A Close Shave (1/2)
Title: A Close Shave
Rating: MA like woah
Word Count: 2,450
Pairing: SanSan
Warnings: Graphic sex
Summary: PWP, Alaska-ever-after verse. Takes place before Afterlife in a Northern Town. Oh god, I regret nothing.
---
:::
Sansa has learned one thing during the first few weeks of her… intimate relationship with the man who is, at least legally, her husband: he likes to watch.
Likes to watch her do her morning yoga, likes to watch her stretch to reach the top shelf of the cabinet, likes to watch her bend to take the laundry out of the washer and put it in the dryer, likes to watch her shave her legs.
And then carry her to bed.
And fuck her.
And, possibly, in the last few weeks, she’s been exaggerating these things. Doing them more than necessary. Doing her yoga in the living room while he makes his coffee, leaving the bathroom door in the master bedroom (which they are sharing again) open while she shaves her legs at the sink, wearing leggings at every possible opportunity instead of pants.
Sansa likes sex, which is new and empowering and a little strange and heady but overall possibly one of the best things that’s happened in the past year.
(She likes sex with Sandor, which is probably the difference.)
So when the pipes freeze going into the master bathroom because it’s January in Homer, Alaska, she takes it as her prerogative to shave her legs at the kitchen sink while Sandor, cursing and growling, storms back and forth between the hot water heater and the master bathroom, trying not to stare at her. As she stands in plain view. Wearing nothing but a ratty old Dartmouth long sleeved tee-shirt and a thong. One long, lean leg stretched out along the counter.
But god, she can feel his eyes on her.
Sansa wonders what it would feel like to have him lick up the line of her toned hamstrings, and waits for him to break.
(It doesn’t take long.)
“The hot water should be working again,” he says, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s leering at her. “If you want to shower.”
Not until I’m done with you, she thinks, eyes not breaking from the sight of her razor gliding along the smooth, creamy skin of her calf. She knows that’s where his eyes are too.
“Thanks,” she chirps, bending and wriggling her ass a bit, drawing the razor up from her ankle to the top of her thigh, skimming away the last bit of shaving cream with her efforts, before raising her eyes to look at him.
“You done?” he growls, voice low and almost predatory. Sansa feels the vibrations from his voice reverberate down her spine, sparking some warm and tense low in her belly.
Something instinctual compels her hook one of her index fingers into the waist of her pink cotton thong, and push it down an inch or two. Sandor clenches his fists at his side, his desire for her almost as palpable as a snapping dog fighting against his leash. But he won’t let go until she gives him the command.
Lowering her leg, Sansa smiles back at him. She works the scrap of cotton off her hips, down her smooth, glistening legs, before running her fingers through the sparse auburn curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Not yet.”
His low growl turns into a needy, feral whine.
Her fingers trail up the lines curving up the inside of her hips, toy with the bottom of her shirt, need reflecting back in both of their eyes. It breaks, suddenly, and Sandor advances on her, pinning her to the counter with his much larger frame, helping her pull the shirt up and over her head.
“So,” Sansa says, grinding her naked pelvis into the rough denim swathing his hips, biting her lip as her clit rakes along his hardening length and rough fabric alike. “Are you gonna help me or not?”
His hand fits down between their hips, his long, rough fingers wending through her curls, his short fingernails rubbing her lower lips in a way that makes her shiver. Sansa moans, a light and breathy sound, as Sandor bends, nosing her hair out of the way to lick from her collarbone to her ear. He draws the fleshy lobe in his mouth, rolling it tenderly between his teeth. Her plaintive, needy whine draws a lusty laugh from him.
“Oh, I’ll help you,” he rasps, his voice sounding half-amused and half-aroused to Sansa’s ears. Sansa yelps as his massive hands move around to her back, fingers pressing into her ass as he lifts her up against him. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his soft flannel shirt, breathing him in.
She squeals when he drops her onto the counter, the cool marble startling against her bare flesh. Her hands dig into his shoulders when he gets to his knees before her.
:::
Sandor can’t quite remember another time when he was as turned on as this. Has he ever been? If he has, it's been because of her, the fucking sexy redheaded... oh god, and the look on her face. Her blessedly perfect face, as she dragged her underwear to the floor, kicked it off. Stood in front of him bare from the waist down.
What the fuck had he been missing all his life?
Although he doubts it would have been half as good if it hadn’t been her. Sansa fucking Stark. Sansa fucking Clegane.
Jesus fucking Christ, sometimes he forgets that they’re married.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks, running a hair back through her auburn waves, tossing her silky hair over her shoulders.
“Who wouldn’t?” he replies, mapping out the smooth flesh of her legs, parting her thighs, opening her to him.
She laughs and gives him a look best described as admonishing, one he’s seen dozens of times before--but as it has been more often than not lately, its one part humored, one part playful, one part shy. And a fucking huge part aroused. This he likes. She’s still sitting upright, prim and proper, only wearing a plain white satin bra, but her chest and cheeks are flushed, a hickey burnishing on her saliva-slickened throat.
“You’re gonna have to let me in there, woman,” he says, grabbing the can of shaving cream from the counter and popping the cap off with his thumb.
Sansa blushes, opening her thighs wider and rolling her hips forward, moving herself closer to the edge of the counter. He waits until she’s almost the color of her hair before spraying a handful of shaving cream into the palm of his hand and lathering it into her soft curls.
“Try not to hurt me,” she giggles, eyes pinned to his, jerking her hips into his touch.
Sandor growls, nipping at the tender skin on the inside of her knee. “Oh no, I’m not going to hurt you at all.”
He presses harder, moving his index and middle fingers to the patch of skin covering the hood of her clit, rubbing the underside of his fingers against her. He watches her tilt her head back, eyes blinking. Her hands move from her shoulders to grip the edge of the counter. Sandor smirks, hands brushing out wider, until he can drag his thumbs down the valley where her legs meet her hips.
She giggles again, hips jerking into his touch.
“Don’t move,” he says with false admonishment, before turning to bite at her thigh. Harder, this time, and her eyes roll back into her head.
“Oh god,” she answers, one hand reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Hey.” He reaches for the razor. “I’m particularly invested in this area of your body.”
Sansa snorts, wrapping his long black hair around her fingers and tugging until he looks at her face. Raising a brow at him, she lifts both of her feet onto the counter. “I trust you.”
“I’ll take my time,” he promises her, solemn-faced. They both snort. He wonders how he ever got by without this easy intimacy. “As long as you sit still.”
He runs his fingers down the line of her hip again, making her jump once more. She smiles sheepishly at him. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” he mutters dazedly, stroking the inside of her thighs, leaning in. He adjusts the razor in his hand, and presses it against the dainty flesh between her legs. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. He can’t afford to fuck this up. This strange, fragile thing they’ve constructed between them. She trusts him now and he can’t-he won’t break it.
What is between them is new and yet old and therefore uncertain, and there is still much left unspoken.
Fuck, though. Sansa Stark is letting him shave her pussy.
His life is pretty good.
:::
She’s so incredibly aroused, more so by how Sandor seems to be treating this like one of his projects. He’s concentrating hard, and Sansa finds herself unable to breathe as he guides the razor with deft precision over her folds. His calloused fingers separate her seam-not gently, but almost hesitantly. Sansa wonders why.
He doesn’t take his eyes from his work, and she feels the razor glide over her delicate curves as he presses it down here and there. She watches as he takes his hand away after every few strokes to rinse the blade under the warm water streaming out of the faucet, his muscular forearms and thick wrists flexing as he does so.
“How’s it going down there?” She tugs on his hair again, restraining her hips from moving, but forcing his head to tilt until he’s looking her in the eyes.
“It’s…” he chuckles, and she covers her face with her hands. “It’s an exotic experience.”
“Exotic?” Sansa peers through her fingers down at him. “Okay, it’s been a while, but it definitely is not a jungle down there.”
She feels him run his fingers down the newly exposed flesh, warm and rough against cool and smooth, and she shudders with a sharp gasp. He chuckles, grey lust-darkened eyes watching as she moves her hand to her mouth, bites down on her index finger. His fingers move up and down along her folds, increasing their pressure with each pass, and she knows that he’s making her incredibly wet and he must know she is by now.
“Looks good,” he tells her, amused, but his voice thickened with want and desire. He presses his burnt cheek to her knee, kissing it as his fingers dawdle up and down her lips. “Soft,” he murmurs, fingers pressing in to rub her clit. Her hips buck slightly into his hand as she moans.
“Feels good,” she whispers, lowering her legs to cover his shoulders, draw him in closer.
“More?” he asks, ascertaining her face for any trace of awkwardness, of reluctance.
She whines then, low and needy, reaching down to guide his head closer. “More.”
:::
God, life is good. He’s hard as fuck and wants nothing more than to ram his cock into her pussy-sopping wet pussy, he can feel, coating his fingers with her juices-but he won’t. Because she wants this and god knows he can’t deny Sansa anything.
“Hmm…” he answers, feeling his member throbbing so fucking hard in his jeans as his fingers slide up and down her inner folds. Sandor ignores his erection and focuses making his wife make more of those low, whiny sounds. She’s staring at him intently, curious as to his next actions, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
He nudges his fingers into her, just an inch inside her heat, watching a look of complete skirt across her face before plunging two fingers deep inside her, his palm flat against her cool, dry skin. She’s so wet it’s making his heart pound, her moisture immediately coating his palm as he begins to work his fingers in and out of her.
“Fuck,” he whispers, watching her brows knit together, cheek muscles tensing, teeth working over her lip as her hips work in tandem with his hand. Breaking his eyes away from her perfect face, he begins kissing his way up her thighs, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses against her delicate skin.
His lips pass over the joining of her lips, right above his fingers, and Sandor suckles briefly on her clit before raising himself higher on his knees to move his tongue along the crease of her hip and thigh, rumbling a laugh when she squirms.
“Stop…” she whines, batting at him. “Not fair.”
:::
She can feel his uneven smile against her as he moves his mouth back. A jolt of electricity bursts through her when his tongue flicks over her clit, his fingers moving harder against her swollen lips. Sansa still can’t actually believe that she let him do this to her. But thank God that she did.
She looks down and he’s looking up at her, examining her face with an intensity that makes her shiver. She smiles down at him as his tongue explores her folds. Damn, but it feels so good.
“Mmmm… “ she hums, stroking his still-clothed back with one of her feet, lifting her hips to his mouth.
“Good?” he asks, lapping at her with one long, languid stroke.
“Yes,” she moans and laughs, a little high and a little shaky. “And you?”
He laps again, swirling his tongue around her clit. “You taste like shaving cream.”
She giggles again, stroking through his hair with both hands. “Stop, if you want.” No, she thinks. She wouldn’t let him stop if he wanted to. Not at this point, not when lust is tightening in between her legs and growing to the breaking point, not when the feeling of his half-scarred lips on her is so good.
His negative hum comes with his lips on her clit, as he starts working her harder, working her most sensitive spot harder with his tongue, circling, flicking, and causing her to writhe and arch her back as she feels waves of warm pleasure slowly building.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah-yes, oh God, like that-just like that.”
Her hips move to his rhythm, rocking against his mouth, her pace quickly becoming desperate as he pushes her up and up.
She tilts her head back and lets him take her over, slowly guiding her to freefall. She feels it spark through her body with one last flutter of his tongue and she clutches at his hair, whimpering several times as she comes.
She doesn't open her eyes until she can feel him hovering over her face, can smell the soft scent of her on his skin. She tilts her head up and he kisses her lips, gently at first. She runs her tongue along his bottom lip, tasting herself, and slips it inside his mouth to seek more.
He settles between her open legs so easily, so perfectly. It shouldn't be so surprising that they fit together so well. She runs her fingernails down his back, before running her hands around to open his belt.
:::
Part One | Part Two
Rating: MA like woah
Word Count: 2,450
Pairing: SanSan
Warnings: Graphic sex
Summary: PWP, Alaska-ever-after verse. Takes place before Afterlife in a Northern Town. Oh god, I regret nothing.
---
:::
Sansa has learned one thing during the first few weeks of her… intimate relationship with the man who is, at least legally, her husband: he likes to watch.
Likes to watch her do her morning yoga, likes to watch her stretch to reach the top shelf of the cabinet, likes to watch her bend to take the laundry out of the washer and put it in the dryer, likes to watch her shave her legs.
And then carry her to bed.
And fuck her.
And, possibly, in the last few weeks, she’s been exaggerating these things. Doing them more than necessary. Doing her yoga in the living room while he makes his coffee, leaving the bathroom door in the master bedroom (which they are sharing again) open while she shaves her legs at the sink, wearing leggings at every possible opportunity instead of pants.
Sansa likes sex, which is new and empowering and a little strange and heady but overall possibly one of the best things that’s happened in the past year.
(She likes sex with Sandor, which is probably the difference.)
So when the pipes freeze going into the master bathroom because it’s January in Homer, Alaska, she takes it as her prerogative to shave her legs at the kitchen sink while Sandor, cursing and growling, storms back and forth between the hot water heater and the master bathroom, trying not to stare at her. As she stands in plain view. Wearing nothing but a ratty old Dartmouth long sleeved tee-shirt and a thong. One long, lean leg stretched out along the counter.
But god, she can feel his eyes on her.
Sansa wonders what it would feel like to have him lick up the line of her toned hamstrings, and waits for him to break.
(It doesn’t take long.)
“The hot water should be working again,” he says, not even trying to hide the fact that he’s leering at her. “If you want to shower.”
Not until I’m done with you, she thinks, eyes not breaking from the sight of her razor gliding along the smooth, creamy skin of her calf. She knows that’s where his eyes are too.
“Thanks,” she chirps, bending and wriggling her ass a bit, drawing the razor up from her ankle to the top of her thigh, skimming away the last bit of shaving cream with her efforts, before raising her eyes to look at him.
“You done?” he growls, voice low and almost predatory. Sansa feels the vibrations from his voice reverberate down her spine, sparking some warm and tense low in her belly.
Something instinctual compels her hook one of her index fingers into the waist of her pink cotton thong, and push it down an inch or two. Sandor clenches his fists at his side, his desire for her almost as palpable as a snapping dog fighting against his leash. But he won’t let go until she gives him the command.
Lowering her leg, Sansa smiles back at him. She works the scrap of cotton off her hips, down her smooth, glistening legs, before running her fingers through the sparse auburn curls at the apex of her thighs.
“Not yet.”
His low growl turns into a needy, feral whine.
Her fingers trail up the lines curving up the inside of her hips, toy with the bottom of her shirt, need reflecting back in both of their eyes. It breaks, suddenly, and Sandor advances on her, pinning her to the counter with his much larger frame, helping her pull the shirt up and over her head.
“So,” Sansa says, grinding her naked pelvis into the rough denim swathing his hips, biting her lip as her clit rakes along his hardening length and rough fabric alike. “Are you gonna help me or not?”
His hand fits down between their hips, his long, rough fingers wending through her curls, his short fingernails rubbing her lower lips in a way that makes her shiver. Sansa moans, a light and breathy sound, as Sandor bends, nosing her hair out of the way to lick from her collarbone to her ear. He draws the fleshy lobe in his mouth, rolling it tenderly between his teeth. Her plaintive, needy whine draws a lusty laugh from him.
“Oh, I’ll help you,” he rasps, his voice sounding half-amused and half-aroused to Sansa’s ears. Sansa yelps as his massive hands move around to her back, fingers pressing into her ass as he lifts her up against him. Instinctively, she wraps her arms around his neck, pressing her face into his soft flannel shirt, breathing him in.
She squeals when he drops her onto the counter, the cool marble startling against her bare flesh. Her hands dig into his shoulders when he gets to his knees before her.
:::
Sandor can’t quite remember another time when he was as turned on as this. Has he ever been? If he has, it's been because of her, the fucking sexy redheaded... oh god, and the look on her face. Her blessedly perfect face, as she dragged her underwear to the floor, kicked it off. Stood in front of him bare from the waist down.
What the fuck had he been missing all his life?
Although he doubts it would have been half as good if it hadn’t been her. Sansa fucking Stark. Sansa fucking Clegane.
Jesus fucking Christ, sometimes he forgets that they’re married.
“Are you sure you want to do this?” she asks, running a hair back through her auburn waves, tossing her silky hair over her shoulders.
“Who wouldn’t?” he replies, mapping out the smooth flesh of her legs, parting her thighs, opening her to him.
She laughs and gives him a look best described as admonishing, one he’s seen dozens of times before--but as it has been more often than not lately, its one part humored, one part playful, one part shy. And a fucking huge part aroused. This he likes. She’s still sitting upright, prim and proper, only wearing a plain white satin bra, but her chest and cheeks are flushed, a hickey burnishing on her saliva-slickened throat.
“You’re gonna have to let me in there, woman,” he says, grabbing the can of shaving cream from the counter and popping the cap off with his thumb.
Sansa blushes, opening her thighs wider and rolling her hips forward, moving herself closer to the edge of the counter. He waits until she’s almost the color of her hair before spraying a handful of shaving cream into the palm of his hand and lathering it into her soft curls.
“Try not to hurt me,” she giggles, eyes pinned to his, jerking her hips into his touch.
Sandor growls, nipping at the tender skin on the inside of her knee. “Oh no, I’m not going to hurt you at all.”
He presses harder, moving his index and middle fingers to the patch of skin covering the hood of her clit, rubbing the underside of his fingers against her. He watches her tilt her head back, eyes blinking. Her hands move from her shoulders to grip the edge of the counter. Sandor smirks, hands brushing out wider, until he can drag his thumbs down the valley where her legs meet her hips.
She giggles again, hips jerking into his touch.
“Don’t move,” he says with false admonishment, before turning to bite at her thigh. Harder, this time, and her eyes roll back into her head.
“Oh god,” she answers, one hand reaching down to ruffle his hair. “Just be careful, okay?”
“Hey.” He reaches for the razor. “I’m particularly invested in this area of your body.”
Sansa snorts, wrapping his long black hair around her fingers and tugging until he looks at her face. Raising a brow at him, she lifts both of her feet onto the counter. “I trust you.”
“I’ll take my time,” he promises her, solemn-faced. They both snort. He wonders how he ever got by without this easy intimacy. “As long as you sit still.”
He runs his fingers down the line of her hip again, making her jump once more. She smiles sheepishly at him. “I’ll do my best.”
“Good,” he mutters dazedly, stroking the inside of her thighs, leaning in. He adjusts the razor in his hand, and presses it against the dainty flesh between her legs. He doesn’t want to fuck this up. He can’t afford to fuck this up. This strange, fragile thing they’ve constructed between them. She trusts him now and he can’t-he won’t break it.
What is between them is new and yet old and therefore uncertain, and there is still much left unspoken.
Fuck, though. Sansa Stark is letting him shave her pussy.
His life is pretty good.
:::
She’s so incredibly aroused, more so by how Sandor seems to be treating this like one of his projects. He’s concentrating hard, and Sansa finds herself unable to breathe as he guides the razor with deft precision over her folds. His calloused fingers separate her seam-not gently, but almost hesitantly. Sansa wonders why.
He doesn’t take his eyes from his work, and she feels the razor glide over her delicate curves as he presses it down here and there. She watches as he takes his hand away after every few strokes to rinse the blade under the warm water streaming out of the faucet, his muscular forearms and thick wrists flexing as he does so.
“How’s it going down there?” She tugs on his hair again, restraining her hips from moving, but forcing his head to tilt until he’s looking her in the eyes.
“It’s…” he chuckles, and she covers her face with her hands. “It’s an exotic experience.”
“Exotic?” Sansa peers through her fingers down at him. “Okay, it’s been a while, but it definitely is not a jungle down there.”
She feels him run his fingers down the newly exposed flesh, warm and rough against cool and smooth, and she shudders with a sharp gasp. He chuckles, grey lust-darkened eyes watching as she moves her hand to her mouth, bites down on her index finger. His fingers move up and down along her folds, increasing their pressure with each pass, and she knows that he’s making her incredibly wet and he must know she is by now.
“Looks good,” he tells her, amused, but his voice thickened with want and desire. He presses his burnt cheek to her knee, kissing it as his fingers dawdle up and down her lips. “Soft,” he murmurs, fingers pressing in to rub her clit. Her hips buck slightly into his hand as she moans.
“Feels good,” she whispers, lowering her legs to cover his shoulders, draw him in closer.
“More?” he asks, ascertaining her face for any trace of awkwardness, of reluctance.
She whines then, low and needy, reaching down to guide his head closer. “More.”
:::
God, life is good. He’s hard as fuck and wants nothing more than to ram his cock into her pussy-sopping wet pussy, he can feel, coating his fingers with her juices-but he won’t. Because she wants this and god knows he can’t deny Sansa anything.
“Hmm…” he answers, feeling his member throbbing so fucking hard in his jeans as his fingers slide up and down her inner folds. Sandor ignores his erection and focuses making his wife make more of those low, whiny sounds. She’s staring at him intently, curious as to his next actions, her teeth worrying her bottom lip.
He nudges his fingers into her, just an inch inside her heat, watching a look of complete skirt across her face before plunging two fingers deep inside her, his palm flat against her cool, dry skin. She’s so wet it’s making his heart pound, her moisture immediately coating his palm as he begins to work his fingers in and out of her.
“Fuck,” he whispers, watching her brows knit together, cheek muscles tensing, teeth working over her lip as her hips work in tandem with his hand. Breaking his eyes away from her perfect face, he begins kissing his way up her thighs, placing wet, open-mouthed kisses against her delicate skin.
His lips pass over the joining of her lips, right above his fingers, and Sandor suckles briefly on her clit before raising himself higher on his knees to move his tongue along the crease of her hip and thigh, rumbling a laugh when she squirms.
“Stop…” she whines, batting at him. “Not fair.”
:::
She can feel his uneven smile against her as he moves his mouth back. A jolt of electricity bursts through her when his tongue flicks over her clit, his fingers moving harder against her swollen lips. Sansa still can’t actually believe that she let him do this to her. But thank God that she did.
She looks down and he’s looking up at her, examining her face with an intensity that makes her shiver. She smiles down at him as his tongue explores her folds. Damn, but it feels so good.
“Mmmm… “ she hums, stroking his still-clothed back with one of her feet, lifting her hips to his mouth.
“Good?” he asks, lapping at her with one long, languid stroke.
“Yes,” she moans and laughs, a little high and a little shaky. “And you?”
He laps again, swirling his tongue around her clit. “You taste like shaving cream.”
She giggles again, stroking through his hair with both hands. “Stop, if you want.” No, she thinks. She wouldn’t let him stop if he wanted to. Not at this point, not when lust is tightening in between her legs and growing to the breaking point, not when the feeling of his half-scarred lips on her is so good.
His negative hum comes with his lips on her clit, as he starts working her harder, working her most sensitive spot harder with his tongue, circling, flicking, and causing her to writhe and arch her back as she feels waves of warm pleasure slowly building.
“Yeah,” she breathes. “Yeah-yes, oh God, like that-just like that.”
Her hips move to his rhythm, rocking against his mouth, her pace quickly becoming desperate as he pushes her up and up.
She tilts her head back and lets him take her over, slowly guiding her to freefall. She feels it spark through her body with one last flutter of his tongue and she clutches at his hair, whimpering several times as she comes.
She doesn't open her eyes until she can feel him hovering over her face, can smell the soft scent of her on his skin. She tilts her head up and he kisses her lips, gently at first. She runs her tongue along his bottom lip, tasting herself, and slips it inside his mouth to seek more.
He settles between her open legs so easily, so perfectly. It shouldn't be so surprising that they fit together so well. She runs her fingernails down his back, before running her hands around to open his belt.
:::
Part One | Part Two