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da mi basia mille, deinde centum, dein mille altera, dein secunda centum

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Years ago, she wouldn’t have conceived of having him like this.

Years ago, Sansa had fantasized about her beautiful, strong, gentle and brave knight sweeping her off her feet and kissing her first, and then she had imagined that during her wedding night he would take her gently and surely and make her see stars, because after all that was what songs said. In the songs, it was the knight taking the lady, with honor and kindness, of course, and she had felt thrilled at the idea, in the beginning.

And then, even when she had thought of him taking her during the wedding night she never got to have, it was him coming to her bed, it was him on top of her, it was him taking his kiss and his song and making her trill in pleasure.

She hadn’t considered any other option —

Until she ended up taking that kiss from him and not the contrary.

After all, it had been necessary — Sandor didn’t seem to believe her for a second when she said she wanted it, and his sureness that he never actually did kiss her during the battle of Blackwater was too strong for her to push any further and who knows, he was drunk but she might have remembered wrong, and so she had asked him to take it and he wouldn’t

And so she had, leaning down and pressing her mouth against his, feeling the scarring on the left half of it, and he had froze before tentatively, tentatively kissing her back and —

That felt good.

Sansa had never considered it, but taking that kiss, having him respond to her, with a rough sigh that had shaken her to the core, his hands tentatively touching her hips, it had made her feel… strong, assured, in control, and the fact that when she moved away Sandor had looked at her like he still couldn’t quite believe it —

Gods.

They never did anything past kissing before — before. Because he said he wouldn’t when he could have died fighting the dead every other moment and she deserved better, and maybe she wanted to just get adjusted to be with someone she wanted and who didn’t seem to care a whim for her inheritance or her name.

Then he took her cloak, and Sansa will forever be grateful to Brienne of Tarth for having been the first woman in known Westerosi history to have her man take her cloak therefore opening the door for all the others, and their wedding night —

Hadn’t been what Sansa had pictured.

It had been better, and now that they’ve had practice at it — or better, that she had —

Oh, none of the stories Myranda Royce used to whisper holds a candle to this.

None of them ever came close to how it feels to have Sandor lying beneath her, wearing nothing, raven hair spread on their soft, soft pillows, naked chest with all that muscle spread under her fingers to touch, his cock hard for her from the moment she touches it lightly to get him going, gray eyes open and staring up into hers adoringly in a way that almost makes her faint every single time he looks at her like he can’t believe they married each other, like he can’t believe what she sees in him, and she hopes that stops one day, but — they have time now. They have all the time, and now she knows that she’d rather have him like this than the contrary, and so she leans down, hand going to the scarred side of his face, holding it still as she leans down and kisses him again and again and again, her tongue running over the scarred side of his mouth after she leans back, and then she reaches down and starts jerking him off slowly while dropping more soft, feathery kisses over his scarred cheek.

And gods, she loves how doing that makes him go hard in a moment — she barely has to touch him to feel him harden against her fingers and moan against her neck, that low voice trembling in pleasure just for her, and she knows he wouldn’t believe her if he told her that she genuinely loves kissing that burn, that she likes the feel of it under her lips and her tongue, and so she just keeps on doing it until he’s whispering her name over and over, and and then she moves back to kissing his mouth, her tongue finding his as she slows down the motions of her hand, and oh but she’s so wet between her legs it’s almost painful and so she lifts her skirts

 

(she likes to be somewhat clothed when she does this, it’s only a simple linen white dress that she wore without a corset or anything underneath, and she sees how he stares at her breasts, and she’ll let him touch them later, later)

 

under which she has no smallclothes, and then slides down on him, taking it slow, smiling as he moans her name even if he still sounds too quiet for her tastes, gods she wants to hear him, she wants to hear him more, but — they have time for that. She rolls her hips up and down, slow, her hands grasping at his shoulders before moving a hand behind his head.

“Grab my sides,” she says, and he does at once, and gods she loves how his hands are so huge they could encircle her entire waist but they’re so gentle on her, and then she pulls his head upward, a hand grasping softly at his hair as she leans down and kisses him again and again and again, until she’s riding him faster and he’s fucking into her at her pace and he’s moaning inside her mouth and she has wholly lost count of how many kisses she gave him but that’s fine because she wants to go at it all over again, and so she does until he’s writhing in pleasure underneath her because she gave it to him and she’s taking all the kisses from him that she wants, and gods but she loves it, she loves being in charge of this and she loves how he lets her without even blinking and she loves that he obviously loves it —

And maybe, she thinks as he comes inside her not long later, his cock buried deep inside her as she clenches around him knowing that she is close as well and that when she moves her cunt to his mouth later he will make her peak again, maybe once he wanted a song from her, but now she is receiving song over song over song from him

And she wouldn’t want it any other way.

 

 

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