ellar21 - Tumblr blog

ellar21 · 2 years

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fan mail, love mail

ʚ♡ɞ ABT ; shigaraki may hate heroes, but that doesn't mean he's not allowed to send fan mail to his favourite U.A. girl and future pro hero, which just so happens to be you!

or...where you receive a very...suspicious looking package one day.

ʚ♡ɞ CW ; fem third year! reader, nsfw, masturbation, sexual harassment, stalking, threats of noncon and violence, shiggy being an overall threat

The package came in with no information on it.

No sender, no return address, no anything.

It came in a fairly beaten up white box with a messily tied pink ribbon to secure it, though the ribbon itself was already crumpled and falling apart by the time it arrived at your dorm mailbox. The only thing that made you sure it was for you was the undeniable words scrawled on the side of the box with horrible handwriting and smudged words from a black marker.

To: _ a.k.a __

Written there was your full name as well as your chosen hero name, and there was obviously no mistaking it, despite the bit of trouble that came with deciphering the words. When it passed through security and its contents didn’t seem to be worthy of any attention, the box was placed in your mailbox, now left to your devices.

And you’re ecstatic as soon as you see it.

It’s no secret that pro heroes receive fan mail all the time. It can range from adorable heartfelt letters where they receive thanks for keeping the city safe, or even lavish gifts from devoted admirers.

Pro heroes in training don’t receive as much fan mail as pros themselves do, and when you do, it’s usually just handwritten letters.

That’s not to say you don’t appreciate the countless people wishing you luck on your journey to finally become a pro, but receiving a package– a physical gift from a fan just makes you smile so hard that your cheeks begin to hurt as you collect the box and run back to your dorm to open it.

Your heart is pounding in your chest as you begin texting your friends about it. What could be inside? Who sent it? Some of them are teasing you by saying that you have a secret admirer, while others are saying it could just be some kid you saved the other day, which would actually make a lot of sense due to the messy nature of the gift.

But that doesn’t bring your spark down, not one bit. Though the idea of a secret admirer would be cute, a gift from a grateful child who you managed to save would make you just as happy as well. You’re here to make the world a better place, and though you don’t need acknowledgement for your aspirations, you’re just glad that someone’s noticed you.

So when you finally calm yourself down and open the box, your mind is racing a mile a minute as you wonder what it could actually be. Maybe it’s just some snacks. Maybe it’s a drawing or accessories or some clothes the sender thought you’d look good in. whatever the case, you’re expecting anything except…

Except what’s actually in the box.

“Huh?”

Your eyes widen in surprise when you see a video tape. It’s one of those really old models, and it surprises you. You don’t know anyone who uses those, not unless they’re nearing a hundred years old or something.

You take the item out of the box and survey it. It looks to be a simple tape stuffed inside the obnoxious amounts of crinkly wrapping paper inside the box, and you assume the sender didn’t want any chance of having it damaged.

Whatever the case, you wonder if maybe, just maybe, inside the tape is a short movie or edit dedicated to you. Maybe it’s like that forty-five minute video edit that Mt. Lady received from one of her fans that’s filled with every known footage of her either in action or just simply living out her best life.

Having someone take so much time out of their day to make something like that makes your excitement only bubble up even more, and even if it isn’t forty-five minutes long, you just can’t wait to see what’s inside the tape.

Which is why you spent around an hour bugging everyone you know for a device that the tape can run on.

It wasn’t easy of course, but you did it anyway. You brushed off all the teasing with a warm smile, and now you just can’t wait to finally see what’s inside. You wonder if the sender will even reveal who they are. If they do, you’ll make sure to make them something in return, too! Maybe some cookies, some muffins, some…

The light on your TV screen comes on, and you squeal the moment it does. There’s stars in your eyes, and you’re fidgeting all around as you wait for a few seconds to get it to properly load.

And then it does.

The blurry footage makes it clear that it’s been recorded through what’s either an old, low quality camera, or a grimey phone that’s most likely been abused by its owner. You think it’s the second one, though you’re not one to judge, of course.

The room is dark, a little too dim for you to see anything properly, so you scoot closer to the screen and squint in order to try and make something out of the messy blurs of shadows.

Soft, ragged breathing can be heard through the audio, and you smile a little as you assume this might be the first time the sender has ever recorded anything. Or maybe they’re a little nervous? You wish you could smile and make them feel comfortable.

“Fuck, this thing’s on, right?”

The sudden rise in volume startles you, and you yelp a little before giggling to yourself. The voice, though a little scratchy, is clearly a man’s. He doesn’t sound much older than you, and you think back to what your friends said about a secret admirer.

Maybe…?

“Yep, it’s working!” you reply back to the TV, though you know there’s nobody to actually hear you. But as if on cue, the man stabilises the phone and chuckles a little.

“‘Kay, there we go…” he sets the device on the ground, and the camera is focused on the ceiling above. It’s just…a normal ceiling at best. Nothing to write home about. The man continues speaking.

“I figured this would be the part where my brain starts lagging, but I’ve got a lot to say,” he says. It’s a little disappointing that he won’t show himself and all you’re staring at is a ceiling, but it doesn’t dim your excitement any less. In fact, you’re secretly excited to see what he looks like!

+♡+

“Firstly, I don’t like heroes.”

A bold statement, he knows. To say that Tomura has been mentally rehearsing on what he’s going to say to you is an understatement. He’s gone through this speech countless times and over in his head, and to think that you’re going to be watching this– listening to his thoughts because you’re a good little hero, makes him all the more excited.

And he continues, “I hate heroes. I fucking despise them. Pretentious pieces of shits. The system’s shitty, your friends and teachers are shitty, and basically, you’re almost shitty, too.”

Kind of harsh, he knows. Tomura smirks a little to himself as he taps the camera a few times, readjusting his sitting position to a more comfortable one and in turn causing the camera to rustle a little. “But you know what, little hero?”

There’s a pause, and he hums. He imagines you glaring at the screen. Cute.

“You’re almost shitty. Almost. Need I repeat that for you again? You’re almost shitty. Not quite shitty, but almost, yeah. I think you’re just some confused little girl who thinks she can solve all the world’s problems by slaving herself away to hero society. You’re not a real hero yet, so, as I said, you’re not completely shitty for now.”

By now, he can clearly make out the mental image of you pouting and saying something along the lines of, “I am a hero!”

So that’s why–

“You’re about to turn this shit off, aren’t ya?”

Though you won’t be watching this in the exact same time he’s currently recording it, he knows you. He knows you so, so well even without having to talk to you. All those interviews and times where he’s watched you from afar? It’s done wonders. Especially the times where he’ll track your private activities even in the ‘safety’ of your dormitory.

“Good girl. Put your hand away from the ‘off’ button.”

He’s trying to fuck with your head. Maybe you’ll think that this is a live feed, and maybe you’re looking around in paranoia as you suspect that there’s a hidden camera in the package. Maybe he’ll play nice now. He’s not entirely cruel.

“Now, I know I sounded shitty. My bad,” he murmurs, though there’s hardly any sincerity. “I know it sounded like I hate you, didn’t it? It sounded like I wanted to fucking bash your head into a wall or watch you decay, but I don’t. I genuinely don’t.”

He can almost hear you scoff, and Tomura takes the phone in his hands again, the camera shaky as he rotates it around while still wary of keeping his face hidden.

“Listen, kid,” he says, “I don’t hate you. Well, I did. So yeah, I don’t hate you now. In fact, I genuinely…the fuck was that word again?” A string of incoherent mumbles leave him, and then he decides on his word. “Yeah, I genuinely like you. I like you, so that’s why I’m recording this shit show right now. I’m taking some fucking time out of my day to send you a gift, so you better be fucking grateful.”

Carefully using two fingers to cover the camera part of his phone, Tomura moves a little around his room before smirking to himself. Oh, you’re so not ready for this.

“You still with me, kid?”

Doesn’t matter if he won’t be able to see your reactions. He knows you’ll be watching.

And you’ll watch him right now– you’ll watch as he finally pulls his fingers away from the camera, and you’ll watch with widened eyes as you finally take a look at the little show of love he has for you. Not that it compares to the actual depth of love he has to offer you, but it’s still something. Girls like being worshipped, don’t they?

Well, Tomura worships you well. On the walls of his room are posters of you. One of it is you in your UA uniform, and the rest display you in your hero costume where you’ve been asked to strike some poses for the media. On the table that’s pressed right under the posters are merchandise of you. Figures, keychains, notebooks, and a few other items.

Nothing too amazing compared to the merchandise that actual pro heroes have, but Tomura can still picture the slight smile of flattery and gratefulness on your face. It won’t even matter that they all look cheap and clearly not made by a high quality company. You probably don’t even know that there were many items themed after you, and the new knowledge of this, combined with the fact that someone is apparently an avid collector of your items, is sure to make you smile tenfold. Maybe even forgive him for his earlier harsh comments.

“Cute, huh?” the video pans out just a bit, and for a split second, and he tilts the camera upwards and points to each of them. “Look, I’ve got…I’ve got some posters here,” he points to the several rolled-up posters by his bedside. He’ll hang them up soon, he promises, but that’ll have to wait until the day he stops procrastinating and starts clearing his room. One poster will be an exception, though.

It’s for the main event.

Tomura moves around a little more before going back to his main ‘shrine’ of you, and then zooms in on your figures. “You’re pretty damn expensive, y’know? Used up my arcade money on your little ass.”

Clicking his tongue in both budding boredom and disapproval, he decides to take things up a notch. He reaches under the table for a small ziploc bag, and grins lazily when he finally finds it and holds it up in front of the camera for you to see.

“Ya know what this is?” he shakes the contents of the bag around, but he can tell you’re confused to no end. Which is why he’s being courteous when he gives you the answer.

“It’s some rubble from one of your fights when you fell face-flat down on the ground like a limp pig. The exact rubble that touched your face when your clumsy ass got knocked down by some cheap villain,” he laughs out loud while he pictures your expression of mortification.

“Bought it off some trusted underground site for another hefty price. Ha. Thank fuck not many others were bidding on it, but even if other fuckers were trying to get their hands on it, I’d make sure it’s mine at the end of the day,” he tosses the rubble-filled ziploc back under the table. If his little ‘shrine’ made you feel better about yourself, the rubble is sure to make you feel shivers down your spine. Are you creeped out by him? Terrified? That’d be cute.

Oh well. At least now he has fifty grams of rubble that your skin has touched.

“Anyway–” Tomura continues, “I do like you. I’ll even go so far as to say that I adore your insufferable little ass. I’ve watched all your media appearances, no matter how staged they are. I even buy the shitty products you sponsor or where you appear for advertisements.” He shifts the camera to focus on an unused skincare product and snickers. “I bet that shit would give me rashes, but it’s cute that you’re trying to help people.”

You’re probably rolling your eyes or crossing your arms across your chest in defence of the product regardless of whether or not it actually gives people rashes. Maybe both. Whatever though, because now it’s confession time.

“You ever properly search up the stuff you appear in?” Tomura lets you answer the rhetorical question for yourself, and he places the phone down on the ground for a moment while he slides to his PC and opens up his bookmarks. But before the show can begin, he grabs one of the rolled-up posters of you and lays it down on the ground right in front of him.

Now, he’s going to have so much fun.

“Maybe you do watch your own interviews, kid. Maybe you google your name out of curiosity. It’s not narcissistic, I don’t blame you, but have you seen this?”

He grabs his phone and aims it straight at his computer screen.

And he can feel his cock twitch from just the thought of you squirming at the sight of what he’s showing you right now.

“It’s a wonder at what a simple little search can show you,” he scrolls down the page a few times to give you a better idea, all before he lowers his free hand to push his sweatpants and boxers down. “Just a few clicks, and I get to see hentai of you,” his hand goes to grip his cock, giving it a few pumps. “Of course, it’s not the real fucking thing, but I don’t care.”

How do you look right now? How do you feel? You can’t see it since he’s still keeping the camera focused on the computer screen, but precum has already begun leaking down Tomura’s shaft, and he slowly starts to jerk himself off to the thought of you squirming beneath him.

“Fuck, you’re so fucking cute, y’know?” he starts stroking his cock faster and faster, keeping his pinky at bay while his palms start to sweat. His own hand is starting to feel warmer, and he wonders just how hot your gummy walls will feel when it’s wrapped around his cock like a cute little sextoy.

“I fucking– hah, I’ve always fucking loved you. Look–” the camera is aimed upwards, and right above the monitor is a neatly printed and laminated picture of you.

But it’s not just any picture. It’s a picture of you sleeping in your dorm with your curtains just slightly parted.

“I love that fucking picture,” he groans, “took it myself, y’know? Spent two goddamn hours waiting for you to stop watching stupid cat videos and go to bed, but it’s fucking worth it. Every time I look at it, all I can think about is fucking you stupid and using that little whorish body of yours.”

With each downstroke, his hips buck up, and Tomura can feel the delicious tension building in his thighs. It feels so good knowing you’re listening to his groans and pants. It feels so good knowing you now know that he touches himself to you, because if anything, he’s proud of it.

He’s proud that he’ll have you biting your lower lip in horror as you continue to watch, frozen in place. Maybe your bottom lip will bleed a bit from how hard you’re biting it, but it only turns him on even more. Because Tomura wants to lick the blood off of you. He’ll taste you, touch you, and fuck you. All he wants is to–

“Wanna put you in your place,” he grunts, “wanna put your good little hero body to use. Gonna fuck you hard, you hear me?”

Of course you hear him. You’ll hear him, and no matter how loud or soft the volume is, you’ll hear him.

“I’m gonna hold you down and rip that pretty little hero costume off of you. You– fuck, you do look good in it, but you’ll look even better when you’re naked and with my cum all over you.”

The precum glistening down his cock makes it even slicker. Fuck, he really wishes it was you. “I wanna see you wet and begging for my cock. You’re nothing but my cumdump, you hear me?”

In his head, Tomura can picture himself wrapping his hand around your throat.

“And if your bratty little ass wants to disobey me, I might just decay you to dust,” he lets out a breathy laugh, “but I won’t. The only thing I want to see crumble is your independence. You’re mine, you hear me? F-fuck, you’re mine…” The intense fire in his loins is quickly growing into a delicious heat that goes up his spine and distorts his vision for a bleary second.

“Feels so fucking good just imagining it’s your slutty pussy that I’m using,” he groans out, his hips meeting his fist with every harsh stroke and pump. “I wanna hurt you, y’know? I wanna bruise you up a bit and make you take my cock like the fuckdoll you are. All you are is a piece of fuckmeat. You think you’re so fucking high and mighty by saving people, but you’ll be even better when you’re on your knees servicing me.”

Tomura can only imagine thrusting into you even harder now. All your little gasps of “Ah! Ah! Ah!” and the way tears will spill out of your pretty eyes. He wants to see the hopeful hero light in your eyes dim and he wants to see you break.

“You’re just a breeding bitch,” he spits out, breath starting to shorten. Fuck, he’s close. “Your body’s not made for fighting–” Tomura’s pumping fist is wet with precum and pulsing hot around his cock, and he’s really fucking close, because in his mind, you’re really nothing but a perfect girl that’s perfect for taking his cock– “your body’s made for fucking.”

With lustful grunts and low-pitched whimpers, he closes his eyes and moans your name out. Tomura cums hard, the final pump powerful enough for his seed to spurt and dirty itself right on your poster that’s been laid out before him. The image of your pretty face is covered with hot, thick releases of his seed. Fuck, he really wishes it wasn’t just a fantasy.

“You see this?” he’s panting like there’s no air left, but he focuses the camera on the cum-stained poster of you with a smug smirk. “See how cute you look covered in my cum? You’re such a good little girl. Kind of a waste that it’s on a poster of you instead of being inside your tight little cunt, but whatever. There’s a next time.”

He lowers the phone on the ground and lays on the floor. That wasn’t even close to being enough. Although it was the best orgasm he’s ever had in his life, Tomura knows it’s nowhere near enough. It’ll never be enough until it’s with you.

“I need you, y’know?” he murmurs softly. “I’ll take you someday. I mean it when I said I do like you. I’ll have you one day, and I promise–”

There’s so much he wants to say, so much he wants to tell you. Maybe he did come off as an asshole, but he does promise to make you happy. That’s after he has you to himself, though. Rewards come from being good, and as long as you can prove yourself to not only be a good little hero but his good little girlfriend as well, he’ll give you everything he can.

So for now–

“I promise I’ll see you on the battlefield, little hero.”

He reaches over for his phone, and hits ‘stop recording.’

+♡+

The video ends.

It finally ends.

After around fifteen gruelling minutes, it ends.

But even after it ends, you can’t bring yourself to move or react. You’re rooted in place, and you’re trembling as you blink slowly and lower your gaze from the black screen that shows nothing but your horrified reflection.

Your throat feels dry and constricted as you swallow, and you nervously eye the package from where the video came from.

You’re scared.

Who is this sender, and why does he promise to see you on the battlefield? Your first thought is that he’s a villain, but you just can’t imagine any villain idiotically sending out a threat to a hero in such a vulgar manner.

Unless…the villain is powerful enough to know they can easily take on any hero that goes after them?

You shake your head, trying to repel those negative thoughts away. No way that creep who sent you the package was a villain. There’s just no way. It’s just an empty threat meant to gauge a shocked reaction out of you. Maybe he thinks you’ll tell the teachers out of cowardice, or maybe he thinks you’ll go on social media and express your fear and concerns.

But no, you won’t. You refuse to let this man shake you. You know you’re a hero, and you’re better than wallowing out the rest of the day in paranoia.

And you reach for the package once more, intent on fishing out a listening device ingrained into it. You shake the box, roughen it up a little, and sigh in relief when you find nothing amiss with it.

That is, until you accidentally knock it over and a poster falls out of the bottom of the wrapping paper that’s been taped over the package’s base.

It’s a poster of you, except it’s clearly stained by none other than cum.

So much for fan mail.

#shigaraki x reader #to read later

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ellar21 · 2 years

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if he’s as bad as they say, then i guess i’m cursed - sandor clegane x f!reader

a/n: this is probably so ooc that it's criminal but i actually don't care. i also took liberty with canon bc it's actually MY silly little world thank you very much. i also have a part 2 in the works but it isn’t part 2ing the way it should be tbh and i know if i don’t post this right now then i never will lol.

title from lana del rey : happiness is a butterfly

summary: It starts like most bad things do. Because Joffrey finds it funny. Or, you get married to The Hound.

warnings: NONCON/DUBCON ELEMENTS 18+ PLS DON’T INTERACT IF THIS TYPE OF CONTENT MAKES YOU UNCOMFORTABLE. Forced marriage, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, virgin reader, inexperienced reader, hair pulling (both the sexy and the unsexy kind), mean sandor, p in v sex, little bit of breeding kink, humiliation (not the sexy kind) + obligatory au tag bc idk wtf anyone is talking about half the time during the show

if you think that an additional warning is needed, pls let me know!!

word count: ~4.9k (yeah idk what happened either lol)

comments and reblogs much appreciated <33

not beta read. all mistakes are my own

---

He’s recently taken a bath. That’s the first thing you notice. His hair is still a little damp, curling at the nape of his neck, and he smells like lemon oil.

What a funny thought, The Hound taking a bath. You can’t help but wonder if he had a handmaiden help clean him up? One who helped wash his hair and scrub his back. Did someone help him put on his armor? Or did he do it all by himself, in the quiet of his quarters?

You hear a high-pitched laugh, and for a moment you’re terrified that it came from you, but the laugh is boyish and immature. It must be Joffrey then. Not that you’re surprised. Putting an idiot child on the throne was a disaster waiting to happen. Just look at where you are now.

The High Septon drones on about duty and family and the bringing of two souls for eternity.

Eternity. You shiver at the thought.

Your mind drifts away, and you hear Joffrey's voice echo in your head. What is a dog without his bitch?

Someone coughs and it rises up the high ceilings and into the sky as you shift from foot to foot. The cloak around your shoulders is heavy and uncomfortable. It smells like old wool and you wonder who it belonged to. It’s much too small to belong to your betrothed.

“Sandor Clegane,” the High Septon says.

Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor, you chant in the back of your mind.

You have to tilt your head so far back to look at him. Your hands are sweaty when you clasp his. Your voice cracks as you say the vows. You flinch when he kisses you full on the mouth.

---

There’s a feast. Joffrey insists. What is a wedding without an audience?

You want to throttle the boy, watch his eyes bulge with fear as your hands tighten around his neck. You let out a sigh, feeling a little better after imagining His Grace’s death.

The Hound, Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor, you remind yourself, is sitting next to you. He’s barely said two words, just asking if you wanted wine, which he poured for you when you said yes.

Joffrey keeps pointing at the two of you from his table above, making loud and lewd comments. You going to fuck her like a bitch in heat, dog?

You ignore him the best you can. Weirdly enough, fantasizing about his death helps. Drowning, poison, a sword to his stomach, bashing his head in with a rock. There really are a million ways for someone to die.

Sandor keeps grinding his teeth and glaring up at the table. You wonder if he is offended on your behalf or because it just makes him look weaker. Either way, it makes your stomach flip in anxiety. You don’t want to see anyone get hurt, especially your new husband.

You frown, the word acidic in your mouth.

You slump back in your seat and tap your fingernails on the table. You don’t want to think about the fact that you’re married right now. Husband. Oh, how the Gods must hate you.

Someone moans; high pitched and fake. You look up and meet Joffrey’s eyes and he makes the sound again, flopping around like a fish. You inhale sharply and look away. Clearly, that’s supposed to be you.

You decide, right then and there, that you want Joffrey to go by fever. Something slow and painful and stretched. You want him to wither away and die alone in the middle of the night.

Joffrey makes another comment, one that you decidedly ignore, and Sandor’s grip tightens around the hilt of his sword in response. You choose to ignore it. If he wants to get killed by his own stupidity, then so be it.

A server sets a tray of cakes on the table and you sit up, forgetting all about Joffrey and what has to happen tonight, and smile because the kitchen made almond cakes. Your favorite.

You want to get up and go to the kitchen and find Marcella, the cook who makes all the desserts. She smells like flour and burnt butter, and she’s the closest thing you have to a mother. She knows how much you love these cakes and they even have the extra dusting of cinnamon on top that makes them extra special.

You push yourself out of your chair and lean forward to grab the tray, your breast brushing up against Sandor’s arm. He stiffens and pulls back, elbow knocking into you.

The sudden movement throws you off guard and you flinch, somehow tripping over your own two feet, almost falling face first onto the table. One of his hands grip your hip as you find your balance, your palms flat on the table.

Sandor pulls you back down into your chair, and you go hot under the collar, convinced that everyone's eyes are on you. You grab your wine with shaking hands, and drain the glass.

It takes you a second to notice that he put two of the small cakes on a plate in front of you.

You look up at him. “Thank you, Sandor,” you whisper.

You look up at him and look away just as quickly. His eyes are narrowed and he grunts something unintelligible. You try not to think of it as you clear your plate, honey soaked crumbs melting in your mouth.

---

It’s late when the two of you get back to your new rooms.

The room is airy and comfortable, more comfortable than the old servant quarters you called home, that's for sure. There's a fire that fills the room with a soft golden glow and a balcony that overlooks the sea.

You trail behind your new husband, watching him duck his head to enter the room. It’s suddenly hard to breathe, like someone is squeezing your lungs. You know what the night will bring. You know what you must do, and you are terrified.

Shrugging off the cloak that was draped over your shoulders during the ceremony, you spot the jug of wine on the table and you move to pour him a glass. It’s not your sudden wifely duties that spur you to serve him, but your own selfish wishes. Maybe if he gets drunk enough, you won’t have to do whatever is commanded of you.

You hand the glass to him and he drains it quickly. He sets it back down on the table with a thud and starts undoing his armor. “Take off your dress.”

You blink stupidly. “What?”

“Take off your dress,” he repeats, pouring himself another glass of wine.

You open your mouth. Close it. Open it again. “No.”

He laughs. It’s low and mean and makes your spine crawl. “I wasn’t asking, girl.”

Your mouth goes dry and you realize in the short amount of time that your conversation took place, he’s managed to take off all his armor. He’s still absolutely formidable with a threadbare shirt on; shoulders impossibly broad and hands so big, the wine jug seems like a child's plaything.

You tilt your head up, trying to look him in the eye. He moves his head to the side.

“Now,” he says, baring his teeth in what could be a snarl. You choose to give him the benefit of the doubt. “Take off your dress.”

You swallow and know what you must do. One does not survive in this kingdom through defiance. One survives through obedience, and you are just a girl. A stupid, silly girl. You can’t exactly fight off The Hound, can you?

So you do as he asks, and start undoing your dress with shaking hands. You push the soft silver fabric down your hips and it pools around your feet like moonlight.

You lean down and pick it up, draping it on the chair in front of you. You still have your corset and silk slip on.

“I need help,” you whisper, licking your lips and looking at the ground.

He furrows his brow and you sweep your hair over your shoulder. “The laces in the back,” you clarify, getting a little impatient. Surely he knows how a dress works.

He shuffles up behind you and yanks on the laces. Letting out a breath, you stumble forward as the corset loosens. You feel yourself go hot as it comes off. No one has ever seen you like this before.

He’s still standing so close that you can feel the rise and fall of his breath. You try to ignore him as best as you can as you set the corset on the table in front of you.

You keep the slip on, the lace dipping in between your breasts and the soft silk clinging to your thighs.

His breath is hot on the back of your neck and you squeeze your eyes shut. You don’t know if you like it better when you can’t see. He’s not ugly, mind you. It’s just disconcerting not being able to see the way his brows furrow or how his mouth dips into a frown.

“Take it off,” he says, voice so deep you can feel it in your bones.

You shake your head. You can’t.

Without warning, he fists your hair in his hands and yanks your head back. You let out a yelp as he pants into your neck. “You think you can stop this from happening, girl? Stop me?”

You shake your head, breath coming in short, sharp gasps. “No,” you say.

He lets you go, pushing you away from him. Your heart is pounding and your knees knock together.

“Get to bed,” he says. “Keep that thing on if it makes you feel better.”

You nod, and without another word, you stumble into the bedroom.

---

Someone perfumed the air with lavender and washed the sheets with the good soap. They even dried it in the sun. You sit on the edge of the bed and try to focus on what you know.

You know what men like. It’s hard being a handmaiden who services royals and not know that information. They like tits and your eyes to be big and wet. You can do that, you think. You can do that.

Your eyes flit around the room and land on the single candle burning in the corner. You’re glad that there isn’t more. Selfishly, you’re only thinking of yourself. You don’t want him to see you. It’s embarrassing enough that you’re a virgin and you’ve been forced into this marriage. You don’t want him to see your body.

You smooth your hands over the sheets as the door creaks open. You look up at him and swallow, mind going fuzzy with fear. You can’t get over how big he is and how he is as wide as the doorframe. You push your hair back from around your face and jut your chest out.

He lets out a sharp laugh. “What are you doing?”

You blink and feel yourself deflating. “I-I wa--”

“Have you done it before?” he grunts, interrupting you.

You suck in a breath and shake your head.

He sneers and you feel yourself get hot from anger this time. “I kno--”

“Shut up,” he says.

You press your lips together and look to the side. Away from him. You feel tears gathering in your eyes and you will not let them fall.

His pants fall to the ground with a soft woosh and you will yourself not to look.

“Turn around,” he says.

You listen to him, twisting your body around to stare at the smooth grey stone.

“Down on the bed, girl.”

Fear fizzles down your spine and your heart pounds. Pulling the slip up around your knees, you lay face down on the bed.

He comes up behind you and you can feel his eyes linger on your back. You want that thick, wool cloak back, you think frantically. You want to blow out the candle and cover his eyes.

The bed dips under his weight and his hands move to your hips, pulling them up to meet his.

You scramble, pushing yourself up on your arms, trying to find your balance. He presses his hand in the middle of your back, forcing your face back onto the pillow.

You swallow a whimper as he pushes the slip over your hips, letting it bunch on the small of your back. The air is cold and the sheets are scratchy under your cheek.

You hate not being able to look at him. Is his face scrunched in disgust? Or in indifference? You don’t know what’s worse.

His fingers skate over your clit without warning and you jerk away. He grits out your name in warning and you will yourself to stay still. You will yourself not to cry.

He pushes your thighs apart and you can feel him up against you. He’s hot and thick and even without seeing him, you know he’s big.

You bite your lip as he moves his finger up the seam of your cunt and you push back against him. Might as well make this easier on yourself.

He huffs out a laugh and smears your slick all over the inside of your thighs. And you’re embarrassed at how ready your body is. At how compliant it’s become.

You want to kick him away. You want to run away from this awful place and never look back.

His hands tighten around your waist and for a moment you think he somehow knows what you were thinking. But he doesn’t say anything; just lines himself up and pushes his cock in without warning.

You arch up into him and let out a pained sound as he splits you open. You try to move; knees already aching and cunt burning. But he presses down on your shoulder blades, forcing you to stay still.

It hurts more than you expected. How are you supposed to do this for the rest of your life? You can’t do this. You don’t want to do this. You aren’t ready, not tonight, and not ever. But he doesn’t care.

You try scrambling away, but there’s nowhere to go, not with the way he has you pressed into the bed. He shushes you, running his hands up and down the soft skin of your thighs. You don’t know how you can get used to this, you think. How can you--

You let out another pained sound, shoulders coming up to your ears as he pushes the rest of himself in.

“Stop,” you whimper into the pillow.

Sandor shushes you again. It’s like the sound you make when you see a wounded animal. He continues rubbing his hands up and down your thighs and they come up to rest on the small of your back.

He lets you stay like this, just for a minute, then his hands move down and press up against your clit.

Something twists deep in your belly. Something licks up your spine and you bunch the sheets in your hands and sob into the pillow.

He starts moving, his thrusts steady and measured. Not harsh, but not soft and slow. You sag down into the mattress, too weak to hold yourself up.

You’ve touched yourself before, of course you have. But it never felt like this.

Your nipples brush up against the lace of the slip, and you’re glad that the air down here is so cold because you’re burning up.

He still has his shirt on, the worn fabric brushing up against your spine as he leans into you.

Time seems to slow down as his fingers dig into the meat of your thigh.

“Yes,” you moan.

You’ve heard how good something like this can feel. How life changing it can be and now you believe it.

His hips stutter and you squeeze your eyes shut. “Sandor,” you breathe.

He grips your hair and pulls you up, your back colliding with his chest. It feels different like this. You feel so much fuller, like you’re stuffed to the brim.

Your tits are spilling out of the slip, and he flattens a hand on your throat. He can feel your pulse jump under his fingers.

He moves his hands down, cupping your tits and pinching your nipple. You sob his name again, cunt clenching around his cock.

Your arm goes around his neck and you pull him closer to you. He slurs your name into your hair as your eyes flutter shut. His hands move down; down your tits, down your stomach, down all the way to your clit, which he circles again with a rough, calloused hand.

You moan his name and you’re hot and sweaty under his hands. Malleable.

He’s more gentle than he should be, more gentle than he knew he could be. He can feel your heartbeat. It makes something unfurl low in his stomach.

Gritting his teeth, he pushes you back down onto the mattress, rolls his hips and looks up at the ceiling. He can't think about what he feels. You stiffen up for a moment, then relax. A sloppy, wet gurgle of a moan makes its way out of your throat.

You grip the sheets tightly, lashes fluttering as he pushes all the way in, dragging the length of his cock against your clit. You chant his name like a prayer and clench around him. He chokes on his breath and spills into you.

His cum leaks out your cunt and down your thighs. He wants to fuck it back into you; just until it takes. Just until you swell with his child. He involuntarily pinches your hip and you let out a whimper. He lets go and shakes his head, hoping to banish the thought. He couldn't do that to you. It's enough that you have to be known as his wife. He will not curse you with a child.

He pulls out and gently lowers your hips back down to the mattress. You've gone soft and boneless, unable to do much besides sink into the mattress.

He brushes a finger on the small of your back and you let out a soft sound and shift underneath him. Maybe he was a little too rough with you, he thinks. But it’s important that you don’t get the wrong idea of what this marriage is. This isn’t a union where he can care for you. Where he can love you. You have to get that from the beginning.

You're starting to turn around now, the silk slip that you insisted stay on is now rucked under your breasts. You have a dopey look on your face and he thinks that you might actually be glowing in the soft light of the room.

His eyes make their way down your body and stop at the glistening mess that's your cunt. It's bright pink and puffy. Smeared with his cum. He thinks about pushing you back down and putting his mouth on you, eating you out until you scream. But he doesn’t.

You get up on your elbows and scoot up the bed. There is still that soft look on your face and it's off putting. No one should look at him like this, especially you. Especially after what he’s done.

---

He looks formidable in the dying flame of the candle. Strong. Regal.

You move up; wanting to kiss him and in that half second he looks scared. You almost want to laugh. Who could be scared of you?

You blink tiredly at him and open your mouth to say something, but before you can even say a word, he’s out of the room.

What comes out of your mouth is his name. Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor Sandor.

You sit there, stupidly thinking he’s going to come back. He very obviously doesn’t. His duty is done, you think bitterly. But it still hurts. You thought…well it doesn’t matter what you thought.

You make your way to the bathroom to clean yourself up. There are scraps of cloth next to a bowl of water, which you use to wipe your slick and his cum off the inside of your thigh.

You look at the bruises on your hips, where his fingers dug in. You press down on one of the bruises and hiss at the pain. You know how they’ll heal; go from this deep dark purple to an ugly yellow. A painful, awful reminder of what has happened.

You want to cry but you don’t want to give him the satisfaction of watching you break down. Gritting your teeth, you pull the slip back down and splash your face with water.

You wish your mother was still alive.

You walk back into the bedroom and crack open a window. It smells like sex, and you want it out. You want the smell of lavender back in or the smell of the sea. You want to bring handfuls of the jasmine that lines the castle, and tuck it under your pillow.

But you can’t, so all you do is blow out the candle and lock the door. You know it’ll do little to stop The Hound if he wants to come back, but all the same. It can’t hurt.

---

The next morning, you wake up to the smell of food. You think you’re dreaming at first; with the way the sun filters into the room.

You stretch and you feel an ache in between your thighs. It’s off putting, being able to feel your heartbeat in between your legs. You take another deep breath in and frown.

The smell of food is real.

Pushing yourself up, you look over the desk and spot a tray. Swinging your legs over the bed, you shuffle over to the corner and look down at what has been laid out.

Your heart drops because it’s all your favorite food. Porridge, dotted with cream and drowning in brown sugar. Thick pieces of sourdough smeared with butter and sprinkled with salt. Chicken sausage that’s slightly burnt. And almond cakes, with that extra dusting of cinnamon.

You can only think of one person who could have done this, and he has no right, you think.

There’s also a robe draped on the chair. It’s simple and white. You don’t want to wear it.

But it’s cold and the slip you’re wearing is stained and ripped and does nothing to shelter you from the wind, so you put it on.

No right, you think. No fucking right.

---

You eat your breakfast on the balcony, looking out at the sea.

You take your time; breaking the cakes into quarters and letting them melt in your mouth. You take a spoon, inlaid with a gold lion at the end, and swirl it through the porridge. You break off the crust of the bread with military precision, smearing the butter on your thumb just to lick it off.

You don’t want to think about what will happen, how you will act around Sandor when he comes back.

Will you be angry? Perhaps. Will you be meek? Maybe. Will you be indifferent? Most likely.

The balcony door swings open and you jump, looking back. It’s Sandor, and you wonder how a man so big, and all decked out in armor, can be so stealthy.

He looks unsure in the bright sun and you want to laugh.

You lick some of the honey syrup off your finger. “Morning,” you say.

He grunts and points at your plate. “That what you wanted?”

You thin your lips. Now he cares what you want? You answer him all the same. “Yes.”

“Good. The bitch downstairs wouldn’t talk to me.”

You barely flinch at the language. You’ve heard worse. “Marcella?” you ask.

“The cow has a name?” he snorts.

You ignore him. “What did you want to talk to her about?”

He turns to look out at the water. “We’re wanted in the throne room.”

Something swoops low in your stomach and you think you’re going to vomit. “No,” you whisper.

He sneers. “You think we have a choice?”

You open your mouth to answer, but he interrupts you. “Get your fucking dress on and if you make a scene, I’ll feed you to the dogs.”

With that, he turns around. You blink at where he was just standing. The taste of blood fills your mouth, and you realize that you’ve been biting on the inside of your cheek.

In hindsight, saying no wasn’t the smartest thing you could say, but you did not want to deal with Joffrey.

You bring the tray back in with shaking hands and mindlessly go back to the bedroom. There’s a dress hanging from the hook on the back of the door. It’s a pale yellow, with flower detailing. It’s soft and silky under your hands.

You wonder if this is what it will be like being married to Sandor. Beautiful quarters and gorgeous dresses and good food.

You could get used to it, you think.

You jerk your hand back from the dress, like it’s made of fire. What is wrong with you? How could you think of something like that? You slap yourself lightly. You could not forget where you came from. What you are. You are a handmaiden. A slave. Nothing more.

You get dressed quickly and bunch the skirts in your hands as you make your way back to the main room. Sandor is already waiting, tapping his foot impatiently.

His words come back to you. I’ll feed you to the dogs. Too late, you think bitterly. Joffrey did it first.

---

You hate the throne room. You’ve hated it before as a handmaiden and you hate it now as the wife of The Hound.

The stone steps are cold and unforgiving under your knees; your breath coming short, sharp gasps.

Sandor isn’t kneeling, which you find completely unfair. But unfortunately, you are Joffrey’s plaything now.

“Did he give it to you good, bitch?” he says, with a boyish laugh.

“Yes, Your Grace,” you whisper.

“Did you beg for it?”

Tell him what he wants to hear, Sandor told you. The problem is, no one ever knows what The King wants to hear.

You take a breath and open your mouth. Close it. What are you supposed to say?

You open your mouth. Close it and jerk your head towards Sandor. You don’t mean too, and you wish, too little too late, that you could take it back.

Joffrey sits up with too much enthusiasm. Your stomach drops. Too much enthusiasm is a bad thing.

“He took it?” he crows.

Tears fill your eyes. “Yes, Your Grace,” you say. But you don’t think he hears you.

“Good boy,” Joffrey croons mockingly at Sandor.

Someone laughs behind you and you try to take a deep breath in.

“Show me.”

The words hang like glass in the air and your heart jumps in your throat.

Show me.

You risk a glance at Sandor, who, imperceptibly, shakes his head.

You turn back to the throne.

“Yo--your Grace?” you stutter.

“Show me,” he repeats, clapping his hands together.

It feels like you’re watching yourself from up above. You start pushing the collar of the dress down. Tears are falling silently down your face and you have to bite your tongue to stop yourself from talking. Begging for mercy will make everything worse.

Your fingers fumble with the laces in the front of your dress and you barely manage to undo the first knot before Cersei, of all people, speaks up.

She leans forward, brushing Joffrey’s hair out of his face. “Please darling. We just had lunch. It’ll be more unpleasant coming up.”

That seems to be enough for Joffrey to wave his hand; letting you know that you’re dismissed.

You want to sob in gratitude. You don’t care that the Queen called you ugly and despicable. You’ll take it. Gods, you’ll take it.

---

He drags you out of the throne room; one hand gripping your upper arm so tight you think the bones will snap.

You can’t even cry. You’re that numb, the events replaying over and over in your head. You pray Joffrey will get tired of you soon.

Before you know it, you’re back at your quarters. Sandor rips the door open and shoves you away, slamming the door closed. His chest is heaving, and he looks murderous.

He takes a step towards you and you stumble back. He snarls, lips curling over his teeth, and you hold your breath.

He points at the door. “I’m going to kill that cunt.”

You laugh and slap your hand over your mouth. Eyes wide, you shake your head. “Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“What? You like him that much?”

“No,” you say. “But what if someone else hears you?”

“Then I’ll kill them too.”

You don’t doubt him, but there’s one thing worse than being his wife and that’s being his widow.

“Don’t say that,” you repeat. “Please.”

His face softens,and he opens his mouth to say something, but before he can speak, someone knocks on the door and yells his name.

He throws a glare at the floor and you don’t envy whoever is on the other side. You take two steps up to him and rest your hand on his arm, craning your neck to look at his face.

“Thank you Sandor,” you say, squeezing his arm lightly. “Now go.”

#sandor clegane x reader #to read later

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