“Falling In Love And Having A Relationship Are Two Different Things.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*  made by downtownlocks  ✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

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Flowerchild

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sandor clegane who can't find the time to fuck handmaiden reader properly so you have to settle for quickies anywhere and sometimes you cut it REEAAALLLY close with guards, other servants, and sometimes even the baratheons/lannisters themselves 😭

like, imagine youre deepthroating him behind a tree and its getting MESSY and almost to the point you couldnt even hide it if you got caught but you hear joffrey and sansa (god bless her poor self) walking down the garden path so you have to scramble to hide and you end up wiping your slobber and the musk of his dick all over his tunic without him realizing—

and when they finally leave (after joffrey insulting sandor a bit) he realizes you look suspiciously clean and gets pissy 😭

— 🦞

table of contents; secret relationship, public sex, you almost get caught twice, poor sansa lmao, references to smut, partial penetration, oral sex (m!receiving), hair pulling, deep-throating.

“shit, hurry up!” you hiss, tackling the waistband of his briefs.

he grunts, fingers messily grappling with your silks. “the fuck is all this, woman? like a fuckin’ onion with all these layers.”

“it was cold today.” you bite back, shoving his trousers down enough to free his cock.

“cold? fuckin’ cold?” he snaps, ripping impatiently at your clothing. he spins you around and you plant your hands against the wall as he tugs and tears on the lacing at your back.

“of course you wouldn’t think so beneath all that armour,” you gripe, huffing and grunting when his roughness jolts and yanks you. “i’m easier to undress than you are.”

with a low growl he gives in to your skirts and hikes them up instead, bundling them at your middle. a low, moist breath licks at your neck when he sees you bare before him, and he takes himself in his fist at the sight. “cold, was it? not wearing any fuckin knickers. . .”

you groan when his bulbous tip probes against your tight little cunt, spewing precum into your womb. his hands, large and callused, pull your hips back against him as he starts to sink within you, but the distant echoing of footsteps descending the stairs behind you cause for panic.

“pull out, pull out!” you whisper-yell, stretching onto your toes to lift yourself from his partial intrusion.

“i was barely inside.” he sneers, already tucking himself away. you fix your dress and comb your fingers through your hair just as the shadow of a woman approaches the bottom step.

“act natural.” you say, flushed.

he looks you up and down, brow arched. “aye, you probably should.”

“oh—!”

the pair of you turn to the stairwell where sansa stark stands awkwardly. she looks as though she’s been crying. “forgive me, ser.” then she notices you peering behind sandor. “. . .and miss. i was just heading back to my chambers.”

you smile at the girl. “you shouldn’t be wondering the keep alone at night, m’lady.”

sandor shifts beside you, steel clinking. “might see something you don’t wish to, girl.” he warns, gruff.

sansa’s eyes flit between you, uncertain, like a lamb at slaughter. “i’m sorry—”

“don’t mind him, child,” you glare at him on your way past, and offer her your arm. “let me walk you the rest of the way.”

she glances at your arm, then peeps nervously around the corner where she wishes to take her leave. “that’s most kind, miss, but i’d rather be alone.”

you, the queen’s handmaiden, and sandor, the king’s dog, aren’t the sort of company she’s willing to keep.

“what’s going on here?”

all three of you spin at the familiar voice, and there beholds tyrion lannister, scowling at you and your hound from the shadows.

“never mind, imp.” grouches sandor, reaching for your wrist.

you turn your body to face the lord, lowering your head courteously. “m’lord, i was just showing sansa—”

“i’ll see to the lady.” he cuts you off, unconvinced. “run along and empty my sister’s chamber pot.”

then he switches his glare to the scar-faced man behind you. “and you, go and find a tree to piss on.”

you purse your lips, bowing your head before wordlessly scuttling after sandor. you did plan on returning to the queen’s chambers, but found yourself pressed against the wall of a different corridor halfway there, sandor’s thick cock rummaging within you with a ferocity greater than before.

“shit, that’s it.” his fist grips your hair in its jaws, causing a tight sting to scorch your scalp.

you grunt, its vibration sending a shockwave up his cock. it jolts him at the pelvis, hips snapping against your face. the head of his cock jabs the back of your throat and he starts to slide down it, causing you to swallow around him when you struggle for breath.

“fuck, woman.” he props one hand against the tree, the other bobbing you up and down his thick length.

your own hands busy themselves at his sack, cradling and cupping. he holds you at his base, your nose foraging within his bush where, if you could, you’d inhale him.

spit lathers your cheeks, dripping from your chin where it trickles down your neck and pools at your cleavage. it takes a toll on him to not spill his load into your gob at the sight of you — salivating and frothing as your lips stretch to engulf him.

it reminds him of how your cunt gapes for his cock in a similar way, not that he ever gets chance to enjoy you thoroughly. times like these are few and far between — even just you noshing him off half-arsed and sloppily. but it’s better than not having you at all; and it only means he’ll savour you all the more when the opportunity presents itself.

“this here is our heart tree.”

sandor yanks you off his cock with a rough tug, a crude slurping noise echoing through the woods when he does. a string a saliva still connects you, your lips puffy from their suctioning.

“yes, we call our tree at winterfell the weirwood tree.”

“fuck’s sake.” sandor gripes, hurrying to tuck himself back into his trousers.

you quickly wipe your mouth on his tunic, leaving a milky-white stain on it. you grimace, then struggle to your feet and clear your throat — it’s a little tender, a bruise probably forming.

“do you pray, my lady—”

joffrey’s words die on his tongue, and he looks between you and sandor with a perplexed frown. “what are you two doing?”

it occurs to you then that it’s the heart tree you’d been sucking dick behind. there can’t be any greater sin than that. you flush an unforgivable crimson.

“and why is your dress dirty?” the king asks you specifically.

you look down at the grass stains on your silks. “oh, i was. . . praying, your grace.”

the blonde boy looks unconvinced. “you’re a believer?”

your eyes dart. “. . . yes.”

he looks you up and down. “does my mother know you’re out here?”

“i’m on my break, your grace.” you lie. cersei most definitely isn’t aware of your whereabouts. in fact, she’s probably looking for you.

you notice how sansa makes an exceptional effort to avoid looking at you, taking great interest in the forrest floor and the embroidery of her sleeves. smart girl.

joffrey narrows his eyes at you, then flits them to regard his sworn shield. “and you. i’ve been wondering where you’d gotten to.”

“thought i’d keep the queen’s maiden company, your grace.” sandor says, standing tall.

the boy king glares at him, disgusted. “i think a day of pouring wine and changing linen is bad enough without you in it too, dog.”

you snigger, not out of agreement, but pure amusement. sandor will surely complain about that remark later. if anything, he makes your job bearable, and you do your best to return the favour.

“but as you will, i guess,” joffrey smirks, wry and devilish. “what better company for a bitch than a hound,” he turns to sansa. “am i right?”

she smiles, though it never reaches beyond the corners of her lips.

“come, my lady,” he offers her his maroon-clad arm. “let us not waste another minute with such scum.”

you arch a brow. if not for sandor, he’d be dead ten times over. the auburn-haired girl shoots you an awkward half-smile and they resume their stroll, neither one of them glancing back.

“inbred cunt.” sandor mutters, tightening his belt. his knuckles graze the damp material of his tunic and he glances down, then side-eyes you.

you smirk. “i worked with what i had in the moment.”

he huffs and pulls a rag from his sleeve, then shoves it into your chest. “skank.”

“skank? me? at least i’ve never stuck my dick down someone’s throat in the presence of the gods.” you retort, dabbing the cotton at your mouth.

“of all the things i’ve done in the presence of the kingdom’s imaginary friends, i’d say that’s fairly righteous.”

“that might just make you the worst man in the world.”

Tampa!

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