Hii, I'm on a Sandor drought rn so I'm once again requesting👉👈
This one is a bit more of a short idea but what about a Sandor who's easily aroused by small actions? Like Reader scratching his beard or touching the scarred side of his face at one point
maybe he's not aroused simply by the physicality of it but more about the intimacy
I just picture him as heavily touch starved!! You could make it smut with fluff, pleaseee
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Pairing: Sandor x fem!Reader
Tags: SMUT, pretty explicit overall, fantasizing, masturbation, dirty thoughts, very sweet, nameless reader, no use of y/n, reader is silly :P, comedy, courting, crass language, fluff, half drabble, not beta read, may contain mistakes (i was impatient to get it out oops), i dont feel like tagging it as puppy play bc they are honestly too unserious about it
Summary: Sandor has too dirty a mind for an unmarried man. Unfortunately he doesn't care as much as he should, and, again, can it really be his fault when his lady cannot keep her hands to herself?
Warnings: I MADE HIM A PERVERT, I am sorry.... it is my masculine mind acting up once again. ALSO i made it into a comedy porn piece, sadly i love funny smut and i cannot be kept away from it.
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Sandor Clegane is not a lustful man. He is a man, he is hot blooded, he is of a certain size of course, in and outside the breeches, perhaps he needs a wank more than the average boy, but he is not stupid with lust like so many slobbering men. He doesn’t stir at the sight of the ladies’ breasts pushed up to their collars by their stays and shifts, he doesn’t follow with his eyes the sight of servants’ plump arses, he doesn't sniff around the nice legs of the noble women when they lift their gowns so that they do not trail in the mud. He cares not for these things, he scoffs at the sweaty lords who chase ruin the same way they chase women, foaming at the mouth to sink into heat and falling into degeneracy head first.
Sandor doesn’t chase and simper. Unless blood is calling. That is the only gushing he cares about, the breaking of bones, the cloying smell of fear. That is what he likes. He stands impassible and silent in the corners of the room, aroused by nothing, as all evil things, impossible to move.
Sandor’s cock is not volatile.
Yet, something must have changed. In the wine, or in the water, in the textile of his bed, in the air of his chambers, in the cloying heat of the south. He is not sure what, but something made him mad, made him warm, made him blaze aflame with a possessive sort of lust.
Maybe it is simply the anger of the engagement to Lady Cafferen. Or maybe she is some sort of witch. He often tells her as much and she starts whining and complaining about him being mean, so that he has to shut his mouth and let her drag him around her gardens on a promenade.
He hates promenades, they seem to make her stupid love magic work even better than usual. She often pauses to smell flowers, and in between her movements turns her head so, with her eyes looking at him so, and her mouth pressing to his bicep so that his dick hardens in instants.
She is unbearably mushy, his Lady Cafferen. Some romantic sap, with more books about poetry and love than anyone should ever own. Maybe that is why her hands are so soft, her palms so smooth.
Sandor is mean, old and grumpy, not fit for any of that romantic idiocy, but he has enough sense not to treat her badly, and in thanks she gives him the softest of touches with her ivory smooth hands, soft like velvet, cold like marble. It is unbearable.
She opens and closes her fan nervously now, they are in the gardens, the ones overlooking the godswoods, and she cannot keep still, as is usual of her. He notices as much in their time together, she always fidgets,and as an extension of that touches him more than he is used to be touched. Always pulling on his tunic, or rubbing his skin, or nudging his fingers. Always making his cock hard in his pants.
He grunts and leans over the halfwall to peer at the people praying below in the greenery. There are some people below, kneeling or sitting still as statues and praying to their deaf gods for deliverance. Mostly women, with gowns fanning the soil like the tails of colorful birds. Sandor scoffs in amusement. Nothing's stupider than religion.
That is when two hands grab onto his elbow and pull. She is just like some helpless puppy, it feels like, always needing him to react to this and that, nudging him here and there, demanding attention a man his size should probably refuse to give so freely. Gods damn whoever forgets to look at her for five minutes, or answer her queries, or compliment her shoes and her hair and her stupid golden earrings. If only she knew how his dick reacts to her maybe she would stop nagging him.
“I do not want to go rowing like the others” she bellyaches. She means the other couples, the other lovesick, limp dicked lordlings of the Keep always take their ladies rowing near the edge of the sea. Stupid shit for bored nobles.
“I’ll lose my stomach,” She says.
“Wasn’t planning on taking ye” He scoffs and she makes a thrilling little sound, then one of her hands slips higher and higher on his forearm until her fingers are pressed to his palm. She rests them there, he wishes he had worn his gloves for once, and rubs his palm in slow circles.
Some may call him a brute, a pervert, a gross degenerate with a face to match, but he cannot help but think of her doing the same to the red head of his cock, making it turn purple.
Despicable as he is he has been jerking off to memories of her touches for more than a week and a half.
Every night after his service he shuts himself in his rooms with his chamber-pot between his knees and fists his dick until it goes limp. He has been shooting load after load at the thought of putting his mouth on her, his lips on her, on her breasts, on her stomach, on her buttocks, in the hole between her legs, sucking whatever fluid off of her, eating off of her, drinking off of her.
She must all look great under the silks she wears, she must be cute down there too, her maidenhair, probably the same colour as her actual hair. He cannot help but think of it.
The handmaidens that empty his pot have started looking at him weird even. If only she knew what rolls about in his head, they would grow pale.
His mind rolls with ideas even now, out in the open, he will teach her, make her take it in her mouth, he would be sweet, granted, but he would have her suck it, look down at her, pat her hair, feel the softness–
“Are you listening?” She peeps from his side. He turns to her, his one good eyebrow raised in question. He hopes she cannot see his crotch with the way he is leaning, or else she would surely screech and rush off. He is of a scary size after all. Especially to a little lady.
“I said– If we are to go back to Fawnton I’ll surely feel sick during the travels” She explains and then goes on tittering and peeping. He barely listens, in favor of looking at her palm over his, her hand relaxed and soft into his. It is not everyday he gets such a pliant little fawn in his fangs.
He was surprised at first, when she barely flinched at his face, at his reputation and his size. He thought she was simple, but now he understands she is just a hard character to work with, maybe a bit too fiery and too fervent for a future wife. Maybe it will make him suffer during their marriage, as for now, it only makes his dick ache.
“I am hungry” She adds then, as if he ought to just pull a steak out of his pockets and serve it to her.
“Do I look like a kitchen wench, My Lady?” He grumbles, shifting so his cock can be less visible. Her hand is still interlaced with his. He cannot help it, he doesn’t get touched often, maybe something in his rotten brain went so bad that he cannot distinguish some sweet little thing holding his hand from plowing her into a feather bed.
He should feel bad, but he is not the type to feel bad. Tough luck, Lady Cafferen.
“Then I want to have an early supper,” She says.
I want, I want, I want, that’s what all the noble girls are about. If she only knew what he wanted. Gods help him.
He sighs and concedes, standing up, adjusting his codpiece when she is turned away, he follows her like the good dog he is towards the nearest servant. The hunger he feels, cannot be satiated with early fucking supper.
But whatever promises more of her hands on him he has to take his fill of.
“You look like you haven’t bothered to fix yourself up” She complains.
“Because I did not” He bites out. He just came back from escorting the king and prince Joff on a hunting session. It is arguably the worst part of his job, especially when Joffrey gets annoyed at the mosquitoes, the sweat and the heat and starts taking it out on the servants. He had to talk him out of beating a wine bearer bloody just yesterday.
He himself is sweaty, his hair sticks to his scars, the collar of his armour chafes annoyingly to the cloth he tied to his neck, it absorbed so much sweat he is sure it must be soaked. And now his fiancè decided to come meet him at the door like he is some prince coming home from war. The romantic idiot she is.
He is irritated. He surely doesn’t need to get hard on top of the general discomfort of existing right now. But of course she is wearing a tight dress, one of those from the Stormlands, with the starched bodices and the puff sleeves. Fuck him, he should have let the stag impale him when he had the chance.
He walks forwards, craning his neck to fight the stiffness of it, she follows him on quick steps.
“Was the trip good? Did the king score a good game?” she asks behind him, he uncorks a wine skin with his teeth and drinks two long mouthfuls. He stops to let her catch up and grunts.
“No, it was pure shite, miserable fucking trip” He mutters, she immediately links her arm in his and one of her hands goes to smooth his comb over, dutifully tucking it behind his ear.
He gives her an unimpressed look and she seems to not care. God those hands, those hands will be the end of him. The feeling of them carding through his hair, the touch of her manicured nails, the softness of the pads of her fingers scratching where his hair is sparse. He groans like some dying animal.
“Careful with what you do, little dove” he grunts in her direction, his eyes mad and angry. She smiles, as if taken by some trepidation. She blushes and goes to tuck her own hair behind one ear, he groans at the loss of contact. One of his hands scoops her about her middle and brings her into himself.
“Didn’t they teach you not to pet bad dogs?” He scoffs, she shakes her head.
“You are my fiancè” is her rebuttal, he almost pushes her away. He gives a look around the hallways and, once he makes sure the coast is clear, he buries his face into her neck, sniffing a hot breath that stinks of wine into her cleavage, just under his lips.
“Gods.” He groans. She has the nerve to laugh, all heady and excited as if it was some fun game they were playing and not him about to double over because of blue balls.
“You tickle me” She mutters, that thing she does where she acts as if he was some cute blonde boy, he barely cares, glad she is not squirming away and rubs his limp lips down her neck until he can suck where her throat dips before her collarbones. He licks her there, her wicked hands go to the back of his neck, honest to the gods guiding his face. Sandor is unsure if he is very lucky or in deep shit with the wedding coming up.
Her hands have grown warm now, like tiny pokers, like heated sheep bladders pressed to the back of his neck. It is only fitting, since he does feel feverish and genuinely ill in some strange way. Her tits almost push into his neck when she stutters. He curses whoever invented stays and low cut bodices.
Steps echo in the distance and Sandor straightens up, leaving Lady Cafferen red in the face and giddy when he turns to survey the space around them. She slips her fingers into his beard and he almost bucks his hips.
Deciding he is not to wet himself like a green boy in the middle of a hallway he detangles her from his torso and settles her at a good foot of a distance from him. She attempts to hook her arms to him again and he has to keep her away with his whole arm.
“Do you really wish me to spoil your virtue in the middle of a corridor, daft lass” He barks and she gushes, the surprise almost softens his dick,
“We are to be married anyways” she says. He shakes his head.
“Are you simple? What if the maester is sent to check your virtue huh? Idiot.”
“He would not be sent! I am not a princess, but do not worry I kept myself pure”
Sandor is not sure if he should be elated or simply irritated. He grunts in annoyance and gives her another tiny shove when she pushes too much of her weight on his arm in the attempt to get close. If she touches him more, he will not be able to stop himself.
“Go back to your room girl” He groans “and I will take a bath”. She smiles, acting all timid now and nods.
“May I have a kiss?” she adds “I waited so long to greet you at the door”.
Sandor would want to tell her off but his cock seems to have taken the place of his brain. He pulls her back to himself and kisses her. roughly, wetly, with way too much spit and way too little grace. He gives a rub of his hips to her stomach and she almost yelps into his mouth.
He trails his lips to the mid of her neck and one of his hands sneaks to her arse. If she wants to play with the hound she will get what is coming for her. She smiles, all heady into their kisses and barely complains when he pats her bottom to get a feel for it.
Then, those damn hands go to comb between his dirty hair and he moans into her mouth before he dives in again. His hips stutter against her and his hand pinches her ass so that she jumps up a bit. It is enough to give him the clarity to rip her away again.
“Soon–” He pants “Not today, and stop– act more proper.” He grumbles. She barely seems to care, if she doesn’t answer to her father and all the rules of propriety why would she answer to him after all. He gets further confirmation when she stares openly when he adjusts his cock in his breeches.
He gestures for her to walk off.
“Will you visit me again?” she asks, gone is that lust, and what remains is some sort of tenderness typical of his little lady, one so unexpected to someone his size, someone ugly like him, that he almost pities her. He goes to rub her flank.
“Yes… now scram” he spits out and ignores her smile before she gathers her skirts and rushes off.
Fuck a bath, he needs to pump his cock.
It doesn't take long for him to rush to his apartments and put his fist to himself. In a few bucks of his hips, fucking into his hand and thinking of Lady Cafferen gushing about the size of him, he spends into his chamber pot.
After coming he rubs the underside of his cockhead to torture himself enough to forget the feeling of her hands on him, when his rod is tender enough that he knows he won’t get hard again for a bit he calls for a servant ot fill his bathtub. .
Sandor misses the days he was men and scary and his dick had no thoughts to attend to.
It is no wonder he pulls her hands to his face when he sinks into her.
After the wedding they didn’t consummate immediately, he had hoped so, but she had fallen asleep as soon as she hit the sheets, and he simply laid with her and did the same, even if his cock was crying sweet mercy.
He is ravenous now, each thrust of his hips gets a glad little hiccup out of her. She mewls when he pulls her arms from his shoulders, plucking them finger by finger, and guides them to his face. She pets him dutifully, making him her own nice dog.
His hips stutter and he bites hard on his tongue when her hands caress his cheeks, even the scarred one, without fear or disgust or sick fascination. She treats both sides equally, despite his obvious lack of sensibility on his right.
“Ah-AH ngggh- Sandor!” She lets out, his hips tremble under the force of his own muscle, his asscheeks clench and she, sweet little thing, so new at this, grabs onto his hair to keep a hold of herself. He is fucked. When he hands tug minimally to keep herself in check he moans.
Sweet hands, like those of the Mother, he bets, but real, not made of light or clouds, real flesh, warm, tiny. He licks her neck and she giggles, as if he is tickling her skin.
His body continues pushing into her, settling in a trot-like pace.
Her hands rub his scalp and he almost weeps, it is good, so good, he almost forgets to get a hold of himself. How long since he felt hands so soft? They were not part of his life for so long, and now, somehow, they skim all over his skin, his hair, his back, without coercion, coin or any stupid sense of wifely duty between them. Between them there is only hot air, smiles, and her lips opening and closing in surprise every time his cock does something nice.
“You are so hairy!” She stutters, as if out of breath, he reminds himself not to crush her chest too much with his bulk and repositions. She smiles. She really is all over the place, no wonder they married her off to him.
“I am a man.” He points out. She moans when he aims his cock towards her stomach, her legs jump at his sides and fold up towards her chest, knees closing together. Sweet.
He continues plunging into her, her hands start slipping from his shoulders to his chest, over his heart, he blocks them there with one huge palm. His skin shivers like that of a stallion, and his heartbeat matches his monstrosity. She looks at his chest with a gaze full of sweet things he cannot put a name to.
She goes to kiss his chest, near his heart, with lips so soft. His cock whirrs. He thinks back at all the times he had wished for this very skin, soft and fresh and plump under his hands. He places her mouth to his nipple and he frowns down at her.
“Girl” He warns her and she gives a breath right over his heart, then lays back down. Her hands go to rub at it still. He almost laughs.
“Not all that works on you works on me” he groans. She blushes and moans when his cock changes pace.
Her hands go back to stroking his head, one thumb behind his ear draws tight little circles, and it may as well be his rod, for he comes immediately inside her. His dick shivers and then pumps forwards until he is spending it all into her. He groans, almost wheezing, unable to stop his hips form fucking the wetness back into her, as if they were a creature on their own. She takes it gladly.
His hips stutter one last time, until the heat becomes overwhelming over the raw head of his cock. When he pulls out his seed follows. He cares not for the sheets or for the seed, not when her hands have kept on rubbing, her fingers still into his hair. Her little finger resting on his burn, where the skin is so ruined it is almost a game trying to understand if it is really there or not.
When he dives back to kiss her she gives his hair a tiny tug that almost awakens his dick again.
“You witch” He groans into her neck and kisses her there. Her nose wrinkles into a smile that edges on annoyance.
“If you want me to pet you, I will.” She offers and he groans.
“Piss off” He tells her, which prompts her to pet him atop his head as if he was some silly lap dog. He snaps his teeth at her and she falls into a fit of giggles and flops on her stomach to crawl away.
It is easy to grab her around her stomach and pull her back into him, her tiny body pressed to the bulk of his front. She giggles again, so uncaring for her nudity she may just be some nymph from a fairytale. When he lets her flop again on the bed she reaches her hand back and rubs it over his beard.
“There, there, good doggie” She says, barely containing her laughter. He gives a bite to her ass cheek and she squirms.
“Bad! Bad! Down!” she complains, it is his turn to laugh and bury his face into her hair from behind, his hips go to rest on the perfect round of her ass. He sniffs her hair and his lips find her neck between the tresses.
“Your dog is horny girl.” He mumbles, his cock once again awakens. She makes a noise of disgust that he forgives because she slips her fingers into his once he ensnares her chest into his elbow.
“Okay- I want to do it again” She concedes. His laugh sends her hair puffing up and flying about.
“Of course you do, you really are some pixie.” He groans into her neck.
“Then you are a dog!” She complains, unhappy to be compared to an ugly little creature from the forests instead of some princess of belle from one of her damn stories.
He leaves it at that, he cares not what she calls him as long as there is a promise of her hands on his skin for the rest of her life.
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