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tumblr users love reading. you literally stopped for this post just because it has words in it

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hi hello u are so talented, i love ur stuff!

if u feel like it, could u do a drabble where highborn!reader accidentally calls sandor ser before they leave and he spends the rest of the day thinking about it? pre established, secret relationship style, smexual tension with fluff? he thinks reader is riling him up and reader’s like “no i just actually hold u in rlly high regard” which makes it worse (better) for him lolol

or just have fun with it! tysm and have a nice week regardless!!! <333333

thanks so much! <3 and oh im eating this scenario up.

my masterlist

summary: a secret meeting in the dead of night turns heated when words slip, and sandor is left struggling to keep his distance. things escalate quickly, but neither of you are backing down now.

word count: 807

a/n; i didnt write for like 3 weeks this feel like ASS im sorry

tags: secret meeting, sexual tension, forbidden romance, flirting

you didn’t mean to say it. it just… slipped.

the moon was barely hanging in the sky when you met him outside the stables, the cold air biting at your skin, but you didn’t care. the secrecy was always a part of it, always had to be. but when you saw him, broad and looming, the flickering torchlight catching his face just right, the words left you before you could stop them.

“ser,” you greeted, barely a whisper, your eyes meeting his for a fraction of a second. just enough for him to hear it.

for a split second, he froze. just stood there, like someone had punched him in the gut. his gaze locked on you, hard and sharp.

“ser?” his voice was low, rough, and it sent a chill down your spine. “you’ve never called me that.”

you swallowed, your heart racing. it was just an accident, wasn’t it? it had slipped out in the heat of the moment, as always, a stupid little title to keep things in line. “i was just—being polite,” you said quickly, stepping closer to him, your fingers brushing the edge of his cloak like it was nothing. “you know, formality and all that.”

he didn’t look convinced. in fact, he looked like he was about to bite your head off. “polite,” he repeated, his voice getting darker, “right.”

you tried to lighten the mood, a soft laugh escaping your lips. “it’s just a title, sandor. it doesn’t mean—”

“doesn’t mean what?” he cut you off, his voice rising, rougher now, the words thick with something more than irritation. “you think you’re foolin’ me?” his gaze never left yours, burning with a quiet fury you hadn’t expected.

you stopped yourself, suddenly aware that your words were slipping past your control. 

god, how did it get this tense so quickly?

“look,” you started again, voice softer this time. “i didn’t mean to make it weird.”

“oh, it’s already fuckin’ weird,” he muttered under his breath, but you could see his fingers twitch like he was fighting the urge to grab you, to do something else entirely.

you couldn’t help but smirk, taking another step closer, letting your voice drop lower. “i don’t see what the big deal is. it’s just a title.”

he didn’t laugh. instead, his eyes darkened even more, and for a second, you thought he might grab you, pull you into him right there in the shadows.

“it’s not about that.” his voice was rough, still carrying that edge, but you could tell he was fighting it. “you think i don’t know what you’re doin’?” he finally said, his tone low and gruff. “you think i don’t know you’re stirrin’ me up?”

you stepped a little closer to him, your voice a soft whisper now, the words hanging in the air between you like a dare. "sandor, i just actually hold you in really high regard,” you said, trying to ease the tension with a soft smile.

he stared down at you, just a few inches between your faces now, and you almost swore you could hear his pulse racing. he tilted his head slightly, eyes never leaving yours, as if contemplating the words you’d just thrown at him.

his lips pressed into a thin line before one corner twitched up in a reluctant smirk. “fuckin’ hell,” he murmured, shaking his head. “you’re the kind of trouble I don’t walk away from, aren’t you?”

your chest tightened, the air thickening between you with every second. Instead of backing away, you let the words hang there, settling between you like a challenge. you took a step closer, voice dropping low, but firm. “i never planned on letting you.”

his breath felt warm against your neck, he was so close now, you could feel the heat from his body and hear the low rumble in his chest as he spoke again.

“you’d better hope I don’t decide to take that as an invitation.”

you knew it was only a matter of time before he snapped, before he gave in to whatever this was.

and damn, you weren’t sure if you were ready for it, but you weren’t backing down now.

you touch his chest, your fingers curling into the fabric of his tunic as you whisper, “maybe i want you to see it as an invitation.”

his jaw tightens, and for a moment, all he does is stare, the flicker of a smirk ghosting across his face. “you really don’t know when to quit, do you?”

“not when it comes to you.”

his grip finds your waist, rough and deliberate, pulling you closer. “you've no idea what you're askin' for” he murmurs, and before you can respond, his lips crash against yours, stealing whatever clever retort you thought you had left.

for once, neither of you held back.

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miss you queen

HI I MISS YOU TOOO cutie

uni has been killing me but i will be free next week!!!! will start posting again soon :))))))

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I’m so lucky my brain chooses to give me self insert dreams :,)

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hi darling, how're you? could I please request shy reader x sandor clegane? he has a soft spot for her and has always been fascinated. maybe a little bit of fluff, angst & smut??? I know you'll do it justice because your writing is just 🤌

hi anon !! i'm doing fine thank you for asking!! i've been busy this week so i'm sorry if this took a little long! AND THANKYOUSMUCH i hope you like it! here it is :

sandor clegane x shy! reader drabble

my masterlist

summary: in the cold war room of winterfell, you sit alone, focused on maps while sandor stumbles in, drunk and amused by your quiet presence. his teasing pushes you into a nervous silence, but he can’t seem to help himself. the more you shy away, the more he lingers, enjoying the way you make him feel like he's the one stirring things up.

word count: 1.1k

tags: drunk sandor, sexual tension, teasing, unspoken feelings, swearing, slightly suggestive themes

the war room was colder than usual, the fire in the hearth doing little to fight off winterfell’s ever-present chill. you sat at the table, pouring over the map jon had assigned to you. logistics, supplies, troop movements, it all needed to be meticulously planned if they had any hope of surviving the dead. you worked quietly, as always, preferring the calm to the chaos outside.

and then the door creaked open, and you heard his heavy, uneven footsteps.

“still at it, girl?” sandor’s voice cut through the silence, rough and hoarse, as if he’d been drinking. when you looked up, you could see the flush on his scarred face, eyes bloodshot and unfocused. he dropped into the chair across from you with a grunt, the wood groaning under his weight. a half-empty tankard clutched tightly in one hand.

“what’s there to look at? it’s the north. just snow, more snow, and a bunch of frozen arses waiting to get fucking eaten by corpses.”

you bit back a small smile, your focus still on the map. this wasn’t new. late nights spent in here, you working, sandor stumbling in with his usual drink in hand, and sitting across from you with that dark humor of his. teasing, pushing you to react.

“you know,” his voice broke the stillness again, “i’ve always liked the quiet.” he leaned back in his chair, creaking under his massive frame, eyes narrowing slightly as he stared off into the room. “like the dead. they don’t whine, don’t bicker. they just stand there and rot. might be the only thing i don’t fucking hate about them.”

you couldn’t stop the small laugh that escaped you, and his eyes sharpened, catching the sound.

“ah,” he murmured, his lips pulling into that teasing smirk, “so you do make noise.” he leaned in slightly, his gaze catching yours. “was starting to think you were mute.”

you looked down at the map quickly, trying to hide the flush that was creeping up your neck. it was always the same, him pushing, poking at you just enough to get a reaction. but it wasn’t like you minded. or maybe you did.

"what’re you so focused on, anyway?” he asked, leaning forward with a creak of the chair. “markin’ where to put the chickens?”

you blinked at him, confused. “the… chickens?”

“aye,” he said, deadpan. “gotta feed the army somehow, don’t we? i’d fight better if I knew there was a roasted bird waitin’ for me after.”

you bit your lip, trying to suppress a smile. “i don’t think that’s part of the plan.”

“shame,” he said with a mock sigh. “would’ve been a good plan.” he leaned closer, his voice dropping slightly. “better than sittin’ here, thinkin’ about supply routes and waitin’ to freeze to death.”

you shook your head slightly and turned your focus back to the map, hoping he wouldn’t see the heat creeping up your neck. he didn’t miss it, though.

“ah, there it is,” he muttered, a smirk tugging at his scarred lips. “the little bird can blush.”

his words made your cheeks burn even hotter, and you ducked your head, pretending to study the map with renewed focus. you could feel his eyes on you, heavy and unrelenting, as if he were trying to draw more of a reaction from you.

“you’re too easy to rile up,” he said, his voice softer now but still teasing. “most people’d snap back by now, but you just sit there. quiet as a bloody mouse.”

the words hung in the air, like he was waiting for you to react, to do something, anything. the tension between you thickened, and you felt your heart beating faster than before.

sandor leaned forward then, his massive body making the chair creak under his weight. the air between you seemed to shrink, the space between your eyes and his electric with tension. his smirk deepened, something predatory in the way he watched you.

“i’m not that easy to rile up,” you said, the words coming out steadier than you expected, a challenge hidden underneath.

“you think you’re not?” he rasped, low and slurred. “i’ll figure you out, girl. don’t you worry.”

your breath hitched at the implication, and you looked back down at the map, fingers tracing the edges as though it might steady you.

“i’m just trying to figure out the best supply route,” you murmured, your voice quieter, almost drowned out by the heaviness in the room.

“supply routes,” he repeated, his tone skeptical, almost mocking. “sure, that’s what you’re thinkin’ about. nothin’ else?”

you glanced up then, his eyes piercing into yours. the intensity of his stare made your heart race, and the words slipped out before you could stop them.

“what else would i be thinking about?” you asked, the question softer than you intended, but it carried something else beneath it.

sandor’s smirk widened, slow and deliberate, like he was savoring the way the tension stretched between you. he leaned forward, his forearms resting on the table, and the space between you closed even further.

“plenty,” he said, his voice dropping even lower, filled with implication. “things that’d keep you warmer than that map, i’d wager.”

your breath caught, but this time you didn’t look away. his words hung in the air, heavy with implication, but instead of shying away, you tilted your head, meeting his gaze with cautious curiosity. “and what would those things be, sandor?”

his eyebrows lifted slightly, clearly not expecting you to say anything at all, let alone that. the corner of his mouth twitched, the ghost of a smirk. “what, now you’ve found your tongue?”

you shrugged lightly, though your heart was pounding. “seems fair to ask if you’re going to say things like that.”

he stared at you for a beat, and then a rough laugh escaped him. “you’re full of surprises, little bird,” he muttered, shaking his head as he leaned back in his chair, clearly amused.

and then, with a shift of his weight, he leaned back in his chair, the tension breaking just enough for you to breathe again. but you couldn’t ignore the undercurrent of something still crackling in the air between you both, thick and undeniable.

you wondered how long you could keep pretending like you weren’t both caught in the same tangled web of words, glances, and unspoken things that lingered in the corners of the room.

it was dangerous, this game, but neither of you seemed willing to back away from it.

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i write for myself not for comments but dear god getting comments does so remind me of the joy of writing and sharing something

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almost 100 followers???? SO INSANE??? im so happy i just made this acc to post sandor fics and im glad i found the sandor sluts!!💪💪💪💪💪 thank u guys for enjoying my fics :))))

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me, seeing a fic writer I like in the comments of an random fic

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Can you write a one-shot about Jon Snow set in season 8 or afterward, where the reader is a Targaryen and a relative of Daenerys? Make it fluffy and slow burn, please, with some smut!! I love the ones you've written, especially the Jon headcanon! I'm crying because there are barely any fanfics about him 😩

yESS ANON!!! i hear you loud and clear, its set before ep3 s8, sorry if its too long oops (not really sorry)

summary: a targaryen in winterfell, you’re no stranger to war. but when jon snow’s quiet intensity pulls you in, the tension between you both becomes impossible to ignore. tomorrow, the world might fall apart, but for tonight? you’re his. SMUT AT THE END

word count: 2.7k

tags: smut, p in v, needy sex, unspoken tension, battle/war feels, wholesome interactions

the northern winds howled through winterfell, relentless and biting, a constant reminder that the north was a land apart. inside the great hall, the fire crackled and the warmth of the hearth couldn’t quite chase away the chill that seeped into your bones. you’d been here long enough now, a targaryen among wolves, but it still felt like winterfell was trying to remind you that you didn’t belong.

still, you made yourself useful. you weren’t like daenerys, all fire and commands. you’d grown up on the edges of war, your hands more comfortable around a blade than a scepter. you fought, trained, strategized. it’s what earned you some begrudging respect from the northerners. even sansa, sharp as the frost on the castle walls, had softened toward you. she’d become an unexpected ally, her wit and your determination meshing in a way you hadn’t anticipated.

tonight, she sat across from you at the long table, quill in hand as she reviewed plans and lists. you worked on your sword, sharpening the blade with steady movements. the quiet between you was companionable, broken only by the occasional crackle of the fire.

“do you ever rest?” she asked, her voice soft but teasing.

you smirked, not looking up. “rest won’t help me when the night king gets here. a sharp sword might.”

she rolled her eyes but didn’t argue. “you and jon are more alike than i realized.”

at the mention of his name, your stomach did this annoying little flip. you shrugged, trying to play it cool. “jon is… focused. he’s a good leader.”

before she could respond, her gaze shifted past you. “speaking of jon...”

you turned your head slightly and saw jon standing near the doorway, his dark eyes fixed on you. he didn’t look away when you caught him, just gave a small nod before returning to his conversation with davos. your stomach twisted, though you weren’t sure if it was nerves or… something else.

“he’s always watching you,” sansa murmured, her tone light but her expression curious.

“shut up,” you muttered, focusing back on your blade. but your fingers faltered, the steady rhythm of your sharpening disrupted.

jon was always there. not in an obvious way, he wasn’t the type for grand gestures or attention. but you’d notice him lingering on the edges of your vision, a glance in the training yard, a quiet nod in the strategy room. it was infuriatingly subtle, and yet you felt it every time.

one evening, you found yourself in the godswood, seeking a moment of peace. the red leaves of the weirwood swayed gently in the wind, their whispers lost in the frost-bitten air. you leaned against the trunk, your breath visible in the cold, when the sound of boots crunching on snow caught your attention.

“out here alone?” jon said, stepping into view. his voice was low, like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet of the godswood.

“yeah” you replied. “just… thinking.”

jon’s eyes softened slightly as he stepped closer, his breath visible in the cold air. he looked at you for a moment, then at the weirwood, as if trying to understand your thoughts. "the dead?" he asked, his voice quiet.

"everything," you said honestly, your tone heavier now. "the dead. The living. what it’ll mean when it’s over... if we’re still here to see it."

his jaw tightened, the faintest flicker of emotion crossing his face. “we’ll see it.”

“you sound certain,” you said, glancing at him.

“i have to be,” he replied. his eyes met yours then, and for a moment, it felt like the world had narrowed to just the two of you. the weight of his gaze was heavy but not unwelcome. it was grounding, in a way.

days blurred together, preparations for battle consuming your every moment. jon’s presence became something constant, even when he didn’t speak. you found yourself looking for him in the chaos, your eyes scanning for him like instinct.

one night, after a particularly grueling day, you found yourself in the library. it was empty save for a few flickering candles, the air thick with the scent of old parchment. you sat at a table, a book on northern battle tactics open in front of you, though you weren’t really reading it.

the door creaked open, and you glanced up to see jon stepping inside. his hair was messier than usual, and the shadows under his eyes spoke of sleepless nights.

“can’t sleep?” you asked, your voice breaking the quiet.

he shook his head, moving to sit across from you. “mind won’t rest.”

“join the club,” you said, gesturing to the book. “i thought this might bore me to sleep, but no luck.”

his lips twitched, the closest thing to a smile you’d seen from him in days. “you’re too stubborn to let it.”

“same to you” you shot back, earning a soft huff of laughter from him. the sound was rare, and you found yourself wanting to hear it again.

for a while, the two of you sat in companionable silence. it wasn’t awkward, just… quiet. jon’s presence was steady, like the calm before a storm. eventually, he broke the silence.

“do you miss it?” he asked, his voice low. “the south?”

you thought about it. dragonstone, the endless sea, the warmth of the sun on your skin. but the memories felt distant, like they belonged to someone else. “sometimes,” you admitted. “but not as much as i thought i would.”

he nodded, his dark eyes studying you. “the north suits you.”

“does it?” you teased, though your voice came out softer than you intended.

“it does,” he said simply, his gaze steady. there was no teasing in his tone, just quiet certainty.

you stood on the battlements, the cold biting through your cloak, but it wasn’t the cold you were feeling. it was everything else, the soldiers, the coming battle, the weight of it all. and then, as always, jon’s presence behind you. quiet, steady.

"it won't be easy" he said, his voice cutting through the silence.

you didn’t answer right away, there was nothing to say, you both knew what was coming. it wasn’t about words anymore.

finally, you turned slightly, enough to catch the moonlight on his face. his jaw was set, his eyes dark, already on the battlefield in his mind. you didn’t know when you’d started to understand him so well, but you did, better than anyone else here and it made everything feel heavier.

“is anything easy?” you finally mutter, your voice quieter than you meant it to be. it’s bitter, but you can’t stop it. you don’t know how to soften the truth right now.

his eyes meet yours, and it’s like the air shifts, just for a second. something unsaid hangs between you, heavy and unspoken. raw. vulnerable. you want to look away, but you don’t.

then, without warning, his hand brushed against yours. just a touch, a test. but it sent something through you, something sharp, undeniable. you froze, your heart racing, as if the world had paused for just a second.

his hand lingers, just for a second, like he’s waiting for you to pull away. but you don’t. you stay there, your fingers brushing together, and for the briefest moment, you wonder if he feels it too, the weight of it. the way something inside you shifts at the simple act of contact.

“stay close tomorrow,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper, like he’s afraid of the words. but they’re out there now, hanging in the air between you, and you both know the unspoken truth. he needs you. and maybe you need him, too.

you don’t say anything at first. but then, almost without thinking, the word slips out. “always.”

it’s too soft. too quiet. but it’s the only thing you can give him right now. a promise, but still, yours.

he doesn’t answer right away. instead, he steps back, his gaze lingering for a second longer, like he’s searching for something in your eyes. and then, he’s gone, disappearing into the shadows of the castle, leaving you standing there, your heart still pounding in your chest.

the promise you made hangs heavy in the air, and even though your feet are rooted to the ground, your mind races. tomorrow, you know, everything changes. but for now, it’s the quiet before the storm.

you make your way back to your chambers, the chill of the stone grounding you. your thoughts keep drifting to jon. his eyes, the heat of his touch, the way he looked at you, like you were the only thing that mattered in that moment.

just as you’re about to close the door behind you, you hear it: a soft knock. you freeze, hand still on the knob

you turn the handle, open the door a crack. it’s jon, his silhouette stands there, dark against the dim hallway light. his eyes meet yours, full of something raw, desperate, something you can’t escape.

“couldn’t sleep,” he says, voice low and strained, like he’s holding back.

you nod, too overwhelmed for words, the quiet between you both heavy, full of anticipation.

he steps closer, just enough for you to feel the heat of his body. you don’t pull away. you don’t want to. you aren’t sure if this is really happening, or if you’ve imagined the way he’s looking at you, like you’re all that matters.

his hand brushes yours, the spark between you instant, impossible to ignore. the air thickens with tension, electric and suffocating, but it feels right. your breath catches.

“jon,” you whisper, like saying his name is the only thing that matters now.

he steps closer, no words needed. his hand cups your face, thumb brushing across your cheek. you wonder how you ever survived this long without him touching you like this.

before you can think, his lips are on yours, urgent, needy, like he’s been holding back forever. you gasp, but he deepens the kiss, pulling you close, his hands finding their way to your waist, drawing you toward him.

you let yourself melt into him, your hands sliding over his chest, feeling the solid muscle beneath his tunic, you could feel the way his body reacted, the way his breath hitched every time you touched him.

you wanted him, now, but you didn’t say it out loud. instead, you let your fingers trace the edge of his tunic, pulling it from his body with the slow urgency of someone who couldn’t wait anymore, but wanted to savor every second of it.

you pull away just enough to rest your forehead against his, breathless, caught in this moment. “tomorrow,” you say, your voice soft, “it could change everything, we could…”

he stops you with another kiss, silencing your words. when he pulls back, his eyes are fierce but soft, vulnerable. “tomorrow doesn’t matter,” he murmurs. “not right now, just this, just us.”

his hands grip your waist, pulling you back to him, and in that moment, everything else fades. the war, the fear, the promises of the future, none of it mattered as your lips crashed together.

jon’s hands followed the movement of yours, pushing your nightgown off your shoulders, leaving your skin bare beneath his touch. his lips trailed down your neck, and you shivered at the feel of him, the heat of his breath against your skin.

when he finally got the gown off, exposing you completely to him, his breath hitched, and for a moment, he just stared at you, his eyes dark, filled with something primal.

his fingers grazed the curve of your waist, your hips, his touch light but leaving a trail of heat behind. when his hands brushed your breasts, his thumb running over your nipple, you couldn’t help but gasp, the feeling radiating through you like lightning. jon froze for a second, eyes wide, like he couldn’t believe he had made you react that way.

"gods," he muttered, voice rough as he traced the curve of your body with his eyes. "you're beautiful."

before you could respond, he was pushing you backward, guiding you toward the table. you caught the edge with your hands, the cool wood contrasting with the heat building between you.

jon’s hands slid down to your hips as he bent you over the table. the position made your pulse quicken, a thrill running through you at the sheer dominance in his actions.

his hands pressed against your back, bending you slightly as he took a moment to adjust his position.

you felt him shift behind you, heard the rustling of fabric as he finally freed himself from his trousers. his cock suddenly pressed against you, teasing, making your breath catch.

“shit,” you whisper, your hands gripping the edge of the table in front of you as you feel the tip of his cock press rub against your entrance.

one hand gripped your hip, holding you in place, while the other found your shoulder, he entered you slowly, inch by inch, as if testing the waters, and you couldn’t help but bite your lip at the stretch, the fullness. jon groaned, a deep, guttural sound, his face tight with concentration.

“i've wanted you like this,” he muttered, his voice low, almost strained. “for so fucking long.”

you pushed back against him, urging him to move. his pace remained agonizingly slow, his thrusts deep, controlled, his hands holding you firmly in place.

with each slow stroke, your body grew tighter, more desperate, the tension in your stomach building until it felt like you might break. jon was relentless, his movements never wavering, only deepening as the seconds stretched out into eternity.

“fuck, jon,” you gasped, your body arching into him as your own hands gripped the edge of the table, nails digging into the wood. "f-faster." you could feel him pulse inside you, the friction driving you higher.

you’re both too fucking needy for this to be slow. his thrusts become harder, faster, each one more desperate than the last. the sound of skin on skin fills your chamber, and you can’t stop yourself from meeting every push, every pull, your body craving the release that’s building.

you can barely form a coherent sentence, the only thing you can do is hold onto the table, each thrust making you just forwards. everything is too much, but in the best way. "f-fuck" you gasp, "don’t stop."

he doesn’t stop. ofcourse he doesn’t.

“you’re killing me,” jon growls, his hand slides down your back, fingers digging into your skin, and you know he’s holding you there, keeping you in place for himself.

you don’t answer, can’t answer, just a breathless moan slips past your lips as you feel the first wave of your orgasm starting to crash over you, the way your body tightens around him, the way he’s fucking you through it.

"gods" he whimpers, the words barely making it past his lips as he forces you to take all of him.

his hands are tight on your hips, pulling you into him, every inch of him is buried deep, and you can feel him in places you didn’t even know existed, making you gasp with every move, every shift.

his breath was ragged now, his groans a constant hum in your ear as his rhythm faltered, his control slipping. “i can’t—gods, i can’t stop now.” his voice was strained, desperate, and you knew he was at the edge.

then, with a final, brutal thrust, he snapped. his whole body jerked above you, shaking as his release hit. you could feel the heat of his seed inside you, leaving you breathless and trembling beneath him.

you could feel the slickness between your legs, the evidence of what had just happened, and though it should have felt overwhelming, it only deepened the sense of connection between you two.

jon’s breath was steady against your neck, and after a moment, you heard him chuckle softly.

jon’s fingers traced light circles on your back as he pressed a kiss to your neck. “guess I was wrong then,” he teased, his lips curving into a smile. “the dragon’s not so bad after all.”

“just remember,” you added, your voice low as you turned your head to meet his gaze, “targaryens don’t take kindly to being underestimated.”

jon’s chuckled at your words, the corners of his mouth twitching with a hint of something close to respect. “i’ll keep that in mind.”

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I need your writing injected into my veins!!!! It's so freaking good 💓

kisses you on the lips

HEARING THIS SHIT IS LIKE DRUGS TO ME i swear, thank you so much anon I WILL BE WRITING MORE!!

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hiiii! I love your stories and have enjoyed myself binge reading them. was wondering if you could do a super angsty fic with sandor? I've been craving it lmao. thank youuu mwah! <3

thankyou SO MUCH. YEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES i am so glad you asked this O HMYGOODDDD i love love love angsty shit this is gonna hurt so good.

summary: you’re a healer, tending to the wounded in the chaos of war, always close to sandor clegane, but you don’t listen when he tells you to stay behind. you’re taken, captured by the enemy, tortured, and broken. sandor, consumed by a mix of fury and guilt, tracks you for days, desperate to find you.

word count: 2.1k (sorry)

my masterlist

#warnings: heavy violence, SA, rape, physical abuse, angst, emotional distress, swearing, war, disturbing themes, blood, kidnapping.

the battle had been endless. you couldn't remember how many hours had passed, how many bodies had fallen, how many lives had been taken. the clash of swords, the screams, the blood splattered across the snow… it was all too much to process. you weren't built for this. you were supposed to be helping, healing. you were supposed to be where the wounded were, not in the thick of it, not caught up in the violence.

sandor had warned you. so many times. “stay fucking close. don’t wander off. these men aren’t here to play nice.” but you hadn’t listened. you thought you knew better. you thought that you could handle it, that you could save the wounded and not get caught up in the chaos. that the brutality of war wouldn’t touch you.

but you were wrong.

you were so wrong.

it all happened too fast, one minute you were kneeling beside a wounded man, trying to stop the bleeding from his side, and the next, a rough hand was pulling you from the ground. the sound of clashing steel and dying cries seemed to fade as a wave of panic washed over you. you tried to scream, but a heavy hand clamped over your mouth, dragging you backward, away from the chaos of the battlefield.

no. no, no. not like this. not now.

you kept fighting, but the grip on your arm tightened painfully as they dragged you deeper, farther from the fight. your eyes darted wildly. 

sandor. where was sandor?

your throat burned as you tried to scream his name. but the voice of the man holding you was loud and unforgiving.

"shut up," he spat, slamming your head against a broken wall. your vision swam, your thoughts hazy. you tried to keep your focus, to stay awake, but everything was going black. the sharp pain in your skull was overwhelming.

this was the kind of thing that only happened to other people, to those who wandered too far from safety. but you weren’t supposed to be that person.

today you were and there was nothing you could do about it.

you were pulled through the woods, the sounds of the battle gradually fading into the distance. fear curled in your gut, the panic rising as you realized no one was coming. the men were speaking in low, guttural tones, and though you couldn’t understand all of their words, the sneers and chuckles were unmistakable. they were taking you somewhere. somewhere far away.

they shoved you into a small shack, a foul-smelling place that felt more like a tomb than a hiding spot. you stumbled as you were thrown to the floor, landing hard on your knees. your palms scraped against the cold, rough wood as you gasped for air, panic flooding your chest. you tried to crawl, tried to run, but before you could, one of the men grabbed you by the hair, yanking you back.

“you’re a pretty little thing,” the man sneered, his breath rancid. his hands roamed over your body with a violence that made your stomach churn, his fingers digging into your skin as though you were a prize to be claimed.

you tried to fight back, kicking, scratching, but the other men were closing in, pinning you down, taking away the little strength you had. the terror in your chest was all-consuming, suffocating, but it didn’t matter. they were too strong. and you? you were just a helpless girl in their hands.

please, sandor. you thought. where are you?

but he wasn’t there.

they took turns with you, each moment worse than the last, each touch more brutal. your mind screamed for escape, but there was no place to go. no one was coming to save you. no one would.

the world turned hazy, the pain numbing as you tried to retreat into yourself. but you couldn’t. you couldn’t forget the words they whispered, the laughter that followed each brutal touch. you couldn’t forget the way they made you feel, worthless, broken, an object to be used.

and then, mercifully, you passed out. you weren’t sure if it was from the pain, from the exhaustion, or just the sheer overwhelming weight of everything that had happened to you, but the world went black. thank god, you thought. thank god for the darkness.

you woke up hours later or was it days? in a cold room. your body ached, the bruises on your skin swollen and painful, your head spinning. the scent of blood and filth clung to the air, and the silence was deafening.

you could barely move. your limbs were stiff, your hands bound tightly to the bedposts. the very thought of the rope around your wrists made you sick. 

was this it? was this how it ended?

you tried to shift, but even the smallest movement shot pain through your chest and limbs. you were covered in cuts, bruises, your skin too sore to even touch. you could feel the weight of everything, the terror, the helplessness, the rage building up inside you.

but mostly, you felt broken.

the door creaked open, and you froze. the sound of footsteps echoed in the small room, and you knew immediately who it was. one of them.. you couldn’t even bring yourself to look, too terrified to meet their gaze.

"still alive, huh?" he mocked, voice thick with contempt. his boots scraped against the wooden floor as he stepped closer to you.

“thought you’d be begging by now. but guess you’re just a quiet little cunt after all.”

you barely registered the words. please, no more. you wanted to scream, but your throat was too raw, your body too shattered. you couldn’t do anything but lie there, too tired to fight, too numb to care.

and then, it happened.

the door slammed open with such force that the hinges screamed in protest. the men froze, their laughter dying in their throats.

you didn’t know what was happening at first, everything happened so fast. but then you heard it. the sickening thud of bodies hitting the floor, the strangled gasps for breath. who was it?

and then you saw him.

sandor.

blood on his hands, fury in his eyes. he was a fucking beast, hacking through men like they were nothing but flies to be swatted away. his sword was a blur of steel, slicing through flesh with a speed and precision that could only come from years of living in blood-soaked shadows. the sickening squelch of metal meeting bone, the gurgling of the men who couldn’t even scream before they were cut down, filled the room.

one by one, they fell, their pathetic whimpers swallowed by sandor’s rage. he didn’t even look at them. didn’t waste a single breath on the bastards who had dared to lay a finger on you. it was the way he moved, cold, methodical, violent, that made your heart race.

he wasn’t talking to them. no insults, no threats. just death. he was cutting them down with no mercy, no hesitation, as if their lives were nothing. nothing compared to the rage inside him, compared to the fury that burned like wildfire in his chest.

you could barely see through the blood and sweat, but you knew this:

sandor wasn’t going to stop. not until every last one of those sons of bitches was dead.

sandor had been hunting for days.

the trail had been cold for a while, but his gut never lied to him. he could feel it in his bones, in the air, the weight of your absence pressing down on him. the fact that you had vanished, taken from him while he had been off fighting with the enemy, gnawed at his insides in ways that felt like a constant, sharp ache.

he had promised to protect you, hadn’t he? but he had failed.

and now, after days of searching, after killing his way through every bastard who had dared to even look like they were lying, he had finally tracked you down to this godforsaken shack in the middle of nowhere. he had seen the marks on their bodies, the bloodied, mangled corpses and he hadn’t even felt satisfaction when the last of them fell. no, the rage was still there. still bubbling, an unrelenting fire in his chest.

when he forced open the door, the sight that greeted him nearly shattered his mind.

there you were, broken. gods, you were broken.

your eyes were half-lidded, your face pale, and there was a dullness to them that made something inside of him crack open. you were lying on a bed, but your wrists were bound to the posts, and your clothes, what was left of them, hung in tatters. your body was battered, bruised, marked in ways that made his chest tighten with a violent, unbearable pain.

"no," he rasped, the word coming out in a harsh breath. he couldn’t even control the tremor in his voice. everything about this was wrong. this was his fault. he failed you.

your head turned slightly, and for a brief moment, your eyes met. the sight of you, so broken, so fucking vulnerable made his heart pound harder in his chest. anger twisted in his gut, his hands shaking as they hovered over the sword at his side, desperate to end the lives of those who had dared to lay a hand on you.

he moved toward you slowly, cautiously, as if you might vanish if he made the wrong move. you barely seemed aware of his presence, your gaze distant, your breath shallow. and when he reached your side, when he finally let his hand rest against your cheek, his whole body stiffened at the coldness of your skin.

"hey," he muttered, his voice low, strained. he didn’t know if you could even hear him, but he had to say it. "stay with me, damn it."

your eyes flickered, but you didn’t speak, didn’t respond. nothing. you were so empty, so broken, that sandor wanted to scream.

sandor’s jaw clenched so hard it hurt. he gripped your arm and pulled it toward him, the ropes still cutting into your flesh. “we’re getting you out of here,” he said, but it was empty, hollow, a promise that meant nothing in the face of what had already been done, what had already been taken.

he didn’t waste time untying you gently. he didn’t care if he hurt you. he just needed you free. needed to get you out of this hell. his hands were rough, unyielding as he cut through the ropes, his fingers slipping slightly with the blood that had stained his palms.

when you finally fell into his arms, the weight of your body felt like an unbearable burden. you were too light, too fragile, too fucking broken.

the air felt too thick to breathe, and for a moment, he couldn’t bring himself to say anything. he was angry. so fucking angry. not just at you, no, never at you, but at the whole fucking world. the fact that he hadn’t been there, that he hadn’t been able to stop it from happening.

"we’re going back to the others," he said finally, his voice hard, but there was something else there, something darker.

“no one’s ever gonna lay a fucking hand on you again,” he growled, teeth clenched tight. the words spilled out like poison, dark and deadly. “i’ll burn every last one of those bastards to the ground. i swear it."

you didn’t answer. didn’t say a damn word, you just stared, hollow-eyed, distant, as if his words had no weight at all.

it ate at him, gnawed at his insides like a wound that wouldn’t close, and the rage swelled up in his chest until he could barely breathe, it hurt more than anything he’d ever felt.

the quiet between you was unbearable, a suffocating weight in the air. sandor’s jaw clenched, his knuckles white as he brushed your hair away from your face. he touched you, needed to touch you, but you didn’t feel real anymore.

“rest,” he muttered, his voice quieter now, almost unsure. “you’re safe.”

but even as you closed your eyes, the tired, broken part of you retreating into unconsciousness, he knew that safety was an illusion. you would never be the same and neither would he.

carrying you, every step felt like a cruel reminder of how much he had failed, how much he couldn’t undo.

the battle had already been won, but in this moment, sandor knew: the war for you was far from over and no matter how many men he killed, how many bodies he left in his wake, there would always be this, this piece of himself that he had lost.

and it would never come back.

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I love your writing!! Thank you for keeping us Sandor girlies fed. I was wondering if you could write a Sandor x Baratheon Princess reader 🤭🤭 it could be any scenario you think of!! I’m just a sucker for that trope

aaaa THANKYOU it means the world to me! <3 i had a lot of fun writing this, hope it hits the spot anon :) its cute and wholesome and kinda gives the same vibe as when sandor and sansa saw eachother in s8

summary: you're a princess, but you trained in secret, learned to fight, and with sandor clegane's brutal guidance, you became something stronger. on the night before the battle, you reunite with him, both of you changed, but standing together, ready for what’s to come.

tags: mentions of war, battle trauma, character growth,

you used to be a princess. just a princess, wrapped in silk and smiles, always told to sit still and look pretty. they never let you forget it.

but you hated it. hated that your value was only ever measured by your bloodline, not what you could do. you weren’t just some helpless thing to be protected. you weren’t fragile.

and so, you stopped pretending.

it started small, a sword slipped into your hands in secret. the first few swings were nothing but awkward, your arms stiff, the weight of the blade unfamiliar. but you kept at it. because, deep down, you knew the truth: if you didn’t fight for yourself, no one else would.

it was him who noticed.

sandor clegane.

he wasn’t the first to see you pick up a sword, and he didn’t care to be nice about it. “what the hell are you doing with that thing, princess?” he had asked, gruff and disinterested, barely sparing you a glance.

you didn’t answer him. you didn’t need to. but the next day, he was there, watching you.

he didn’t train you in any way that felt nice. there was no hand-holding, no encouragement. just him grumbling about your form, making you fight until your arms were raw. and you hated him for it, at first. hated the way he treated you like a soldier, not some fragile girl.

but it was real. he didn’t treat you like a princess. he didn’t coddle you or let you pretend you were something you weren’t.

"keep your bloody head down," he’d snap as he showed you how to hold the blade properly. "you’ll be dead before you get a chance to swing it right."

and, bit by bit, you stopped thinking you were.

it wasn’t just about the sword, not anymore. It was about learning how to be someone who wasn’t afraid. someone who didn’t run at the first sign of danger.

and though sandor never said it, you knew you were getting better. stronger.

-

and then, the war came, and you weren’t the same girl.

no more silk. no more tea parties. no more pretending you could be tamed by anyone. not by your father’s orders, not by the rules of some court you never felt a part of.

no one looked at you the same anymore. not since you’d picked up that sword and started training like your life depended on it. because, honestly? it did.

you were battle-hardened, scarred from your own battles, and you’d fought your way through the worst of it all.

the camp was quieter than usual, the kind of quiet that only comes when the world is holding its breath. the fires crackled in the distance, but the sounds of men sharpening their blades and the muffled chatter of soldiers felt distant, almost like they were from a different life entirely.

the air was cold, and the weight of your armor felt heavier than it should have. you were trying not to let your mind race, trying to focus on the steady rhythm of your own breathing, but it was hard.

you walked, arms wrapped around yourself, trying to shake off the nerves. the world felt too small right now, too suffocating.

and then, you bumped into something solid.

“watch where you’re goin’, little bird."

his voice was rough, the same as it had always been. but there was something different in it now. less gruff. maybe it was the weight of everything that had passed. or maybe it was just him, standing here in the cold with you, when the rest of the world seemed to be falling apart.

you didn’t turn right away. you just stood there, feeling the wind on your face. for a moment, it felt like nothing had changed, even though everything had.

when you did turn, you couldn’t help the smile that tugged at your lips.

he was standing there, as big as ever, his armor dark and worn, his face just as scarred as you remembered. but his eyes, they were softer now, not the same as before. more... weathered.

"long time no see," you said quietly, your voice carrying more than you thought it would. It was almost like you were two people who’d lived whole lives apart, and now, in this moment, everything was coming back to you.

he shifted awkwardly, like he didn’t quite know what to do with this new version of you. this... different you.

"guess you’ve changed a bit," he muttered, his voice lower than usual. It was like he was still trying to keep that distance, even now. but you could hear the faintest edge of something else in his tone, maybe even admiration.

"you could say that," you replied, shifting your weight slightly as you met his gaze. "i’m not that girl anymore."

you weren’t, and sandor could see it. he wasn’t blind, after all.

there was a beat of silence between you two, like you were both taking a moment to remember the past, to feel the weight of everything you’d been through.

finally, he spoke again, quieter this time, almost as if he was hesitant. "you ready for tomorrow?"

you nodded without hesitation. "i'm as ready as I’ll ever be."

his gaze softened even more, just for a moment, and you felt a small flicker of warmth inside you, a comfort you hadn’t realized you needed. it was the kind of warmth you only found in moments like this, where everything was falling apart, and yet you still found a way to stand beside the people who mattered.

finally, you looked at him, your voice quieter this time. "i don’t think i could’ve made it this far without you."

he glanced away for a second, like he didn’t know what to do with the vulnerability in your words. but when he finally met your gaze again, there was something different in his eyes, something almost tender.

“you’re stronger than you think, little bird.”

and for the first time in what felt like ages, you really believed it.

the weight of his words settled in your chest, and for a long moment, neither of you moved. the world was still in turmoil around you, the cold wind biting at your skin, but here, in this strange moment between war and what was coming. you didn’t feel as afraid. you didn’t know if you’d survive tomorrow, if any of you would. but right now, in this fleeting moment, before the world crumbled down on you, you weren’t facing it alone.

and that was enough.

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you know a fic is good when it has this

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thank you for the anons who requested some stuff!! i promise i will get to it when i have some free time, im VERY excited ::):):)

[auxmodi]

after the chaos

my masterlist

summary: after a battle, there's blood everywhere, chaos all around. you and sandor somehow end up fucking behind a half-destroyed wall. it’s rough, fast, and messy, exactly what you need.

warnings: rough sex, battlefield setting, breeding kink kind of, aggressive/possessive behaviour, public sex, throat grabbing, fuckbuddies, swearing, dom!sandor, kinda cold (no romance).

word count: 1.8k

the battlefield stank of blood and sweat, the clamor of steel on steel fading as the last cries of the fallen were drowned by silence. you staggered back, the weight of exhaustion settling into your limbs.

your vision blurred for a moment, and you swiped a grimy hand across your face, smearing dirt and grime across your cheeks. somewhere behind you, the crows were already gathering, their harsh caws echoing in the eerie quiet that followed the carnage.

you barely had time to register the sound of boots crunching over the battlefield debris before a large, calloused hand clamped around your arm. “what the hell—?” you managed, your voice hoarse and weak.

sandor.

his grip was iron, dragging you behind the crumbling remnants of a stone wall before you could protest. “quiet,” he snapped, the command in his voice brooking no argument.

this wasn’t the first time, and it wouldn’t be the last. you weren’t lovers or friends. you were just two people, fucking when the need became too much to ignore. no promises, no softness, just brutal, uncomplicated release.

you yanked your arm free, glaring up at him. his face, streaked with dirt and blood, closer than you’d expected. his eyes, wild and sharp as a wolf’s, burned into yours, still alight with the fire of the fight.

“sandor, what are you doing?” you hissed, trying to keep your voice steady. “this isn’t—”

“it’s exactly the time,” he cut in. before you could protest again, his lips crashed against yours. it wasn’t gentle, sandor clegane didn’t do gentle. his kiss was rough, teeth scraping, lips demanding, like he was trying to devour you whole. you gasped, your hands flying up instinctively to push him away, but they betrayed you, tangling in the filthy fabric of his tunic instead.

“sandor—” his name left your lips in a broken gasp as his mouth moved to your jaw, your neck, teeth grazing your skin. his stubble scratched at you, a delicious roughness that sent shivers down your spine.

“you’re alive,” he growled, his voice muffled against your neck. “i’m alive. that’s all that matters right now.”

his hands roamed lower, tugging at your belt with an urgency that made your pulse skyrocket. your protests were half-hearted at best, dissolving into soft, breathless moans as his fingers worked deftly, shoving your trousers down just enough to bare you to him.

“sandor, we’re, we can’t,” your words caught as his hand found you, rough fingers sliding through your slick heat. the battle had left you raw, vulnerable, and somehow that only made the sensation more overwhelming.

the chaos around you, the distant cries of the wounded, the flutter of crows’ wings, faded into nothingness. there was only him, unyielding and unstoppable.

“we’re in the middle of a battlefield,” you managed to say, though your breath hitched when his fingers brushed bare skin.

"let them fucking look,” he growled against your lips, his voice was low and rough, filled with that primal edge that never failed to stir something deep inside you. “doesn't matter, no one’s stopping me.”

you couldn’t help the small laugh that escaped you, though it was quickly cut off when he kissed you again, deeper this time, his tongue teasing your lower lip. your knees felt weak, but sandor’s large hands steadied you, pulling you even closer. his hands slid lower, fingers teasing your pussy with a possessive urgency.

“you’re so godsdamned warm,” he muttered, his breath hot against your ear. his fingers moved with precision, stroking you in a way that made your legs tremble.

you bit your lip, the sound threatening to escape you too loud for the ruins around you. his touch was relentless, his other hand gripping your hip to keep you steady as your body betrayed you, arching into his palm.

“turn around,” he ordered, voice low and commanding, his grip tight on your arm as he spun you with ease, forcing your chest to press against the rough stone of the wall. you didn’t argue, you never did.

the first press of him against you stole your breath. hard, thick and demanding. he didn’t waste any time, grabbing your ass with both hands as he pushed himself into you.

the sensation was overwhelming, “shit,” you hissed, the sting of him filling you in a way that was raw, almost too much, but you didn’t want him to stop.

sandor wasn’t as quiet. his low, guttural groan in your ear made your toes curl. “fuck,” he rasped, his voice guttural, like he was barely holding himself together. he slid in deeper, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you knew you’d have bruises come morning. “so tight, gods.”

“sandor,” you whined, your voice breaking as he set a punishing rhythm, his hips snapping against yours.

“shut it,” he muttered, his mouth brushing against your ear. “you’ll give us away with all that moanin’.”

his hands gripped your hips with bruising force, pulling you back to meet his thrusts. each movement was rougher than the last, driven by an aggression that made you feel like you were barely holding on, the sting of his thrusts cutting through you with every stroke. but the pleasure, the way his body fit so perfectly against yours, had you moaning into the stone, your body instinctively rocking back into his.

“you like it when i fuck you like this?” he growled between gritted teeth, his thrusts deep, relentless. he groaned, his hand reaching around to grip your throat, pulling you up against his chest so you could feel every inch of him. his thrusts didn’t slow, they grew faster, harder, more relentless, as though the force of the battle had somehow transferred into him, and now all he could do was take.

you were dizzy from it, the roughness, the power of his body, the overwhelming pleasure that made everything else disappear. “don’t stop,” you managed to gasp, your voice breaking.

“wasn’t plannin’ to,” he rasped, his breath hot against your face. his teeth grazed your skin again, and the sting of his bite pushed you closer to the edge.

you could hear the faint sounds of soldiers moving through the camp, the clattering of armor, the distant calls of commands. anyone could come around the corner at any moment, and the thought of being caught, of someone seeing you like this, sent a shiver down your spine. it made the heat between your legs burn even hotter.

you knew what this was a quick, filthy encounter, no strings attached, but the sense of risk, the idea of being caught, made it feel like everything was on the line.

"you take me so fucking well," sandor grunted, his pace rough and fast, his thrusts hard and punishing.

your body responded instinctively, moving with his, desperate for the release that was building inside you, a pressure that tightened with each powerful thrust. “sandor,” you gasped, your voice hoarse, “please…”

he let out a dark chuckle, the sound almost menacing. “please what, girl? tell me what you want.” the way he said it, the way he pulled your body into his, was possessive, like you were his to take.

you were so close, the pressure mounting, and all you could think about was the risk, how easily it could all be interrupted. how close you were to being found out, caught in the middle of this mess, exposed in the most primal way possible.

you couldn’t stop it, couldn’t hold back anymore. “sandor, i’m—” you gasped, your words faltering as the tension coiled within you, tight and unrelenting.

his hands moved down to your waist, pulling you even closer as he set a punishing rhythm. “come on then, don’t hold back,” he muttered, his voice thick with desire. you couldn’t answer, couldn’t form the words, only whine uncontrollably, the sound slipping from your throat as your body jerked with every thrust.

your fingers scraped against the stone wall, trying to steady yourself as the pressure inside you grew. each thrust pushed you closer, faster, it wasn’t gentle, nothing about this was, but it was everything your body craved. his cock filled you completely, and the friction between you made it impossible to think, the tension coiling tighter and tighter.

"gods" he growled, his grip tightening. "i can feel how fucking tight you are, squeezing around me." his voice was rough, almost like he was savoring every inch of you, the way you responded to him, the way your body reacted to the force of his movements.

and then, just like that, you shattered. the pressure inside you broke, and you came with a cry, your body jerking in his grip as you clenched around him. sandor didn’t stop, his thrusts unrelenting, his own climax building, the pace never easing. “such a good fucking cunt,” he growled.

you could barely hear him, lost in the aftermath of your own release, but his words cut through the fog. it was all raw and real, no sugar-coated feelings, just the brutal truth of what you were to each other.

as your body still trembled, sandor’s pace didn’t slow. he was relentless, focused entirely on his own need now. “i’m not done with you,” he muttered, the force of each thrust making it clear that he still had something to prove. you could feel him nearing, his thrusts becoming more erratic, more desperate. “take it,” he growled, his breath coming in hot bursts against your ear. “take all of it.”

with a guttural groan, sandor came, his body shuddering as he spilled inside you, his grip on you tightening as he held you through it. “fucking hell,” he breathed, pulling you against him with one final thrust before pulling out, his hands still gripping you tightly.

“you’re fucking lucky i don’t make you carry my seed around,” he muttered, his voice still thick with lust.

“shit,” you muttered, your knees wobbling, trying to regain your balance. you could feel the aftershocks of the encounter running through your body, your limbs trembling with the intensity.

sandor’s hand shot out, gripping your arm to steady you. “easy,” he murmured, his gaze sweeping over you, his eyes flicking to your unsteady form as though making sure you weren’t about to collapse.

once you found your footing, he took a step back, his usual gruffness returning. he grunted, pulling his pants up with a swift motion, buckling them with practiced ease.

“you’re lucky,” he muttered, his voice hoarse, “that no one came looking.” he grumbled, his rough voice low and still carrying that raw edge. "next time, don’t make it so fucking obvious."

you raised an eyebrow, still breathless from the encounter. “i’ll try to keep that in mind,” you replied, your voice dry, but still tinged with lingering heat.

without sparing another glance, sandor adjusted his pants and turned away. his boots thudded against the dirt, heavy and deliberate, as he walked back into the chaos of the battlefield. he joined his men without a second thought, blending in with them as if nothing had happened, his presence as imposing as ever.

[auxmodi]

[auxmodi]

Thoughts on Robb Stark?

I'd let him hit it...