Chapter Text
There had never been an embrace like this—an eternal embrace. An embrace as big as the universe. Centuries passed in the span of minutes, but Sansa had no need for time.
She had Sandor.
He kissed her crown a lot. He tried out their new words to each other, turned them to hymn. "I love you, sweet little bird," he'd say into her hair. "I love you so much." But he was the sweet one. He put the honey in the air. Sansa drank it in, and she stayed.
But her knees rested in sharp specks of dragon glass. Her jaw ached from when the glass had been a ball in her mouth. She shivered in her shelter, and Sandor understood.
"Time for home," he whispered. Sansa agreed with a drowsy nod. He helped her redress. He put on his disaster of a t-shirt, tearstained, bloodstained, comestained, an absolute filthy wreck. He zipped his jacket all the way up with a wink to Sansa. She blushed.
The streets of Sow's End had never seemed quieter. The moon hung heavy in the sky, almost as bright as the streetlamps. Louder, somehow, than the bustling bars, and the clubs that throbbed like beating hearts. Sandor's heart was loudest of all. Sansa nestled her head there as Sandor guided them home.
He needed food first. "I could eat my own arm, little bird," he told her. "I'm goddamn famished." They went to the nearest chip shop, and Sandor bought two greasy paper bag's worth of fish and chips to take back. He got toffee pudding for Sansa—the best in the End—and they set out.
Home was perfect. It always was, after a long night out.
Sandor took Stranger around the block while Sansa got settled. She frowned at the sight of the kitchen, a rather tragic reminder of their afternoon. So she found a broom wedged beside the refrigerator and swept up bits of glass and wood. She rehung Grandmother Clegane's hand-stitched family crest, framed in ragged glass. Scooping the shards from the sink was a challenge, but Sansa found quilted oven mitts and managed to get most of it into the waste bin.
The cabinet door would need replacing, of course, but Sandor could figure that out.
By the time he got back, Sansa had arranged his fish and chips on a big pewter dish and poured a pint of black ale. She gave herself a few chips and the entire mound of pudding, extra whipped cream, plus a huge glass of milk.
"Little bird," Sandor said, when he found her in the kitchen. "You didn't have to do all this." He brushed a hand over Sansa's plaits before falling into the chair across from her. "This is perfect, sweet girl. Thank you."
As usual, he ate like a hungry hound. He only stopped to chug ale and smile at Sansa. She picked at her plate, savoring each sticky pecan and perfectly mushy glob of pudding. Sandor asked how the hell she wasn't starving. She shrugged. She felt very, very full. She just liked the way it tasted.
After dinner, it was time to smoke. Sandor rolled a joint and Sansa curled up beside him. He wrapped his arm around her as he lit up, and Sansa even took two daring drags for herself. "This strain will have you nice and relaxed," Sandor said. "Promise." At the very least, he was relaxed. He leaned back on the sofa, and traced aimless patterns on Sansa's arm.
"Will you do something for me, little bird?" he asked.
Sansa perked up, and Sandor tipped his head toward the floor. "Will you get my boots?"
Sansa nodded and shifted down between Sandor's legs. Her arms were sore and near useless, but she wrestled off both his boots. Sandor stroked her cheek when she finished and smiled sweetly down at her. "Good girl," he said. "I need your help with one more thing."
"Anything," Sansa replied.
"I need you to rub my feet."
Sansa had promised, so she pulled off his damp wool socks, and tried her best. His feet were tough on the bottom and hairy on top. Kind of smelly, but they reminded Sansa of her father's feet, only much bigger. Father would have her rub them after long days at court. The days got sadder and longer towards the end. Sansa always tried her best.
Sandor liked her work. His hand lingered on her head, a sweet gift. "More," he would say. Or, "Just like that. Perfect." He was relaxed before, but he was so relaxed after. His smile didn't even go away. He spent a long time looking at Sansa. Her eyes especially. She could give him that.
She looked back, and grinned. "What is it?" Sandor asked.
"You're a mess," Sansa replied. She put a finger to a dark splotch on his already dark shirt, rimmed in reddish flakes. "We need to clean you up."
Sandor agreed, so they stepped into the shower together. Messy hounds were a lot of work, especially big ones. There was so much muscle to clean. Sansa scoured every inch of him, craning to reach his shoulders, and crouching to scrub between his toes. To her delight, she discovered Sandor was ticklish when she lathered up his hairy armpits. She would have tickled him a lot more if he hadn't come after her instead. Sadly, she surrendered.
Then she forced Sandor to kneel so she could wash his hair. He grumbled a bit. "Careful with my scars," he said. "It's not pretty." Sansa didn't care about pretty, she cared about clean. And she was very careful. She swept all his hair over to the right side, and didn't let any stray suds into his burns. She raked in extra conditioner and made him wait five minutes before washing it out.
He did smell pretty when she was done. Like a big field of lavender.
Then it was Sansa's turn. Sandor knew her body. Gentle hands soaped up her skin and lingered on her breasts. "They're perfect," Sandor told her. "The prettiest I've ever seen." After he rinsed them off, he started in on her hair. He had plenty of nice things to say about her hair, too. "Your curls are like flame, little bird. The only flame I'll ever love."
After they dried off, Sandor combed her hair. She returned the favor, standing on tiptoes to get all Sandor's tangles out. He showed her how he tended his scars. His medicine cabinet was full of boxes of cotton gauze and little brown jars of ointment. Homemade, he told her, from herbs that grew on his land. It helped with the pain.
He sat down on the toilet so Sansa could practice. She started by patting his skin dry with the gauze. Then she scooped up a green fingerful of ointment, and dabbed it on his cheek. Sandor's mouth twitched up, but he told her to keep going. It didn't hurt him, it just always surprised him. How good her touch felt. Nothing felt good on his scars. Only her.
When she finished, she combed his hair back the way he liked it, but not before giving his dark cheek a kiss—for the pain. It worked, because Sandor smiled, then pulled her in for a much longer kiss.
Finally, finally, they made it to bed.
This was always the best time of night—when they could lay naked, laced in each other's arms. Sansa watched Sandor's tattoos come to life with each swell of breath. Sandor gave them even more life. He explained every rune and battle scar as Sansa traced their lines and committed them to memory. So they would be her stories, too.
When he finished, and silence fell between them, Sansa had her opportunity. Her heart had weighed heavy since the Cell.
"I'm so sorry, Sandor," she whispered up to him. "I should have told Joffrey we were dating. He just makes me so nervous, I didn't know what to call you. It's always felt different, like something more, way more. And—and—"
"It's alright, little bird," Sandor soothed. He cupped her cheek so she knew he truly meant it. "I know I'm not much of a boyfriend. And I wouldn't expect you to take your pet dog to court."
"But Sandor, what if I could?"
He barked a laugh. "I haven't been to the Rock in years, little bird."
Sansa sighed. This was backwards, but she was going to do it anyway. She laid her palm atop Sandor's, her fingertips brushing his rings. "Sandor, would you be my escort to the Warden's name day ball?"
"Little bird, I don't know if—"
"Pretty please?"
Sandor's eyes danced like faceted grey diamonds across Sansa's face. "I would be honored," he said at last. Yes! Sansa's heart soared. A knight to escort his noble lady—it was a dream come true. But Sandor thumbed her smile, unmatched.
"What of your uncle?" he asked.
"Uncle isn't going."
"But he'll find out.
"He'll find out," Sansa breathed, and her lips wilted down.
"Come now," Sandor said. "We don't have to worry about that tonight. You're a smart girl. You're a Stark. We'll figure something out."
Sansa nodded—he was right. She had fangs, sharp ones.
At least Lady did.
"We'd make quite the spectacle, wouldn't we?" Sandor said, chuckling. He gave her chin a little shake. "A junkie dog and his sweet lady. Fuck, that's good. I'd do it just to make Lord Lannister shit his golden breeches. Oh, don't make that face, little bird. I know what I am."
"Joffrey was so rude," she pouted. "I hate him. He's so ugly."
"No worse than the rest of them. And he wasn't wrong, little bird. He made me into a liar."
Sansa sighed. That truly was the worst part of all. "Sandor," she started, smoothing her hand over the crop of hair on his chest. "Do I know everything about you?"
"Most things," he replied. "More than anyone else, that's for damn sure. Why do you ask? Do you want me to give you something new?"
Sansa nodded. She loved to learn.
Sandor exhaled, thinking. "Here's a good one. Me and Gerold—we've fucked."
Sansa clasped a hand over her mouth. How on earth had she not known that? But Sandor only laughed at her, belly-deep. "Don't worry, sweet girl. We haven't done it since I met you. Only often enough to keep him in line."
"But—but—I didn't know you liked boys."
"Little bird," Sandor teased. "I like whatever he likes." He gave a pointed glance downward, and Sansa blushed. She certainly couldn't argue with that—she knew the beast's appetite.
"He likes me," she huffed, almost indignant.
"He loves you," Sandor corrected. "You're his favorite treat of all. The sweetest one."
"No," she came back, now fully indignant. She stuck her finger to his chest. "You're the sweet one."
Sandor's arm dropped to her waist and he hooked her close, breasts squished to his skin. "No," he growled. "It's you."
He turned Sansa into a midnight snack, nibbling at her neck, her shoulders, and down to her breasts. "No, you are," she panted as she writhed beneath his teeth. She pushed at his head and shoulders, and even thumped her knees against his abs. "You're the sweet one," she repeated. "It's you."
That made Sandor even more voracious, though. He sunk his teeth into her breast, then lapsed his tongue over her nipple. As soon as it swelled, he latched on and bit it to red-hot achiness. Sansa tried to twist away, and she tried again to tug Sandor up by his hair, but her hands were useless.
"You're my sweetling," she said, exasperated, fingers tight on his scalp. "Mine."
Without hands, she had only one option. She opened up her mouth and clamped down on the nearest part of Sandor—a muscle that bulged from his shoulder. Mine, she thought, sucking in his skin, licking up soap and sweat. All mine.
When Sandor tore away, she knew she'd gotten herself in trouble. "Hungry girl," he growled. He pushed a thumb into her mouth and ran it along her teeth. She snapped at him again, and he glared. "Do you really think you could take me?"
Sansa scrunched her nose and bared her teeth.
"You’re a ferocious little wolfling, aren’t you?" Sandor uncoiled from her waist, and slid down between her legs. He spread them wide. "But you’re still the sweet one.”
And then he descended on her.
Mistakenly, Sansa had thought he already kissed everywhere that could be kissed. But his lips had never trailed down her belly. They hadn't followed the lines of her hip bones, or buried themselves in the auburn curls at her apex. His heavy breath spilled down and tingled her clit. Sansa would have closed up, but strong hands pressed apart her thighs.
His mouth went there too, and he licked the softness around Sansa's sex, all the skin he had so gently scrubbed in the shower. His hands had cleaned every bit of her, and now his tongue was following suit. He dipped below her entrance, down, down, and down some more, until he reached that part he simply shouldn't.
But his tongue was so strong, and so warm, that Sansa couldn't help but whimper. She pushed herself higher onto his shoulders so he could press harder against her. Strange, how that spot linked with her pulse and made her clit pound.
Of course, Sandor knew the strangest things.
He stayed there a moment longer, then came back up to her flower, where her dew dripped. He drank what had already puddled, then plunged his tongue as deep as it could go. It came alive inside of her, lapping at her walls as if to learn each secret ridge and dip. He learned so much, licked every nerve to tenderness. He licked until Sansa's clit screamed for attention.
She reached a hand down—she could pleasure herself just fine—but Sandor caught her wrist and held it against her belly. From this angle, his stare was nothing short of predatory. His arched brow sunk low over narrowed eyes.
A kindly beast, his mouth went north and wrapped around her pulse. He watched Sansa squirm as his tongue flickered in all directions. His lips moved with him. They ground into her swollen flesh and drew tightly as if to swallow that tiny heartbeat whole. He sucked, and pulled, and grazed her with his fangs. Their enameled edges were delicate, but it didn't matter.
Each swipe was perfect agony. Whether the hardness of his teeth, or the warmth of his lips, or the strong pressure of his tongue, Sansa was consumed. She threaded her free hand through his hair, but only to push him closer. To feed him the blood that thrummed beneath her skin.
"Sandor," she moaned. "Oh, sweetling. Please, yes, oooh—"
She underestimated how quickly his tongue could swirl around her. Spit churned with him, trapped by lips that dragged her pulse deep into his mouth. It throbbed there and grew stronger, and stronger, and then—
"I'm coming, Sandor," she whimpered. She reigned him by his hair and ground against his hooked nose. "Oh Gods. I'm coming. I'm coming."
She rode her climax to completion, and only let go of Sandor because he pried her fingers from his scalp one by one. He licked her back to cleanliness, then pulled up, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. He swallowed.
Everything.
"What about me?" Sansa moped.
Sandor grinned. "Sorry, little bird. I was thirsty."
He fell over her, and Sansa puckered up for a kiss. At the very least he could give her a taste. But he didn't come in for her lips—he scooped up her waist and flipped her so that she straddled him. She really did straddle him. He was warm and achy beneath her, eager.
Sansa giggled. Such a ridiculous creature.
"What's so funny?" Sandor asked, skirting his fingers along her waist.
Sansa didn't answer him. She stole her kiss. It was a silly thing—she ran her tongue along his lips, from rough skin to smooth. She licked the underside of his nose, then licked up its length. She kissed both his eyelids, both his brows. She worked her mouth across to his good ear and nipped at its lobe.
She would never forget the dark side of his face, though. She kissed up herbal bits of ointment and little black flakes of skin. She kissed it back down, too, on his cheekbones and jaw. She nuzzled that little patch of bone in the corner. Her bone.
But after that, there were so many places she had yet to kiss.
Sandor's tattoos guided Sansa. Her lips tracked across faded inky branches, down a weeping trunk, and across the snarling mouths of all three hounds. She kissed runes. She kissed each puckered bullet wound, and the faded white line above his hip. She kissed the trail of hair down to his belly button, slipping between his legs to kiss all the way down to the dark curls that surrounded his manhood.
She kissed them, and breathed them in just as Sandor had done to her. She smelled herself on him, and his own musk tangled up with it. Their shared earth.
Sandor's manhood wanted her attention, heavy on his belly, but Sansa ignored him for now. She kissed all his dark hair, down along the sack that hung beneath his length, to his inner thighs. Grey hairs hid between black, and Sansa tried to kiss them all.
When she moved back up, he was fully hard. Redness pushed up from its sheath, and the tip was almost purple. Sansa circled her fingertip lightly across that dark flesh, and his cock lunged. "Little bird," Sandor softly growled. Sansa grinned. She made another airy circle and Sandor gripped her upper arms. "What are you doing, sweet girl?"
"Exploring," was her reply.
So Sandor let her explore, even though he kept a tight hold on her. She didn't give him pressure, only the pads of fingers, soft on his bulging veins. She learned that he didn't need a firm touch to throb. The most gentle swirl of her fingers had his cock swaying wildly over his abs.
She especially liked to tease that ridge beneath his head. When she did that, Sandor's face would pull in on itself. His breath would snag, almost as if he had been wounded. But most importantly, his manhood would thrash.
Sansa giggled every time, and Sandor couldn't even do anything about it. His hips bucked up into open air. His hands sunk harder into Sansa's arms, but only to keep himself steady as he writhed. Mercifully, she gave him more frequent touches, though she kept them featherlight. She cupped his balls and wrapped her other hand loosely around his shaft, then gave him little ghost strokes that made his cock bounce against her fingers.
"Little bird," Sandor breathed. "You can't—I need—"
Sansa cut him off with a squeeze. He choked out a groan and shuddered into Sansa's hold.
"What do you need, sweetling?" she asked, blinking up at him.
Sandor looked back down with low-lidded eyes. "More," he replied through gritted teeth.
"More what?"
His nostrils flared, and Sansa took her hands away. She nestled them in his curls instead. Cords of muscle worked at Sandor's neck as he swallowed something down. Something big.
"Anything," he rasped. "Give me anything."
That was close, but not quite what Sansa was looking for. She tapped her finger against her upturned lips, waiting. Sandor let out a sigh so loud it could have woken stone.
"Please," he forced out. "Give me more, please."
Oh, what a pretty word. Sansa curled her fist back around his girth. She added some pressure for his good manners, and his cock immediately reared its head, the great greedy beast.
But as it happened, Sansa liked this beast, so she lowered her lips and dropped a slimy mouthful of spit onto him. Then she glazed it on, fingers closed in on that wild pulse. She painted him slowly. She savored every throb.
And truthfully, her mouth missed her spit as she watched it glisten on reddened skin. So she brought her tongue to his tip, and swirled it all around. The beast liked that, and it especially appreciated when her tongue hooked along his ridge. He was turning savage. Blood simmered beneath Sansa's lips.
She wrapped them all the way around his head, and sucked in.
"Oh, fuck," Sandor groaned. He moved a hand up to Sansa's hair and found a solitary curl to hold. "More of that, little bird. Please."
Sansa delivered. She slid her tongue down his length, spread wide to catch as many nerves as possible. When she came back to his tip, she opened wide and dropped him down her throat, one inch at a time. He raged there. So Sansa gave him more. She pushed him further inside until she ached with him. Until his heartbeat crawled toward hers.
Then she drew out, and did it all over again. She repeated the process until Sandor's grunts turned to curses. He swept her hair over her shoulder and scooped it into one big handful that he clenched in a fist on his thigh. His other hand petted her cheek. It didn't land, just fluttered, restless.
The next time Sansa pulled him in, his cock slammed against her throat. "Sansa, fuck," Sandor panted. "Just like that, I'm gonna—"
But Sansa withdrew.
"What?" she asked. Her lips hovered, bound to Sandor by a string of spit. "Are you close?" Sandor growled, and the heat of his frustration collapsed on Sansa like a wave. She smiled. "I think you're close, sweetling. I can" —she swept her tongue along his length— "feel it."
To prove her point, his cock jerked towards his belly. Sandor adjusted his grip on her hair, but didn't tug. "I want to come, little bird," he got out.
"You do?"
Sandor clenched his jaw so fiercely Sansa thought it might snap. But he answered, "I want to come, please."
Good boy.
So good that he earned Sansa's tongue again. She licked all over the tip, then worked over his shaft in great, wet laps. The beast drowned in spit and throbbed, untethered, with only Sansa's tongue for guidance. She ran it from the base all the way up, pinning him against Sandor's stomach.
"Sansa," he moaned. "Sansa, please."
She lingered at the tip, then swallowed it up.
"Fuck, just like that, sweet girl." He laced his fingers behind her ear. "I'm so close."
Sansa tightened her lips around him and let her tongue roam. Sandor made new noises—sharp, breathy inhales punctured with low moans. Sansa loved those noises, and she knew how to make more. She shoved him down her throat, once, twice, until Sandor's hips canted with him.
"Sansa, I'm—"
The beast quaked. Hot seed jutted straight to Sansa's belly, wave, after wave, after wave. He had so much heat to spare. So much life. Sandor rode Sansa's mouth as she milked every drop from him.
She swallowed it all down. Her treat.
Then she cleaned up.
Sandor cradled her head as she took back her spit and his saltiness. He winced when she lapped the last of it from the tip of his softening cock, but straightened out his face as soon as Sansa glanced up. She smiled, wide.
“Did you like that?” she asked.
Sandor picked her up by the elbows and tugged her onto his chest. “You’re nothing but trouble, little wolf,” he told her, tucking a damp curl behind her ear. “But I liked it.”
They kissed for a while, soft and slow. Sandor’s lips were home. Their tongues tasted of each other, blended to sweet perfection. They drank each other down.
When the lamplight surrendered to moonlight, Sansa rested her head on Sandor’s heart and clutched his necklace. He kept her close, his arms crossed over her back, fingers nestled in her hair. His breath was a gentle song, punctuated by the occasional kiss to the top of her head. Now she was truly home.
“I love you,” Sansa said into the night.
“I love you too,” Sandor replied. “I have for a while now.”
“How long?”
“Honestly?” He exhaled, slow. “Since the night we met, the night you first touched my scars. But I didn’t know what to call it, little bird. It’s a strange feeling.”
“It’s hot,” Sansa said.
“It burns," Sandor replied.
“It glows.”
“It aches. Is it supposed to ache?”
“I think so,” Sansa said. “It opened up the earth.”
“It did, little bird,” Sandor said, setting his lips into her hair. He took in a lungful. “It really did.”
And because Sansa loved him, she whispered her worst fear. "You scared me, Sandor, tonight, in the Cell. I don't want you to die."
"I'm so sorry, Sansa. I'm scared too. But I'll do better, I promise. I'll be good for you."