest and his arms locked tightly around her waist, like he feared she might vanish come morning.

The next day, the air inside the Red Keep hung thick with anticipation. Court was assembled early, robes gathered, wine poured, mouths whispering.

Joffrey lounged lazily in his chair, one leg thrown over the arm, smirking. “Well? Was the dog house-trained?”

A lone voice cleared his throat. One of Sandor’s sworn men — red-faced, eyes darting to the floor. He bowed low.

“It was… consummated, Your Grace.”

Joffrey scoffed. “He probably mounted her like a stray. Gods, I pity the girl—”

“She was on top,” the guard mumbled quickly.

The room went still.

He swallowed thickly. “She said—uh… she said, ‘My Hound, please… be gentle and slow. I want to feel every bit of you.’”

Silence.

Then a loud, cracking laugh from Tyrion, who nearly choked on his wine.

Sansa turned sharply, her cheeks burning, though the corner of her mouth twitched ever so slightly.

Even Cersei narrowed her eyes, lips pressed tight, as if trying to decide whether the embarrassment or the scandal was greater.

Joffrey slammed his palm down against the arm of the throne, face twisted in rage. “Summon her!” he shouted. “I want her brought to me. Now.

The Red Keep’s throne room was cold in the morning light. Not cold in temperature—though the stone still held the chill from the night—but in presence. It was the way the light filtered down like judgment, the way the Iron Throne sat jagged and too high, the way silence clung to the walls like it was listening.

The doors creaked open.

She walked in alone.

No guards. No fear. Just the sound of soft silk brushing the floor, her sea-green skirts gliding like mist over stone, bell sleeves floating at her wrists. Her hands were clasped before her, posture straight, unshaken. Her silver hairpins caught the light as she bowed her head, not too low, not too long—just enough to be respectful, not submissive.

Joffrey looked at her like one might a puzzle that refused to be solved.

She was far too calm.

Far too lovely.

Far too untouched by the cruelty he had come to expect from the world he bent beneath him.

“You,” he said, voice sharp and uncertain. “You can’t possibly mean it.”

Her head tilted slightly, smile warm, unbothered. “Mean what, Your Grace?”

“That you’d lie with him. With a dog.” His voice rose. “You expect me to believe a lady of your name and standing would lower herself to that?”

She offered him a gentle shrug, silk whispering as she moved. “Do you take me for some fool?”

He snapped upright in his throne, jaw clenched. “Yes! I—”

“I take you for a king,” she said, cutting in with soft authority. “Whether you are a fool or not… is up to you.”

The throne room froze.

Even the guards glanced at each other, uncertain if they should breathe.

Sandor had been standing stiff and silent beside the dais—let out a short, amused breath. A low rasp of a laugh he didn’t bother to hide.

Joffrey’s face twisted. He rose, nearly knocking his goblet from the arm of the throne. “You—”

But she didn’t flinch.

Instead, she turned to Sandor, her voice kind but sure, as if they were alone.

“I would like to take him home with me. To Driftmark. My home.” She turned back to Joffrey. “I will leave twenty guards behind. And gold, if that is your price.”

Joffrey scoffed, lips curling. “I don’t need your coin for that pity of a man.”

The words hung, suspended.

“So be it,” she replied. Calm. Clean. Final.

And they turned to leave.

Her chambers were already being packed when they returned.

Her maids worked in silence, folding fabrics, fastening trunks. The air was warmer here, filtered through gauzy curtains that fluttered against the stone window frames. She moved through it easily, barefoot, shedding the tension of the court like a cloak left behind.

The door to her chamber clicked gently shut behind them. A servant had lingered to bow, then gone without a word. Outside, the keep still moved like a stirred anthill — talk of the Velaryon bride, the dog-husband, the Driftmark exit. But in this room, time had slowed.

The warmth hit Sandor first — the difference. The air inside wasn’t the cold stone of the barracks or the reeking stalls of the city. No, this smelled of orange blossom and salt, of soft powder and faint perfume. The sea lingered on her belongings, like her homeland refused to let her go.

His boots sank into a thick woven rug, seafoam green, surely imported, and he felt out of place already. He lingered at the threshold like a soldier returning to a battlefield, stiff and unsure. Her back was to him, delicate fingers unfastening a silver clasp at her collar.

“My rooms at home are bigger,” she said softly, not looking back. “Higher ceilings. Open air. You can hear the gulls and smell the tide. And my windows… you could lean right out over the cliffs and let the wind wrap you like a shawl.”

Her voice was wistful. Not bragging. Just remembering. He watched the gentle rise and fall of her shoulders beneath the silk of her gown. Sea-green, again — the color suited her. Or perhaps she suited it. She belonged to it.

She wasn’t made for stone walls and whispers.

She turned slowly.

The dress had loosened at the collar. Her hair had fallen a little, tendrils slipping over her collarbone. Her eyes searched his face—those bruised, stormy eyes, too clever for their own good.

“You’re quiet,” she said softly, stepping toward him. “Did Joffrey’s venom sink that deep?”

“No.” The word was low. Hard. “It ain’t him.”

Her brow furrowed, head tilting just slightly.

Sandor’s hands moved toward his pocket without thinking. His fingers fumbled against the worn leather pouch at his belt, callused fingertips scraping the seam. It felt heavier than usual. Wrong in his hands. Like it wasn’t meant for this.

Still, he pulled it open. The sound was loud in the silence — the coins inside shifting like bone dice.

Her eyes dropped to it.

“I should… pay you.” The words scratched at his throat like gravel. His eyes burned. He didn’t look at her. “For pretending. For being kind. For making me feel like—like…”

His voice cracked, the rest lost to the air.

“I thought I could walk away,” he muttered, jaw tightening, “but… fuck, I don’t want to.” She watched him. His face was turned half away, his mouth a grim slash of regret. But his hands were trembling, white-knuckled around the coin pouch.

Her chest ached.

She crossed the space between them in silence. Each footstep was soft — not because she was afraid, but because she was deliberate. She moved like water: graceful, slow, unable to be stopped.

Her hand touched his, gently, just enough to still his fingers.

“Sandor,” she whispered.

He glanced down at her, face unreadable — except for his eyes. His eyes were wide, helpless.

She took the pouch from him and set it on the low table beside them without breaking his gaze.

“You can still be sworn to my father,” she said softly. “Still serve my family, if that’s what you want. No shame in that.”

He exhaled hard through his nose. His shoulders curled inward, as if bracing for the goodbye.

“But you’re still my husband,” she said, her voice velvet-wrapped steel. “You still hold that title. And if you want it, my lord—” she reached up, cupping his scarred cheek with one warm, steady hand “—you may keep it.”

His breath caught. His hand twitched at his side. “Don’t mock me,” he muttered hoarsely

She stepped closer. Pressed her body against his.

“Your brute charm…” she smiled, voice like silk against his throat, “…has worked on me.”

He made a broken sound—half breath, half laugh—and then she felt his arms come around her, not forcefully, not desperate, but like the closing of a door against the cold. His head lowered into her shoulder, resting there a moment as if he didn’t quite believe she was real.

Her hand moved through his thick, dark hair. “You’re mine,” she whispered.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to meet her eyes.

“Say it again,” he rasped.

“You’re mine.”

[higgsbison]

Dunno if you’re still writing it but !! I have to let you know that Tar and Tonic Water is so wonderfully written . It’s so funny and witty and I love all your characterizations ESPECIALLY of the voices . The twist of Precipice actually being a bunch of voices in a trench coat was wonderful . And the following fucked up dialogue where Jean had to struggle with a panic attack.. god!! Twas awesome sauce !! Also just the banter !! The first chapter where they did silly little improv was so the everything to me …. Also just how you write Jean is so wonderful . I love the him so much . And Harry too!!! And Kim !!!! Trant also too!! Just !!! Your writing style is so satisfying and you get them so much and it makes me very happy to read :]]]

Thank you sm anon!

I *am* actually still writing it, I'd say the latest chapter is like 60% done, I just suffer from both a bad case of "connective sentences are too boring and repetitive, so I have to force myself to get around to actually doing them" and "doing 5 irl projects at once to survive on this bitch of an earth"

Have a preview tho:

[poisonousrain222]

𝐜𝐡𝐚𝐩𝐭𝐞𝐫 𝐭𝐡𝐫𝐞𝐞 — 𝐮𝐧𝐞𝐱𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐝 𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐢𝐞𝐬

𝐬𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐨𝐫 𝐜𝐥𝐞𝐠𝐚𝐧𝐞 𝐱 𝐟𝐞𝐦!𝐥𝐚𝐧𝐧𝐢𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫!𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐞𝐫

warnings. sexual harassment, talking about weapons/killing

a/n. this chapter was so much fun to write for me, hope you guys enjoy it as much as i did 😽

3.8k words

series masterlist

“—And before the battle even started, your brother got knocked out by a hammer to the head!” Bronn mocked Tyrion, a wide smirk playing on his lips, before downing his cup of wine. Needless to say, she was thankful that her smaller brother even survived such a fight and the fact that their father sent Tyrion purposely into the front lines, knowing he was as bad at fighting as a drunken septon, had made her angry. Despite herself, she fell into laughter, when she imagined the scene Bronn described. The dwarf had simply grinned at them from across the table, raising his cup in mock salute.

“You try fighting in a battle when you’re eye-level with everyone’s knees,” he countered with his eyes set on his new friend. “The proper strategy was clearly to make myself a smaller target. Which I accomplished by promptly losing consciousness.”

Bronn raised an eyebrow. “That what you tell yourself at night, eh?”

“It seems your height has finally proven advantageous,” she threw in. “Had you been any taller, the hammer would’ve hit you in the balls.”

This made both men cackle and she grinned into her cup.

Turning her head, she peered out of the window, noticing the sun being almost swallowed entirely by the sea on the horizon, bathing the world in a golden glow. “I shall be going,” she said.

After several attempts of the two men trying to make her stay only a little longer, she finally left Tyrion’s chambers to make her way to her own. Her footsteps echoed through the long hallways of the Red Keep and her dress flowed around her legs with every step. She realized then how much she had actually missed Tyrion, especially his badly-timed jests. In a city where everything must always be so serious and joyless they seldom failed to make her crack a smile. The only thing that soured her mood was the knowledge of Jaime still being in chains somewhere in the North.

“Shall we bring her directly to you, Your Grace?”

Her heart jumped in her chest and she halted abruptly as soon as she heard the familiar voice of Ser Meryn Trant, who seemingly stood right around the corner. She pressed her lips together firmly, determined not to let something so small as her breath betray her presence. With the lightest steps she could manage, she walked the small distance to the wall and pressed her entire body against the cold stone. The rough surface bit into her skin through the fabric of her dress, but she barely noticed the discomfort with the sudden adrenaline rushing through her.

Curiosity won against sense in that moment. The thought of turning the other way and running wasn’t even in her consideration. The potential knowledge of who they were discussing seemed far too valuable to abandon, even at the risk of discovery. She strained her ears, hardly daring to breathe.

“Bring her right to the throne room,” she heard her nephew Joffrey say. “She was seen last in my uncle’s chambers with that cutthroat.”

Fuck.

“At once, Your Grace.”

Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.

The blood in her veins felt like it has turned to ice, but she did not allow herself to falter for even a moment. Trant’s words served as a singular command in her mind: Run.

With a sharp intake of breath, she spun around, her hair whipping across her face as she bolted in the direction she came from. She had no other choice — the other way would be ending directly in the Kingsguard’s arms. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a war drum and could be felt in her throat, each beat drowning out the sound of her footsteps against the stone floor.

A chaotic storm of questions tumbled through her mind as she ran. What could Joffrey possibly want with her this time? She hadn’t spoken against him publicly, hadn’t openly defied him. Was it something she’d said to Tyrion? Had someone been listening at the door?

The uncertainty was almost worse than knowing. If she had a specific transgression to consider, she could at least prepare a defense or justification. Joffrey rarely summoned anyone for pleasant reasons before himself. The throne room had become a theater of humiliation and pain under his rule.

Her stomach twisted at the memory of what had happened to others who’d displeased him. Singers without tongues, thieves without hands, or heads.

“Hey!” she heard someone shout behind her. Oh, fuck. Oh, gods. “There she is!”

They’re chasing me. The thought repeated itself in her mind, a frantic chant that matched the rhythm of her racing pulse. They’re coming for me.

Behind her, she heard the distinctive clanking of armor. Panic surged through her veins like fire and her mind became a battlefield of scattered thoughts. Where to go? The gardens? Too open. My chambers? First place they’d look.

Her breath came in sharp gasps as she darted down corridor after corridor, making random turns in hopes of losing her pursuers. The weight of inevitability pressed down on her shoulders. The Red Keep was large, but not infinite. They would find her eventually.

She took another turn, diving down another set of stairs she’d rarely used before. The stone steps were worn in the middle from centuries of footfalls, and twice she nearly lost her footing in her haste. Down, down, down she went, the air growing progressively damper and cooler with every step. A hint of a smell hit her nose — earthy and similar to wet fur. She was near the kennels.

She stumbled forward, her usual grace abandoned in her desperation. The hem of her dress caught beneath her foot, and she barely managed to catch herself against the rough wall, not without cursing her dress once more.

A sudden thought crossed her mind, a thought so ridiculous she almost scoffed out loud — She knew the room of the Hound to be near the kennels, just around two or three corners.

The Hound. Sandor Clegane.

Suddenly, she remembered a warm summer night in King’s Landing years ago, when she was fourteen or fifteen. The feast had been grand, celebrating some victory or name day, she couldn’t recall which. What she did recall was the way one knight’s breath had reeked of sour wine as he cornered her in a darkened corridor away from the festivities, after he had asked her to show him around the Keep.

“What if we did something more pleasurable,” he slurred. In that moment she realized, his intention of getting her away from the feast has never been just a simple walk through the castle and she felt stupid for even considering him honest without certainty.

Her verbal refusal was firm, but did little to repel him, making her eyes fill with tears of panic and dread, as her physical resistance did not stop him either. He was a knight, after all, bigger and stronger than her.

“Get the fuck away,” The Hound growled then, after yanking the man backwards with such force that he stumbled and smashed to the ground. “Before I gut you and shove it all back through your throat.”

The knight scurried away like a roach, leaving her alone with the Hound. She expected him to mock her, as he often did Tyrion, but he reached out his hand and helped her stand.

“The world is full of horrors. Most of them are men,” he told her, his voice rough. “Knights, lords or common men, doesn’t matter. They all take whatever they can get their hands on.”

It wasn’t kindness exactly, but a brutal honesty that had stuck with her. And despite his harsh words, he had escorted her back to her chambers that night, making sure no one took something from her she was not willing to give.

The Hound was rude and foul-mouthed and violent, yes, but he would not hurt me, she thought.

With the sounds of pursuit growing closer, she darted around the corner, nearly stumbling again in her haste. She spotted the wooden door to his room and without allowing herself a moment to reconsider, she raised her fist and hammered against it, harder than propriety would ever allow under normal circumstances.

Time seemed to stretch as she waited, each heartbeat an eternity. She was about to knock again, more desperately this time, when the door swung open and revealed the imposing stature of the Hound looming over her.

Without a word and without even the slightest glance in his direction, she hastily pushed past him. Unfortunately, in her frantic movements, she gravely underestimated the man’s battle-honed reflexes. Before she could even cross the threshold, she felt his enormous hand wrap tightly around her arm, halting her progress with an unyielding grip.

“They’re looking for me!” she blurted out in an urgent whisper. Her normally composed demeanor had completely abandoned her, replaced by a raw, undisguised fear that manifested in her widened eyes.

A gulp wet her dry throat, as she peered up at him. “Please, I swear—”

His face twisted slightly, eyes narrowing as they darted from her face to the hallway behind her. The Hound ground his teeth, scrutinizing her panicked expression. His grip on her arm neither loosened nor tightened as he seemed to weigh his options.

Finally, he cursed under his breath, the sound harsh and guttural. With a single forceful movement, he pulled her inside his private chamber, his enormous frame blocking the light from the corridor for a brief moment before he shut the door with a thud.

"What in the hells are y—" he began, his voice low and gravelly with annoyance.

Before he could finish, the unmistakable sound of clanking armor echoed in the hallway, followed almost immediately by a sharp knock on the door. His eyes darted to her face, lingering there for a moment, then to the door.

“Quiet,” he hissed, jerking his chin toward the corner behind the door. She immediately flitted behind it, forcing her breath to slow and clutching her hands to her chest, in hopes it would calm her racing heart.

He opened the door painfully slow, his expression as indifferent as always. Still, she held her breath in dreadful anticipation.

“What?” he barked, greeting his fellow Kingsguard brother with unconcealed annoyance.

“We’re looking for the king’s aunt. She been here?”

“Why in the Seven Hells would she be down here?”

The Lannister had to admit, he was quite a talented liar.

“We saw her run in this direction,” Trant bit back, displeased with the Hound’s condescending tone. “If you do see her, send her up to the king, dog. He wants a word with her.”

Without answering, the taller man slammed the door shut with such force it made the hinges rattle. He huffed.

A heavy beat of silence followed, before he turned toward her with excruciating slowness, each movement deliberate and controlled. His stormy eyes fell upon her smaller frame and for a moment, they silently stared at one another. The scarred side of his face seemed to twitch slightly, the burned tissue pulling taut across his features as his jaw clenched. She could see the anger radiating from him in waves, it was evident in the rigid set of his broad shoulders and the dangerous flash in his eyes.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” he rumbled through clenched teeth, the prominent vein on his neck showed he was forcing himself to not raise his voice.

Her heartbeat has slowed, the frantic pounding in her chest gradually subsiding as her breathing steadied. The overwhelming wave of blind panic receded like an outgoing tide, allowing coherent thoughts to form once more. Despite the tense situation, the tone he used with her made a frown settle on her face. Not as intimidating as his, but a displeased frown nonetheless.

“I’m supposed to be brought before the throne. I overheard them talking in the hallway, before they chased after me.” She surprised herself with how steady her voice remained as she forced her chin to stay high and her back straight. She would not shrink before him, no matter how much venom he injected into his words.

“Trant already said that,” he bit out. “What are you doing here?”

Her gaze was fixed on his eyes. Despite her attempt at composure, her hands betrayed her lingering anxiety as they wrung in front of her stomach. The immediate danger of capture has passed, yes, but the realization of exactly where and from whom she had sought help filled her with a different kind of anxiety.

Standing in the private chamber of the Hound, having just witnessed him lie to a fellow Kingsguard on her behalf, she found herself at a loss for words, a strange mixture of gratitude and unease washing over her. She was acutely aware that he had just committed what could be considered treason, all because she had appeared at his door in hectic desperation. Judging by his clothing, he was off duty as well, making the guilt in her chest grow. He was wearing simple brown trousers and a grey tunic, which he usually wore under his armor.

“I didn’t know where else to go,” she answered truthfully, yet it sounded lame in her ears. Running from the king only to end up in the chamber of his sworn shield. Still, his lie to Meryn Trant proved her intuition right — He did help her.

“And you thought running and hiding will make the problem disappear?” he sneered, not hiding the mocking undertone.

The condescension in his voice made a stubborn pout form on her lips in addition to her frown and she crossed her arms in front of her chest defensively. Though she felt the urge to snap back, she swallowed the retort that threatened to escape her lips. Antagonizing the man who had just committed a crime by hiding her from the king’s men would not only be ungrateful but also unwise.

“No, I just—” Her gaze fell to the floor. “I didn’t think that far.”

She felt stupid for saying it out loud, but she did not feel like lying to him. The panic of the moment had made her irrational and short-sighted, not considering the situation as a whole. Her temporary escape would not change the inevitability of Joffrey’s summon. If they wouldn’t find her tonight, they would certainly find her on the morrow, she was aware of that.

“Clearly not,” he grumbled.

With a sigh which sounded more like a growl he shook his head in irritated disbelief, strode over to the wooden table on the other side of the room and poured wine into a cup with more force than necessary, spilling a few droplets on the surface and his hand.

He took a seat on a chair, which seemed too small for his owner as it creaked beneath his weight, and gulped down his cup in one long swig. “What have you done this time? Questioned the king’s competence again? Huh?”

“No,” she said firmly, irritated at the immediate accusation. “I’ve done nothing.”

He scoffed, wiping wine from his beard with the back of his hand. “So the king summoned you for a little chat over tea, did he?”

She rolled her eyes. Sarcasm was the last thing she needed in this moment. “I don’t know what I have done that enrages him so. I truly don’t.”

“Then think harder.” He poured himself another cup of wine, making one of her eyebrows quirk up, but she doesn’t comment on it. Cersei’s and Tyrion’s daily intakes of wine weren’t any better.

Thoughts of apologizing to him for the disturbance or thanking him for his help crossed her mind, but his rude temper made her bite her tongue instead. Stubborn pride was a rather prominent quality in her family.

Silence settled over them, letting them both absorb the situation on their own.

She knew, of course, that she couldn’t leave now, not when the king’s men were still searching the castle. If they would see her leaving his chamber, it would expose his lie and brand him a traitor, gods knew what fate would await him then. The risk was too great. He seemed to understand this just as well, making no move to throw her out despite his obvious irritation.

The irony wasn’t lost on her: Seeking refuge with one of the most terrifying men in the Red Keep, who’s made many ladies tremble at the mere sight of his face. Yet here she stood, feeling safer with him than anywhere else in the castle that had become her gilded prison. She understood their fear to an extent — The Hound towered over almost everyone, was muscled like a bull and always armed to the teeth with a seemingly permanent scowl on his face. But one thing she never understood were people calling him hideous or horrendous or even grotesque. Scars alone did not make someone ugly, she believed, and he certainly wasn’t.

As she glanced around his sparse quarters, she noticed only one window, rough-hewn furniture, a bed which looked too small for such a large man, and various weapons hanging on one side of the wall, a few of them scattered on the ground next to his familiar scratched, silvery-black armor.

The sight of so many weapons intrigued her strangely and she made her way over to the wall. Various blades caught the dim light from the candles, such as longswords with worn leather grips, smaller daggers, a battle axe and even a morning star hanging precariously from a hook. She noticed one particularly massive greatsword that must have required tremendous strength to wield effectively, its blade broader than her forearm.

“Are these all yours?” she asked, trying to start a conversation and break the awkward silence.

“No, I stole them from the kitchen maids.”

She shot him a sour look at his sarcasm from over her shoulder, which he only met with a face as hard as stone.

“What’s that called?” She pointed toward a weapon similar to a morning star, but the spiked iron ball was connected to the handle with a chain, rather than solidly placed on top.

“Flail,” he answered.

Her eyes continued to dart around the wall, taking in the impressive arsenal of weapons that spoke of the Hound’s fearsome reputation on the battlefield.

“Why do you not own a bow?” she asked, when she noticed one weapon familiar to her missing.

He barked out a noise similar to a scoff. “A bow. That’s a weapon for a woman.”

Her eyebrows furrowed. “How?”

“Archers are cowardly cunts, too weak and scared to kill anything with bare hands.”

The frown returned to her features, as she stared at him. “That’s not true. Jaime taught me how to shoot a bow.”

“And you are no woman?”

“Jaime isn’t.” Her voice suddenly became sharper, half-expecting and half-daring him to speak distasteful of her older brother.

His only answer was a raised brow, but he didn’t press the matter further, seemingly not interested in arguing about Jaime Lannister. To be fair, he did sometimes look like a girl in certain lights or angles, but she would certainly not admit this now.

Unable to resist her curiosity, the Lannister girl’s hand reached toward the longsword, her index finger extending to leave a fingerprint on the shiny steel.

“Hands off, girl,” he rasped. After a moment’s consideration, she dropped her hand, remembering she was a guest tonight and guests shall be respectful. “Last thing I need is having to explain your severed arm.”

She shook her head in dismissal of his concern. “I know how to… hold these.”

“Won’t help you, when it falls off the wall.”

“I also know how to wield a knife,” she added, not being sure why she even told him this.

“A knife. Yeah,” he said dryly. “Just like every other person in this castle.”

“Well, I’m not helpless at least.”

“Could’ve fooled me earlier.”

She turned away from him as soon as she felt her cheeks warm up, pretending not to have heard his remark. The comments that rolled so easily from his tongue were quicker than she had thought and she found herself reluctantly admiring his wit and humor.

“Did you name them?” she asked, steering the subject back to his weapons.

He blinked. “What?”

“Your weapons. Some people give theirs names. Jaime had—”

“Fuck no,” he muttered, cutting her off. “They’re tools. Tools to kill, nothing more.”

She considered his answer. “Hm. That’s a bit sad.”

“No,” he said. “What’s sad is calling a piece of metal some name like it’s a fuckin’ person.”

She only shrugged. The topic seemed to go deeper than she knew, so she let it go and they fell into silence once more.

The history of each weapon interested her more than their name, each one seemed to tell its own story, bearing scratches and nicks from battles past. She found herself wondering about the countless fights they had witnessed, the lives they had taken, and the blood they had spilled at the Hound’s will. While in her thoughts, another question tumbled from her lips before she could stop it.

“What is it like?” she asked softly.

The man stopped in the motion of downing his third or fourth cup of wine and searched her face, in which he only found genuine interest.

Killing. Murdering. Taking a life. She hadn’t named it, but he still caught onto her meaning. Many heartbeats passed and she wasn’t certain, if he would answer her at all.

“Like everything else,” he grunted eventually. “You do it enough, you stop thinking about it.”

She couldn’t tell if his answer was profound or just cold. Killing becoming routine, so that it ceased to provoke any emotional response at all. She wondered if he remembered each face, or if they blurred together like the scratches on his weapons. Most of all, she feared she would ever have to find out for herself what it was like.

“Do you think—”

“One more question and I will drag you to Joffrey myself.”

He found the Imp insufferably talkative already, but she outdid even him. The dwarf merely talked and talked and talked without expecting responses, while his sister bombarded him with endless questions that demanded immediate answers.

Despite his seriousness, she had to smile. There was something almost refreshing about his direct manner that cut through the pretense and flowery words she was used to from everyone else at court.

“You will have to face him one way or another,” he spoke, the light atmosphere gone. “Hiding won’t do anything.”

She whipped her head in the opposite direction of where he sat, as if turning away would make her deaf to the words she didn’t wish to hear. “I know.”

a/n. am i weird for finding it hot when he talks down on reader. .. haha.. mister clegane pls belittle me

<- previous chapter | next chapter ->

[dogmasquerade]

not calling him a carer lmfao im literally using the game's text. its right there that jean came back to harry after the argument. thats how you meet him. also he literally was his detective partner, for years, and was the other guy who founded and headed the department they work with. yeah they're obviously pretty close to some degree- jean was the original kim. im not saying he was a carer but i am saying getting directly told "i don't want to get better, i want to get worse" is a hell of a statement. hes also the fall guy for all of harrys past actions, which... yeah. dealing with the fallout of anothers actions sucks. harry's relapsed multiple times. why would jean believe this time is any different?

EDIT: also saying somebody cares for someone is in no way calling them a carer what. im not saying he was a caretaker im saying he cared as a friend. +yeah jeans got anger issues thats like. his personality. he unfairly directs this at harry but hes also pretty fairly pissed off at him

and the firing? YEAH i'd fucking fire harry too he was a total shit cop!! he left a body rotting in a tree for three days while getting violently drunk destroying police property and making a total joke of the RCM. name one job where you can cause $45,000 worth of damage and keep your job. objectively he was not doing his job anymore after burning out overperforming, and had been slipping for years after his ex left him. also don't say he left him to get shot (common fandom argument about the tribunal) because how the fuck was he supposed to know the tribunal would happen and turn out that way?

as for the ableism- im not saying hes not a piece of shit lmao. they all are. harry is incredibly racist even in a non-facist playthrough and thats implied to be something he was in the past, minot directly compares harry to a man with a learning disability, and kim the fandom darling straight up doesn't care about harry being a very vulnerable, brain damaged guy in the first five seconds they meet and doesnt explain jack shit to him even when he does believe he's truly amnesiac. the games about people being fucked. its also about people being multi-faceted.

god okay disco elysium fans try and understand the consequences of actions challenge. jean is a dick but also he's like that... for a reason. kim has literally only just met harry he has no frame of reference for the past and NEITHER DOES THE PLAYER. Jean's been with harry since he was sober. he's seen the downfall. harry's gone clean before and all that happens is he fell in again. none of yall have had to be friends with an addict and it shows. it's constant. its painful. eventually compassion fatigue. you just can't care like you used to because every single time you offered a hand it got bit. sunk cost fallacy forces you to stay but its like poison. toxic, eating away at you, an albatross. you can't leave him but you can't live with him. you know hes hurting so so bad but the hurt spills from his overflowing heart into anger and its directed at you.

anyway td;lr jean's got good reason for giving up on harry, martinase was just his final straw. its not just "ough you shouted at me while being mentally ill once and now im mad :(" its "i have watched you systematically destroy yourself from the inside out. you are burning alive and every time i try to help you i get burnt. you have embraced the flames at this point and i don't know how else to help anymore. you arent who i used to know."

EXCEPT HE DOESN'T EVEN DO THAT BECAUSE HE CAME BACK. he came back literally as soon as the waterlock got fixed. he still fucking cares.

[honeyxbunny99]

Sandor Clegane~ The Bitch and The Hound pt. 6

TW:fucked up SA

You awoke to birdsong and turned over, hoping to find your love in bed with you once again. Your hand wandered the sheets beside you blindly and you sighed heavily, blinking your eyes open to disappointment. Alone again. You started to feel sorry for yourself but quickly remembered Sandor would return to you tonight. You smiled to yourself before breaking into a giggle and hiding your face in your hands. The joy that this big brute of a man brought you was unbelievable, especially considering how initially he struck you with such fear. You rolled around in bed all morning, considering the events of your life that had led you to this point. Though you were far from the princess your father had trained you to be, as you looked around the simple but large room, in your soft pampered sheets, knowing that your handmaiden and best friend would be coming in any minute, and you felt like royalty. Sandor would make an excellent king, and you his loyal queen.

Eventually your daydreams of Sandor in a crown and fancy clothes wore off and you sat up, impatiently waiting for Anna. Time passed. You dressed yourself simply, remembering that you were supposed to stay in your room and act depressed from now on. After dressing, you strolled over to the bell and rang it, beginning to grow concerned on why Anna hadn’t shown up yet. You waited 10 minutes. 20. You began to wring your hands together, chewing on the inside of your cheek in anxiety. Finally you decided to approach the door, and you were surprised when your heart beat rapidly against your chest at the idea of opening it. Still, you persisted, opening the door just a crack.

You looked around the hall, seeing no one, and fearfully began your trek to the servant’s quarters. You tried to think of every possibility that could explain her absence, and none of them were good. Worst of all, you considered her betrayal. Was she being rewarded right now for exposing your happiness? What if everything Sandor feared or Petyr might have implied was true; she was placed in your service to spy on you.

Finally you reached the hall that housed the royal servants and came upon a young boy carrying wrinkled linens. “Boy,” you reached a hand out to face him to you gently and he immediately bowed his head, then glancing up and raising his head in curiosity. “Is Anna in that room?”

His face twitched in confusion and his eyes scanned your face for clues.

“She has short brown hair, freckles across her nose, a little shorter than me—“

“I know Anna.” He interrupted, but did not continue fast enough for your anxieties. You huffed and suppressed an eye roll.

“And?”

“One of the guards took her just as the dawn was coming. Think his name’s Trant.” He dropped casually, turning and beginning to walk away. You cut him off, holding your hands out to stop him again.

“Where did he take her? Why?!”

“You’re Anna’s girl, are ya?” He looked you up and down. “I can tell cause you’re pretty… how old are ya, love?”

You scoffed in surprise, though his lack of alarm did soothe your fears a bit. If he wasn’t worried about her, perhaps you shouldn’t be either. The boy couldn’t be more than 12, dark hair and eyes to match, crooked grin expanding as he ogled you.

“Too old for you. Did she go willingly?”

“Put it to ya this way, milady, nothing a slave does is willing.”

“You are not a slave—“

“Oh that’s right, you lot call em servants now. That must feel nicer to your pampered ears than slave.”

He continued on with his rambling and your eye began to twitch in frustration. “Where is she, you little brat!”

“Happy to take you to her.” A new voice said from behind you. Your shoulders jumped up in fright and your head whipped around to find Meryn Trant, the man that struck you the first time he’d seen you. Your mouth opened and shut. The way he was looking at you, the knowledge that he’d taken Anna— everything in that moment made you want to run fast and far. His smirk nauseated you, and you felt as though his offer to escort you wasn’t merely a suggestion. He could take you willingly, or he could drag you by your hair. You took a deep breath and walked towards him. He followed closely behind you the entire time, directing you when you needed to turn. At last you were stopped in front of a grand door with guards on either side. You heard weeping on the other side and you felt as though you heart was about to beat right out of its cage. The guards opened the doors and Sir Meryn pushed you in with a hard shove in between your shoulders.

The first thing you saw was Joffrey laying down on his small couch, legs crossed, and a bloody dagger touching his lips, as if in thought. He turned to see you and smiled wickedly. The weeping continued from somewhere you couldn’t see. Joffrey sat up and jogged over excitedly to you. You flinched and stepped back only to bump into Trant, who roughly grabbed hold of your arms.

“Thank you for this gift.” Joffrey couldn’t hold back his smile as he grabbed your face in his hands, looked you in the eyes and patted your cheek twice. He stepped back and admired you. “Your face healed up nicely, it’s such a disappointment I didn’t break your nose… But,” he laughed lightly as your eyes watered. “you’ve blessed me with another opportunity. Bring her back in!” He called to the next room.

A large knight dragged Anna’s body back in by her leg and she screamed as her dress ran up to reveal her nakedness. As she screamed she held a blood soaked cloth to her mouth. He dropped her leg when she was in the middle of the room and went to stand behind the king. Anna crumpled her body up into a ball and she shook as her body wracked with violent sobs. You struggled to free yourself from Maryn’s grip and yelped when he kicked out the back of your knees, causing you to buckle down to the floor.

“Let her go, Sir Meryn , she needs to see her most loyal ally.” Just like that, at Joffrey’s command, you fell forward, catching yourself and instantly crawling over to Anna. You could feel the hot tears running down your face but you were silent as you tried to see her. She covered her face in her hands and flinched when you tried to remove them. When you finally did you let out an uncontrollable gasp. You stared back into her bloodshot eyes, one swollen and bruised, the snot and blood and tears mixing together in the lower half of her red face. And as she opened her mouth to cry out to you, you finally saw the severed black and red stub in her mouth where her tongue was supposed to be. “Oh Gods help her!!” You screamed, though you could not take your eyes off her. Your vision went hazy with tears and you felt like you were going to faint but you clung on to each other desperately, burying your face in her neck.

Over your combined wailing, you heard Joffrey say, “It was her suggestion, actually. Though I don’t think she ever considered I’d follow through with it, the fool.” He snickered and threw something at you. You couldn’t bear to look, shutting your eyes tightly against her skin as you prayed for this to all be some nightmare. “That is what loyalty to anyone other than your King will get you.”

The doors opened again behind you and you cried louder in fear.

“Ah, just the dog I wanted to see.”

You gasped at his words and your head shot up to look for Sandor. He was stood looking disheveled, eyes bulging at the sight of you and Anna, though he made no move towards you.

“I found your bitch for you, do not fear. She is completely safe with me.” He assured. “You’re probably wondering why I called you both here.” You could not take your eyes off of your husband, and Anna climbed into your lap on the floor and trembled against you like a freezing child. You began to pet her hair instinctively, trying not to hyperventilate. Kill him. Kill him. Kill everyone in this room.

“I heard the most awful, wonderful news this morning. Even before breakfast, I had a visitor who told me possibly the worst romance story I’ve ever heard. And it was starring the two of you. The Bitch and the hound, hearts in their eyes… She begged for your cock just last night didn’t she? Told you she loved you?”

At this, Sandor’s hand went to his sword but before he could pull it out Sir Meryn already had his own at his throat. Clegane’s eyes did not shift towards the knight or the threat at his neck. His hand remained on the hilt, and his eyes glared daggers at Joffrey. “Don’t be a fool, dog. No more foolish than you’ve been until this point… I gave you a gift, my only request was that you play rough with it…” you heard Joffrey’s footsteps approach you; every sound felt amplified and there was a constant buzzing in your ears. He grabbed you by the hair and shook your head around. “I want her broken!!” He tossed you to the floor and marched up to Sandor as he continued. “Is that too much to ask?! She must be punished, and you!!” He snarled and panted, point a finger in Sandor’s face. “You need a reminder of the cruelty you are to inflict. I’ve no use for a eunuch for a protector, Clegane!..Let’s find your balls today.” He declared, stepping away.

“Stand up, bitch!” Joffrey demanded right beside you. You shook but could make no other movements. Joffrey leaned down and shouted right in your ear, and the buzzing shifted to ringing. “I said stand up!!” Your body acted against your will and you stood up, Anna clinging onto your legs and trying to pull you back down. You knees locked and you looked down at the tiles beneath your feet. Beside your right foot you saw what was left of Anna’s tongue. Your tears were drying on your face now and you sniffled up the remainder of your snot.

“Hit her.” You heard Joffrey slump back down on the couch behind you. You couldn’t bear to look up. “Has love made you deaf as well as dumb?” Still nothing from across the room. “It’s 6 against one, dog, should you decide to remove that sword. Perhaps you could kill majority… but all the knights in the red keep? And before anyone could slit your wife’s throat? Unlikely…” Joffrey sighed. “It is regrettable your brother being on duty with my grandfather. He really is the man for this sort of job. I’ve sent word for him, regardless, as I’m sure he’ll want to have his way with her when he returns triumphant from this war.”

The sound of heavy boots stepped towards you rapidly and suddenly you were slapped hard across the cheek. You whimpered and covered the sting with your palm. Your eyes drifted up to the face of your abuser and saw the love of your life. His eyes bore down mean into yours and you swore you could feel your heart breaking. Your eyes shot down to the floor again, focusing in on Anna’s tongue. Never again would she be able to joke, or advise, or kiss properly. And never again would you be able to trust Sandor Clegane to protect you from harm.

“Women slap. I said hit her. Go on, she can take it. Apparently she can take a lot— the whore can handle you. I want to see how far you can bend her before she breaks. Consider it an order, your final orders if you refuse. I’m happy to have both your heads decorate the gates outside along with all the other traitors.”

Sandor’s boot suddenly stomped on Anna’s tongue and she cried out louder, reaching for his pants, though he kicked her hand away. He raised your chin with a rough hand and tried to make you look at him but your eyes stayed downcast. He didn’t deserve to see your eyes. Knuckles collided with your cheek bone so hard you fell back down to the ground. He spit at you and you felt it land in your tangled hair.

He sniffed and rested his hands on his belt. His voice came out dark and casual. “We done here? She’s a stupid girl with fantasies of a prince. Are you blaming me for liking my cunt wet?”

Your face felt broken, but somehow his words hurt more. You curled up into a ball and somehow in spite of all she’d been through, Anna threw herself over you in a protective huddle.

“Didn’t take much from me to have her begging. Go on and give her to Gregor, or any man here for that matter and the bitch’ll say she’s in love... But I don’t get paid to beat women for your amusement; I believe that’s Ser Meryn’s forte.”

There was a great long silence and for a moment you believed time was standing still.

“You may be right, hound… But there is one order you have not followed through on… I told you to break her in rough. I want to ensure here and now that all her fantasies of princes and sweetness are demolished.” Joffrey’s footsteps haunted your ears and you covered them. “You’re going to use this.”

Joffrey thrust forward a metal baton and Sandor looked it over, trying hard to hide his disgust and shock. “She’s taken enough of a beating, get someone else to do it.”

“You wish someone else to fuck your wife? Very well.”

You shuddered again at the thought of anyone else, or anything else, penetrating you and began to sob loudly on the floor. “Tie her to the bed.”

“No!” You screamed. This was a nightmare! This was a hell! You had to wake up! You banged your head on the floor in desperation before you felt multiple sets of hands rip you away from Anna and bring you to the bed. There were already bindings atttached to the 4 corners of the bedframe, so it didn’t take long to get you spread and locked down in spite of your struggle. “Please! Please!”

“Is this how she begs for you?” Joffrey mocked. “Who wants the first go?”

“I’ll take her on—“ A guard you did not know spoke out and reached out for the baton. You watched the hound shove the man’s helmet violently and growl, ripping the baton away from his king. The way he held it back you still had hope that he might strike Joffrey, kill every man in this room and escape with you somehow. But he didn’t. He towered over Joffrey, who showed the smallest hint of fear, and growled out “She’s mine.”

He marched over with the baton. He can’t do this to me! Even if he hates me he can’t do this to me!

“Take off her clothes.” Joffrey stalked around the bed to get a better view.

The Hound looked down at you in disgust and you whimpered and screwed your eyes shut, chest heaving with your sobs. You felt his weight shift the bed and in seconds your dress and underclothes were ripped off of you at the seams. It was useless to try to close yourself off, your ankles were tied so far apart, but your body still tried to twist and hide. You heard the hound spit and then his hand was on the scar on your inner thigh. Suddenly, cold, wet metal was at your entrance and you gasped at the contact. Anna wailed as it penetrated you and your eyes opened in shock. You watched Sandor Clegane slide the metal into you deeply and twist it around. When he pulled it out, you felt your insides would come along with it. You couldn’t help but scream and cry, and your eyes focused on Joffrey, as if he was the one doing this to you. It was too much to bare; the knowledge that your husband was raping you.

“Please stop! I beg you!” You managed out between screams, but the pain continued. “I loved you!” You whispered, voice gone sore like you’d never felt. At this, the thrusting inside you slowed for a moment and you were greatful for the relief. Then it was back faster than ever and eventually you felt completely numb. The world around you moved in slow motion and you felt your life slipping away. And then you were empty.

There were more male voices after that but you could not begin to comprehend a word anyone was saying. Eventually you were untied, though your limbs remained where they were. You feared if you moved at all, you would shatter to pieces. You were lifted up by some knight and carried a great distance, throughout the keep naked, until you reached the outside world. Your eyes burned looking at the sky but your face was frozen; you couldn’t even be sure you were still breathing. Finally you were laid down on stone and straw and the guard left you. Wheerever you were smelled of piss and shit and meat. Slowly, your eyes drifted to their right corner and your head followed suit when you saw a large dog in the corner. You slid your arm upward across the stone floor and when you could see your hand, you motioned as if you had food. Maybe this hound will finish the job. You prayed for death as the dog stood and approached. He sniffed your hand, then your face, and began to lick the saltiness the tears had left behind. Yes. Eat me. You looked into the dog’s eyes to communicate your message but he did not receive it. Instead he licked you once more and settled to lay down beside your head, curling up in a ball, his back still touching your hand.

You wept.

You slowly pulled yourself up when the tears ran dry again and winced loudly at the pain movement brought you. Your cunt felt like it was on fire, your insides scrambled. You looked between your legs and saw blood on your thighs, and on your wrists and ankles, matching creases from you pulling too hard. You were in a kennel with, as you counted, 20 dogs. This was the proper punishment for a bitch like you. You were surprised this wasn’t Joffrey’s first choice of punishment for you on that fateful day. If you would have gone straight to the kennels, you would not have a broken heart and a broken body.

Falling in love with a man, trusting him completely, and then watching him torture you because a boy your age told him to, was a punishment you could not fathom. It was your fault, all your fault. Anna was mutilated because of you. Your family would likely suffer further consequences because of you. You would either die or go savage like your barking roommates, because of you. Because you chose to love The Hound. Whatever you saw in him before was a lie, a manipulation. “Are you blaming me for liking my cunt wet?” He’d said. Everything he did was designed so he could use you. And you fell for the whole thing; thought you were saving him and you could truly live happily ever after. Joffrey was right.

You starved that day and struggled to sleep through the night. When you closed your eyes, you saw him assaulting you. You huddled in a corner, dog on your naked lap, and began to sing softly to distract yourself. A song you’d sing when you were taking care of your sister— written when you were little and full of comforts you’d always wanted.

I will take good care of you I will take good care of you Everything you feel is good If you would only let you I will wash your hair at night And dry it off with care I will see your body bare And still I will live here

So stay with me Hold my hand There's no need To be brave

And all the quiet nights you bear Seal them up with care No one needs to know they're there For I will hold them for you

Cause' all I ever wanted is here All I ever wanted All I want is Always you It's always you

And we're not out of the tunnel I bet you though there's an end

Stay with me Hold my hand There's no need To be brave

And while you sleep I'll be scared So by the time you wake I'll be brave I'll be brave I'll be brave

The hounds quieted around you during your singing, and you relaxed back against the stone as much as you could. Your eyes finally shut and all your pain disappeared.

Another hound just outside of the kennels was slumped, drunk, and listening to your song as well. He wept silently for you, for himself, for the monster he had become to you.

[grrrbkbr]

@secret-sageent @starred-system I love Trant a lot like sm. He was the first character i drew, fun fact, as fanart for de. I also love his personality and find it so cool this dood seems like the happiest father ever and then you find out he had an addiction. Which, not a bad thing cuz' i love characters with depth!

@beebzahh Gonna be so real, at first I hated Cuno but then overtime, I absolutely loved him. Bro, as much as a little thug he tries to act like, is such a nerd and cares abt ppl. And it's cool. Also I love that he makes a cyberpunk2077 reference in his dialogue (Cuno being in nightcity). Love this silly man. He needs to drink water. Been outside too long.

@secret-sageent tagged twice in one post? Scary :3 Mañana is so freaking nice to talk to in the game. A go with the flow sort of attitude. Like, I'd love to just play some board games with him fr. He seems like such a chill dood.

Like mentioned before, will be getting to the next ppl soon :D hope u guys like the art <:3

[disco-archetypes]

YOU - "The previous head of the Débardeurs' Union was assassinated by *our* killer."

KIM KITSURAGI - "This is a conversation for when we are no longer out in the open, in Martinaise, where Evrart and Edgar Claire have ears everywhere." The lieutenant lowers his voice -- just a little.

JEAN VICQUEMARE - "Understood. Of course."

ESPRIT DE CORPS - But a case against Evrart would be big...

TRANT HEIDELSTAM - "I would prefer *not* to partake in anything Union-related." The consultant, too, has lowered his voice. "For political neutrality."

[first-edition]

Fox and the Hound

Chapter 8

Previous chapter here

Sum-Joffrey wants to send a message to your family after your brother embarrasses him, so he marries you off to his most unwanted man in his court, the hound. But will this marriage truly be a statement for an eyesore, or will it grow into something more. 

Cw for this chapter- mention of smut, mention of 18+ themes. Cussing, bathing together, mention of war, description of scarring, child abuse, sandors past, Joffrey being a little bitch, merryn trant.

Sandor stands next to joffrey in between him and cersi as a messenger has arrived. 

“Your g-grace.” the man said out of breath hurrying into the great hall as he ran most of the way. 

“Speak man!” jeoffry barks already annoyed. 

“HIs late grace, the king's brother stannis barathion is planning to invade king's landing…and t-take the throne for himself as it is his birthright.” he says panting but talking as fast he can for the annoyed new child king. 

“Where did you hear this?” cersi speaks. The man approaches cautiously, side -eyed sandor afraid of him. He hands her a piece of paper while bowing. She takes it from his hands. He backs up from the royals and waits as she reads the letter. 

“Fuck..” she says under her breath. 

“Mother?” Joffrey asks, looking up at her as she now stands. 

“Ser merryn gathers as many men as you can to begin fortifying the walls. Tell the iron mages and blacksmiths to begin preparation for incoming weapons.” she says handing the letter to her handmaiden before ser merryn bows and begins to walk off. 

“Go with him dog.” jeoffry speaks  looking up at the hound as he grumbles and then follows ser merryn reluctantly. He'd much rather have his dick buried inside of you right now back in your shared chambers. Your soft body on his as your whimpers and moans echo off the stone walls of the room as you whine out his name telling him how good he feels, but no.

Hes following merryn fucking trant out to the kings gaurd and outside the castle walls to inform all of the soon to be burning kingdom. 

“Don't be so silent now clegane. I know you're just jumping under that hard exterior.'' Merryn says. 

“Shut the fuck up. Do you want me to beat you into the mud again? " Sandor speaks immediately, shutting the other knight up. Passing through the halls you and Sansa walk down a guard and two other ladies are waiting following behind you both. Your arms are linked and you both laugh.

You wear a light gray dress, with an off the shoulder bodice that's lined with fur, the golden and jeweled accents scattering the bodice no doubt a choice from the queen. Your skirt is held in place yet is flowy. Sansa wears something similar but in a light blue. 

Sansa gives your arm a light squeeze signaling for you to look ahead and you are seeing sandor with ser merryn. You both meet at the hall as ser merryn and sandor both stop giving a quick bow before speaking. 

“Princess, my lady.” ser merryn says. 

“Where are you both off too you're never assigned together?” you speak. 

“None of your concern my lady.” Merryn speaks you raise your eyebrows at his sudden rudeness

“Well..then I hope my beloved husband will enlighten me?”you say turning your head to sandor fixing your eyes on his. 

“No. he will not.” Sandor speaks coldly before looking up at the other guard behind you both. 

“You. Go with trant to the amory.” he gruffly speaks. The knight nod and bows to you before ser merryn and him walk onward to the journey they were set on. 

“Sandor?” you ask. 

“Stannis Baratheon is going to invade kings landing and take the throne in 3 days.” he speaks once ser merryn is gone from ear shot. 

“What?” Sansa speaks. Before letting go of you. 

“Excuse me.” she hurries off her maid following her and you and sandor and your hand maiden are left in the halls.

“Are you certain?” you ask. 

“Yes. one of varys messengers sent the note.” he says 

“I'll arrange for you and I to take a ship to Volantis then.” you say. 

“Don't bother, I won't be on it with you.” he says, looking down at you. 

“W-what? Why not?” you ask, stepping closer to him. 

“I'm staying here, I have to fight on the king's orders,” he says. You scoff a sarcastic smile forming on your face. 

“And since when have you carried what the boy king has to order?” you roll your eyes and cross your arms at his stupid notion. 

“Since he married you to me.” he speaks plainly now, finding his notion no longer stupid as you drop your arms to your sides. You slightly bite your lip, a sheen of blush flowing to your cheeks as your eyes revert down quickly before looking back up at him. 

“O-oh..” you stutter out. 

“I'll have more guards posted outside your doors.” he says before moving around you and heading off down the hall to assign guards to be posted. You stand there watching as he walks away before he disappears past the corner. 

“If it's not too much to mention my lady, but, I think the lord clegane may love you.” your maiden says. A small smile forms on your lips. 

“I think you're right.” you say smiling at her before you both turn to continue your walk down the hall. 

—---

You didn't see Sandor for the rest of the day after he informed you. He was outside the wall and in the knightstand training area. Watched out to the court yard as more troops of knights marched in but sandor was nowhere to be seen. You missed him. 

You missed him until the night fell and you were in your room. He wasn't lying about having more guards posted outside the room, instead of the usual two three were now eight. Two on either side of the door and two across from your door posted on either side. Your handmaids scurried past them as they entered and exited.

“Will you draw a bath please?” you ask one of them. She nodded and left along with another to collect the contents for bathing. You sighed and undid the lacing of the back of the dress you wear. The stretch of reaching behind you a much needed one as the ache of your muscles from your night with sandor last was still lingering. 

The doors open once again making you turn your head in confusion as to why your hand maidens were back so fast. But you were met happily with the sight of your husband. He sets down his sword on the side of the door against the wall. He groans annoyingly as he does. 

“I haven't seen you all day. Are you alright?” you ask, walking up. You meet him and place your hands on  his cheeks; he slightly leans into your soft touch. Your palm resting on the scarred part of his face. 

“Bunch of cunts.” he grumbles. 

“I have the maids drawing a bath ... .would you ... .would you like to join me?” you ask. Sandor goes quiet bringing his hand up to yours keeping it placed on your cheek. 

“Okay.” he simply says. Your heart jumps at his answer. 

“I'll need something from you first.” you say. 

“Mm.” he answers. 

“Can you unlace my dress?” you ask. He lets out a soft chuckle and nods. You take your hand from his face only to catch his hand in yours and lead him to the bed. 

“When you ask me to unlace your dress, little fox…” he trails off as you sit him on the bed. 

“I mean unlace my dress.” you say turning around standing in the space between his legs. You move your hair to the side as he had come up feeling the fabric on your waist making you shiver before he truly moves to the back of your dress and begins to unlace the dress.

You feel it becoming looser and looser with each segment of lacing until it's loose enough to slip off your body. You step out of it as you bend down, picking it up and laying it on the space next to him on the bed. Left in your underclothes sandors hands find your waist again, turning you around to face him. 

He pulls you closer to him leaning his head up but not too much as even as sitting he's still comfortably level with you. His lips catch yours in a kiss feeling the softness he was deprived of all day. You moan into his mouth as his fingers dig into the flesh of your hips and your arms around his neck. The kiss is only broken when the doors open once again your hand maids arrive with bathing materials and begin to fill the tub in the corner but not before apologizing for intruding on the two of you. 

You admire the features of your husband, his scruff already growing back from shaving it thank goodness on your behalf. You sit on his lap, the hot water warming you both. His arms rest on either side of the bathtub as his eyes search you. No matter how many times he will view your body nothing will ever compare to its beauty. The moment calms him but the focus is to keep the blood rushing to his cock while your breasts are virtually centered in front of his face. His knuckle tightens the side of the tub as he closes his eyes. 

“S-sorry.” you speak, causing his eyes to open again and his grip to cease. He looks up at you in confusion. Your hands are now resting on his collar bones. 

“It's not that..” he says realizing you pulled away thinking he closed his eyes due to you touching his scars. He takes your hand bringing it back to his face somehow finding a sort of comfort in you tracing his marks. 

“Does it still hurt?” You ask him as you move his hair out of his face, your fingers brushing against his scar. 

“No.” He says 

“Good…what happened?” You ask

“I’m sure some servant has told you the gruesome story.” He says slowly.

“Yes…but..I’m asking you. What happend?” You ask again.

“Like you’ve heard little fox, I was pressed into the fire like a nice juicy mutton chop by my brother.” He says gesturing to his scar. 

“Why.” You ask. 

“Though I stole one of his toys, I didn't steal it, I was just borrowing it…playing with it. I was 6 or so.” He says you tilt your head slightly brushing your thumb over his cheek. 

“The pain was bad, the smell was worse…but…” he sighs before continuing. 

“The worst thing was that it was my brother who did it. My older brother. My father who protected him..told everyone my bedding caught fire. And my mother…wouldn’t even look at me said i was too ugly to love.” He says eyes averting from yours. It's quiet, the only noise is the crackling of the fire and the light swishing of the water. 

“I can look at you...” You say moving closer to him. His eyes make contact with yours like before. 

“...And I love you, Sandor.” You say he lets out a relieved sort of sigh before pulling you to him placing a much need kiss on your forehead.

chapter 9 here

Tag list- @stephyshadows @germansarechill

[joeku-xiv]

thinking a lot about jean in so many ways, he’s sooo endearing and everytime i like him more and more

and i can’t not think about ships too, and it’s. difficult.

i love jeanharry too much, two co-dependant depressed assholes that yes, have a few wonderful moments together, but can’t stop making each other worse? woo boy i crave for it. thinking about their past together makes me always emotional, it’s so. really.

but in the present/future? i can’t see harry without kim, there’s too much between them and i can’t look away, and i also really love them. i think that jean and harry would drive them insane again, their baggage is too heavy, and i can’t see a way for them to really work for once. the love? is totally here, it’ll always be, but alone? they can’t work, they’ll be the death of them

jeankimharry? it works, i like it, i think that kim can make them work and finally resolve some of their problems, and them with kim too. will they all heal? of course not, there’ll always be problems (and thanks fuck, i don’t want to woobify no one please i love them all as problematic as they are because there isn’t a good man in disco elysium) but all together they can work. but it’s really easy for people to put jean in the background and no. big nope. i fucking hate it, if they’re a throuple there shouldn’t be someone who’s in the center, they’re all equal. sooo uhm, i like it, but it’s really difficult too

everything i’ve seen about jeantrant is really good, i like it, they’re cute, but my problem is that we (me? could be my problem, it’s still been not a lot of time since i’ve finished de) know too little about trant, and we don’t really see his personality, his problems, everything. to me he seems too good and sane, and i think that also jean craves in some way someone fucked up as him. it doesn’t feel that satisfying for me too, not like this. wish to know more about him, the game has leave some good doubts to me about trant

with judy there could be really good ideas but i’m too afraid of the misogyny around her and nope. i’ve already seen to many shit takes about jean, if i have to deal with misogyny too i’ll go insane

[secret-sageent]

I think at some point Precinct 41 must have been out together and Judit decided she was uncomfortable in the dress she was wearing and Chester, Mack and Harry all volunteered to switch outfits with here (jean too after a little bit of encouragement) (kim and trant did not volunteer but they absolutely would switch with her if asked to)