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24 March 2012 @ 07:00 pm
fic, asoiaf: crush (Sandor/Sansa), PG13  
Title: crush
Pairing: Sandor/Sansa
Rating: PG13
Word count: 800
Spoilers: for all of AFFC. With speculation, but it's popular speculation.
Warnings: none really. Everything that goes with the pairing, I guess.
Disclaimer: GRRM owns them, I don't.
Summary: “You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters, his voice rough from months of disuse, but it’s nothing new. Sandor has known that for a long time.
A/N: written for lenina20 for the last five acts round.

“You’ll be the death of me,” he mutters, his voice rough from months of disuse, but it’s nothing new. Sandor has known that for a long time. He had known that since he had told her about how his brother ruined his life.

He had known it the second he had heard that someone was searching for Sansa Stark and had arrived on the Quiet Isle. He had known it when he had left two weeks later, because if someone bought that lie about him being dead once, maybe the next person coming to search him might not, and he had ended up in the Vale and heard about this marriage of Littlefinger’s bastard daughter.

Except that Littlefinger never had a bastard daughter, and having spent more than enough time in the man’s company back in the day, Sandor had been sure of that.

He knows that right now with her standing in front of him.

Passing for a Quiet Brother in need of shelter for one night had been easy enough, and then she had come to show him the room they could give him.

Dyed hair or not, he’d have recognized her anywhere.

“You,” she breathes, her eyes narrowing; damn, she has grown up since the last time he saw her.

“That’s me. What, is the little bird still scared? Though I’ll admit, you’re not so little anymore.”

“I thought you were dead.” Sansa completely ignores his question as she moves closer, but maybe she’s answering it herself – if she was scared, she wouldn’t be standing inches from him right now.

“That’s not the point,” he growls back. “What the hell do you think you’re doing? Do you realize that Littlefinger doesn’t care about –”

He stops dead in his tracks when her hand reaches up and covers his burned cheek. Her fingers are still slim, but rougher than they used to.

“I kept your cloak,” she whispers.

He knows that she’ll be the death of him the second he leans down and kisses her, the way he wanted to during that wretched battle (but he never did – after all, she had given him that song as he had asked, hadn’t she?); he knows that when instead of moving away she kisses him back with a desperation he hadn’t imagined would ever come from her. It’s frantic and their lips clash against each other whenever they part before starting the kiss again; she bites his lip so hard that it draws blood, and he can’t help liking the taste of it when he licks it off her teeth. In mere seconds she’s above him, her knees on the side of his thighs, her hands still on the sides of his face, and when he brings an arm around her waist, his hand is still large enough to cover her entire hip.

“This is madness,” he manages, as soon as they stop kissing for more than ten seconds. “Aren’t you getting married in –”

“I learned my lesson,” she answers, her mouth an inch from his. “And I was wrong. I should have gone with you.”

“Sansa –”

“And if it’s not too late, I would accept your offer.”

He stares at her for the following thirty seconds, half hoping that she’s sincere and half dreading it.

He has never seen someone look as serious.

“Little bird, you really don’t know any better,” he answers, because he knows that he can’t say no.

“Did that stop you from asking that first time?” Her voice isn’t as steady anymore, slightly trembling, and Sandor knows that it’s not an act. He knows because she never was able to act around him, and after all, he’s been ruined for years.

“When did you hear me say no?” he replies, and brings her to him; Sansa goes willingly, her body fitting against his in ways that feel only right while they shouldn’t, and he tries not to think about how she has learned to kiss like this. She doesn’t kiss like a maid, but what does it matter? He’s never been a good man and he has never pretended to be one, and he won’t push her away even if he should. And her mere presence is making his skin tingle – her hair against his shoulders feels like soft silk and her frame against his is enough to make his skin burn, and it’ll be moments before she realizes that he has been hard since the second she kissed him for the second time.

He knows that the second they leave will only bring trouble at best and end horribly at worst. But he knows that he would have said yes even if she still couldn’t look at his face without flinching.

End.
 
 
feeling: soresore
on rotation: power to the people - john lennon