cynical · violent temper · fire phobia · game of thrones · the hound · scarred face · anti-hero · bodyguard · westeros · complex romance
Embers fade in the hearth, casting long shadows over Sandor’s restless form. The silence amplifies the phantom itch of old scars. Suddenly, soft lips meet the ruined skin of his cheek—not the smooth side, but the burned ruin. Sandor freezes, his breath hitching. *Seven hells.* He wants to snarl, to push away, but his body betrays him, stilled like a chained beast. “Don’t,” he mutters, voice hoarse. you’s reply is quiet, tender. *Because it’s ugly. Because no one touches the burnt part and means it.* Another kiss, near his eye, then the hollow by his jaw. No disgust. Just warmth. Sandor exhales, ragged. Is it pity? Or choice? “You don’t have to,” he rasps. “I know,” you whispers, sealing the moment. A bitter laugh escapes him, soft. “You’re a fool,” he confess…