Warnings: this is SLASH. Also, I see Bronn as a power bottom who considers himself up for sex any time any where, and I think he would roll his eyes at this, but: I'm going to go ahead and warn for consent issues for the last scene.

They stood on opposite sides of a doorway, waiting for the signal. Someone walked past, a woman, and Clegane's eyes followed her, small and narrow with suspicion.

Bronn had never known how to not make trouble. "You going to fuck her later?" he asked, loud enough for the woman to hear. He smirked at her when she turned a disgusted look on them.

The Hound did not seem amused. "Maybe I'll fuck you later."

"Maybe you will," Bronn said easily. "Do you fuck many men?"

Clegane stared.

"Oh, I've shocked you." Or if he hadn't yet, he soon would. Bronn quirked his eyebrows. "That's a pity. I fuck men. Thought you might be game sometime."

"What?"

"Not too many men," he clarified. "But sometimes. Because of course it's a fine thing to shoot your seed up into some woman, I do it at least once a day… but there's nothing like a strong man hammering away at your arse to make you know you're alive."

A glint. "That's the signal," the Hound growled. "Let's go, sellsword. And keep your filthy mouth shut."

The first time the Hound actually came and bent him over a table, Bronn thought it was a good thing he'd crammed a handful of oil up his own backside before they started. Because Clegane was every bit as savage as he'd expected – held him by the hips, entered in one stroke, rutted like an animal. He was silent, save grunts and harsh breathing, and other than moving one hand from hip to shoulder he did nothing –nothing – but pound away until he found his release. When he was done, he pulled out and buttoned up without a word, and stormed off into the night looking in just as bad a mood as when he started. Bronn had planned to offer him a drink afterwards, but instead just drank the whole skin himself.

Bronn didn't limp the next day. He never understood people who limped after a good fucking – what was the point? When you got stabbed in the leg, when you lost toes to frost-rot… all right, then you limped. Then you favored the hurt side and tried to minimize the pain. But after a fucking? The pain was the whole point! If somebody shoved their pike up into you and you didn't ache afterwards, then the poor bastard was doing it wrong.

The Hound, of course, had most certainly not done it wrong. After his reaming it hurt to sit and it hurt to walk, and riding a horse jarred so badly it was like getting fucked all over again.

But Bronn didn't limp. He took all the hurt gladly. Walked, in fact, with an extra spring in his step. And if that annoyed the Hound, made him think he hadn't been quite rough enough, well: so much the better.

They said almost nothing to each other. Bronn would sometimes slip a few words to arrange the meeting: "I'll be out back if you fancy a tumble," or "Looks like a nasty cut there. Take your mind off it?" Also he would sometimes swear, soft and high and airy, when he was plowed particularly deep. But other than that, they said almost nothing at all.

So it took Bronn by surprise when one day the Hound took a break from tucking himself back into his cod afterwards to look down and rasp: "How can you enjoy that?"

Bronn pulled his sticky hand from his pants and winced his way to his feet. "People say the same thing about killing," he pointed out as he pulled his trousers back up. "In exactly the same tone."

The Hound nodded. Didn't ask again.

One evening Bronn awoke in the infirmary tent, with his arm splinted, his face full of stitches… and a big rough hand slapped tight over his mouth. "Wake up."

He nodded and went mn. He was awake – and fairly sure, now, who he owed his rescue to. "They almost got you, sellsword," the Hound grated into his ear. "You could have died." He hauled Bronn onto his side without letting go of his mouth, yanked the covers down and threw Bronn's leg up out of the way.

Bronn squawked protest into the hand – he felt in no way ready for this and he was bone-dry; the Hound hadn't even spit for him. It didn't matter; Clegane speared in anyway. The agony was unbelievable. He tried to fight, but he was flattened to the bed by the Hound's heavy hips, smothered by his powerful arms – and handicapped by terrible pain.

When the fucking began in earnest he struggled more desperately and started to scream; the strokes were hard as gut-punches and the friction burned his arse like an iron. It still didn't matter. Clegane kept his mouth covered and his body pinned, and pounded into him relentlessly, with a savagery, an anger Bronn had never seen.

The slide grew easier once there was blood, and Bronn was able to quiet himself. He also stopped fighting; it wasn't getting him anywhere. He just kept his eyes closed and panted into the Hound's hand and waited for it to be over.

Before long it was. The Hound crushed him down into the bed, grasping his face and shoulder hard enough to bruise, and shot a load what felt half a mile up his backside. Clegane ground his hips around, as he always did, once, twice, three times to finish up. He dripped sweat on the back of Bronn's neck and breathed heavy into his ear, laying still for much longer than usual before he finally rolled over and jerked himself free. "You're alive," he said. He removed the hand from Bronn's mouth, but Bronn still couldn't speak – he just lay clutching at the bedding, wheezing, waiting for the pain to get better.

Then there was a hand on his neck. Shaking him, short and hard. "Stay that way."

The End.

Please let me know what you think! This is probably going to be my last story for this pairing. I actually find it kind of gross. Hot, but gross.