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"You have sad eyes." You say, struggling to keep up with the Hound's long strides. You fight through the snow to hold his pace. It was true- behind his first shield of his face and second shield of aggression, you could see the lingering heaviness in his gray eyes.
"What, you want to suck my dick, is that it?" He retorts- it's the same shield you'd just pointed out. His shoulders square, hiding himself in his thick furs.
You meet his eyes, glance over his scar-- it's redder, angrier in the fierce cold. He isn't too bad to look at, in truth. The untouched half of his face is actually quite pleasing, all dark hair, darker eyes- plush lips hiding in his beard. More than that, he's tall- you'd been traveling with him long enough to catch a glimpse. You shrug, raise an eyebrow. Wouldn't be the worst decision you'd ever made.
He stops, stares you down. He puffs his chest up, his single eyebrow pinched against the thickened skin of his scar. You grin all teeth, wonder if that's what he'd look like the first time you touched him, and continue on crunching through the snow.
He rasps nearly under his breath, "You're bloody mad."
"Probably!" You laugh and continue on, the thought of Sandor Clegane's dick keeping you warm.
That day, the Hound faced a burning bear running towards him, saw a man's chest bubble and sear. Chased by a damn hoard of pale-skinned undead. And the next, pointedly ignored the smell of burning flesh, the unending firespouts from Daenerys Targaryen's dragons and their screams.
You don't rest until you're on a ship. You don't particularly care where it's headed, only that you're not out there anymore. Out there, in the burning cold and undead creatures that would pursue you anywhere.
You return back to the meager, tight-knit, shared quarters below deck to retrieve another scarf from your pack. It was still too damn cold up top-- and the door creaks behind you. You draw the dagger from your thigh- but before you even turn you hear the single snort behind you. The familiar low rasping, "Don't bother."
You relax, slide the blade back into its holster. You don't face him, continuing the dig through your few possessions. "Something I can help you with, Hound?"
"You still offering?" You don't know what he means, but more importantly... There's something there- a certain cadence to the tremor in his voice, a haltingness. You turn. His gray eyes are sad still- but moreover... He's a warrior, seen horrible things, done even worse- but his face is a shield. Nobody had dared to search his face for decades and his eyes betray him, revealing what he'd love to hide.
"What?"
"To suck my bloody dick, what else?" You would've laughed if not for the flash in his gaze, the lingering tremble to his lip.
You lick your lips, revel in Sandor's eyes following your tongue. You could not give him the peace of mind he deserved, but you could give him a brief respite.
He's only half hard as he sits on the edge of your pallet. He leans back, letting his legs spread wide and staring down at you as you slid between his thighs. His eyes narrow for a moment, his lifelong suspicion of anyone who dared venture too close to the Hound all too obvious now. And with mistrust like that, how long had it been since he'd felt anything other than his own hand?
You press your palm to his manhood, felt the warmth and length of him through the simple cloth. His lips part and despite himself he sighs, and damn if it isn't such a sweet noise. Your interest narrows, focusing on bringing more sweet music from his lips. You squeezed, ever so gently- felt him thicken and filling under your fingers. He resists- his teeth sinking into his lip.
The ties to his breeches come off easily, and Sandor says nothing, hardly breathes as you touch him directly. He's scorching hot in the chilled winter air and yet so silken it's almost tortuous under your fingertips. How can a man so angry and rough be so soft?
He watches as you lick him, taste the remnants of his sweat, the sweetness of his skin. He's heavy on your tongue as you take him in- so big it hurts the corners of your mouth, but fuck, you do it anyway. His eyes are pinched closed now, his fingers twisted in the sheets- his lips, wild-chapped and pink, parted under his stubble as he grapples for whatever control he has left.
You want to see that control in fucking shatters.
So you take a deep breath and sink- swallow down as much as you can until he's nudging at your throat, your tongue chasing the rest as far as you can reach, your fingers curled around the rest. He nearly doubles over, his hand leaving the sheets to fist your hair and-
you choke, you hand curling dangerously at Sandor's hip as he presses at the back of your head. Tears well in your eyes as you gag on his cock. He holds you there- and from the tension in his arm you know he wants nothing more than to truly fuck you. But he knows you, has seen too much with you, and you'd offered. He can't. As much as he wants to tip your head back and let the rest of his cock slide down your throat like all the little whores he's paid for with Lannister gold, he can't.
So you do it anyway.
He can't help himself this time- you nearly swallow him whole despite the unbidden tears across your face and his hips jerk, your nose finding his dark, coarse hairs. He holds you with two hands as he fucks your throat proper- ignoring the wet sputters of your gags, only concerned with the fact that he's nearly died once again, gotten too damn close to being burned again, and you're so hot and wet and soft it hurts.
Your chest burns for air- you tap at his hip. He struggles, holding you there for just a moment longer- before pulling you off, just as roughly as he'd fucked you. You gasp, gulping in air as you meet his eyes. His gray eyes are nearly nonexistent in the black void of his pupils, blown wide and unwavering, clouded with lust.
His hand on the back of your head wavers, almost afraid. You can almost see the thoughts in his head: he'd been too rough and now you were afraid of him, just like the rest. Instead, you grin at him, flash your teeth dangerously. Before he can complain, you swallowed him down again, taking him in just as deep as before.
Sandor howled- his fingers twisting in your hair, sharp tendrils of pain shooting over your scalp that only made your cunt grow hotter.
He doesn't bother reigning himself in, holding your head close to him as his hips rise to meet you. The head of his cock slides down your throat and you hold onto Sandor's hips and focused on keeping your lips wrapped over your teeth. If his erratic pace was anything to go by, he wouldn't last much longer, and you were determined to hold out and give him what you could.
He groans above you, his fingers trembling- his breath coming fast and hard as he watched your head bobbing, the length of his cock disappearing between your soft lips again and again. And fuck it's been years since he's had anyone touch him like this--
His fingers tighten in your hair, pulling you down one last time and holding you in place. "Fuck, fuck!" Sandor grunts, his cock twitching on your tongue. You gag at the first spurt from his cock, but swallow compulsively. The walls of your throat milk him with each swallow and gag, drawing more moans from above you.
He pulls you back, the motion bringing the sharp bitterness of his cum across your tongue. You lap at the head, draw shivers and choked noises from Sandor's throat before he pulls you off entirely. He's panting, his eyes meeting yours; the gray of his iris is just beginning to return, a minuscule ring around his black pupil. Slowly, he lets go of your hair, loosening to stroke at your scalp and ease the pain he'd caused. Then, the back of your head and down onto your shoulder. He lingers there- but doesn't say anything as you gently tuck his softening cock loosely into his trousers again.
You rise up- and he doesn't even fight you, not a scathing remark as you press a nearly chaste kiss to his unscarred cheek. You consider his soft sigh and the closing of his eyes a victory.
"Come back any time."
He nods vacantly against your lips.