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promptthebear · 1 year

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Kissmas Day 9

Prompt: Distracting kisses from someone that are meant to stop the other person from finishing their work, and give them kisses instead

Pairing: Sandor Clegane x Reader

CW: Female reader, lots and lots of swearing (It's Sandor c'mon now), reader is pregnant, some mentions of canon typical violence. If i forget anything please let me know!

A/N: Hello! This is a little different from the last few fics I wrote. I was going for like something cozy? So the pacing is a little slower and it's sort of a "not much happens but there's vibes" kind of fic. Hopefully you all enjoy it. I just really wanted to give my boy a story where he's safe, well fed, well rested, and doesn't have shit trying to kill him for like five minutes.

It was still dark when Sandor awoke, and colder than a wight’s arse. He could see the earliest light of dawn, though, through a nearby window. Pale yellow rays were starting to kiss the tops of the large, gloomy pines that encircled your cottage, and he knew it would be several hours yet before the sun would provide any proper warmth.

Grumbling and cursing under his breath, Sandor pushed back the furred hide that served as a blanket and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He hissed when his feet touched the floor, the chill so fierce it bit at his soles, even through the two layers of woolen socks he wore. Everyone, from great Kings to common fools, knew that Winters in the North were bitterly cold. But it was one thing to hear the tavern stories and another thing all together when you were trying to live through it.

He wondered, as he tugged on his boots, why he didn’t make for the Free Cities and Dorne like the few remaining knights did when the whole world finally fell apart in flame and ruin. Yes, the stories of the fine wines and glimmering cities where even beggars could be Kings might have been exaggerated, but it couldn’t be any worse than here. At the very least, it might be nice to live somewhere your piss didn’t freeze midstream and your cock didn’t stick to your hand each time you used the privy.

Sandor turned the idea over in his mind, finding that its appeal grew with each passing moment. However, any thoughts of leaving vanished the instant he glanced over his shoulder and caught sight of your face peeking out from under the edge of the blankets. Your expression was peaceful, almost serene.

He leaned over you, his hair falling around his cheeks like a curtain, and placed a quick kiss against your temple. You stirred slightly in response, your eyelashes fluttering as a soft moan escaped your lips.

“Whassamatter?”

Sandor chuckled and reached out to deliver a gentle pat to your side before answering.

“Nothing. Gonna go cut some firewood. I’ll be back before you’re up.”

You mumbled something in reply, too faint for him to make out, before sleep’s embrace claimed you once more. He chuckled again and fondly shook his head.

At one point, nobody wanted to spend a night in his bed, not even when he'd gone to a brothel. Those girls had been too frightened of his face to give him more than a few hours at most, leaving him to wake to a cold bed and empty purse the next morning.

You, on the other hand, were comforted enough by his presence to stay through the night. You even claimed you slept more soundly when he was with you. It had taken a while before Sandor believed you, but after over a year of waking with you warm and content beside him, he was starting to see that you’d been telling the truth.

The bedroom door squeaked as it opened, which made the large, shaggy dog the two of you kept leap to its feet and growl deep in its throat. Sandor shushed the animal, which immediately bounded over from its spot by the fireplace, tongue out and tail wagging at the sight of its master.

“Stupid mutt.” Sandor said, as he began to rumple and massage the dog’s ears. “Good thing you’re loyal, or else what use would you be?”

The dog, which you’d so cleverly called Nameless because Sandor had refused to give it one, eagerly leaned into his touch and gazed up at him in squinty eyed delight. You’d found the poor beast roughly around the same time Sandor had been able to walk again, where he’d been left to die in some abandoned crofter’s hut.

At first, Sandor had wanted nothing to do with the animal. As far as he was concerned, you didn’t need another mouth to feed, what with him still half crippled and you were only able to set the most basic of rabbit snares. There had barely been enough food for the two of you, let alone a walking gut disguised as a dog.

He’s a big, black dog you’d insisted on just like your crest. If that’s not a sign from the gods, I don’t know what is.

Bugger the gods had been Sandor’s reply, but in the end, he’d yielded, if only to have some peace from your griping. Since then, Nameless had followed Sandor around like a second shadow. He’d cursed the beast and the bitch that whelped him each time he got underfoot, but eventually this gave way to begrudging acceptance and finally a quiet sort of affection.

Whoever left Nameless behind had, whether they knew it or not, forfeited a skilled hunting dog. Despite his sweet nature with people, he could catch rabbits and squirrels as skillfully as any wolf, which kept you and Sandor well stocked with meat despite the North’s unforgiving climate.

Once again, Sandor found himself questioning why he’d chosen to live in the frozen arse end of the world as he tried to open the front door. A thick layer of ice had settled over the tiny cottage you called home, a parting gift from last night’s storm.

Despite ample shoving and force, the door was refusing to cooperate. With each attempt, the aged wood groaned and creaked as though in protest, but wouldn’t budge. Though he couldn’t see it, Sandor had a feeling the damn thing had frozen shut in its frame, which was a much more common occurrence than he would’ve liked it to be. With a muttered oath, he threw his shoulder against the wood, swearing louder at the shock of pain that came after.

A thin sweat had broken out on Sandor’s brow when he finally gave himself a moment to breathe, half slumped against the bastard door and wishing agonies upon whichever fool god made ice to begin with. He stole a glance over his shoulder, hoping the racket hadn’t woken you, and was greeted with the sight of Nameless. The dog was sitting a few feet behind him and watching the entire process as though it was a Mummer’s show Sandor was putting on especially for him.

“Are you just going to look? Or are you going to be helpful for once in your sorry life?”

By way of response, Nameless rose to his feet, stood for a moment, squinted at Sandor, and then let out a quick, loud sneeze that sent forth a spray of drool and dust motes into the chilled air. Satisfied, the dog sat down again with a bump, and stared at his master. He cocked his head to one side, and spread his mouth wide in a lolling, doggy grin, as if two of them were sharing some sort of secret joke.

Sandor couldn’t help but grin back, albeit a little lopsidedly, before returning to the problem of the door. Once upon a time, he could’ve split the bloody thing in two with the heel of his boot and a well-aimed kick, but he had been a different man then. The Hound, with all his strength and rage, had died with Gregor the day they both went over the falls. Now, all that remained was Sandor, who had to huff and puff and struggle with frozen doors just like anyone else.

When the door finally gave way, it did so with a mighty crack, which shattered the morning air in a flurry of loose snow that tumbled off the roof and bits of ice that shimmered like diamond shards as they fell.

Sandor stumbled outside, shoulder first since he was mid shove when the door decided to open. Instantly, he was blinded by the sheer, sterile whiteness of fresh snow and sunbeams that cut like yellow knives after the dimness of the cottage. For a moment, he had little choice but to wait and lean against the door frame while his vision cleared.

Despite the early hour, the woods were already awake and teeming with life. Around him, Sandor could hear all manner of birdsong, as well as the chattering of squirrels and the far off call of a solitary deer.

From behind the cottage came the sounds of the sheep, small, squat, shaggy creatures with more wool than brains between their ears. They bleated mournfully from inside their little shed, hoping it would get them fed all the sooner, but their cries stirred no pity in Sandor’s heart. He could hardly stand the sight of the fool things, with their empty eyes and the way they ran in panicked, useless circles every time they were frightened.

When you’d first asked Sandor why he hated the sheep so much, he told you it was because he had no patience for anything, man or beast, that was too stupid to know how stupid it actually was. You’d laughed at that, a bright, musical sound that made warmth bloom in Sandor’s chest, but you hadn’t left the matter alone like he’d hoped.

As far as you were concerned, there was no point in wasting time hating something so pathetic and harmless and so you persisted. If Sandor was stubborn, you were twice as much, pestering him with that unfaltering cheerfulness each time you went you to feed the damn things. Eventually, he relented, the name and reason tumbling from his lips like rain after a drought.

Mycha.

From the ashes of Sandor’s rage, shame had blossomed, and with it a thin, choking vine that clenched a little tighter around his heart each time he’d thought of the boy. He’d lived what felt like a thousand different lifetimes since that fateful day by the river, and no matter how much he’d drunk, fought or fucked, he couldn’t seem to shake that one particular ghost. It was as though a small part of Mycha had always been there, slowly poisoning what little shreds of goodness Sandor had managed to grasp hold of, and for a while, he supposed that was what he deserved. Until you came along.

You, who had dragged Sandor out from the water when he was little more than a half drowned corpse. You, who had set every broken bone, stitched every wound and fed him spoonfuls of broth even when he’d cursed you after each one. With your constant, stubborn, infuriating cheerfulness, you had talked Sandor into talking, smiled him into smiling, and somehow loved him into loving you back. You had become the sun that rose and set on each day of Sandor’s life. You were what got him up in the mornings and kept him working until dusk. The thought of losing you, or worse, having you cast him aside, scared him more than dragons, others, and his cunt brother ever had.

That was why, in the end, Sandor had chosen to tell you the truth. At least then you’d hear it from him, instead of whatever exaggerated horseshit the village gossips would invent. Ugly as it was, Sandor knew honesty would be his friend in this matter, and he’d had more than his fill of liars after spending so much time in service to the Lannisters.

And so you came to know the whole sordid tale, one dreary morning in the sheep shed. He spared no detail, no matter how gruesome it was or how poorly it reflected on his character. If you were going to keep loving him, it was best you knew the sort of man you’d chosen, lest the truth curdle what little affection he’d earned.

At first, Sandor wasn’t sure how you were going to take things. He half expected you to try to brain him with the bucket of sheep’s feed, then drive him off in a hail of shrieking and chunks of dung. Tears were also a likely possibility, though you didn’t really seem the type. But learning that the man who you’d let into your home and bed had the blood of an innocent child on his hands could make anyone behave strangely.

When he’d finally got up the courage to stop staring at his boots and look into your face, you, as always, surprised him. You were smiling at him, that same warm, gentle smile that Sandor remembered from the moment he’d woken up in your arms.

I know is what you’d said. I’ve always known, and I love you anyway.

You’d reached for him after, setting aside your bucket so you could bring your hand up and caress his scarred cheek. Sandor had leaned into your touch, like it was the only thing keeping him from breaking apart into a million pieces. Of course you’d known, who in all the Seven Kingdoms hadn’t heard the stories about King Joffery’s rabid dog and the things he’d done? He should’ve given you more credit.

From there, it had been easy enough to tell you why he hated those sheep. Their cries, the sheer terror in their eyes each time he approached? They reminded him too much of that boy, and regardless of how you felt about it, he was not entirely certain he’d ever be able to forget. It was one thing to have your forgiveness and another thing entirely to be able to forgive himself.

Give it time is what you’d told him And let me worry about the sheep. You’ve got enough to do around here, anyway.

The sound of Nameless’ barking is what suddenly tugged Sandor from his memories and back into the here and now. Somehow, the dog had managed to squeeze past him without Sandor noticing, and he was now diving face first through the fresh snow, on the hunt for grouse tracks and anything else that would provide a decent chase.

Sandor watched for a moment, unable to hide the smile playing about his lips. The sight of the big dog, now sporting a healthy dusting of snow across his shoulders and muzzle, was enough to brighten anyone’s mood. He supposed, after almost starving to death on his own, the idiot creature was simply happy to be alive long enough to see another day.

The two of them would go and check Sandor’s traps later. With any luck, they’d snag a rabbit or two that you could roast for supper and have plenty of bones left for Nameless to enjoy. But, in the meantime, you wouldn’t be cooking anything if there wasn’t any wood for the fire.

It hadn’t warmed up any by the time Sandor walked to the woodshed. The snows frozen crust crunched under his feet as he walked, while his breath floated away in thick, white clouds that dampened his beard. His axe, stuck blade down in the stump a few feet away from the woodshed, was a welcome sight.

It was by no means half the weapon his greatsword had been, but Sandor found comfort in the way its worn, wooden handle fit snugly into his grasp and in its blade that thirsted for pine sap instead of blood.

Before long, the sound of logs splitting filled the air, mingling with the soft creak of trees in the wind and an occasional bark from Nameless. Sandor quickly found his rhythm, letting the weight of the axe guide his arm on the downstroke and pushing aside each long with his other hand to be stacked in the shed later.

He went on like that for a while, cut, push, another log, and do it again. The repetition of the work was soothing, almost meditative. It brought a sense of peace to Sandor the way only busy hands could.

Cut, push, new log, do it again.

It was like the axe was an extension of his arm, with the beat of his heart matching each thud of the blade and his breath moving in time as the axe swung through the air. There was most likely going to be a fresh tree fall after last night’s winds, no doubt with plenty of new wood for Sandor to haul home. It probably wouldn’t hurt to bring a length of rope and the sledge when he went hunting with Nameless later. If they didn’t catch anything, at least they wouldn’t be coming home empty-handed.

The young pine he was currently working on was halfway gone by the time you’d made an appearance. Sandor hadn’t heard you at first, too absorbed in what he was doing. It was only after you’d said his name for the third time that he’d finally stopped and turned to look at you over his shoulder, squinting at you as though he wasn’t quite sure who you were or where he was.

“What are you doing out here?”

His tone, like everything about him, was gruff. You smiled at him all the same, knowing that for Sandor, gruffness and worry were often interchangeable.

“Came to check on you. You’ve been out here for hours.”

Sandor glanced upwards and was surprised to find the sun sitting squarely above his head. A sheen of sweat had also broken out over his arms and forehead, and he could feel where it was pooling in the hollows of his back. With a sigh, he set aside his axe and removed his heavy woolen cloak, before turning back towards you.

“Have you been asleep this whole time?”

The slight tilt of his chin in your direction indicated your odd choice of garments. Born to a wilding father and shepherd’s daughter, you always swore the North in your blood kept you from ever truly feeling cold. Still, a sleeping shift, boots, and knit shawl tossed hastily about your shoulders was a questionable choice in midwinter, even for a Northern girl.

You shook your head and gestured back towards the cottage where steam had fogged up the windows.

“I started the laundry, wanted to make use of the sunlight while we still have it. I figured it didn’t make much sense to change until my other clothes were dry, and then I could wash these next.”

Sandor listened to your explanation, his face unchanging save for an arched brow. When you finished, he raised his arm and pointed back at the cottage with a thick finger.

“You should be inside, you fool, woman. You’ll freeze your tits off out here.”

You laughed before wrapping your shawl a little tighter around your shoulders and closing the space between you and Sandor with a few steps.

“If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times. I’m a Northerner. I don’t get cold. We’re not as pampered as you Southern city types.”

Sandor grumbled softly and shook his head, something about “tongue lashing harpy bitch.” There was no venom behind his words, however, only affectionate resignation. Instinctively, he brought his hand to rest on the curve of your stomach, a protective gesture towards the child you’d been carrying for the last five months. You reached up for Sandor’s face, cupping the scarred side as you usually did against the palm of your hand.

Sandor’s eyes fluttered shut in response to the touch, and for a moment, years seemed to fall away from his expression. He turned his head slightly to the side and pressed a kiss against the skin of your wrist. You loved seeing him like this, vulnerable and content. It was like a glimpse into the past, when he was young and full of hope. However, his eyes opened all too quickly, and he was back to being the Sandor you knew. Older, grumpy, and entirely done with your nonsense.

“Inside. Or I’ll sling you over my shoulder like a sack of potatoes and bring you there myself”

You rolled your eyes, knowing he’d do no such thing, not while you were pregnant, anyway.

“Fine. But I want a kiss first.”

There was more grumbling, but Sandor did as you asked, catching your mouth against his while his hands snaked down to encircle your hips. You leaned into the kiss, pressing your body as close to his as you could get while still keeping your feet on the ground. His beard was coarse against your cheeks, and he smelled faintly of the woods and sweat. The heat of him seemed to envelope you, like a familiar blanket.

You stood like that for a while, the two of you bathed in morning sunshine and kissing as though you’d never get a chance to do it again. When Sandor tried to pull away, you chased him, closing the space between your mouths by wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him downwards. This kiss was a little messier and rougher than the first, most likely due to Sandor’s surprise, but you didn’t mind. It was only when you nibbled at his bottom lip that he broke the kiss off in earnest, catching your two hands in one of his and trapping them against his chest.

“None of that. I told you, go inside.”

You stared up at Sandor and pulled your mouth into an exaggerated pout.

“One more? Please? And then I’ll go, I promise.”

Sandor swore softly under his breath and used his free hand to adjust the front of his trousers before leaning down to claim your mouth again. For a moment, it seemed as though you were going to get your way. Sandor had brought his other hand up to twine in your hair, which only served to deepen the kiss. You welcomed it eagerly, opening your lips and running your tongue against the seam of his mouth. He let out a groan in response, the hand that still held yours squeezing tight. You squirmed against him eagerly, trying to wrap one of your legs around his and haul yourself upwards, your hips seeking the friction they so desperately craved.

This, however, didn’t have the desired effect. Sandor began to laugh, and then placed his hands on your shoulders, gently pushing you back so you could no longer reclaim his mouth.

“I’m not a tree, you little minx, so stop trying to climb me. You said one more, you’ve had one more, and now you’re going to go inside or else.”

One look at Sandor’s face, and you knew there was no use in pushing your luck. With a long, suffering sigh, you stepped away, already mourning the absence of his mouth and hands on your body.

“Fine. But I better see you again before it gets dark. I’ll need to wash those clothes you’re wearing, and I’m not warming up your dinner twice.”

Sandor grunted, the noise vaguely affirmative enough that you took it as agreement. You turned to head back towards the cottage, only to stop mid step when you felt the familiar sting of an open hand strike your ass. You spun back around, your shawl spinning about your shoulders, and stared at Sandor, who grinned wolfishly back.

“That’s not fair!” you sputtered, your already pink cheeks flushing deeper.

“Nothing ever is,” came the reply.

You shook your head, turning once again to leave. Sandor let you do so without further torment, watching the way the sunlight made your hair glisten and the subtle swing of your hips as you walked. Nothing was ever fair, but sometimes things got close, even for an old dog like himself.

#kissmas 2022 #sandor clegane x reader #sandor clegane #the hound #sandor celgane fluff #sandor clegane x you #got fic

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