officiallybound

[officiallybound]

The Dog’s Apprentice

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Blacksmith’s Apprentice!Reader (any gender)

Tags: Post war setting, forge work, tension, sharp dialogue, enemies(ish?) to tension, kissing.

(Too lazy for a summary)

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The forge stank of sweat, smoke, and old iron. You’d stopped noticing a long time ago, just like how you stopped noticing how often the blacksmith barked at you, or how your name got replaced by “Oi” or “That one.” You moved when you were told, lifted what you were ordered, and kept your mouth shut unless you had to speak. That’s how it worked here. That’s how it stayed quiet.

Until the day the Hound showed up.

He filled the doorway without trying, covered in armor and bloodstains and that sour scowl that said he was tired of everything. His sword hung from his belt, nicked to hell, chipped in the middle, blackened along the edge like it had been through fire and dragged back out. It was obvious he didn’t like that.

The smith took one look and pointed. “You. Fix it.”

That’s how most things went, no questions, no prep, just the weight of someone else’s will dropped on your shoulders. You took the blade from Sandor’s hand without meeting his eye, turned to the bench, and started laying out tools.

“You gonna say anything, or just sulk at it?” he asked. His voice scraped against your ears. Rude old fuck.

You didn’t turn around. “I don’t need words to fix your sword.”

That got a low grunt from him. Not agreement. Not disagreement. Just sound. You could feel his eyes on your back as you worked.

“You even good at that?”

You picked up the file. “I’m good enough. Will you quit your winging?”

Another grunt. This one might’ve been a laugh, if someone less damaged had made it.

For the next hour, he didn’t move. Just sat there. You hammered and sharpened and barely thought about anything except the rhythm, the thud of metal on metal, the scrape of steel across stone.

“You almost done with that?”

You turned, facing him.

“Almost. If you’d shut your mouth.”

Sandor bit at his lip in slight annoyance.

“Cheeky little shit, aren’t you? I’ll shut my mouth when you stop dragging your feet. It’s a sword, not a fucking wedding dress”

You blinked. “Its hard to work fast when every breath is a command barked at your back.”

You didn’t look at him. Just went on filing the blade. “But sure. I’ll make it pretty for you, Ser.”

“I’m not a Ser.”

When the sword was finally done, you held it out to him, Ignoring his response. “Try it.”

He did. Swung it once in the yard outside, then again. It caught the sun in just the right way, clean, sharp, honest work. Not flashy. Not pretty.

He looked back at you.

“You do that every day?” he asked.

You shrugged. “Most days.”

“Get treated like a dog and still do it? You enjoy being ordered around?”

Your jaw tightened but you didn’t look away.

That made him smirk, just slightly, like his mouth didn’t quite know how to form anything but scowls.

“I’ll be back tomorrow. Got a few other things need fixing.”

You started to turn back to clean the bench. “The smith’s the one that makes the deals.”

“I’m not coming for him.”

You froze for half a second. Then nodded once and didn’t say anything else.

He came back the next day. And the next. Sometimes with a weapon, sometimes just with rude comments. You didn’t always answer, but when you did, he basked in your anger.

He had this way of watching. not staring, not leering, just… tracking. And you, tired of being ignored, couldn’t quite hate it.

Still didn’t like him, though. Not really.

He called you “quiet” and you told him “I talk. Just not to old rude cunts.”

He looked at you like you’d just hit him

“Good” he said.

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He kept coming back.

Sometimes with busted metal, sometimes with nothing but a dirty look, like he needed an excuse to be there. The forge had become a place he came just to bother you… if it even bothered you anymore. Truth be told, you seemed to enjoy his harsh mouth now and then.

He watched you work. You didn’t mind it anymore.

You watched him lean in the doorway, arms crossed, sun glinting off his shoulder plate, that scarred part of his face always half in shadow. He looked carved from stone. You’d never admit it, but sometimes you caught yourself staring back too long.

He never called you good names. You never called him kind. But there was something in the silence between you that started to feel thick. Hot. Like the air right before steel melts.

The forge had gone quiet, the coals dimmed, and you were sweeping ash from the floor. Sandor was sitting on the edge of the workbench, watching, like he always did. You could feel the weight of his eyes, that constant study.

“You always this obedient?” he asked.

You looked up slowly. “I do what needs doing.”

“Hm. Thought maybe someone’d taught you to heel.”

You set the broom aside.

“Funny.” you said. “You’ve got a lot to say for someone who keeps finding excuses to show up here.”

He huffed, but didn’t move. His mouth curled at one corner.

“Watch that mouth.” he said, voice low. “Sharp tongues get bitten.”

Your chest was tight, but you didn’t back off. Not this time. Not when he looked at you like that, like something in him was starving, and you were the only thing left on the plate.

You glanced around, like someone might be watching, though no one ever did. The forge was quiet.

Still, your voice came out steady, somehow. “Go ahead then.”

Sandor didn’t move at first. Just stared, like he hadn’t expected you to actually say it. Like maybe he wasn’t sure if he’d imagined what you meant.

You swallowed hard

He stood. Slow. The kind of rise that made him look taller, broader. You barely had time to breathe before his hand came up, curling into your collar and pulling you forward, not rough, but not gentle either. Your boots scraped the floor, just a half step closer.

You met him halfway.

His mouth was dry. It wasn’t soft, it wasn’t meant to be.

You grabbed at his armor, fingers digging into the gaps, pulling him in like your body knew better than your mind. He kissed like he fought, direct, hard, hungry. But underneath that, you felt something else. Something that trembled.

His hand slid up your jaw, thumb rough against your skin. The other landed on your hip, it was heavy.

When you finally pulled back, breath stuck between your teeth, he didn’t move far.

His forehead almost touched yours.

“You got a mouth on you.” he muttered.

You swallowed. “So do you.”

He huffed again, and this time it was a laugh.

You barely had time to breathe before he turned, walking you backward with surprising force, not violent, but like he needed you somewhere else. Fast.

Your back hit the edge of the blacksmith’s table with a jolt, tools rattling behind you. You gripped the edge, startled, but didn’t push him away.

He stepped in, one leg sliding between yours, then the other, fitting his body close against yours like he was done pretending there was space left to spare.

Sandor leaned in and kissed you again.

His mouth claimed yours like he didn’t know how to be gentle, or maybe just didn’t want to be. You opened up to it, let your hands find his armor straps, fingers undoing them as his body pressed harder into yours.

The heat of him, he solid weight pinning you where you stood, it was overwhelming in the best possible way. Every bit of hesitation in you fizzled under the press of his mouth. the way his thigh pressed between your legs like a silent dare made you dizzy.

You shifted against him, and that’s all it took.

He kissed you harder, with a sound like a growl caught in his throat. His tongue slipped past your lips, slow at first, testing, tasting before the kiss deepened into something rougher, needier. You felt it in your gut. In your knees. In the ache blooming low and warm between your hips.

His hands didn’t stay still. One braced at your waist, holding you firm against the table’s edge. The other came up, fingers brushing your jaw, then sliding back into your hair with a grip that made your breath hitch. He tilted your head just the way he wanted and kissed you like it was the only thing keeping him together.

You gasped into it, and he swallowed the sound greedily.

Then he shifted, one hand dropping to shrug off the heavy outer layers of his armor, letting it fall to the floor behind him. The rough linen of his undershirt clung to the shape of him, all muscle and broadness.

You felt him growing against your thigh, slow and deliberate. He made no move to hide it. No apology, either. Just pressed into you with a low exhale, like he’d finally let himself admit what he wanted. What he needed.

But even then, he didn’t push. Didn’t demand.

His forehead dropped to yours, breaths mingling in the space between your mouths.

“You sure?” he asked, voice thick.

Your hands were grasping his tunic.

“I-…” you muttered, nervously. “Yes...”

His mouth found yours again, and after that… He undid you.

(GUYS IM SO BAD AT SLOW BURN💔)

[officiallybound]

how to be mysterious

how to walk away without tripping

how to stop caring

how to uninstall yearning

is it illegal to text someone “hi” 47 times?

how to disappear but still be invited to stuff

how to beg with dignity

how to stop begging

[officiallybound]

Not Mine.

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Steve Rogers

Tags: Unspoken love, jealousy, self loathing, slight flirting (Steve & Natasha), internalized feelings, angst with no resolution, AVERAGE stucky pining

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Bucky doesn’t mean to look.

It just happens, again.

Steve’s across the room, talking to Natasha. Nothing scandalous. Nothing overt. Just leaning in close enough that Nat’s ruby red mouth quirks a little wider, just enough that she bumps his arm with hers, deliberate and teasing. Steve laughs, that soft, scratchy, chest deep kind of laugh that Bucky used to be the main reason for.

Used to.

He knows it’s not fair. Natasha flirts with everyone. Steve smiles at everyone. This isn’t special.

So why does it feel like a knife twisting in his ribs?

Bucky’s halfway through pretending not to notice. Pretending he isn’t staring, pretending his throat isn’t dry and his chest isn’t aching, when Steve glances over. Just for a second. Just a flick of blue eyes over the crowd, like he’s checking the exits or scanning for threats. But it lands on Bucky. And sticks.

It shouldn’t mean anything. But Bucky feels it. Like a bruise getting pressed on.

He looks away first.

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Later, Steve finds him in the hallway.

“Hey.” he says, like Bucky hasn’t been spiraling for the past half hour. Like nothing’s wrong.

“You good?”

Bucky shrugs. “Why wouldn’t I be?”

Steve frowns, all concern and softness, and Bucky wants to scream at him for it. Wants to grab his face and kiss him all at once.

“You disappeared.”

“Didn’t realize I was on a leash.”

Bucky’s voice had snapped a bit more than he’d meant it to.

Steve tilts his head, just slightly. Bucky regrets it immediately, but not enough to take it back.

“Looked like you were busy.” Bucky mutters, shoving his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “With Nat.”

Steve blinks. “We were just talking.”

“I know.”

“She was telling me about this op in Prague. That’s it.”

“Don’t explain, Steve.” Bucky says, too fast, too sharp. “You don’t have to. It’s not like- I’m not-”

He stops.

Not what? Not jealous? Not in love with your best friend, who you don’t think will ever look at you like that?

Steve steps closer. Careful. And that makes it worse.

“Buck…” he says gently. Too gently. “What’s really going on?”

Bucky laughs, but it sounds empty. “Nothing.”

That’s a lie. He’s exhausted, but not from a mission. From pretending. From watching. From trying to shove down the part of himself that aches every time Steve touches someone else, smiles at someone else, chooses someone else.

But he shouldn’t feel this way.

Bucky turns his face away before Steve can see the look in his eyes. Before he breaks apart right there in the hallway.

“Don’t worry about me, Rogers.” he mutters. “I’m not your problem.”

But he wants to be. God, he wants to be Steve’s problem.

Steve doesn’t say anything, and the silence stretches between them.

When Steve finally walks away, Bucky doesn’t watch him go.

But he listens. Every step.

And hates himself a little more with each one.

[officiallybound]

The Blade and the Hound

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Butcher’s Child!Reader (any gender)

Note: You aren’t a child. That’s just the name.

Tags: Enemies(?) to tension, sword training, rough dynamics, wall shoving, rough/flirty banter, eventual kissing/heat, still gritty

Summary: You’re a butcher’s child with calloused hands and a stolen sword, practicing in the dark alleys of King’s Landing while the world sleeps. You don’t expect to be caught, especially not by him. But once Sandor Clegane sees you fight, he won’t walk away. Not without seeing how sharp your edge really is.

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The bell on the butcher’s stall rattles when the curtain flaps, warning you of another customer.

It’s barely midday, and your hands are already raw from hacking bones and scrubbing blood from the wooden counter. You glance up, expecting the usual, some drunk soldier with rotten teeth, or a castle maid clutching her skirts too tightly.

Instead, it’s him.

Sandor Clegane.

The Hound.

He stands like a man who hates standing still, broad shoulders hunched beneath dusty leather, face half shadowed by the sun. One eye catches yours, and you nearly flinch, not from fear, exactly, but from pressure.

He always comes alone. Never says much. Drops coins like they burn his fingers and orders “mutton, bloody” or “liver, uncut.” You’ve never had the sense he cared enough to remember your name, let alone look you in the face.

But today’s different. He lingers.

“Busy?” he grunts.

You squint at him, wiping your knife clean on your apron. “You see anyone else?”

His mouth twitches, maybe a smile, maybe a snarl. Hard to tell with him.

He slaps down a few coins. “Meat. Nothing fancy.”

You package it wordlessly, keeping your gaze on his hands. Big. Scarred. The kind of hands that could crush skulls or carry swords like feathers. He reaches for the wrapped paper just as you shove it forward.

Your fingers brush.

You awkwardly shift.

His eyes flick to yours, sharp, unreadable.

But then he grunts, snatches the meat, and walks off without another word.

You stare at his back as he disappears down the alley. You tell yourself it’s irritation curling in your gut.

Not heat.

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Night falls heavy on the city. The meat is gone, the blood scrubbed from your stall, and the streets are emptying of drunks and hawkers.

You’ve got a routine.

You never tell anyone, not your father, not your best customer, not the stable boy who flirts like it’s his job.

You wait until it’s quiet, until the moon lifts its pale face over the rooftops, and then.

You train.

You’ve got an old sword, a chipped thing from a drunk mercenary, bartered with two haunches of boar and a week’s worth of coin.

You don’t care how it looks.

It swings.

And swings, and swings.

You move with the kind of grace earned through sheer stubbornness. You’re no knight, but your body knows the rhythm. The beat. The song of metal against air. You fight ghosts, imaginary foes, armored men who laugh as they strike. You parry. Twist. Thrust. Bleed through your shirt from a slipped grip and don’t stop.

This is yours. The one thing no one can take.

Until a voice slices through the dark.

“Thought you were a butcher.”

You freeze.

Heart thudding. Sword mid arc.

You whip around.

And he’s there.

Sandor Clegane.

Standing half shadowed in the mouth of the alley, arms crossed, still wearing the same scowl from earlier, only this time it’s laced with… curiosity?

“You followin’ me?” you snap, breathless.

“Didn’t know I was.” he mutters. “Didn’t know the butcher’s whelp fancied themselves a knight.”

You tighten your grip on the hilt. “I’m not a knight.”

“No,” he says, stepping forward, “you’re not.”

You raise your blade again, defensive. “Why’re you here?”

He shrugs. “Could ask you the same.”

You exhale slowly. “You tell anyone I do this, I’ll slit your throat in your damn sleep.”

Something in his expression cracks.

Not alarm. Not anger.

Amusement.

“You’ve got bite.”

“I’ve got a blade.”

He moves closer, the way a predator does, slow, unbothered, already knowing it’s faster than whatever prey it’s stalking.

“You don’t know what to do with it.”

You scoff. “I’ve cut more things in my life than you’ve kissed.”

His eyes darken. “You sure about that?”

The air shifts, like something heavy drops between you both.

Your pulse spikes. Your sword lowers, just slightly.

He’s too close now. Close enough to see the burn scars curling down the side of his face. Close enough to smell ash and blood and horse.

“I saw you swingin’.” he says, voice low. “Sloppy footwork. Too much shoulder. You’re fighting angry.”

“I am angry.”

“You’ll die angry if you keep it up.”

You glare. “Why do you care?”

“I don’t.”

“Then-”

He’s on you.

Fast.

A hand in your collar. Another at your wrist. You’re shoved hard against the alley wall, stone cold against your spine, breath stolen from your chest.

“Don’t mistake me for a good man,” he growls, breath hot. “But I don’t like seeing someone with fire waste it.”

Your sword clatters to the dirt.

You don’t care.

You shove him back, palms on his chest. He doesn’t budge.

“You think you’re better than me?” you spit.

“I know I am.”

You lunge.

Your mouths crash.

It’s not a kiss so much as a collision, of pride, heat, months of unspoken tension and mutual contempt.

You grab his hair. He bites your lip. You hiss. He growls.

He presses into you hard, hand braced on the wall beside your head, the other dragging down your waist like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your fight.

“You always this mouthy with your customers?” he grunts.

“Only the ones who watch me like dogs.”

That earns a laugh, hoarse and real.

“Maybe I’m a hound.”

“Then bite.”

He does.

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GUYS THIS IS MY FIRST STORY…I HOPE ANYONE WHO READS LIKES IT!

[officiallybound]

He wants that chicken so effing bad!

[officiallybound]

I’m going to tongue kiss a shotgun

[officiallybound]

To be Sandor Clegane is to be born into fire and told to thank the flames.

[officiallybound]

*opens discord* huh nothing new *opens tumblr* huh nothing new *opens instagram* huh nothing new *opens tumblr again* huh nothing new *opens instagram again* huh nothing new *opens tumblr* huh nothing new *opens discord again* huh nothing new *closes and reopens discord* huh nothing n

[officiallybound]

He was never the monster. He was just the boy they left in the flames.

[officiallybound]

YARRRPP || why the fuck is sandor ALWAYS a vibe in his photos?