Sansa was pleasantly surprised to find that her hangover the morning after her hen party was only mild. She was less pleasantly surprised to see the list she and her friends had drunkenly compiled the night before accidently find its way into her fiancé's hands.
"What's this?" Sandor asked, the amusement evident in his voice.
Sansa groaned loudly and pulled up the edge of her cowl-neck jumper to cover her face. For good measure she reached for the blanket on the back of the sofa and threw it over herself as well.
Sandor flopped down on the sofa next to her, lifting her legs up and settling them on his lap. "The Dick-tionary?" he chuckled. "Clearly you ladies had something on your minds last night."
Sansa felt her buried cheeks flush with embarrassment as she thought about the piece of paper Sandor now gleefully held; the one full of crude doodles of male genitalia. Margaery had been the one to suggest making the list.
Wait— Was it Marg? Oh, the details are fuzzy… Compiling a drunken list of nicknames for your significant other's genitals sounds like a very Margie thing to do though… I blame her for this completely.
"The One-Eyed Man? I'm guessing that was Melisandre about Dondarrion," Sandor started, reading off the damned list.
He saw the Sansa-shaped lump nod from underneath the blanket.
"The Lady Slayer? Bit pretentious, if you ask me. Who wrote that one?"
"Brienne," came a muffled reply.
Sandor was surprised. "She calls Lannister's dick The Lady Slayer?"
Sansa peeked out from underneath the blanket. "Actually, she said that that's Jaime's self-given nickname for it."
Sandor barked out a laugh and Sansa giggled along with him.
"The Dragon? Someone has a fire breathing cock now, do they?" Sandor continued down the list.
"Dany. Apparently Drogo is quite sizeable."
Sandor scoffed. "The only sizeable thing about Drogo is his ego."
"Not true. He's almost the same size as you," Sansa replied. Sandor's one eyebrow shot up. Sansa threw a pillow at him. "In height!"
Sandor glanced back at the list and pulled a face. He had just recognised Arya's handwriting and absolutely did not need to know that the young woman he regarded (secretly, because like fuck would he ever tell her) as his little sister called her boyfriend, Gendry's, cock His Mighty Hammer.
Sansa grinned, noticing how far down the list he had gotten. "She says they've started calling sex Hammer Time."
Sansa's shoulders shook with barely contained mirth at Sandor's pained expression. He glared at her and she laughed, but he swore it sounded more like an evil cackle at his expense. Sandor ignored her and looked at the next nickname on the list.
"Sir Cock-alot…" Sandor shook his head. "I don't even want to know, do I?"
Sansa thought back on the previous evening to a tipsy Margaery proudly telling the group all about the medieval roleplaying her and her fuck buddy (her words, not Sansa's) were into.
"So, Bronn's there on his knees in front of me," Margaery said, swaying a bit. "And I go, 'I dub thee—' I've got the dildo in my hand at this point, like a sword. I go, 'I dub thee, Sir Cock-alot. Arise and pleasure your Queen!'" She mimed touching her 'sword' to Bronn's shoulders as she knighted him and ripples of drunken laughter erupted from the group.
"Probably not," Sansa confirmed.
Sandor nodded. "Who else is on this thing?" he muttered. "The fuck is The Super Soaker?!"
Sansa frowned, her pretty ginger eyebrows drawing together. She pursed her lips as she tried to remember, then drew her bottom lip in to worry it slightly with her teeth as she thought, completely unaware that this drew Sandor's attention down to her mouth.
"I think that was Meera and Yara. One of them is The Super Soaker and one of them is The Kraken."
"Why the fuck would you name your girlfriend's cunt The Kraken?! Who would want to stick their dick in that?!"
"Well, I think the whole deal with lesbians is they don't care about dicks," Sansa sassed. "Not that kind anyway." Sandor rolled his eyes, though he supposed she did have a point. "I think it was something to do with getting everything wet, but honestly I can't remember."
Sandor shot her a side-eye look full of mischief. "Perhaps I should name your pussy?"
"Don't you dare!" Sansa smacked him with another pillow and Sandor's hand shot out, quick as a snake striking, and caught her wrist.
"Well, go on then," he said, looking expectant.
"Go on what?"
"What's his nickname?" Sandor asked, flicking his eyes down to his lap.
Sansa frowned. His nickname was at the bottom of the lis— The wine! The wine glass that Arya had kicked over when she had tried to do a handstand while completely shitfaced. Sansa reached for the list, turning it to see that the bottom half of the piece of paper was stained pink with red wine and that the ink had bled and streaked across the page, rendering the last nickname on the list illegible.
Oh, thank the gods!
"I don't have one for him," Sansa lied, her voice just a little too high. She tried tugging her wrist out of Sandor's gentle, yet firm clasp, but he would not let go.
Sandor's keen gaze narrowed on his fiancée. "Bullshit, little bird." He used his considerable strength to pull her closer to him, trapping her arm against his broad chest. She let out an indignant squeak and he felt the tendons in her wrist flex as her fingers moved against his shirt. He moved his other hand to her pale neck, then slid it up to cup her cheek. He tilted her face up to look at him. "Don't make me get it out of you," he warned.
Sansa swallowed. He had lowered his face to hers, so close that his breath was ghosting across her slightly parted lips. She felt her pulse quicken and arousal stirred deep within her. She cleared her throat, attempting to gain some semblance of control over the situation.
"There's nothing to tell."
Sandor's mouth twisted into a predatory grin, all gleaming white teeth and ruined lips. He chuckled, shaking his head slightly. He pressed a sweet, gentle kiss to Sansa's forehead, and lingered for a moment before whispering, "Wrong answer, little bird."
"Wh— No! Sandor, no!" Sansa squealed as she found herself flat on her back on the sofa, pressed into the cushions by Sandor's large form. He gathered both of her wrists in one of his hands and pinned them above her head, leaving her open and exposed beneath him. His other hand moved to her side and his fingers danced lightly across her ribs, tickling her. Sansa tried to twist away, to squirm out from under him, but she was utterly pinned, completely helpless, with no hope of stopping his hands from tickling her. Nowhere was safe; her ribs, her sides, the underside of her arms, her stomach, under her chin, her neck. There was nowhere his seeking fingers did not glide across, eliciting a visceral, instinctive reaction from her; laughter forced its way out of Sansa's throat and she was unable to stop as it continued to pour forth.
"Please!" She begged for mercy, but was given no quarter. Little birds should know better than to tell untruths to someone who can smell out lies afterall.
Sansa drew in great lungfuls of air, water leaking out of her eyes. "Fine! Fine, I'll tell you!"
The tickling stopped and Sandor looked down at his wife-to-be smugly.
"You brute," Sansa huffed as he released her wrists. Though truthfully she was not mad in the slightest.
"Aye. Now tell me, naughty little bird."
Sansa really did not want to tell him.
"It's," she drew out the word, struggling to think of something - anything - to tell him. "Big... Dick? Yup, Sandor Big Dick Clegane. That's what I wrote down."
Sandor let out a low growl, the sound sending shivers running down Sansa's spine despite the warmth she felt emanating from Sandor's body pressed so closely to hers.
"It seems," he began, "that someone didn't learn their lesson."
One of his large hands skimmed down to the expanse of skin at the top of her jeans that had been exposed by her jumper and top riding up. Upon the first light tickle, Sansa was done for.
"Hound! Hound! I said I called it The Hound!" she shouted.
Sandor raised his head to get a better look at the redhead beneath him, amused at her confession. "Why?"
Sansa huffed again, blowing tendrils of auburn hair that had come loose from her messy bun out of her face. "Well… You're relentless, always following me around, practically dogging my steps."
Sandor rolled his eyes at Sansa's pun and sat back, allowing his fiancée to slip out from under him. She did so quickly, lest he decide that he was not done tickling her.
"You named my cock after a dog?" he said in mock annoyance, then paused, considering the nickname. "Is this because my favourite position is doggy?"
Sansa giggled, shaking her head. As Sandor shifted again on the sofa her eyes were drawn to the very obvious bulge in his trousers. She raised an eyebrow at him, smirking.
He shrugged, not the least bit embarrassed. "I had my gorgeous bride-to-be under me squirming and begging for mercy. That does something to the old Hound." He let his eyes rove over Sansa's body unabashedly and licked his lips. "How's that hangover of yours?"
"Down boy," Sansa replied, walking away. She got to the living room doorway and turned to look back at Sandor, mischief dancing in her azure eyes. "Come on, boy! There's a good Hound. Come here, boy!" she called, clapping her hands against her thighs, bent over slightly as if she were calling a puppy to her.
Sandor's resulting growl rumbled up from deep within his chest. "Oh, just for that, little bird," he muttered, standing up.
For such a large man, Sansa was always surprised at how quickly he could move. He covered the ground between them in only a few long strides. She squealed in delight and narrowly escaped his reaching hands, darting off out of the room and up the stairs.
Sandor let out a howl just to hear his fiancée's peals of laughter. Then, like any good hound, he gave chase.
Thank-you for reading. Please leave a review