Title - What he likes, what he needs.
Fandom - Game of Thrones (TV series only)
Disclaimer I do not own any of these characters, will make no money from their use and have based this work entirely on the HBO series.
POV - Sandor Clegane
Pairings - Implied (screwed up and one sided so far) Sandor Clegane/Sansa Stark
Rating - Hard M for language and adult concepts. I have slightly altered this from the Livejournal version stored at 5exclamations to better fit an "M" rating.
Word count - 400 to 500
Timeframe - Series 3
Spoilers - Nothing specific other than referring to the way the two characters are behaving to each other in season 3.
Warnings - Strong references to violence and prostitution, also alcoholism(?). Bad language. Un-beta'd.
Notes - I've only seen each episode once, so have gone on memory, wikis etc. I don't think there is anything here that would be directly contradicted by the show but tell me if I've stuffed up. Comments very welcome, this thing started worming it's way through my brain about two hours ago and wouldn't give me peace until I wrote it.
What he likes, what he needs.
Sandor Clegane didn't like fire for obvious reasons, didn't like to be heated from the outside in; he liked things, needed things that warmed him from the inside out.
He liked to kill. Nothing gave him a hard on for life as much as the taking of it from some other, unfortunate bastard. He sucked the smell of blood and dying men's bowels through the bars of his teeth and over his tongue, let it into his blood where it burned away the cold from the inside out.
When he killed men he laughed at gods and spat blood in their silly faces.
He needed wine. Beer was for thirst, for lazy whore-sons who couldn't be bothered to boil their water but didn't want the shits, or for people who wanted to get stupid drunk, cheap drunk, cold drunk; bitter piss it was, he'd never found a beer with more subtlety than a two copper whore. Wine was deep, something to suck past the bars of his teeth and over his tongue, let into his blood where it burned away the cold from the inside out.
When he drank wine he laughed at the lily skinned knights and their lords knotting their guts in fury over his white cloak.
He liked to fuck. Fast and hard whores who didn't expect him to make a song out of it. Since he didn't want his dick to rot off he covered himself with a length of cleaned sheep's intestine before he mounted them; it dulled their heat, but he sucked their smell through the bars of his teeth and over his tongue, let it flow into his blood where it burned away the cold from the inside out.
When he had whores he laughed at the noble ladies and their daughters, who pulled their skirts from his path and pressed their white fingers to their nostrils for fear that just his dirt and stink could ravish them.
He liked to kill, he needed wine, he liked to fuck, all good, but, but, but, now... he needed Sansa and he didn't like that, not at all.
He needed the sight of her, the perfection of her, the bloody stupid bastard contrast of what she was to what he was, her perfect manners to his vulgarity, her pious sobriety to his drunkenness, her innocence to his culpability and worst of all her fair knights and flowers naivety to his oh so visceral lack. He laughed at her, said the worst things he could think of to her, used his size and strength to intimidate her and tried to suck the smell of her unshed tears through the bars of his teeth and over his tongue because he told himself nothing, nothing would flow into his blood and burn away the cold like it.
It never worked; when he tried to make her cry he got cold, from the inside out.